Lolla, Holla, and a few ow ow's for good measure.

Before I begin, let me just say that my email was filled with love from my readers, and I honestly appreciate it.  I apologize from my departure from the blogosphere (especially to you who have been with me from the ice/princess days!) and I didn't intend for it to be that long.  But as you well know, ice pops and procrastination pretty much side tracked me.

Moving along.  I wrote up a huge entry about Lollapalooza.  How much I loved it.  How much fun I had.  How much I miss being in "Lollaland".  However when I read it back to myself, I realized it didn't properly encapsulate just how amazing (see? already lacking superlatives) that weekend really was.  So I will leave it as a memory that I hold dear.  To incredible friendships that blossomed, to a wealth of new music I fell in love with, to a few bitsy mistakes, and to Pete Samson, a man who's identity absolutely baffled us during our hotel stay (inside jokes, inside jokes!).

Now then.  In a conversation with the lovely Miss Shayla (one of my favoritest readers from back when I was an incoherent twenty year old) we mentioned a familiar blog I had done regarding introspection and random facts.  I'm a lover of privacy, and yet I never fail to divulge useless pieces of information about myself.  Got a survey to fill out? I'm there.  It's the most passive form of getting to know someone, and I am all over that.  Coincidentally enough in looking back on the internet at Ye Olde Blog (of which the url I will not divulge; I was eleventy times more out there then than I am now. Plus reading that blog will leave you wanting a Klonopin cocktail) today, 10 years ago I wrote an entry entitled, "The Dirty Thirty".  That entry listed a few random facts about myself that I found interesting, weird, or just absolute space fillers. And I think you can by now figure out where we are going with this.  So, without further ado, may I present The Dirty Thirty; 2011 edition.


1. I like to cook, and habitually bake cookies for people for no reason.

2. I have a deep and profound love for the 3am hour.  I feel like I'm at my most creative then.  Usually I'm writing or painting around that time of night.

3. I will buy and wear any hat, no matter how ridiculous.  If it's knit, that's an even bigger plus.

4. Considering I grew up in the upper middle class suburbs, I have a deep love for all things hip hop. Oh! and also movies about gang life.

5. If I get a crazy idea, don't be surprised if I do it soon after.  I'm incredibly impulsive.

6. The only thing that trumps my impulsiveness is my ability to procrastinate. Womp womp.

7. I habitually dye my hair red, because when my hair is a normal color I don't feel like 'me'.

8. I lose my shoes when I drink. And let me just elaborate on that everyone thinks this is hilarious while I think it's mystifying.  I genuinely do not know at what point my shoes come off, let alone how I always end up wandering perilous streets with no footwear to speak of.  This habit has caused me to drastically rethink shoes I plan to where when I go out, because I would die if I lost a pair of Louboutins. Die. Dead.

9. I'm pretty sure I'm in the process of a quarter life crisis.  Not that it's in a negative way, I just took this entire year to look at my life and change everything up.

10. I love white wine.  Which is ironic because in my younger years I refused to drink anything other than vodka.  But now it's all about white wine.  And whiskey.  Love whiskey.

11. When the travel bug hits, I can't NOT pack up and go.  I need to see the entire world, one country at a time.  So far I've circled the globe twice.

12.  I advocate fiercely for a cause I believe in.  With that being said, if I feel like you are getting in on something just to garner attention, I'll tell you.  No time for fakes.

13. Music is life.  Yes I sound 12 when I say that, but it's true. I couldn't live without music in my life.

14.  My friends kept me going through the hardest times in my life.  When i felt like I couldn't take another step, they were always there. Aww!

15. I love the color green.  I own too many green nicknacks just because they are green.

16. The best advice I ever received was from a homeless man.  He told me, "Love everyone around you. Love them and hug them and love them".  It still stands to be one of the best conversations I've ever had.

17.  I dislike talking on the phone.  Texting and Facebook is so much easier.  I will talk on the phone if inebriated.  In those instances, I never shut up. Ever. As an addendum, I'd have to say I'm also a horrible drunk texter.

18. There's a time period in my life that was insane and I hung out with some really cool musicians, and I miss every single one of the people who went through it with me.  When we all talk now, it's super awkward.

19. I have a series of scars on my arms that everyone asks about.  I don't think I've ever given anyone the true story behind them, though the basic story usually has to do with raptors or angry dwarf hampsters.

20. The smell of maple syrup makes me want to vomit profusely a la Exorcist.  Same with the consistency of egg nog.

21. I can't stand "chick flicks".  They bore the hell out of me.  You go ahead and watch one; I'll take a nap.

22. I love 80's sitcoms.  I could watch Mr. Belvedere eleventy times over.

23.  I love the word eleventy.  I've used it since I was a wee Khan.

24. I'm a sucker for a guy with great manners.  There are far too many uncouth souls out there.

25. Yep. 30  31 years old.  Still scared of the dark.  Won't sleep in total darkness, ever. Freaks me the fuck out.

26.  I'm struggling for anything to fill in here, though I can honestly say I don't find any of this interesting at all.

27. Right now I'm wearing a striped shirt, a striped bra, striped pants, and striped underwear.  None of the patterns match.  Significance? None. I just realized this.

28.I have a tendency to be too open-mouthed when I drink.  I'll talk up anyone which tends to be a problem as usually those people turn out to be demi-serial killers.

29. I want to learn how to speak an obscure language.  However I know if I do, I won't really have anyone to converse with. Thus, the dilemma.

30. I love winter.  There is something about the acerbic bite of a subzero wind that catches my breath and makes me feel alive.


The end. ow ow.

#Living

Have you ever really taken time out to look back upon your life?

I don't mean with regret.  I mean with an impartial eye, as if your life is a movie you had no knowledge about.  Something you turned on in a moment of boredom, a fit of desperation.  Have you ever realized how interesting the things you have gone through could be? Or worse, would you be bored?

I always felt that my life was a series of disastrously hilarious moments.  I've fallen, I've risen, and I've come back for more each time.  The one thing I can say is I do not regret.

Some of the people around me don't live this way.  They seem content to wallow in their own misery.  To let the proverbial bull run by while sitting on the sidelines, watching it go.  They don't move forward but rather dwell in a world where they can remain comfortable, safe, and completely self absorbed.  I guess this is something that fascinates me and saddens me at the same time.  I want to see the people around me succeed because they push themselves outside of their comfort level.  Smash those walls.  Break the conformity.  Live well. Relish in the awkward.

Back in 2003 I took a spur of the moment vacation to Pakistan.  I felt this pull to travel all the time throughout life, and with everything going on in the media about terrorism and my homeland I felt that I needed to escape there and see for myself.  I was terrified. My thought process was that I would get whisked away by some masked strangers (not ninjas or jabbawockeez, which would be incredibly cool and not terrifying) and end up on a CNN looped broadcast while Wolf Blitzer sat smugly, twirling his bowtie. But I leapt without looking and entered a world I honestly thought existed only in my dreams.

Pakistan is everything you DON'T see in the media.  The people are gracious and welcoming.  The country itself is beautiful and I really can't think of an adjective that fully encompasses the landscape of this place.  There are mountains. Rivers. Deserts.  Streams.  Forests.  It's a gorgeous country with so much natural beauty you tend to forget the political landscape and religious tumult going on around you.

