(this is annie)


Okay, now that I've lived in... six apartments in two years, I can say that the apartment on Liberty Street was my favorite. I loved my roommates, my room, the floors, the skylights, everything! Sure, it was a mile from campus, but at the end of the day I was happy to have some peace and quiet.

I live alone now, on a tree-lined street in Chicago. My apartment is one block from where my parents were married, and two blocks from their first apartment. There's something sweet about that, don't you think? Sweet, and maybe a little bit lonely, too.

jeff gets married

Sometimes you get strange flashes of creativity, and those propel you into doing what you're meant to do. In my case, I'm meant to eat a lot of sugary snacks, but on a larger level I may be meant to write. That's what people tell me, and that's what leaps into my dreams, and so the other night I decided to start writing again. I'm very insecure about my writing because I compare myself to the greats; it's easy to feel defeated.

My friend Jeff got married. We were fairly close in high school, and we spent time together when we could afterward, so I'm a little bit hurt that I had to find out through the South Haven Tribune. Then again, he told me back in 1998 that he was going to marry this girl—so maybe I shouldn't be so hurt after all.

"the grossest girl in the world"

It's been said before, but I'll temporarily confirm: I am the grossest girl in the world. My arm and neck have itchy red spots on them, and after thinking things through a bit, I've figured out that I have poison ivy. Yuck. I've tried to stay inside as much as possible (sad but slightly real fear: the day I venture out into the city, looking like hell warmed over, I will run into a certain Cusack.)

Tomorrow night, The Black Heart Procession is playing a ROCK AND ROLL SHOW. I would like to go, but I don't know how to get to the venue. Moreover, lately I feel out of place at these rock shows. Instead of fighting hipster crowds and lung-burning smoke, I wind up staying home listening to Mogwai. From time to time, I force myself to go to a show, but sometimes I can't even make it inside. When Death Cab For Cutie played Brownies, I milled around the beautiful indie rockers for about five minutes before taking the F train home. It was just too weird—me there by myself, everyone in Diesel, etc. And finally, when my big chance to see Weezer came around, the show sold out in two minutes (I had a squirrely agent in line; I know these things). Maybe some higher power doesn't want me to go to shows—or maybe I'm just settling into oldness like a well-worn sweater.


say hello

    it's anniet at gmail.


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