bu vs northeastern :: agganis arena :: 2010 - 2011 season
Spent an hour or two going through some old pictures… found a few I really loved.
Thinking about a redesign for here… again.
I’ve been blogging since the late 1990s. In February 2000, I bought tamaranicole.com… I didn’t get my own domain until I’d been blogging for a while and realized this was something I was going to be doing for a long time. 4 years here and it will be (at least) 12 years in February since I started this nonsense. No wonder I’m feeling bored and restless again. It’s time to do… something. I have no idea where that’s going to lead, but it’s time. I’m bored with social media. I’m even bored with blogging, but I’m not ready to close up shop. Not yet.
My jr. ninja is working out well… the restaurant just opened, and we’re experiencing some serious hiccups, but it wasn’t unexpected. At least I was counting on them to happen. There’s only so much you can do to straighten out a clusterfuck, but that’s on tap for first thing Monday morning. She’s been picking up my slack so that I can focus on the shitshow that opening a restaurant is. I’m still getting used to the idea that I’m someone’s boss, but for as much drag as she’s putting on my day to day flow, she’s also been a huge lifesaver.
This weekend, my only plan is to get better. One of my coworkers told me I had bronchitis and then she told me how to get rid of it. (That’s how insane it’s been between work, school, and having a life. I didn’t realize how long it’d been since I started hacking up my lungs. I’m glad that someone was paying attention. *grin*) Well, D knows her shit. I’m on day two of her “prescription” and I’m already feeling loads better. Of course, I probably bought enough drugs containing pseudoephedrine to cause the police to start paying attention to my CVS purchase history. (Interesting fact: Seabrook was home to one of the largest meth busts in New England. They probably take that shit REAL seriously around here.) If the versions that don’t contain pseudoephedrine worked half as well, I wouldn’t buy nearly as much of the good stuff as I do.
It’s sweet, and it’s sad, and it’s true :: oh my heart :: r.e.m.
I broke down and bought R.E.M.‘s final album, ironically titled “Part Lies, Part Heart, Part Truth, Part Garbage”.
Of course, I own 99% of the songs on there, but it’s what I do. I support my favorite band by buying their stuff… not that it matters anymore because they can support themselves off the millions they’ve already made from people like me. They don’t need the $15 I spent on the same songs I already own.
I’ve been listening to it this morning, and the songs they’ve chosen are obvious to say the least, but they do show the band’s progression from the IRS years to that last steaming piece of crap they released.
It’s been an interesting journey through my memories - every song is a streetlight and every streetlight is a reminder…
I’m struggling to wrap my head around the fact that my entire life to this point has been condensed into 40 songs.
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to being moved to the point of tears. That I’m still in mourning.
It’s easier to leave than to be left behind.
I’ve read all the articles I’ve been able to find and I still can’t fault the band for their decision… although part of me wishes that Bill Berry hadn’t made such a stink about not wanting to be the guy that broke up R.E.M. Maybe it would have been better back then. They really could have gone out on top of their game. I mean, the pure beauty of NAIHF would have been a great way to bow out gracefully.
Up, Reveal, Around the Sun, Accelerate, Collapse into Now - they would have never existed. But maybe that’s not such a bad thing…
I don’t think I’ll be able to come to terms with their breakup as long as I keep listening… but I can’t stop listening. It’s the soundtrack to the last 31 years of my life. How do you just walk away from that?
evan peters freaks me out in this scene! :: american horror story :: ‘piggy, piggy’
So, if you’re not familiar with the show—
Tate Langdon (played by Evan Peters), does a Columbine-like school shooting, and then goes home. This scene happens after the SWAT team floods his bedroom.
I can’t even begin to tell you how uncomfortable that whole section of the episode made me. And then, THAT clip above. (ka-pow!)
His face, man. HIS FACE!
Gah. Just. Gah.
And then, just as the episode is ending, this:
“Violet… something’s changed in you. Toward me. You’re distant. Cold. I don’t know what I’ve done, but…I’ll leave you alone from now on if that’s what you want. Is that what you want? You know why I’d leave you alone? ‘Cause I care about your feelings more than mine. I love you. There, I said it. Not just on some chalkboard. I’d never let anybody or anything hurt you. I’ve never felt that way about anyone.”
Tate’s a hard character to love because of what he’s done, but Evan Peters is AMAZING in the way he can portray both good and evil Tate.
I didn’t think I would - it’s the home of tweenyboppers who ship fictional characters and reblog the same stuff everyone else is reblogging.
Whelp, guess who decided she’s actually a tweenybopper?
Here’s the thing, I don’t feel bad about this return to my tweenage years at all. Or my teenage years, for that matter.
Teenage me was full of angst, self-loathing, and had a chip on her shoulder the size of Canada. Life for that girl sucked… A lot. When I go back and look at all my journals from that time period, I sob. Hysterically. That girl was so fucked and she knew it. There was really nothing that could have made her life any better.
