(this is annie)

A brief but important aside

I don't know why this particular misspelling seems to be so common, but here it is: sneak peak.

Peak is the top of a mountain. Peak is the apex.
Peek is the proper word. Peek means to take a stealthy look at something.

I've been seeing this pop up frequently on websites (including those of magazines, which ought to know better) and I don't know where it came from. But it's becoming one of those tiny things that drive me nuts. On the annoyance scale, it's the spelling equivalent of hearing someone masticate.

Wednesday night follies

I was deep-cleaning my apartment tonight, when Minou started to do his chirpy meow. (He only does this when he sees something of great interest.) He and Milo were staring at a winged insect. I grabbed the camera, knowing something entertaining would happen. And here you go:

I'm so embarrassed by the junkyard in the apartment, but truly, it is normally not like this! I just picked a bad time to clean like crazy.

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That joke isn't funny anymore.

Everything I write lately sounds like I'm back in 9th grade, poorly imitating Morrissey with a load of pitiful self-absorption. I kinda envy the people who can laugh at Moz/The Smiths and say, "Ah, yes, I remember them." Because, amusingly, I listen to the old fart and think, "Crap. I still identify intensely with an uncomfortably high proportion of his sentiments." I'll get through it, but I think getting through it requires actually going through it.

And on that note, I think it's possible to sum up failed relationships in five Smiths/Morrissey songs or fewer:

"This Charming Man"
"Now My Heart Is Full"
"Little Man, What Now?"
"Will Never Marry"
"Stop Me If You Think You've Heard This One Before"


Medieval times

I am at that age that is no longer considered "young" (even though it is). It is a stressful time because I feel unaccomplished in some ways, developmentally stunted in others. Well, today I got a brilliantly grim idea: Let's see where I would be throughout history. If I'd lived in Roman times, I'd likely be dead already. Great. My tombstone would read HERE LIES TOMLINICUS, WHO DIED ALONE SAVE FOR MINOUS AND MILOCUS, WHO ATE HER DECOMPOSING FLESH AFTER THEIR VITTLES RAN OUT. I've still got a few years before I hit the age of Medieval death, though, so who knows what could happen before I turn 33.


Coding like it's 1996

Kismet! I was thinking of Jesse tonight, and out of the blue he sent me a text message from his band's tour in Florida. He said he was a little stressed, so I decided to make a quick-and-dirty web project for him. I used to do these frequently for friends, and though they are usually pretty slapdash, they have a certain (cretin?) charm to them. In college, I made a great online comic for Evan; called "Horace, The Poorly Drawn Cat in LSAT MADNESS," it is sadly lost to a crashed hard drive. I also remember making a birthday website for Ben (it featured margarine advertisements) as well as countless, similarly idiotic specials.

On a coding level as well as one of maturity, I have not progressed in more than 10 years.

When Jesse mentioned his stress levels, I thought, "I know! What he needs is a website! One to make him guffaw!" So I got to work, photographing a too-elaborate narrative to make him laugh. And here is an excerpt. I am bizarrely pleased by it, yet juuuuuust tired enough tonight that I think it's a good idea to share it, and I will probably come to my senses and remove the link tomorrow morning. Until then...

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He knows I'd love to see him

I have a terrible confession to make. When I was in eighth grade, I shoplifted a Morrissey cassette tape from the campus bookstore at Kalamazoo College. Kill Uncle. Money was tight at home, and I didn't think my parents would give me the eight bucks for it. I can imagine them looking at the cover: "Why would he want to kill his uncle? Who is this queer-seeming man, and why is he praying like he's at a revival? His last name is Smith, you say?" So I took it.

Oh, but how I paid for that crime! I soon fell in love with Morrissey's witty lyrics and oddball appearance, and decided that my fellow Catholic schoolchildren would benefit from his brilliance. And what better time to introduce them to this foppish crooner than at a junior-high party? My teacher had cleared out the seventh-grade classroom to make room for the awkward spasms we called dancing. I can't remember who was in charge of manning the jukebox, but I do remember the teacher insisting that everyone be allowed to choose a song or two.

Most of my peers went with Paula Abdul, some New Jack Swing, a little Vanilla Ice, maybe a bit of Def Lep. I patiently waited in the shadows, cuing my tape to the right place on my Walkman. I could practically see my fellow students' gratitude: How happy they would be to discover such music, and how popular I would finally be! My turn came soon, and as I placed the tape into its holder, I bid adieu to my last moments of being a junior-high loser. Suedehead it was!

I don't think I really need to explain how things went down. Suffice it to say that I had not actually reached the lowest caste level prior to the dance, and choosing Morrissey plunged me into new depths of awkwardness. Poor Steven didn't even get a chance to get to the second verse before he was abruptly replaced with "Poison." (Yeah, "Poison.")

Morrissey is coming to town this month, and I so wanted to see him, but tickets were $65, and I'm still smarting from that adolescent stumble.


I live near a university, and when I signed the lease on my apartment, I figured it would be no big thing. After all, the area seemed quiet during the day and at night, plus it's a Jesuit school. How wild and crazy could it be?

I was a damned fool!

Now that school is back in session, my error is apparent. Every night, nocturnal Bacchanalian college students play a game called Let's Congregate Outside Old Lady Tomlin's Bedroom And Recap Our Antics Loudly. Out of courtesy, they leave me in peace during the dinner hour. Then, around 9:00, they trickle forth from their dormitories for a warm-up routine called Loudly Making Plans on Our Cell Phones. Things die down for a few hours as they go to some party or library or other place, with a few stragglers joining the fun between 11 and midnight. Then it's the grand competition: Who can be the swellest swiller to rouse the geriatric grizzle from her slumber? Every night.

I have no way to combat this barrage of post-adolescent chatter, and on my less onerous days I might observe how students have and haven't changed since I was their age. But mostly, they wake me up, and this does nothing but feed my crabbiness. I would like to poke my head out of the window, Egoiste-style, and gently remind them to keep it down, there are old people around here (i.e., me). But since I sleep in the nude (less titillating than you'd think, honestly) I'd have to get dressed first, lest the students commence a new game: Peep Old Lady Tomlin's Headlights.

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say hello

    it's anniet at gmail.


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