This trip was different because it was a landmark of sorts.  I was celebrating by traveling abroad solo for the first time (of course, I would pick a country so entrenched in turmoil to visit solo, like a boss) and I felt absolutely liberated.  Also, I had planned to sneak into the country without the fanfare of my extended family.  I wanted to see things on my own terms, without the obligation to have tea with everyone, their mother, their mother's mother, and so on until I was basically steeped in a mugful of chai with elaichi. I decided on the plane that I would stay away from the larger cities for the most part, and travel to Northwest Frontier Province, a sort of homage to my father's days in the army.

The Northwest Frontier Province is a very rough area.  There is no wealth among the people, most are nomadic and very deeply involved in their religion.  So imagine my surprise when my Americanized ass was warmly welcomed by strangers everywhere.  I would have thought that the red streaked hair, tattoos, and laughable language would have instantly gotten me tossed into an underground cave somewhere but instead I was greeted with love from strangers.

My cousin and I traveled with a group of guides (who carried machine guns, but that's a story for a different day) and horses to carry us across the more rough terrain.  We lived in canvas tents for a week, bundled up against the harsh mountain wind in sweaters and blankets and adrenaline. We spoke with children in the villages and many of them were as perplexed with the terrorism ideology they were being branded with as we were. I was proposed to three times (and found out my net worth in the land was 5 camels, two oxen, and 800,000 rupees, holla!)  Most importantly though, I found in myself something I didn't think existed: strength.

By the end of my trip I realized I could do things I never imagined.  I climbed.  I fished.  I managed without running water, or a proper bathroom.  I didn't need makeup, hair products, or fashionable clothes.  That trip was me in my most basic form; humanity bleeding outward.  It is an experience I think about every day, because without it I'm not sure of the person I would be today.

So my dears, the moral of this story is experience every opportunity you can.  Challenge yourself.  Live without warning.  You don't know what experience in your life will change you forever.  Get off the couch.  Be the best version of yourself that you can be.

Love.

Live.

Inspire.

transportation at Jheel Saiful Muluk

a woman's work-naran valley

the view we woke up to. not even kidding. amazing. kaghan. 

Sumi's Guide to Being a Polite Concert-Goer While Still Rocking your Face off.

I remember my first concert.  It was 1990, and I was full on rocking the fucking house in my scrunchie socks, neon pink half shirt, and acid-washed tight rolled Z Cavariccis (did I mention what a mini-style maven I was?).  My hair was crimped (thank you, ConAir Geometrix) and I had a sign that said, "I LOVE YOU DONNIE" in honor of my favorite New Kid on the Block.  I had a handful of fan letters shoved into my back pocket, mostly pleas inviting the New Kids to come hang out at my house and letting them know that if their tour bus ever broke  down I would be more than willing to put them up during their time of need.  I was an uber fan, and this concert would be the apex of many months of scrounging my allowance for nosebleed tickets.  I don't remember much of the show other than I think I screamed until I lost my voice, I had the right stuff (oh oh oh oh oh), and at some point some girl gave me a death stare because my poster blocked her line of vision.

This would be the first in a line of many, many shows to come.

During my late teens/early 20s, live music kept me going.  Each week started out with a schedule in how to arrange studying time around shows.  I spent a lot of time in high school at Fireside Bowl in Chicago (for those of you who aren't familiar, it was this old bowling alley slash concert venue) huddled in a group of other teenage miscreants nodding my head along to some screaming punk beast while watching another guy windmilling in the center of the floor.  I spent a lot of time in college at the Bowery Ballroom, anxious to see and be seen by some of the best bands you have never heard of.  I dated a few musicians (some of whom,based on this blogs share of reader demographics, are probably on some of your ipods) and have seen concerts and shows from the back, front, above, below, all over.  And to date I still voraciously search out great live music, if not for the fact that I love music but also the concert experience.

Last night I attended a show headlined by Florence + The Machine, and her opener was a demon on the guitar, Hanni el Khattib.  The show of course, was amazing, but it got me thinking of how horrendously impolite some people can be at shows.  Okay, I get it.  You paid money for tickets.  Maybe your parents did.  Maybe your boyfriend/girlfriend/molester uncle did.  But that does not mean you can't have common decency, something that seems to be lacking around the music scene lately.  Below are a few bullet points(because  yes, Sumi K can indeed be organized!) of what you can do, to make yourself a person less likely to either get punched or get a total stinkeye from someone at a show.

• Ladies, girls, people with horse appreciation and men with Goliath complexes.  Keep a hair tie with you.  There is nothing worse than jumping around and getting some stranger's hair in your mouth, eyes, or mucus membranes.  I get you want to do the whole bohemian thing, but THINK OF THE CHILDREN.  Anytime someone's hair whips me in the face (big ups, Willow Smith) I spend the next ten minutes in a state of total panic, wondering if the person has lice or earwigs or some other garden creature roaming in their mane.  If you need a hair tie, please find me at the show.  I always have a few on me.
• Moshing.  My very first pit was a terrifying experience.  I was sidearmed into a Pantera pit while trying to squeeze my way up close to the front for some pictures from my disposable camera (remember those?).  I suddenly found myself surrounded by large burly skinheads who immediately saw my wide-eyed terror and pulled me out instantly.  You see? That's polite.  I get that girls want to be equal and all, but in the pit where the testosterone is full to bursting, there is no equality.  Unless you are an olympic female sumo wrestler in which case I say to you, mosh on my friend (and please look out for me should I ever get pushed into a pit again).  I've held my own in other pits, and everytime, the guys look out for the girls.  Chivalry at it's finest!  However you don't see that shit at all nowadays.  Now the pits are filled with raging jocks who want to show off their chests and perhaps bash some skulls.  Recently at a concert during a set by Seether I witnessed a pit open up near where I was standing.  I had some big dude next to me and I don't really care for Seether (okay, I can't stand them.. except for that new Country Song which is fabulous) so I was content to watch what transpired.  A bunch of 16-21 year old boys flailing into people, not caring who they hit.  Anytime a girl was pushed into the mix she was fair game to be punched and hit.  Seriously, dudes.  Look out for your fellow concert goers.  As much as -you- want to mosh, the person next to you does not want to get dragged into your melee because you are too fucking drunk to see where you are going.  Please and thanks.
• Drinking. Okay, we all know that Sumi K loves her some white wine.  That being said, the worst thing to happen to a person at a show is to be forever pegged as, 'That person who threw up at the (insert band name here) show'.  Case in point, at a recent show (that I chronicled in an earlier entry) up in Wisconsin, I had to take a terrifying walk down a stairwell that was literally covered in vomit because some kid couldn't handle his beer.  I threw the shoes out as soon as I walked out of the venue.  Fucking gross.  Last night at the Florence show, as I was weaving my way out of the crowd there was a girl who was bombed out of her mind and ready to puke.  Her to friends were of no help as they were pretty far gone as well.  I had to laugh as a good looking guy standing in front of them turned around, grabbed the girl by the shoulders and gave her a little shake.  She smiled drunkily at him until he said, "If you or your friends puke on my shirt, I will fucking key your car, you bitch".  Hilarious, and a man after my own heart. Take into consideration the heat, the lack of air circulation, the proximity of bodies to yours, and you will really want to rethink that third or fifth cocktail.  
• Ease up on the perfume/cologne.  But make sure to wear deodorant.  This is a really slippery slope, but it is something that needs to be addressed.  Girls- your perfume SUCKS.  While it might smell good to you in the privacy of your home, a single dab behind the ears works.  Other people around you think you smell like an old ladies handkerchief.  Likewise with cologne.  Do not bathe in Coolwater before you step your shirtless self into a pit area.  You will make people sick and they may vomit on you (and then you'd be known as 'the person who puked at so and so show'.. see how this goes full circle?).  With all that being said, PLEASE wear deodorant.  Not Axe, not body spray, but honest to god antiperspirant and deodorant.  Seriously people.  Especially if you plan to walk around shirtless.  No one needs your sweaty armpit hair dripping in vile odorous sweat hanging in their face.  The least you can do is take a few swipes of a speed stick under your arms (ladies, that goes for you, too.  Take the money you would spend on that last beer (because I'm pretty sure you'll be paying close to 8 dollars for it) and buy a deodorant or two.  Everyone around you will thank you later.
• Have some respect for who is playing for you.  If you don't like the opener, cool.  That's your prerogative.  With that being said, some people do.  For you to stand there like a four year old with your hands over your ears (yes, this happened last night at the Florence show) and yelling "Boooooo" in a sickly monotone voice makes you an asshole.  
• Have FUN. I know this advice seems like it goes without saying, but how many times do you see someone with a prime spot at a show, and they are disinterested in doing anything other than texting, or nudging their friend, or (gasp) yawning?  I can see this happening at, say, a Nickelback show (do they even tour? Do people even listen to them?) but some of the most recent shows I've been at, I've witnessed more texting action than ever before.  You could easily give up your spot to someone in the back, who is much more willing to rock their face off.  Better yet, disconnect.  Enjoy what's going on around you. Trust me, your Facebook friends will survive without you for an hour or two.  

