Dear Jon Arbuckle,

You were vaguely pitiful when I read about you as a child and watched you talk to your snarky cat and your uh, interesting, dog. Now, you are classically schizo. If you haven't heard about this, well, you're just silly and have been living under a rock. Garfield minus Garfield is all the rage amongst net-junkies. But really, everyone who's nerd enough to have read about the site/googled it/heard about it, somehow feels like Jon brings a well-hidden, slightly neurotic facet of themselves to the surface. Sock puppet? Hand cramp? Or, in my case, conquer the world? Pretending you're oblivious to what I'm talking about doesn't help. You know exactly what I mean.

Pre-nups, Hookups and Breakups

Twenty-three is the most awkward, exhilarating, terrifying, gratifying, f-ing ridiculous time of my life (so far). I'd like to say that I always felt this way, heady uncertainty and excitement at every age and every maturity bend I rounded -- but that's just not true. Excitement about the unknown, yes, but there's this irksome belief now that I can conquer the world which makes everything seem different. I'm delusional now. I think I can accomplish anything with my meager skill and absurdly gargantuan ambition, so I go about trying to make it happen by tapping into as many opportunities as I can. However, in the process, have over-committed myself to my family, my friends, and my ambitions all while running my body and psyche down so I not only have a freaking half foot scar on my stomach to prove my insane devotion to sado-masochistic behavior, but also the constant ebb and flow of looming, swirling vertigo constantly nipping at my heels. And sometimes I still don't feel like I'm doing enough or making the most of my time. Yo, when did I get so freaking Type A?

I've had a series of interesting conversations recently: about men, about women, about ambition and accomplishment, about Sex and the City, about failure, and, of course, about relationships. I saw a picture recently that said "Someone should sue Disney for all the false hopes and dreams they gave little girls [and boys]." I want to say I disagree, but... I guess the more I'm bouncing along, the sadder and more cynical I'm becoming. Maybe twenty-three is characterized by all time high cynicism or maybe I'm prone to being twisted and unhappy because I want to be a writer? Maybe everyone around me is crazy, or maybe this is just life. (In which case, F#$&.) Yesterday, my very cynical and jaded friend Z spoke the best philosophical bullsh$% I've heard from him in years (paraphrased to the best of my ability):

"Even I know that all the work and ambition and crap that we go through doesn't mean anything if you don't have love. Because love is awesome, and love is worth living for and it's what makes everything worthwhile."

Good old golden glibbed Z. (Take that alliteration.) He stuck it to me good. The little idealistic part of See that stays safe and hidden beneath piles of drive and goals, but wants to believe every last word of it. I, in fact, do believe every last word. Especially due to the greater than handful of married friends and acquaintances. If they're not married, they will be married in the next year. Or, my fair share of single friends wending their way through pseudo-relationship and one night stand bliss. Or, even better, the unlucky few (or many) friends in the throes of mucky breakups. None of these people are under-accomplished or ambition-less. They're actually people I hold in high regard, and whom I admire. By textbook standards, they're the people who make the world go round, and are so busy making it happen they should have no time for matters of the heart. Yet, somehow, across the board I hear the same lament: Whaddafux up with Love? Lament, lament, rant, rant, boo, hiss, anger. All the smart people in the world, put together in a room, couldn't figure out the answer to that question. I know enough disgruntled, jaded, twenty and thirty (eek) somethings to start a small civilization based solely on irritation and unhappiness.

Except, that's why it's so strange. I've never felt more alive in my life. I've never felt more stimulated, and excited, and ready to face a new challenge. I'm terrified, but I'm open to anything. Somehow all the craziness of this age -- the mayhem I've attempted to quietly mask as organization, stability and ambition -- is making me believe in and appreciate love more whenever I find it. With my family, with my friends, and with all the little transient moments between people who have found a way to connect and understand each other. So maybe, in all of my attempts to understand "everlasting" and "enduring" love, I'm just realizing that it might not feel as pervasive and overwhelming as it did in uh, High School. But, it's perhaps even preferable in this form. The little nugget of happiness that nudges its way into my heart between breaths, when I take a moment to stop and remember all the fabulous people and relationships in my life. Plus, I figure, one day I'll be lying on a beach somewhere sipping a gin and tonic thinking, "all the turmoil was worth it."

HAHA, what a lie. Anyways, enough melodrama. Something to lighten the mood for a day of silly ruminations and writings:


This picture is amazing! So much for professionialism. This blog has made it into full-blown hilarity and inappropriateness.

Some Days

Even my lucky rocket-ship underpants don't help.

Dammit.

My Coffee Shop

Around the corner from my office there's a coffee shop I've grown a bit attached to. It's your typical java joint, a few mismatched wood tables and chairs behind the peeling plastic letters of its name stuck on a window, coffee cannisters and flavored syrup bottles cramped together along the wall. It's one of those places you'd pass by without a second glance, stereotypical Store A in quintessential City B. They say that familiarity breeds attraction, a gradual acquaintance eventually chipping away the walls of trepidation and hesitancy, and I have to admit, little JS wooed me in spite of myself. But let's back up for a second, because to properly understand my attachment to JS, you have to understand the long-drawn out history I have with coffee shops.

For years, I'd wanted to find a neighborhood shop I could go to read, to chat, to frequent. Maybe because romantic images of The Writers from the Lost Generation sitting at tables in Paris were etched into my brain; maybe because I wanted to feel brilliantly inspired by coffee fumes; maybe because I just like sitting with a book in a corner and have been trying to find a way to legitimize it for years. Regardless, it took a long time to feel even mildly inspired that I would sniff out a place that resonated with me. Edinburgh was the first city I lived in that gave me hope. The classic, cobble-stoned streets and hearty Scottish mentality had me searching all over Old Town, even hitting up JK Rowling's favorite haunts, cause if it's good enough for JK, then it would be damn good for me. But, shop after shop turned out to be a disappointment, nothing quite fitting my palate. So, little See left the UK jones-ing for a place she could happily call her place.

