Tuesday, October 13, 2009

just this...

my life just got a little better.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

Happy People

So Mara is living testament that true hippies and happiness still exist despite the cynical lens through which I and so many others choose to view the world. This girl. Mara is unlike any of my other friends. Having grown up attending the most painfully anal and elite of schools has generated a shamelessly homogenous friend pool. And I'm not just talking Jewish and white. Like myself. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Obviously. But just the culture. The preppiness. The Vineyard Vines slash J. Crew, Dave Matthews, O.A.R-loving bros. Academia as the ultimate measure of self-worth. Then there is Mara. House filled with pez dispensers. Plastic Gumby's. A colored pencil drawing of The Yellow Submarine complete with a Blue Meanie. A coffee table book filled with pictures of naked women and French photographers. A cat named Indica. (Indica = weed.) A life-sized Austin Powers cardboard cutout in the stairwell. A wall filled with Polaroid pictures of friends in parks and in costumes. Customized dirty magnet words on the fridge where guests have inventively if not explicitly exercised their creative skills. A snake named Maynard in the bathroom. (Mara has reassured me on previous occasions that Maynard doesn't mind the consistent stream of house and techno rave beats of her various DJ friends and friends of friends.) Colored beads for making 'candy' to exchange at raves. Peace signs- in every possible color. There is a teepee in the backyard. Everything is chill with Mara. Mara lives in a world free from the dictates of numbers. Numbers pertaining to academic standing, numbers pertaining to weight, or any other numerical indication of status. Life just happens and everything just is. 


Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Peace out, Zoolander

Big news, everyone. After much deliberation and many sleepless nights (slight exaggeration), I have decided to forsake the peace sign in all future pictures. Ever. This extends to kissy faces as well. Never again. This is a substantial commitment, I know. But I feel it is time. I am ready. From this day forth, I will smile in pictures. Show teeth, even. Big moves for this college grad. I am going to need all the support I can get. 

  KT- Zoolander/Peace-Sign connoisseur 

Monday, September 21, 2009

Mad Hot Advertising...Draper why are you not a real person

don draper. 

honestly this man could say anything and i'd believe it. 
exhibit A: "this never happened. it will shock you how much this never happened." What does that even mean?? Exactly. This means nothing. If some rand said this to me I would stare blankly and allow the awkwardness to sear through their soul as justifiable punishment for such an inane comment. This would not be out of cruelty, rather, it would simply serve as a  reflection of the community service worker in me [...deep, deep down] through a hypothetical attempt to enlighten a less fortunate individual through shame.  
Coming from Don Draper, on the other hand, this comment makes perfect sense. Too much sense. 
If the advertising industry resembles anything close to Jon Hamm's physical flawlessness, count me in. 
So in retrospect (5 seconds ago) that was a severely lacking metaphor and I may or may not have just confused myself. More to the point: 
Don Draper: you are so ridiculously good-looking.
Pete Campbell: you are a shit. but you are also illogically hot. this both frustrates and pains me.
Advertising: don't know if this is the industry for me but if it involves the regular presence of attractive assholes basking in the alcohol-infused glory of their creative labors as depicted in Mad Men, then  I'm sold. 
Case in point:
How can I make this my world. Now. 

Sunday, September 20, 2009


Ohhhh hey

So I would have to say that some major updates are in order right about now. Sitting in my awesome new apartment on Haight wearing way-too-small Abercrombie kids' boxers from like eighth grade. There are mooses (moose? meese?) on them....

        [Moose Boxers]
And when I say 'my' apartment I may or may not mean my dad's. Aaand when I say 'new' I mean he's lived here for probably a good year now. And in my world, Clayton may as well equal Haight street. But other than that, I am being entirely truthful. God so glad no one can see me right now, wearing such moose boxers. Anyway, my latest job-hunting endeavors have been somewhat thwarted by the sheer awesomeness of my Macbook [PRO...the 'pro' makes all the difference, trust me], and its ability to store THOUSANDS of pictures and songs (80% of which I never listen to and exist purely for show...I'm just saying..) without it affecting my ability to access Microsoft Word and magically be productive! It is glorious. So my latest and most fulfilling time-wasting strategy has assumed the form of obsessive photo-uploading. And tagging. Yes, tagging- Ok I'm just gonna put it out there since I've already raised the issue- I absolutely love the 'Faces' feature on the new version of iPhoto. Make that, addicted....