I know this seems a little preachy, but let's be realistic.  All of these are simple little tips that really don't take that much effort!  However, don't get me started on festivals; because with those comes a whole slew of new rules to be chronicled at some point in the distant future (helpful hint: deodorant has a starring role).

The Godsmack crowd, from the balcony where all the cool guys sit.

Disturbed crowd from above, again, cool guy spot.

30 Seconds to Mars at Jamboree.  The only band for whom I will put up with  novices in a pit area for. <3

Hanni el Khattib.  He's fantastic; you should check him out.  Now.

The captivating Florence Welch.

A text message I received. And a succinct description of how it makes me feel.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but you're a beautiful monster.  Literally a gorgeous abomination of a human psyche. I want to taste your fragmented existence."

And you thought your comrades were eccentric.  Oddly enough, this is the first time this individual has ever said something so beautiful to me. I'm not quite sure how I feel about it.  Raw, mostly.  Recycled back into a time when I was a lot less jaded and a lot more willing to give a fuck.

Listen to this whole song.  It will eat away at your soul; it's just that beautiful.

Choking on dust

I never intended this to be a serious blog, and yet I find myself wanting to vent out shit that has really been weighing on my mind lately.  Sorry in advance to the people who expected the badly drawn pictures and hopeless insanity that seemed to litter the old blog, as well as entries within this one.  But if I'm planning to be perfectly honest, I'm really not feeling that type of vibe lately, you dig?

2010 was pretty rough.  To recap: life at Khan Castle was permeated with a sinister cloud of bad luck (for those of you who have read this for a while, you know the details) that included but didn't leave out death, illness, and a general sense of unease.  When 2011 came rolling through, there was a hopeful sense of optimism that maybe, just maybe, this year would be better.

And it has been.  I can't deny that.  Wounds slowly heal, regardless of how much you pick at a scab.  Eventually you learn to smile again.  You don't focus so much on what could have, should have been.  Things slowly fall back into a pattern of normalcy you are used to. And yet, it doesn't.

Does that make sense? I have a hard time verbalizing how I feel, and I think that writing it out has the same sense of confusion and dubiety.  Its an overall feeling of dissension simmering just beneath the surface skin, threatening to agitate the false normalcy into a frenzied state of cacophonous malaise.  What's the catalyst?  We're both standing face to face, neither of us willing to see what's transpired between us. It's not pretty, and I'm not quite sure either of us care enough any more do anything to rectify it.  We've gone too far, and seem to much and have both been left to lick our wounds in private.  It's the burden that we bear.

I think tragedy has a way of bringing far people closer, and close people further from one another.  It's the only way I can really justify why I sit here passively day by day, watching what we once had crumble into an ashen pile of regrets.  I can't stop it, and to be one thousand percent fair, I'm not even sure it could use a resurrection at this point.  It's blatant that our lives are headed in two separate directions with no sign of convergence on the path.

I'm really not sure what the near future brings.  You'll be all over the world.  I'll be living my own life, and we steadily distance ourselves from one another.  Maybe I'll see you next week or next month or next year.  Maybe we'll just both disappear.  This is all sounding so dark, and I'm sorry for that.  I honestly don't see it that way.  It could be a good thing, right?

I'm not a hero, and I don't like pain, but words express feelings and emotions, and they can't last forever.



Sorry.

My life is awesome.

This.

plus.

This.

plus.

This.

plus.

This.

=

My life, being awesome.

And I'm out.

Live without warning

Ignore the title.  After all, those are not directions I tend to follow anymore(edit: i just totally confused myself with this one.  im blaming ambien).  For example, currently it is 1:41am central standard time.  The moon is a strange color and is postulating in an eerie sense underneath the veil of fog that seems to want to bind and fuck that moon.  I've had some drinks tonight.  I've popped an ambien and I'm at the stage where I am seeing things.  And here, I sit.  Listening to 'Hurricane' on repeat for three songs, and then skipping to 'Alibi' for three songs, and continue ad nauseam.  I told myself I wouldn't write this entry today.  In fact, you couldn't blame me if I stopped.  My pajamas are half on, my hair in a ponytail, not a trace left of the smoky eye makeup I fancy so much.  So I'm feeling quite a bit vulnerable.  I can still feel his sweat on my skin and it is making me shudder.

This evening the plan was to go see a band (who will not be named, to protect the guilty) that my nephew loves. LOVES. I'm talking fist pumping, all capslock, LOVE.  Since the show was in Wisconsin, we road tripped it.  I remained noncommital on who else would be attending, only because the worst scenario ever could go down, and I really did not want that to happen, at all.  Moving along while I take you on the vague path to vagueville, I was walking up the backstairs to get into the vip balcony seats.  It was about two hours before the show was even to start but I figured I'd find a good perch and commence the drinking.  And then, it happened.

I didn't see him at first, but I felt him. Yes, that sounds creepy.  No, it really wasn't.  However it was awkward.  He (names omitted to protect the barely innocent) immediately grabbed me in a hug while two of his band members did the nervous shuffle-checkphone-lookoverthere thing that I wished I was doing.  It was a hug that lasted slightly too long, it was slightly damp, and I was kinda perplexed about it considering the last time I was in a room with him and his bandmates I told him to go fuck himself with a rake sideways, and he lunged to either eat my brain or chew off my face.  Not sure what his tactic would have been.  Either way, it was interesting.  I detached as quick as was polite and ran up to the balcony so I could peek down at the revelers below.

