Rainbow Vagina and Chief Dylango Electric

Last night bff and I stayed up coloring pictures and making fun of each other way past our bedtimes. We decided that our pictures were just kitschy enough to warrant framing and placement on our walls. At that moment we realized, oh my word, we have our own walls. They weren't owned by a University or even our parents. We could put up pictures of bearded ladies while blasting banjo at unreasonable hours and no one could stop us!

Bff and I have been talking about living together in the "big city" since we were in seventh grade. I can't believe that we actually pulled it off, and with style no less. Hurrah for best friend co-habitation and late nights!

Today, I received a love letter. It contained exactly what a love letter should; Poetry. Sincere, moving, and articulate. Not the nasty kind of sentimental Hallmark drab, but everything that is good and honest about that idea which we call love. The writer understands that "love" can mean much more than the common nomenclature. The writer understands the passage of time. You must understand then why I can't answer that letter back, after all I've recently embarked on the biggest adventure of my romantic life. This video is for you, and eating blueberry muffins in a cold, wet field. The letter means a lot to me, and I wish people did just what you did more often. I wish people cared without caring. Situations disregarded I'm proud of who you are becoming. I am fond of where we've been.

As for you baldy ... I can't wait until this weekend.

Cry Break Breathe; Breathe Break Smile

We are bath tub pirates. Wizened and better, a clean and surprising bonding experience. I could have swam in those waters all evening. We went beyond the seven seas and coughed up something more than gold coins and cross bones.

Ahhh to be young and ... incontrovertibly content. At least with each other.

I don't have the world. I don't want the world, it's not mine to conquer. But show me a map with x marking some spot that takes a little work to get to, and I will go poking around and bring back dinner.

Last week is over. Thank goodness for that. Summer is over. At just the right time. Now, I'm painting fire on leaves and zipping up my cardigan so I don't freeze. My house feels like a home, and though, sometimes I feel alone, I know I'm not. Not even kind of not at all.

Tonight is a sassy dinner, tomorrow laundry (again again), Thursday is early bird work, and Friday begins another weekend adventure again (Amtrak stocks must be skyrocketing). Bff decided to forgo her suburban job to spend time at her apartment.
Yea, I actually might get to hang out with her now!
I'm excited and after her two weeks notice has expired an overdue housewarming party is to commence. Wahoo. Event planning, the only useful skill I learned in college (kidding). But really folks it's fun to play hostess every once in a while.

To everyone, I promise to try harder not to be such a DebbieDowner this week!

oh yeah, OH YEAH!

I might be blue, but I got a four day weekend. See you suckers on Tuesday!

<3 <3
Restfully Yours,
The Last Unicorn

Also, for all my Jewish friends: Happy High Holy Days!

Turn the page, but I'll warn you, it gets harder

Needs adventure.

Is it adventure I long for, or an escape?
A new identity. I'll burn my social security card and become an Elk.
I'll plod through the forest flaring my nostrils and stomping my hooves.


Everything [lately] threatens to break my heart. Someday maybe I'll just let something break.
Why so blue? I used to be in love with the world, now I'm not so sure.

This morning I ventured out when it was still dark.
I felt alone. I left alone. I arrived alone.

I swam through ten shades
each
of blue and gray. Little pink fingers tried to tinge the horizon.

In the chaotic stillness I tore another sheet off the calendar, and crawled a little deeper inside of myself.

Boo x's 100

This morning I got the very unfortunate news that my dog Kiki died. The Kikster was definitely a part of the family and will definitely be missed. Our home will not be the same without her bug eyes and wagging tail.

I also received some more unfortunate news that my sister's husband is a complete asshole, and will most likely not be her husband for very long.

Wooo good times. I do not like to hear the women in my family crying so much, it hurts my heart.

All this puts a damper on anything I could possibly want to say today. So uhm, enjoy the last days of warm weather ...

and don't be an asshole.

What's the difference between a hobo and a homeless person?

The answer is class. Well, historically I believe the answer is that hobos are migratory workers, but for today's blog I rather use my own definitions. When I think of hobo I think of a scuzzy old person standing in front of a fire in an oil drum. When I think of a homeless person, well I just imagine an unfortunate soul without a home.

Outside the El stop in my neighborhood I noticed a reoccurring character. His skin is the deepest black and a thick spray of braids spring from the top of his head like a fancy fountain. This man I speak of lounges upon a full sized mattress in various locales. By various locales, I mean, one day instead of in front of the bakery, across from the El station, his mattress would be next to the dumpster on the opposite side of the street. Some days him and his mattress are nowhere to be found.

He just reeks of regality, and I'm utterly intrigued. With shoes placed neatly to the side, he idles on the mattress like
the king of the pride passing the hours in the hot savannah. He's beautiful, and I often wonder what his story is. I've got my theories.

What I don't quite understand is how the mattress stays so clean and where it's going. I mean does he carry it around with him? He's a big man, but it's a really big mattress! Also, I've decided that homeless man nor hobo is appropriate; he's totally a vagabond.

I wish you guys could see him.

Go check out today's post @ A Softer World, it is lovely. I want to be best friends with both of those people. They are the right amount of nostalgia, sarcasm, intellect, and raciness. Seriously if I was Canadian I would probably be creepy and "happen" to frequent their local hang-outs...

Have a lovely weekend all.

Funk Shaking

Aunt Jemima, Peter Pan and Mr. Kool-Aid all sleep with their mouths open.

Let's shake the funk.

Our jobs will have been done when the funk has been shook.

shake funk shake.



Architecture in Helsinki, is the silliest band I love to love.

