ImOnMyHandsFree

as soon as i was medium excited to christen my lj with a 2012 presence, i immediately got pretty depressed that i forgot to style "2011" with an "O" and two "I"'s for all of the fuck show that we are calling last year. i just remembered this upon seeing the title of my last post. id totally forgotten about how much better 2OII looks than 2011. its really so much better that it hurts to even look at the wear on the zero and one keys on the keyboard - like, couldn't even touch the single numeral keys back there in the beginning of this same sentence to tell you it hurt to look at the said wear on said keys, that i had to type out the words.

my stomach is so trey to the songz full from a triple threat of la superior shredded chicken filled corn tortilla columns drenched in a creamy but not really creamy and light green sauce that i can't even talk about almost losing my weekly craving for them from this one time when ryma described them as "sour." which is accurate, but whatever forever.

my mom last saturday said that she was eating "fucking hotcakes from mcdonalds" bc she wanted pancakes so fucking bad but didn't wanna "smoke up the kitchen." she also said that she wasn't "mad at it" bc the whipped butter was the "best whipped butter you've never fucking had," and ordered me to not even think for a second that she was even being liberal with her knife-to-butter applications.

she went back to work this week and missed calls from her to me per day have gone from a count of 8 to a count of 3. and if we are talking about things we aren't mad at, that could be one. unless count numbers represent chicken strips or nuggets from chikfila.

im also not mad about terry richardson's severe forehead wrinkles that are probably product to his ridiculous thumps-up bug-eyed eyebrow-raising bitch move that he feels personally obligated to do everytime he gets his photo taken. but i mean he might be. mad at the wrinkles, that is.

just when i was about to rant here and over a bottle of shifty green vitamins with a loose cap that went ape shit inside my handbag as if the hulk in some transgender rage fucking fist-crushed and sprinkled his viridescent powdered make-up all over the contents, i discovered my black nail polish had also taken an oil spill onto my work hand-held, but in secret, like the compartment id nominated them both to live in. along with my bright ideas.

im thanking god for this strawberry carmex moisturizing lip balm right now found in my jacket pocket that duped them all.

so heres to you, you second month of delicious strawberry tasting twenty-eleven.

until i pondered in what platform i could share with the world my sister's amazing emails. so, here we are.

just like a read-along book-and-cassette, you will know it is time for a said clip when you see a thought ending with: Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry. Let's begin now.

How thin is natalie portman?
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Did u ask natalie portman what she does to be so thin or what kind of makeup she wears?
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Is a velvet blazer stooopid?
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Maybe get her a snuggie. She can wrap her buck tooth in it.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Now I'm at hooters. Meeting brian for lunch. Nice family meal.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

there are a whole lot more where these gems came from. so stayed swooned.

had. the realization. for what to blog about on this tired piece of blog account settles in my brain nook: this and this only: my mom: the genius.

we were walking to fitzies, a shitty amazing beach bar that dons the tip of her street, and we see this crane eating something on the river sideline. pretty cool. no sunglasses on the crane but one foot was up pretty sick like and casual. so she says, look at this fucking crane about to eat this fucking fish. lets watch lulu, i wanna see it stuck in his throat. moment later, she goes, shit, i dont see anything. musta been a snake.

and also prob a good idea to bonus round my blog with some maggie-laden story. so what is it about pretending like you dont know what someone is talking about [when you actually really do know] that makes you speak in robot? like, lets try this example on for size: maggie thought it totally bomb to leave a dead blue crab shell waiting beside my perspiratin' diet soft drink, as i tanned out on the pier closed-eyed under the hot hot wet american sunner. i sat up in a jazz to take a swig and saw the crab shell, and was like, shit wtf is that? all out loud. and she goes, from afar, and in robot, "I DO NOT KNOW WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT." like she was arnold fucking schwarzenegger. or i guess, a robot version of him. which is actually, just him. arnold.

these are both things ive been doing the whole time but crushing my nog to come up with content and all i gotta do is = RECALL.

i love chik-fil-a.

whats up to ya. just had some chicken from the caf with raspberry vinagrette drizzed all up on it which made it look mad raw. i have bad cluck.

last night i tore around the lower east town shooting the barlow launch party at los feliz and freaking ed westwick called me "girl." like, he totally knows my name. fucking faint. naturally ran to motor city to cash one back.