Take two.  I stopped writing this blog last night as I realized Three's Company was on, and I chose to eat some popsicles and watch that instead until I inevitably passed out from a combination of pharmaceuticals and faux exhaustion.  So let me pick up where I left off, only now this entry is sure to be lacking a bit of pizazz.

 I had plenty of time during the shitty opening act to let my mind wander, and right after some hilarious texting regarding my boyfriend's new nickname being 'Captain Brittania', I was haunted once more by the same creature from my past.

He apparently couldn't leave well enough alone as he stalked over to me, and grabbed my arm.  I was slightly confused as he had a hoodie on, and sort of looked menacing.  I was pretty sure that he had a fleeting thought about punching me in the ladyparts, but that's neither here nor there.  What transpired was an apology, for nearly attacking me, and that I didn't deserve it then.

WHAT!?! I was fucking floored.  Way to completely change the way I saw a person.  Even his professional image belied the words he said.  But there it was, spelled out before me, with an expectant impish grin waiting my acceptance?  So what could I do, at that point?  Considering that chapter of my life has long since been closed, it never left anything other than fond memories and a slight amount of shame, and my life is completely different from the person I was back then, would I really be petty enough to deny him that? Nah. So we toasted to old memories, old tour bus escapades, and whatever the future brought to both of us, independently.  He no longer had a weight of guilt on his shoulders, and let's face it.  I had comped drinks the rest of the night. Huzzah!

Revisiting the Dark Times

i guess you could say it began the summer before freshman year.

filled with the prospects of an entirely new existence in high school,  i was quite the exuberant ingenue.  it was a rather repressing two years in middle school, the formative years, they say.  it was then that i learned of the cattiness of other females.  then that i felt how deep a wound words can inflict.  then that pain was taken and stored away into a mental box, created of thin  plywood, wrapped neatly with a velveteen ribbon.  it was that time of year when i met a boy who changed the way i saw things.

to protect the (plausibly) innocent, names are being left out.  but im sure everyone can recall the rush of blood to the surface skin, the tingling sensation of young love/lust/curiosity.  this boy spent alot of time in my company, and we spent the heat of the summer at a local park, wrapped in each others embrace.  sordid, i tell you.  but as summer came to a close, so did the affliction of a boys affection.  i never spoke to him beyond our last tryst ,  and when i went home i felt this unrequitted emptiness.

leave a girl alone with her thoughts, and a lot can happen.

i recall a night alone in my room, listening repeatedly to my Better Than Ezra cd, stuffing a towel under my bedroom door so i could sit at the window and smoke a parliment light (without inhaling, of course) and breathing in my own misery mixed with the scent of egyptian mist incense. i dont know what first made me grab for it, but it was easily within reach, as were random odds and ends i had always scattered around my bedroom.  i do, however, remember the first tearing sensation as the safety pin cut into the virgin surface of my ankle.  i felt that familiar rush of blood, the swelling of the surface skin, and that night i fell asleep; serene and problem free.

this was repeated numerous times, different tools to impliment the visual raping of my skin. a pin, a paperclip (unbent), a razorblade, a pencil eraser (yes, it burns the flesh off slowly, tortuously), and the big time: a fresh exacto knife.

Now some of you might be reading this and wondering to yourself how fucked up i am, exactly.  truth be told, this is merely a diatribe of past transgressions. moving right along..

 I was always careful to hide my cuts, preserving the areas i dwelled upon with the flick of subtlety to my thighs, the backs of my legs, my upper arms.   a slice for a bad grade, a scratch for an arguement with any one of the suitors i had at any given time, a sharp splinter drawn off for the sheer hell of it. and at that point, it progressed.


i didnt cut all the time.  mainly when something became too harsh for me to bear, it became my skin's responsibility to carry the burden of my emotional instability.  sometimes, many times, my life was pretty free from troubles.  but other times, the worst times, i lashed out physically onto myself, carving my own inefficience at coping.  sometimes it was so bad that the scars became visible to all who noticed.And sadly, I wasn't the only to participate.  I was weak, and someone else began to inflict the same type of pain upon me.  Why not? I'm sure he thought.  He wouldn't take any blame for it since it was something I did to myself, too.  I was more ashamed of these than anything, and  I spent two years trying to hide the six jagged stripes upon my left forearm, and the deep gashes upon my right bicep.  Not many know those were someone else's creation.  I merely allowed them to think I was the maestro of this type of artistry, to avoid the shame of letting someone break me down into nothing. 

i dont know why i quit cutting. it just stopped, as quickly as it set on.  i dont think i can replicate the feeling i used to get out of it. maybe it was a game best left in the box, bundled up with a few pieces missing, left behind and almost forgotten.

self destructive, you say.  fuck that.  self preservation, i say. 






I've edited to add that this is a blog I posted in 2007.  It's amazing to me how memories can come full circle only to play on repeat again in a few years time.  It seems to be a persistent niggling feeling that lies dormant until it hits once more, full throttle and piercing into my skull until I want to shriek and pull at my flesh.  In the same vein, it is comforting to be awash in these familiar feelings.  It reminds me that I can, in fact, feel.  Survival.  Always a common song we sing.

Another Random Picture That I took.

i remember running through the wet grass/and falling  a step behind/both of us never tiring/desperately wanting

A Brown Girl's View on Terrorism

As a kid, I grew up in an upper-middle class suburb outside of Chicago.  Majority of my friends were either white, or had immigrant parents like mine who were "living the American Dream".  I fit right in with everyone, we all ran the streets as late as we could playing Ghost in the Graveyard or fishing for catfish in the lake out back.  No one saw color, or race, or anything like that.

Imagine my surprise then, when I found out I was different. 

I was 4 years old when my parents announced my grandmother was going to be visiting us, and staying in our house for about 5 months.  I didn't know much about her, other than she was my dad's mother, she didn't really speak English very well, and she was from Pakistan which to me, existed on the same planetary line as Mars.  I had no idea where Pakistan was, but I did know she would come bearing gifts and that had me rubbing my greedy little hands together in absolute glee.  When she finally did arrive, all of my gifts were so beautiful.  I had hand painted china dolls in traditional Pakistani clothing, matching outfits for myself, tea sets, and the final gift which my grandmother presented to me with such gusto; a backpack printed with the Pakistani flag, and a glitter glue headline proudly proclaiming, "PAKISTAN" across the front.  When my grandmother asked me what it said, I was so excited to show off my reading skills (I had already diligently worked my way through the Berenstain Bears books) that I announced exuberantly..

"PANCAKES". 

And that was the first moment in my life that I realized I was not brown enough.

There would be many more moments like this later in life.  Like the time when I went to visit my cousin the diplomat at his new post in New York.  He spoke to me in rapid fire Urdu, and in a flustered moment I responded in Spanish.  Or the time when I went to Pakistan, only to be appalled at the fact that cows and livestock roamed the roads freely, and often contributed to traffic jams.  Or when, in Pakistan, I was fascinated to find out there was a small village in the foothills of the Himalayas, in which they held a book of my families ancestry going back a few hundred years.  Pretty insanely cool, if you ask me.  But in that same vein, since 2001, the world has gone under a rapid change that has made me feel more "brown" than ever.

