it's happening again.

it's the next chapter. the circle is folding. people are departing chicago. but this time, i'm staying put. i am losing my grip it took so long to attain. but i have bigger things, now. better stability. good job. good apartment, roommate. boyfriend. feeling of belonging. but still,  i will never forget my friends. the key ingredients that helped me re-find myself that summer of 2009. i love you more than you will ever realize. thank you for helping me be me. angel pelipada, i'm going to fucking goddamn miss you more than you will ever now. goddang silly half intoxicated non-stop tears and bff who make steak dinners and call me out. why does all that is good end. sad face.

infatuation intoxication (translation: writer's block).

it's 10:39 pm on my sunday, real time monday. all i want to do is write. or sleep. or distract my mind away from sunny beaches and crashing oceanic waves. but alas, i have this wonderful obstacle known as writer's block. i need an assignment. a nagging 'do this' something or another to pressure me into pummeling out a masterpiece. i've been wracking my brain for some sort of inspiration or real life tale to transcribe into my first masterpiece, but i don't think the things i've been circuiting with for the past few months would amount to anything more than two word mentally disabled nonsensical outbursts. 'CATMAGNET'. or maybe, 'CLOWNSHOW.' fuck, i can't think.

this year's been surreal. pretty awesome, though. but still, i sometimes catch myself waiting. things can't always continue to progress better and better, can they? is there going to be a secret catch? there usually 9 times out of 10 is one. and when i finally catch onto the snag, i realize that hook is going to cut a lot deeper than i ever would have imagined when i first tossed the lure. but instead of overworrying and being catlike cautious, i'm trying something new. i'm going with my gut, head and heart. (this typically works better than going solely with my vagina).

so far, so good.

i have a careeresque job. i live in a convenient and nice neighborhood with a decent apartment and roommate. my cat continously advances in her daily affections with me, today we crossed the line from hugs and kisses to her feebly, yet insisently making strides towards biting or batting my nipples. i'm in a pretty incredible relationship. just got back from a trip to mexico. saw, splashed and loved the salty, light waves in person for the first time in my 27 years. excessively indulged in never ending buffets and mexican beer and fruity cocktails. copped a tan. got sand in my ass. copped a bloody, fatlip. rode in a taxicab backwards down the world's steepest cliff mountain road. ordered a meal in spanish at a chili's in the guadalahara airport. una mesa para dos personas por favor?

my break was a good one. but still, the break after the break back in my own bed in my own apartment in my own city was the best part. relaxing, sleeping, snacking, and laughing. is romance the ultimate cockblocker for productive writing? it seems to be a double edged sword - love and romance. when you are swept up in its seductive whirlwind, your head is full of x's and o's, fantasies of last name swapping, rainbows and candy colored hearts - ultimately preventing any sort of rationality, let alone energies to dedicate to actually putting sentence A behind sentence B in a constructive manner.but then, after it all crumbles or comes to its ultimate demise, the sorrows and brokenness, the jadedness, the hurt and poison, it floods more quickly onto the scroll than the ink from the quill. so what happens when you find yourself dealing with tidbits of column A and column B? humility from your own naivety of former self destruction and the sense of being robbed. but then, a heavy, pounding, unavoidable intoxication from cupid's sweetest bow? i guess you are kept in check, kinda. but you still can't write for a damn.

growing up is hard. adults really need to take more vacations. longer vacations.

i'm starting to get sleepy. i am dreading returning to the madness of my office tomorrow morning, especially since i managed to lock myself out of my remote email account so i wasn't able to even take a sneak peek at the turmoils that await my return.

i realize it's been a while since i've mentioned anything of music as of late. tomorrow, (if i'm not dead as a doornail), i plan on checking out fujiya & miyagi at the mid. their newest album, ventriloquizzing, was hardly mind blowing (at least compared to their sophomore effort), but i've got a stack of free tickets and a handful of lovely ladies interested in being my date(s), so i'm gonna do my best to make it happen. doubt i'll have the energy for a review, but SIMS is playing schuba's on 3/27, and if he brings even an iota of a fraction of what he brought at the fine line in mpls last month, shit will be dope as hell. then, tv on the radio will be at metro in april, and i just received three 3-day passes for pitchfork. who's to be my date is to be determined at this point (until a certain someone requests off from work, that is). but i must admit, reading all of the blogs and twitter feeds re: sxsw this past week made a small pocket in my gut weep. i missed a kanye/jay-z collaboration. doomtree was there. the strokes. but whatever, even after my OD of pina coladas and warm bottles of dos equis, i would never trade the 4 days i had on the beach with my boo for any orgy of over hyped chillwave buzz acts and tangles of american apparel accessories. (although the shiner bocks would have slid down my throat a tinnnny bit easier).

rambleocity.com.

that's where i'm at. hopefully this week won't be too brutal. in addition to my new responsibilities with CHIRP in the promotions department, ima try to collect some organized thoughts into constructing some readable words for this here lil blog.

til then, ima drool all over this cathairy pillow and dream of Chewy, el triste hombre de puerto vallarta and his poor lost hermano.

mylifeisarunonsentence. (or a prolonged indian chant).