and i have a problem with getting mediocre shots of VIPs and good shots of LIPs. the less imports. cheez, its so annoying.

my mom made me go into anthro' on sunday and then turned around and said i fucking hate this store lets go.

im going blonde.

at sbarro last night. sparrow, sparroh, however you say. triple meatball threat in a bowl with extra marinara and a mini bott of pinot grigio. dont look up the nutrition facts on the balls. the scene there was bright and midtowny, walls donning huge digital slices of pizza and new york style cheesecake. one image was one of those double crust slices where the cheese and pepperoni are caught inside, and theres bread on both the top and bottom, like what one like billy could call a pizza sandwich. it was being lifted up, freshly cut and piping hot, and the way the cheese strang from slice to whole pie made it look like a pizza monster slobbering white ooze. it was a total turn off. to even be making these observations i was clearly overstaying the dine time of sbarro operating procedure. but instead i kept on there, taking it in, until jackie and sam finished dining finely in columbus circle so that i wasnt at our meeting destination, rockwood music hall, too long and alone buying too many stoli strawberry and sodas tryna chase the wait away.

happened anyway. caught the end of a soulful piano jammer, and saw a full set by michael davies sitting twangy in a field of tall blue grass before jackie, sam, and lawrence arrived. i had managed to only clear one sleeve of a tall cocktail. josh dion came on next. sam warmly compared him to the vocal stylings of tracy chapman, and waited patiently for a fauxtograph from him/her after the set. we watched the jazzy dred scott trio together, the purpose for our lower east side navigation. there was a dog in the house, similar to spud mackenzie. i thought he was really feeling the music, moving back and forth to the beat, but jackie bust my bubble with a dogs of the world aint nothing but trouble...trouble...sike, with the obvi explanation that it was sitting on its owners lap. suggesting that dogs cant groove.

as in some gem of a so-white-its-blue haired woman was in a chanel trench im sure of it looking thru a newspaper stand reading the headline and story thru the dirty plexi. not buying the paper. i wanted her to turn around and growl at me "its called recession reading, heard of it?" but she fucking smiled at me and blew it.

three banana peels under one bus stop bench in midtown and i wondered if one person ate all three bananas or if three individuals had one banana at the same stop same bench same ripe on the peel. food for thoughtz.

becka diamond was in fabulous form last night at the soho grand on top of couches and in shades wearing black gloves to the elbow at the ryan korban hosted by my designer crush wang and some models. so many new girl crushes.

moms coming to new york this weekend. 'course after i bus down to dc tonight and ride back up with her in the morning so that she doesn't get bored or lost on her way.

all i want for christmas is whistlin' kitty chasers for ramsay.

there is no spec caramel reisin for this morgan polaroid in this entry except that i want to do a handstand and have her hold my ankles so that i can extend blood rushing time zones.

im back from my summer jaunt sabbatical out in the east wilds. dont love just hate my journal.

and just in case you needed to know what founding father you would have been but you never will be because there's nothing left to find:
http://www.constitutioncenter.org/FoundersQuiz/
thanks for that contribution aaron. really interested.

saw an oldie hawn skirting 3 natty lights cross the checkout at morton williams. just saying. drink it or leave it.

so broke. need dinner and maybe a glass. ashley said the ultimate solution is to show your boobs. im not buying it. or dinner or a glass. so we prolly needa show her boobs. boobs for booze cruise. get on the ship or jump off with your boobs flying out so you dont drown and you get free dinner and a glass.

in my purse are the following items:

-a dinosaur jelly ring that lights up kind of

-a blue irredescent h&m bikini top

-shoe laces

-deodorant that has an "omg!" sticker

-5 bright yellow friendship bracelets

-3 bright green friendship bracelets

-a ripped-up check

-an anklet with a blue heart peace sign and rhinestones

-zyrtec

-6 identical blank delaware postcards

-wallet

-make-up bag

-2 splenda packets

-sunglasses that aren't mine

-really expensive hair serum

-a sandy box of orbitz

-4 metro cards

-too many pieces of alleged important papers with filthy sort folded corners

-an unopened wedding invitation

-a conde id card

-a tangled phone charger