To stray off topic a bit, I'm just going to say that terrorism has always existed, though people suddenly think it's a new thing created solely by Muslims to hunt and kill white people.  Untrue.  There have always been terrorists, of all races, creeds, colors, sizes.  However it is an unfair stereotype put onto muslims ever since September 11th. 

Now, forgive my erratic mind for jumping around, but there is just so much I want to say on this subject, and so little room for me to type it all (otherwise you'd be reading a seriously psychotic look into the way my mind works. And that doesn't work out nicely for anyone).  But I have to say that seeing the death of Osama bin Laden has made me question the people around me as human beings.  I'm going to get super serious for a bit, but I wonder about the way people work when they hear of something like this.

When Osama bin Laden was killed, my immediate thought was, "It's about time".  Not joy, not unadulterated cheering, but a blanket statement at the fact that a man that was hunted for so long had finally met his demise.  However I saw people around me praising God, or claiming it was the best news they had ever heard.  And this made my stomach flip.  

Why does a death justify many deaths?  Who is the animal here?  We celebrated in the streets that OBL had been killed, but didn't we feel horrified to see fundamentalist Muslims doing the same thing at America's expense? 

As a country, we tend to assume "the terrorists" struck first, and we struck back, heavy handed.  That's not the case, however.  We have been monsters for years upon years upon years, killing in the name of peace.  Does that solve anything, though?  At the end of the day, is your life any different because Osama bin Laden is dead?  Was your life different when he was around?  What changed?

I know I have a barrage of questions, but it's mostly because I cannot fathom the mindset of someone who takes delight in the death of someone.  Regardless of how evil or negative or horrible they were, their death will never replace the lives lost.  It will never give an answer to a child as to why their father or mother or brother won't be coming home.  It will never, ever, finalize an equal playing field for countries everywhere, and no one will step up and say, "We're done.  This is the end of war."  9/11 forever changed the landscape of the world, and things will never go back to how they were, no matter how many people died.

I'd also like to add that the people who are vehemently demanding to see the death photos of OBL are disgusting.  Why on earth you would want to see the image of a dead person is beyond me (and I say this having witnessed some pretty gruesome deaths, why the fuck would someone be cool with seeing this shit?), and again.. seeing the image will not suddenly make all right in the world.

In other fun facts, I've actually been to Abbotabad, where OBL's compound was.   My father had his military training in the school there, and I visited the camp as a child.  There's a picture of me in one of the family albums next to a guard on an appaloosa horse (who I named Belinda, after my obsession with Belinda Carlisle), proudly pointing to the sign and holding my father's medals.  But to be honest,  I don't really remember that town.  Most of my memories of that trip to Pakistan involve animals and my inability to comprehend a country without pizza or a McDonalds.  In many trips after though, I was touched by the warm welcome I received from strangers, or the hospitality, or the absolute beauty of the country.

I'm going to end this here because I've gone completely off track and have done nothing but ramble, but please take a moment to reflect on what's going on in the world today.  And if you are celebrating someone's death, does that make you any better than them?

My cousin and I with a goat in Islamabad, before it was slaughtered. I decided to serenade it with some Wham! while my cousin instead decided to ride it triumphantly around the yard. 

Random Art.

as much as i love autumn, im giving myself to ashes.

This is entirely random and thoughtless.

me. in a lost galaxy/face on a milk carton

I sometimes peruse my documents and find gems like this.  On a sidenote, if you find my nose, please return it.  Holy saturation. 

3 a.m Chronicles

I've always enjoyed the quiet that the after midnight hours afford me.  That is when I feel my most creative.  I often paint, or write, or ponder at that time, easily slipping into a pattern of silence charged with frenetic energy.  That aside, it's when I feel the least vulnerable.  I suppose this pattern started for me when I was little, because I had an unhealthy obsession with zombies.

It wasn't an absolute love.  It was a love filled with abject terror.  It was a fascination that always led to me hiding under the stairs of my basement, clutching onto my Teddy Ruxpin doll (which I would subsequently chuck out of my hiding spot, because that thing was fucking terrifying too) and hoping that my supply of ecto cooler wouldn't run out before impending doom.  However I could not stop watching zombie movies, or thinking about zombie attacks, or in more bored times, pretending I was a zombie.  I spent many hours perfecting the Thriller dance (because my love of dance would obviously allow me to join a street gaggle of zombies who inevitably broke out into rehearsed numbers) and watching every Romero vhs I could get my hand on (procured from my brother's friend who rode a purple scooter and convinced me that he was Prince).  As I got older, the zombie fascination continued, only it took a morbid turn.

I had an apartment off-campus during college, and it was directly across the street from what seemed to be an abandoned cemetery (this would also indicate the first in a long line of homes I've lived in that is situated within a block of a cemetery).  We were far too hip to invest in curtains, so I spent every single night sitting in the front room, paralyzed with fear as I could barely make out the figures of a dragged zombie two step heading towards me.  I would come home at night (usually smelling of menthol cigarettes and bad decisions), collapse on the couch, and then inwardly panic that I would awake to see a decomposing face staring back at me.  When an upstairs apartment was finally vacated, I breathed a sigh of relief as I was able to move to an upper floor and surely zombies couldn't scale walls.

Well yeah.  Tell that to Hollywood who then began to churn out zombie movies in which the zombies were not only in shape, but outwardly aggressive and would rip your fucking face off given the chance.  Wonderful!  This brought a whole new set of horrors to my life, as I spent my nights pondering what, exactly, I'd do in the event of an inevitable invasion.  This continued on in home after home, and would have ended until I moved into the condo I bought.

You see, we have an underground heated garage.  Which is wonderful in the Chicago winter as I never have to heat up my car, or scrape the ice off the windshield, or any other things that make the winter mundane and less magical.  However, this lair has it's downfalls.  For one, running the perimeter are storage units for each of the condos, which are fenced in.  Cool, right?  Except there is a large enough gap to crawl over, so you wouldn't be totally protected.  Second of all, between the parking spots are these odd recessed minicaves, that could totally hide an emaciated zombie dripping with blood and gnawing on a spleen.  Of course because I live on the top level and have a double unit, my parking spots are the furthest from the elevator, so when I exit my car (if I'm alone) I sprint to the elevator and try to act normal in case anyone sees me.  However if I'm with someone else, I go into immediate warrior mode and play the part of the bad ass chick should something pop out to attack me.

I'm not sure when a zombie attack will happen, but I know it will. And when it does?  I'll be ready.

a typical night in khan castle

Today is the dumbest day ever.

And because of that, I'm going to listen to David Bowie to make it better.

Update.  After watching this video a few times (yes, it's one of my favorite Bowie performances, but mostly because as a kid I always wanted to be on Soul Train.. or Solid Gold) I feel slightly better.  But this day still pretty much sucks balls.  Is it summer yet? Summer is sure to be much more fun. /angst

A Darling Idiosyncracy

Everyone has bizarre habits.  For example, I know a toenail biter.  This guy who shall remain nameless habitually bites his toenails.  Why?  I couldn't tell you.  Perhaps the enticing aroma of sweaty socks and toe fuzz is just too delectable an entree to pass up.  Perhaps he is so hardcore into his vegan-ism that he feels organic and unadulterated foot sweat is his only means of survival.  Or perhaps (and in what I think is the most plausible scenario) he is just an odd bird.  I also know a girl who breaks her food into baby bites before she eats it.  No matter what it is, it is subjected to torturous mutilation and furtively stuffed in her mouth like a chipmunk.  Victim of a strange cultural ritual, or just a strange habit?  You decide.