Don’t get me wrong, she had good friends, and she loved her father.
But.
Even if she knew she was bipolar, it wouldn’t have been treated back then. That would have been weak, and her father wouldn’t have thought that there was anything seriously wrong anyway. Shit like that didn’t exist - it was all in her head. (Ha ha ha.)
When life was bad, when the depression took over, she looked for a way out. Obviously, she never did anything about it, but the thoughts were there. Powerful. Intoxicating. A non-stop chorus of voices in her head, telling her to just do it. End this shit and move on.
When life was good, and the mania took over, she bounced all over the place. She did a lot of things she’ll never be proud of during manic periods. Hurt a lot of people, too. But, damn, she felt good when she was doing it. She can’t regret doing those things - it’s not really how she was built, anyway.
It feels like that girl managed to miss out on a lot of teenaged magic. (Either that or she lived it and mental illness turned her brain to swiss cheese. That happens, too.)
Being able to go back (emotionally) twenty something years and ship Violate like I used to love New Kids on the Block feels good. It also makes me feel like a dirty pervert, but that’s OK. (Evan Peters is ALMOST young enough to be my kid. What? He’s over 18 and that’s all that matters! )
Lately, I’ve been reminded of Spring Heeled Jack, Frogboy and BiG MiSTAKE - the soundtrack to some of my worst years - and thinking about how it does get better. I hate saying that because it’s turned into such a cliche. But it’s the truth. My life did get better… not the version of better that I always wanted, but it’s better.
I have good friends, a lot of freedom, a guy that can tolerate just about any amount of crap I throw at him living in my house, furry children that love me even when I can’t love myself…
I still struggle with the bipolar, still make decisions that I should regret but don’t, and I still know that, in a lot of different ways, I’m completely fucked.
The only difference now is that I take meds that make the voices STFU.
She was walking through the park. She wore her hair long.
Pushing it aside, she said, “i don’t want to live anymore.”
Went home to her mom and her dad.
They did not understand her, and they only got mad.
They did not like the way she acted, they did not like the way she looked,
didn’t like the color of her friends, the way she wore her hair.
So she went into her room and she looked into the mirror.
She did not like what she saw. She did not like what she saw.
She wanted to tear it all off. She wanted to see her real self.
She wanted to tear it all off. She wanted to see her real self.
Take off the mask, throw it away.
She don’t care, she don’t care, what the other ones say.
Take off the mask, throw it away.
She don’t care, she don’t care, what the other ones say.
And now it’s summer and it’s a new day rising.
She feels heat and aspiration.
She feels the sun explode. Time is bliss and bliss is time.
She sees god in everything.
She loves you - she loves me
—“Take Off The Mask” - BiG MiSTAKE
If you want to find me on Tumblr, read my crappy fiction and overdose on American Horror Story / Violate, let me know -I’ll give you the URL (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
BTW - The movie “Kick-Ass” has entirely too much violence and not enough Evan Peters.
Had a dream last night that the tree had lost its middle
November 08, 2011 ::
10:33 PM
The long awaited sequel to JAWSFEST 2005 (the 30th anniversary of the film), is JAWSFEST 2012 (for the 37th anniversary of the film, uh, OK)... and the hubby is going back to Amity Island for it. With his sister. I will gladly stay home because I am not nearly as much in love with Bruce the shark as they are.
Besides, I got to go to Boston by myself and learn all about how Jared Padalecki smooshed the do-not-push-this-button button.
—-
There’s been a lot of stuff running through my head lately - stuff that shouldn’t be there, mostly. So I’m focused on stuff that is… OH! LOOK! SHINY OBJECT!
Yeah. There’s been a lot of… LOOK!! LOOK!! LOOK!! OVER THERE!! SUPER!! SHINY!! OBJECT!!
I know why I’m prone to overthinking things - it’s a combination of introversion and bipolar - but damned if I know how to stop it. I know why I’m thinking about the things I shouldn’t be thinking about, too. Damned if I know how to stop that, too.
I guess I’m drawn to the dark side of things. The “good girls don’t do that” side of things.
Not suicide dark, not depression dark, just things that hide in the dark dark. No need to call the shrink or up my meds…
My friend, Wendy, is drawn to the dark side, too. She takes these deliciously dark photos that make me jealous of her eye, her skill with make up, all of it.
I’m not quite that skilled visually, but I’m not too bad with words, so I end up writing crap. In my journals. Where it will never be seen. Where I can write it over and over and over and over and over and… obsess over it in private.
I don’t know how to say what I want to say, how I want it to sound, so I think I’ll let the Indigo Girls try: Begin my studies with this pencil and this paper, and I’m working through the grammar of my fears