Then, during Senior Fall, the cafe down the street from K's apartment in Boston is seeming like a great candidate. The vibe seemed right, the food was nummy, and I had a grudging affection for the regular customers. In fact, I was a regular customer, popping in to pick up tea and grub on my daily trot back to the permanent dent I'd left on Apartment #2's couch. I even found myself donning an apron and smiling pretty behind the counter as an employee, buoyant as can be when friends stopped by to say hello, unforgettable shared misery during busy brunches with co-workers who would later introduce me to amazing friends, and a hint of romance as I watched someone special walk by the window and in the door. Yet, something about PF still didn't sit right -- which, in retrospect, might be due to the unsolicited advances of my boss.. hrm -- and while it left a deep mark on my heart, I had my doubts. Or, maybe, I just wasn't ready to dub a coffee shop with such a heavy title, at least not until I felt like I knew that kind of connection was mutual. But, let's be fair, PF left a caffeine addiction that even on my best days, hits me at my core. A couple espresso shots a day for a semester will do that to you. And now, I think about PF and how it still holds a special place in my heart, even if I pretend that I don't.

So, more than a year later and a few coffee shops down the line, I'm feeling pretty numb. No more coffee shops for See. Most of them are pretty negligible and the ones that seemed promising... well perhaps those were worse than being negligible cause those ended in disillusionment with coffee shops period.

Then, something happened at JS this morning. The owner, who at this point has seen me in various states of disarray, handed me my bagel and coffee with a smile. Smiles are underrated. After a few days of serious emotional roller coasters, a smile from an acquaintance-stranger gave me a feeling of warmth I normally wouldn't expect. There I was, scrounging through my wallet for the extra five cents that I needed to pay, feeling like an idiot picking through an unfortunately large load of pennies. And, perhaps sensing my unease, he said, "whatever you have is just fine." It's rare to find shop owners who aren't so tight-fisted they could say something like that. But, add to that a decor I like, my growing affection for the Mission, and my unquestioned appreciation for good service, and... out of nowhere I'd found my coffee shop.

This entry actually isn't about me. It's really more of an allegory, shall we say, for my dear friend, Rysiebops.

So, good sir, here is what I'll tell you. The caffeine addiction never really goes away, I don't think. Time is supposed to heal all wounds, but sometimes there are wounds that never really close. That shop, the one that sticks with you no matter what, the one that made you want to show up first thing in the morning even when you were utterly exhausted you liked it so much... that shop will always be with you, and the only person who ever has the power to take away its meaning, is you. Especially, if that shop feels the same way about you. Maybe you'll find another coffee shop that makes you feel the way this one does, but maybe you'll just find a way to make this coffee shop the only coffee shop you ever deemed worth of the title Rysiebops Place. I'm a romantic at heart, so I believe that some coffee shops are just meant to be. Gros bisous.

Barfity Bloggity wah?

Sometimes I write pretty well. No, honestly. At certain points in time there's the off chance that I'll write something witty, and pithy and generally enjoyable -- even to me. That's not to sound like a pompous ego-maniac, more to acknowledge my overwhelming self-deprecating manner. (Which, at this point, having spent a fair amount of time with other "writers," I've found is pretty standard. Oh man, I'm a cliche.) I blame Dave. Dear Dave, how could you help re-popularize this self-aware writing style that is predicated by making terrible self-referential jokes all the time? I like how many dashes I used in those words just now. Dashes make me feel smart.

But really, this entire post is just an attempt to stimulate my writing brain into working again. Here's a note about writing articles on topics you think you really care about: don't do it. I have at this point exhausted what I once felt was a lot to say about this topic -- I don't feel I can be all that honest, nor do I feel I'll say anything that people won't be angry about once heard. Alas, perhaps that's the point, I'm not supposed to say what's nice, I'm supposed to say what needs to be said. Be honest, be accurate -- but it doesn't always mean you can be fair. Case in point: I'm profiling a program I originally admired, and subsequently am incredibly disappointed by, having learned that some of its participants came away from their experience with a somewhat sour attitude. It's made me question whether I have real commitment to anything. The subject matter interests me, and I can't even finish the article. Technically, I should be able to write this without a ton of thought -- but I actually give a damn about the subject matter, so now I'm not writing at all because everything is coming out mean. Whoo, I'm a commitment-phobe! But hey, I'm young, it's no big deal. I love being in my twenties. You can blame everything on youth, and inexperience, and on a desire to be a "free-spirit." No one will hold it against you, really, because hey, you're young! ::Light cigarette, take swig of vodka, frolic in otherwise inappropriate manner for a lady with any class::

So ends the writing wrant...and now I'm just procrastinating. Oh well. Rysiebops has passed this on to me, and there is relative joy to it, so I pass it to you. Even my blogging is uninspired. I'm putting someone else's vlog on my blog. Good lord.

Who Needs a Brass Rat?

These rings are so much cooooolllleerrrr. Or should I say, so much nerdier. If this isn't a testament to fashion looking to all facets of life for inspiration, I don't know what is. I present to you rings by ITSNONAME, which are modeled after typical class/insignia rings... but as opposed to that Uni seal you'd expect, it's all about the periodic element that the rings are made of, with their elemental weight. Did I even say that correctly? I have completely removed myself from the scientific world, but hopefully some of you will find these enjoyable. Just don't tell anyone that the nerd in me secretly really wants one, deal?