Apparently The Brit thinks I am weird as fuck though.  I'm not sure why, as my life is relatively normal (save the copious amounts of sugar free popsicles I consume, or the fact that I don't drink water and instead unsweetened barley tea or that I cannot stop bouncing my knee because I have so much pent up frenetic energy) and it's not like I'm a toebiter or anything.  While I do have weird food habits, I would say that the one thing that bothers The Brit the most is that I'm a hoarder.

No, not in the animal hoarding sense.  Or the "I can't see your floors" sense.  I hoard money.  It's a habit I picked up when I was little.  Growing up in a house with an older brother and sister in which my sister, the protector, was often gone out with her friends.  My brother, the torturer, used to tease me mercilessly (including one time when he was stoned with his friends, and offered me a dollar for every egg he could crack over my head.  Five year old me stood there patiently while I dripped in egg goo, and to date I have never received payment for the 9 eggs!) and somehow, a thought stuck in my head that he would steal my loot. So I began to hide it.  Not in large amounts, maybe a dollar here in that book, or two bucks in a china tea pot.  I ended up carrying this habit into adulthood.

It served me well in college, as I always had beer money, or money for new books at The Strand or money for falafels ( I haven't yet pontificated my love for these little balls of heaven, but I'm sure that blog will come soon) and it served me very well in my early 20's when I needed tattoo money.  Now that I am 30, I find it still serves me well but the dollar amounts are higher.  I funded a new pair of Alexander McQueen booties without tapping into my bank account or credit card this way, as well as a random spa weekend in the same manner.  However The Brit thinks it is bullshit (but to be fair, I think he is more than a little jealous.  He can't even hold onto a dollar in his pocket).

It was late last night/early this morning that I truly found out how much this does, in fact, irritate the living shit out of him.  It was circa 2 am and I was a wandering drone around Chateau Khan, waiting for the Ambien to kick in.  I have a tendency to meander, wraith-like, around the living room so that if someone were to be walking outside, they'd think some bizarre ghostly creature was appearing in all the windows (#funshitidowhenimbored).  But I quickly tired of that, so I decided to look around and make sure all my hidden money was where it was supposed to be.  I should mention that I do that obsessively, too.  Moving right along, though.

I walked into the kitchen, hoisted myself up on the counter, and grabbed the box of Special K.  Looked under the cereal. And staring back up at me was a Post-it with a smiley face hastily drawn on it.

Now I admit.  I began to panic.  Not a full blown, all out scream fest, more like the feeling you get when you hear your parents begin to discuss sex, assuming you are adult enough to handle that type of psychological warfare (spoiler alert parents: your kids want to assume the last time you had sex was when they were conceived. and thats it).  But still, I figured maybe I had taken the money before my trip to New York and totally forgotten about it.  So I moved on to the next hiding spot.  I crawled army style through my living room (this is 100% true), snagging my already sore shin on a safety pin that had apparently made its home pointed side up on my carpet.  I yelled louder than I should have (but I had to have some sort of theatrical effect) and continued to crawl, convinced I was going to hemorrhage to death wearing an old Garfield nightgown that I got when I was 12.  I pondered my impending obituary as I checked underneath my wall unit for the DVD case to Prenom Carmen, hoping to see the familiar envelope of cash.

NO FUCKING DICE.  Instead in it's place was another menacing Post-it.

Replacing your cash with my molester smirk

Now, I may be scatterbrained.  I may be neurotic.  I may be melodramatic.  But stupid I am not.  I grabbed the phone, confirming it was only slightly after midnight in Los Angeles, which meant The Brit was either closing in on being drunk, or asleep.  As it turns out, he was asleep which worked in my favor, as he was more apt to tell me what I wanted to hear rather than act like a dickhole and lecture me.  

Me: Where's my money? (I may or may not have spoken in a Russian Lady Accent)

Britty McBritpants: What money? (Definitely in an English accent. No fun)

Me: You know what money (Taking obvious cues from Law & Order: Sumi K edition)

BMBP: Did you check all of your.... spots? (said with such disdain)

Me: No. What did you buy? 

BMBP: Check all of them, then call me back.

Botheration.  I went spot to spot, looking for my purple envelopes, only to find, yes, the rapey smile goading me at every turn.  Unfuckingbelievable.  I was pretty pissed at this point, but not really acting on it as the Ambien was starting to kick in and I was moving as if through quicksand.  I finally gave up on my game of Cloak and Dagger, and called him back.

Me: What the fuck (At this point, sounding like my mouth was stuffed with marshmallows)

Him: Right bedside drawer, white envelope.  Good night and you're welcome (a few kissing noises that I hung up on because I had mere seconds to uncover this mystery before this episode ended).

I tiptoed into my room and checked my bedside drawer.  Tucked underneath a copy of 1984 was a plain envelope which I promptly tore open with my teeth.  Inside was a letter that said the following:

You Dear Girl,

I leave home for weeks at a time and I do not like the idea of you holing money around and telling everyone about it.  We know some shady people so for your protection I have deposited it into your savings account.  You can thank me when you don't get raped and robbed.  I love you.

And included inside the note was a deposit slip, dated the day he left.

Some may find this sweet, but I was infuriated.  The whole point of this game was to have money for an emergency, and if I were in a situation where I was robbed and or raped, I'm quite confident a potential burglar slash rapist wouldn't think to check my cereal cabinet (and a note to potential burglars or rapists: I only have cereal in my cabinet now, so unless you really want some Special K with red berries, you are out of luck) and I also have a pretty advanced security system (which totally includes a war cry that I have perfected.. and a secret hidden cache of weapons procured from my psychotic ex).  Now what would I do if I needed to buy something spur of the moment?  Rather than having that Christmas morning feeling of opening money envelopes, I'd have to be a regular boring adult and use my credit card, or worse, go to the bank. While I appreciate the fact that he doesn't want me raped, he basically stole all of the joy out of my life.

Update.  As of noon today, the dollar amount in my savings account mysteriously dropped back to the same level it was the day before my boyfriend headed back to Los Angeles.  I may or may not have also bought a new box of envelopes.  I've also found some new hiding spots.

Sumi: 1. Brit: 0.

A Cautionary Tale to the Egocentric Beings of the Universe (and a long winded ramble on my behalf)

Last night was spent reminiscing on a period in my life I don't often talk about.  Not for any reason other than during that time, some bad shit happened.  But looking back, I was pretty happy back then.

I'm referring to my early 20's, a time in which I was in a relationship (though how committed it was is still up in the air, as we both relentlessly remained unfaithful while swearing we were) that allowed me the freedom to follow my own sense of wanderlust. I had finished college and returned home to Chicago, settling into my first self-paid for apartment.  Life was good.  For the first time in my life, I had little responsibility and a whole lot of free time for fun.