funny how long it can take for things to progress. seemingly stewing in a relentless rutting slump. when in reality, things are transitioning behind the scenes more quickly than you could ever begin to fathom. chapters progressing. pages flipping. next thing you know, it's years later. acquaintences forgotten. next steps and stories only half written, crumpled in a ball, stuck between the sticky dirty bedroom wall and plastic garbage can.

today i thought about friends forgotten. realized some good quality people in my life are no longer in it. i remembered one of my best girlfriends in college, who now has two children that i have never even met. i couldn't even tell you their names or how old they are. i thought of friends i spent the past two summers with, who have all gone one way or another, traveling or relationships or just outgrown chicago, the city i've grown to know and love. on the dreary rainy friday this week past, i rode the brown line to irving park from downtown. remembering my 4 year former daily commute, and how i had memorized each stop. the nostalgic feeling of routine. standing against the filthy metallic pole, gripping more tightly than i need to, (as per my usual uptight self), it hit me that it has been ten years since highschool graduation. five since college.

where had everyone gone? my distant twisted family? forgotten childhood neverquite friends and classmates? batting my sleepy eyelashes and keeping my angry 'im-on-public-transportation-perma-bitch-scowl-dont-bug-me-you-creepy-homeless-man-frown', it suddenly hit me that i wasn't really sure where i went either. what happened to me. when did i ever decide what to be when i grew up? am i grown up? it's been ten years. i'm sure as hell not in argyle anymore. yet, here i am. living life day by day, growing past each obstacle and hurdle, making the most out of what i can.

not doing such a bad job, either. but still. who the hell woulda ever thought id be who i grew up to be. or live where i now live, with who i live with. be friends the people i've met. i have no regrets. although i'd be lying if i said i wouldn't do things differently on an impulse. if i had the option and put thought into it, i dont think i'd make (m)any changes, but if it was on impulse, i know i would. i can be a bit of a hostile firecracker at times. especially if you fuck with my shit. i'm a lioness and shit. leave my cubs the fuck alone. but as much sense as i don't make right now, i have this gut feeling shit is working out the way its supposed to.

i was watching my so called life tonight. and the concluding scene was the episode where angela ditches on her mom's mother/daughter fashion show so her little sister can have the chance to work the runway. the song they play at the uplifting heartwarming life lesson narration is none other than enigma's 'return to innocence.' this pure moods shit took me back to fifth grade. when i shamelessly rocked the ugly big glasses/wet tangly curly mullet look. and sang indian chants in my bedroom. and the lion king was by far, my favorite movie.

this made me proud that i now am the person i was then. and still am. i may no longer croak indian chants in my bedroom and would never willingly grow another mullet, but was i just crooning whitney houston's 'i will always love you' in my bathroom while flossing my teeth sporting a wicked foul high pony? yes. have i listened to the bodyguard soundtrack in the last 13 years? no. am i a weirdo? thank goodness, i reckon so.

so this prolonged tangent ramble about absolutely nothing is this and this only. i miss yesterday. and the day before that. but i think more than that, i just am having a hard time waiting for tomorrow. because goddamn it, i'm ready for that next novel to fucking take hold and remove itself from that wilting shoebox that rotted underneath my childhood bed.

.(to next chapters and new beginnings).

david lynch is my lifeline.

the other nite when i was at chirp getting ready for my marathon friday shift last week, the dude before me was rocking some surfer blood, track 'twin peaks.' i have the surfer blood album and was always kinda on the 'eh, they're pretty decent but nothing mindblowing' sorta fence with these hyped dudes, but for obvious reasons, was always much more apt to play this particular number vs any other. (completely 150% based on title track alone). and while i didn't rock any surfer blood myself that set, i did drift toward's beach house's 'silver soul,' in which the enchanting miss victoria legrand ghostly croons, 'it's happening again, oh-oh-ohh, it is happening aga-ah-eh-ah-eh-a-ennnnnnn,' taking me back to my most beloved gentle giant in the black lodge.

it was a sign. a sign that as each chapter evolves in my life, i need to turn to my homeboy david lynch. he first was my depressing solace from a pretty major break-up. then, he was my first professional job distraction pride and joy distraction. then, suddenly twin peaks turned into the soundtrack/back-up of my 'imboredandneedsomethingtotalkabout' existence.

but no matter what, i can't tire. no memories of tp cohorts or situations can spoil my love for special agent cooper or his lameass witicisms. i will never forget my head scratching flabbergast of the moment josie turned into a drawer doorknob. or the fucking jaw dropping amazement of the show finale as coop turns to the dark side of bob and all that is evil of the black lodge. i can shrug off the ridiculousness of nadine and her roided out sick excuse of a plot twist high school love affair. even norma's dumb husband and leo coke trafficing whateverness. but leland palmer's geek out? the man from another place's ritual boogy moves? that creepy fucking dumb opening sequence number of synthed out chimework? omg, i need you back in my life pleez.

if only to visit me. i found this on my own. i loved this on my own. i pushed it onto others, and regardless of their love/disdain, twin peaks still belongs to me. and mr. lynch, i see absolutely zero reason why a happy girl can't get sucked back into your finicky fables.

josie, i'm sorry you got twisted into wood homegirl, but my ladylove margaret is calling me back. time for some fucking tar gum, bitches.