I never watched Sesame Street as a child, sometimes I think I'm the only one.

You might think about how you got started

Last night I had a burrito that was ten times better than the best burrito I've had in my entire life.

It was fresh, delicious, and homemade. BestFriend was the architect, but I helped to engineer the masterpiece.

Fresh Cilantro
Rice (cooked in the rice cooker w/lime and cilantro)
Cuban Style Black Beans
Diced Tomato
Grilled Green Pepper, Onion, and Garlic

the clencher?

Mexican style sour cream.

That's all I got for today. Eat something delicous, and be happy.

Age of Intepretation

Yesterday on the very crowded El, on the way home from work, a man with a large backpack nearly knocked me over. This is no big deal it happens often, and frankly I understand. I'm sure I've jostled a few with my bag full of books. What was interesting about the situation is the comment I heard as the man exited the train, and I tried to regain my balance. "Did you see that Kim? That man nearly knocked that little girl over with his bag!"

Little Girl?

And that's not it. This weekend I went with my mother to go pick up my little sister (aged 16) from a friend's house. As we pulled up in the drive (bear with me here) my sister's friend's little sister ran halfway between the frontdoor and the car; She motioned wildly for me to come inside. I rolled down the window and stared at the girl wondering what she could possibly want from me "come on!" she said. Finally, she traversed the rest of the distance from the front-door to my mother's car. When she was standing directly in front of me her smile faded, "Oh I thought you were my friend."

What? You thought I was your 11 year old friend? Mind you the distance from the front door to my mom's car was a mere 10 ft (at most).

Now, I know that I look younger than my age. Usually I get 17 or 18 but am I regressing in age? How can I be getting younger? Is it my hair growing out, because let me know and I will chop it off again. I disliked looking five years younger to begin with, but twelve years younger is just unacceptable! And don't give me that well you'll appreciate it once you're older business! When I'm older I'll be happy to look exactly the age I am. I don't need to be young forever! I will gladly let my hair go gray and embrace age with grace and style. But how can I do that if I never get old?

My mom gave me a hard time this weekend lecturing me about how young people think they're immortal and they never think that they'll get old. I'm a big klutz so I know that my days are numbered, but maybe just maybe I've unknowingly unlocked the door to immortality.

Lord knows it isn't Chicago tap water! I just don't get it. I mean I'm short, but 5'3'' is the national average for American women. I think I dress age appropriate. What does 23 look like, because I need a few pointers!

NEWSFLASH! Tim Draper's biography on president George Bush "Dead Certain" may just be the next book I purchase.
I've read few biographies that don't bore me (Keith Moon is the only one that comes to mind actually), and I certainly didn't expect my interests to be piqued by a political figure I loathe.

But, I often wonder, who is this odd guy I have to call my president? What is his personality aside from politics and vacationing? GQ writer Tim Draper gained uncanny access to Bush and his inner circle for the writing of this book. In a recent interview when asked what the motivation for writing this book was he said, "How did an un-ambitious Midland [Texas] oilman change the world, for better or for worse?...Who was this man who, before he became this pivotal character on an international landscape, was a virtually anonymous figure whom no one viewed as having leadership capabilities? How did he become a leader, and what did he do with it?"

Tim Draper is neither for or against Bush and therefore casts an honest light on the administration and the man in question. Although I hear he's getting a little guff for that. Apparently, if the White House gives you access you're supposed to portray them in shiny white alabaster! I applaud Draper for his honesty, and can't wait to read the book.

If you asked me to run away with you this is what I would say ...

Eighteen ounces divided two ways. Creamy and white.
This is how I start my day.

Last night, I just couldn't sleep in the absence of cold.
Today, I promised me not to fake smiles, but to be content in my fatigue and the daily tasks set out before me.

Everyone has their off days.

Today I feel spirited, but all weak and bony. So I made me self eat a hearty fisherman's breakfast. I ate it tough and drank it black. I didn't even bother to wipe my mouf, but alas I am no fisherman. A fisherlady at best. I stopped halfway through and yawned it all up.

No, I don't mean maybe.

My land legs are tired. But when I sail by the man on the stoop everynight at half past whatever ungodly commuter hour he reassures my purpose with a hello, how are ya', and a tip of an imaginary red fedora. That's enough for now, but this year I missed the excitement of meeting new people. Seafaring creatures. I guess I'm not missing much. Because what I really want is to meet magical undersea adventurers that only exist in leather bound books and pirate's imaginations.

Yes, no, of course! What I mean is, I thought you'd never ask. Otherwise I would have gone alone.

Pancakes don't belong in your ears.

The weekend was long and lovely. Unfortunately it did not contain proper amounts of sleep. That makes for a tough work week. Today I am inconsolably irritable. It is the kind of irritability that sits in my belly and shows in my face. For those who know me in person this happens rarely, but when it does steer clear.

I try to breathe deeply and not let it affect my tasks of the day. I try to wash it from my face with a forced smile, but alas I cannot muster even the fakest of grins.

My work is not helping. My work is not napping and screaming and crying and yelping for no ostensible reason. My solution? After deep breaths and personal pep talks don't work, I blog about it. Hmm what an age we've arrived at, yet somehow I feel better already.

I'm still trying to settle into the new place, but that brings about a whole new cauldron of stresses. I have yet to find a place where I can sit down and write without being distracted. This makes me nervous. I cannot be supernanny beyond a year. It's grad-school or bust. I try to imagine myself doing other things besides writing and teaching. The only thing I can see myself doing is farming. Guess who doesn't know the first thing about running a farm? That's right it's your very own Ms. Unicorn.

sigh.