I should also take mention that technologically, this was right before Facebook hit it big.  Myspace was just beginning and really was a place for musicians.  Since there weren't many people who had heard of it yet, it was relatively easy for musicians to network to their fans.  The scene at the time was "nu-metal" and Chicago (as always) was a great place to see shows.  I quickly became friends (and yes, I stress the word friends here, for those of you who like to assume things) with a bunch of musicians who all achieved a substantial amount of fame and or notoriety.  Some I was closer with than others, some were central characters in a few debaucherous nights, and others became people I still think of often, even now.

One friend in particular, will always hold a special place in my heart.  I was going through a rough patch, and he was always there for me despite the fact that he had a ridiculous touring schedule, a new album that had dropped, being signed to a new label.. and you get the gist.  However whenever I was feeling down, I'd get a random telephone call from him, or a video call of him sans stage gear, playing with puppets or some other random trinket.  However this didn't last longer than a year, as towards the ten month mark we began to drift off (his schedule was constantly being overwhelmed by groupies, and obligations, and the excitement of being catapulted upwards and onwards) and after we drifted off, I had already established myself into the next phase of my life so there was no room for this lanky boy of a man to be standing stage left, barking at me to pay more attention to him.  I had enough on my plate at the time.

I need to stop because I realized it sounds like I'm talking about someone who died.  Quite the opposite.  This man lives on, villified by the fan base he once accrued as his life took a nasty turn somewhere after we lost contact.  I'd like to say that after "shit went down" I was there for him, but I wasn't at all.  Not for lack of want, but because what he did was something I had always warned him about and yet prophetically enough, it bit him in the ass.  However once you hit a certain level of fame or celebrity, it is quite easy to lose a sense of yourself.  And that he did.

So last night I thought about this guy.  Heard from someone close to him that he has picked his life back up and has gotten what shit together that he could.  Even saw a picture, and I had to laugh as tidbits of a past conversation peppered my ears.  I could probably manage to get his number again, but what would I say?  So here's my attempt at what I should say, and I hope it's worth more than just the guillotine.

I'm sorry I was a shitty friend, but you were shitty too.  My mistakes do not absolve you from some of your prior actions.  That being said, if you searched hard enough, you'd find out how to contact me.  I'd never refuse a phone call.

And a bit of advice, take it for what you will.  No matter how high you are, you can always crash down in a nanosecond.  You'd do well to take this and hold it close.

xo.

team sumi_zoomi, duckfacing before duckface was cool and then uncool. 

A full on immersion.

I have never, ever in my life denied being an ABCD (for those too lazy to urban dictionary this bitch up, an ABCD is an American Born Confused Desi- or someone who is of South Asian descent, and does not at all pay homage, if you will, to their homeland).  There is a very good reason for that.  My parents arrived in the States in the late 60's and never looked back.  Do I blame them? Not one bit; my father had done his obligatory tour of duty in the military only to be held as a prisoner of war for two years, and in those years he was beat mercilessly and has the scars to prove it.  Before this gets super serious, I will just say that my parents never forced any form of religion on me (nor are they ultra religious themselves) and we never had a place within the islamic community.  So for all intents and purposes, my closest experiences with the desi community has taken place on vacations, or in restaurants.  That is, until last night.

The desi family is a complex web.  Any type of cousin (or remote cousin) is considered a brother/sister.  It's close knit.  It's clannish.  And everyone is nosy as fuck.  Weddings bring people together in a million day long ceremonial procession that basically dictates you spend a fuck ton of money on clothes that you will never, ever, wear again.  And as far as the time spent putting into this?  You're lucky if a 7pm wedding starts at 10pm.  But this is all background noise, really.

Long story short, my dad's sister has three sons who live in Virginia.  We received a call from her that her husbands nephew (so basically, my cousins, cousin) would be getting married to a girl in Chicago.   I had met my cousin's cousin twice; once when I was 10 years old and in Karachi on vacation, and once when he stopped by my house this past fall to have lunch while he went to meet the soon-to-be bride's parents.  Basically, this week my house became wedding central as my aunt and uncle flew in, along with the groom and his mother, and my parents.  We all communed while I acted like a slave, cooking these banquet style dinners and keeping my pretty face on at all times.  My escape? The gym, running hills and dreading when my workout ended (and if you know me, you know there is nothing more I loathe than running hills.. yuck).  Soooooo this all ended last night, at the wedding.

First off, my outfit was specifically tailored.  So I spent the week running to the seamstress while doing everything else.  Second off, my grasp of Urdu isn't as strong as I thought it was.  Thirdly, I have come to realize that I am quite possibly the ONLY person of Pakistani descent who is ever on time for anything.

So the wedding itself.  The groom looked bored and exhausted, the food was good, the bride was hidden in a back room until 2 hours after the time printed on the invitation.  Oh, and I found out that because of my relationship to the groom (remember how I said cousins are considered sisters?) I was supposed to sit on a stage next to the groom's mother, who sat next to the bride and groom who sat on thrones. THRONES. It was like I fell into a warp world of sequins, silk, and really loud voices complaining.  How mortifying.  Of course, I forgot my camera though somehow I snapped a shot of my dress while sitting in the car, waiting for the entire wedding party to arrive (Yes, I was on time.  Yes, they were all late).

I'm obviously a fantastic photographer.

Dinner was a buffet, where I was left out of options because everything on the buffet had meat, or a meat by-product in it.  So I basically stuck to some naan (a flat bread), chutney(a dipping sauce), and some cucumbers.  Which was fine because I was too busy making sure I was camera ready at all times, because the amount of flash bulbs were ridiculous.  Mind you, I've been at premieres and seen secondhand the type of renegade style photography happens, but this was ridiculous.  I'm hoping I don't look like an alien in all the pics, but that remains to be seen.  Dinner ended around midnight so we left, and I bid the groom farewell and a promise to show him around Chicago. Sans sequins.

A big long clusterfuck of recapping.

Okay.  I know.  I get it.  I procrastinate.. a LOT.  But I honestly have a good reason this time around.  Today marks the night before I attend a wedding, and I have family in from out of the country.  How's that for super iron-clad excuses?  Yeah, I thought so.

Haaaanyway.  Thursday was 30 Seconds to Mars.  Mind you, I won those tickets unexpectedly (to recap, I have officially won tickets to 16 different shows on my lifetime, 6 this year alone) and had zero plans to even go.  But really, could I have turned down a chance to stare at those soul stealing baby blues set in that handsome possumface? IDONTTHINKSO.

To recap: 30STM on stage is amazing, however it was cut a bit shorter because the drummer guy was sick, so he was either in back getting a blowie or Jared Leto just wanted a few more moments to talk/get all the girls panties wet.  But Show wise, it was spectacular.  However I felt like a fucking sardine, as the band commanded everyone to press in, and up, and together, and jump, and sway, and twist.  At some point, either an errant boner or a pocketed phone was pressed into my ass which made me feel utterly uncomfortable and yes, OLD. That being said, I got to look at this. So I won't complain too much.

Hello crazy eyes.  I would most definitely have sex with you.

That night I pretty much had my entire household up in the air as my procrastinating ass hustled to pack. I didn't get any sleep, but I did devour many a popsicles.  The next afternoon I had an uneventful flight to NYC, with the familiar sense of trepidation in my heart.  I arrived at the hotel before The Brit (that's how he'll be referred to from now on) and immediately dug into the hotel mini-bar.  The Brit arrived a few hours later, looking like he had jumped into the East River while wearing a snowsuit.  Plus #1: he had a beard!  Now, I knew that in our time apart he had been growing one, but I thought it would be scraggly.  However this was full on mountain man.  Made a mental note to forget about possumface. Below is a quite accurate drawing of my beloved. 

I look like a british uni-bomber!

Remember when I said drawing was not my strong suit? Yes? Okay good, because this looks nothing like my boyfriend, but more like a serial killer who stole jared leto's eyes. Sigh. Sorry, Britboy!

So after he cleaned himself up a bit (but not much, because well.. he is a british hobo) we headed out to one of our favorite New York bars.  It's small, it's cramped, it's hidden enough to be considered hip, but not.. well, you get the gist.  On our way there, a homeless man gave me a drawing of a cat.  I honestly haven't scanned it or taken a picture of it yet, but I definitely need to as it was probably the most hilarious drawing I had ever seen, mostly because it was almost as good as one of mine.  At the bar I proceeded to drink one too many whisky shooters and immediately demanded The Brit do the robot with me.  Sad to say he did not join in on my robot love, which lead me to believe that he has been lobotomized.  Double sigh. The night ended with me demanding a shake from Gray's Papaya and dumping it accidentally and totally forgetting about it.  

The next morning I woke up to... A BEARDLESS BRIT.  I had a moment of absolute panic, thinking I had somehow misplaced my dear hobo and replaced him with someone else.  That obviously explained why he didn't do the robot with me, y/y? But alas, he just wanted to look all nice and cute. /fancy story

We spent the day lolling around, sitting in the hotel lobby and making fun of people (the best quote by far came from The Brit as he decided an old man's name was obviously R.C. Puffypaint).  We ventured out to buy books, shakes, and the sweet little Brit warmed my heart by bringing me falafels.  We ended out the night bar hopping (or as The Brit eloquently called it, Pub Grubbing) and I definitely drank my weight in whisky.  

Sunday morning.  Water for Elephants premiere. Ruh... roh.  I had witnessed some of the fans lining up when I walked by the theatre on Saturday night.  I was scared.  I was worried it would completely stampeded upon by Twilight fans.  Now, let me take a moment to just say.  I do not have anything against the people who have vaulted Robert Pattinson's career (as I was one of them, holla!), however there is a certain CREEPY BREED OF TWILIGHT FANS who just will not go away.  They are a bad rash on the baby buttocks of the Robert Pattinson fan-world.  (Any of you who have ever forayed into this world know the exact type of fan I am talking about.  The one with the Twilight bed spread.  The one with the Twilight pillow.  The one that bows down to Stephenie Meyer.  The one who has Edward's creep face tattooed on their lady parts) But I digress, the women I encountered were really nice and seemed to sincerely care about The Pattinson's career, and not just asking him to bite them.

SO moving right along.  Sunday morning I got my nails did, my hurr did, and shook my head and tsktsked in disappointment as I stared at The Brit's clean shaven face.  It was HORRIBLE (please read that in Mary Katherine Gallagher's voice) but still, he is cute so I'll keep him.  My dress was pretty fantastic, and if I could I would wear it everyday as it was just that comfortable.  So.. we headed to the theatre.

I know the movie comes out tomorrow, but I feel like I need to post this spoiler free, with a little forewarning.

I loved the book, Water for Elephants.  I read it a few years ago when my goblin was having hip surgery.  It took me a day, as I could not put it down and it completely swept me away into the circus world.  It helped me avoid the sight of honeychile all morphined up and sadfaced.  So the book was really something I hoped the movie people got right. 

I would just like to say despite the few slight deviations from the book, the movie was what I wanted it to be. Every detail was beautiful, and the animals were extraordinary.  Tai, who plays Rosie the elephant is a majestic creature with wise eyes.  She stole the movie (and my heart /cheesy line) and that is saying a lot, considering she played along Christoph Waltz and Reese Witherspoon.  To digress slightly, Christoph is the craycray August, and he does such a magnificent job of portraying a man that's steeping in turmoil.  Reese, who I have never really been a fan of (I was forced to sit through back to back to back viewings of Legally Blonde by a 7 year old I was babysitting  and it made me suicidal) was beautiful as Marlena.  She was vulnerable with just a hint of noble strength, and I do not think they could have cast anyone better fit for the role.  As far as Roberto Pattinson goes, wow (WOW MIKEMIKE, WOW). He is so ruggedly handsome in this movie (especially when you see him alongside the animals and doing manual labor.. thoughts of Will Farrell as the lumberjack in StepBrothers comes to mind..LOLJK) that it's hard to believe he was ever the constipated Edwardo Cullenz.  After the movie ended, I had to take a moment to just breathe, because I was so caught up in the story that I lost track of everything around me (and that says a lot, considering the company inside the theater).  The only thing that bothered me is I knew that despite Witherspoon and Waltz, this movie will get unfair shit talk because of Pattinson. Bleh on the couch critics of the world!  

After the movie we skedaddled off to the after party where I marveled at the gilded birdcage, drank some champagne (not champale, because I am a classy broad), and secretly took off my shoes and slid on my awesome Dr. Scholl's pocket flats (those things saved my damn life, as I was blinded by pretty shoes and did not realize the severe uncomfortability of them).  After the after party, we played pool while I played shitty songs on the jukebox just to annoy the bar patrons (playlist included: 'I wanna know what love is'-Foreigner, 'I swear'-all4one, 'I wanna sex you up'-Colour me badd, and "The Thunder Rolls'-Garth Brooks) but in my opinion, if a fucking jukebox has those songs even available, it would be an absolute travesty if I -didn't- decide to play them!  We ended the night in our hotel room watching an infomercial about the bender ball. 

We flew back Monday morning much to my delight, as I had a million goblin kisses to give an adorable goblin.  We won't have another one of these shindigs until Breaking Dawn: the apocolypse, but this one was beautiful and perfect.

By this time on....

Thursday, I'll have seen 30 Seconds to Mars and Anberlin (I won the tickets in an absolutely unfair facebook thing).  I may have screamed out, "I LOVE YOU JORDAN CATALANO".  I also may have pissed off some quasi-goth girl by doing this.


Friday, I'll have landed in New York, and reunited with my boyfriend in the same old hotel we always stay in.  I will have already brought up to him that we should get wasted beyond repair and he will oblige me, because he is fantastic.

Saturday, I'll have nursed a hangover.  Eaten and subsequently thrown up some street food. Done the robot at some point (or multiple points).  Bought some books.  Talked to a homeless person.  Reminisced over my college years.  Gotten a piggy back ride.  Eaten at the ninja castle.  Cried because I missed my son.  Listened to some Lykke Li and spun in circles (okay, maybe not).  Gone to Central Park.

Sunday, I'll have seen Water for Elephants.  I'll have praised the hell out of my boyfriend. Inadvertently tripped over my own feet.  Felt socially awkward.  Hidden this by drinking too much champagne.  Done the robot again.

Monday, I'll have arrived back at home.  Hugged the hell out of my little goblin.  Sat on a plane next to someone who smelled funky, or talked too loud, or cleared their throat alot.  If I'm lucky, I'll be next to a cute Brit.

This should end up being an interesting weekend indeed.