FACES (the antithesis of productivity) 
The option is wholly unnecessary and exists solely for picture-whores like me with OCD-like tendencies, however I am not ashamed to admit that I am an avid fan and it is one of the most thoroughly fantastic ways to actively suppress the woes of unemployment and retreat back to the glory days of college. Ahh, the ignorance is bliss mentality. I mean I created that, don't know if you already knew. Except with me, it's more like, contrived ignorance. If that makes any sense. It should also be noted that today's picture (soon to follow) is an enlightening relic from freshman year, and a testament to the artistic graffiti skills of Swig, obviously discovered through the unnecessary uploading and organizing of all-pictures-ever-taken-by-Hannah onto my awesome comp.  Just so you know. Please take a moment to observe..

So, after a thorough pillaging of the bottomless well of dead-end, crappy opportunities that is Craigslist, and after forwarding myself an array of said shitty opportunities, I reward my false sense of proactivity with a little iPhoto dabbling. Aaaand when I say little, I mean a lot. I love pictures, what can I say. And organizing them. And looking at them. And organizing them some more. That should be a profession in its own right. Honestly. But just like any addiction, I most often emerge from my crazed-photo-tagging-slash-organizing tangents feeling sad. And bitter. Because I am angry with Back To The Future for instilling a false hope in my childhood self of the early '90's that we would have awesome DeLorean time machines in this day and age. Which I could use now to just repeat college over and over an obscene number of times.  [please- no Asher Roth allusions here] See with me, these kinds of things don't get old. Like a baby with car keys. Or jewelry. And now I am suffering the consequences of believing crazy Christopher Lloyd. Thissss is my life...

Thursday, September 3, 2009



So Rach flew back to the (l)east coast today for school. Not depressing at all...slash I have told her repeatedly on many occasions that I would do crazy, profane things to switch places with her. I.e: go back to college for another two years. From what I gather Wesleyan seems pretty interchangeable with Conn, give or take a few hippies. No but really. I guess there is the whole age thing, I would be ridiculously, conspicuously old. God I can't think about how old that incoming/current freshman class is. 1990's. Nope. Can't handle it. It reminds me of the Kanye West lyric I just noticed in the song that pop radio stations are currently beating to death: "Hold up, born in '88. How old is that? Old enough. I got seniority with the sorority. So, that explain why I love college". 
Like, really Kanye? Really? Old enough? I don't know why I felt the urge to to quote him here it's just I hadn't noticed that line until just the other day. And it made me mad. So what does that make me? 'Over the hill'? If '88 is 'old enough', what is '86? Ok I am definitely over-thinking this, it's just little things like this have been bothering me lately. Little indicators of time that slowly but surely imply that no I am in fact no longer 16. Believe it or not. Like seeing my 'baby' girl cousins in Sanibel this year. Constantly feeling the need to censor myself around them- I refuse to believe Emma is 16. The other day when I was talking to her face to face about how I've been feeling particularly ancient lately, and how I cannot believe how old she is, I suddenly blurted out "holy shit! You're the age they are on '16 And Pregnant'! (MTV's latest epic installation)". Emma probably thinks I am a freak. An OLD freak at that. Godammit I remember when floppy discs were literally FLOPPY. That's it. I'm done here.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Loving the Shrink

So I love my psychiatrist. I know, I know- this is something no one's supposed to talk about- god forbid someone admits that they have a psychiatrist, but you know what, not only am I proud to declare this fact to the anonymous online world, but I will go so far as to say that mine is damn cool. I'm almost sad that he is in fact my psychiatrist, as I really think we could have been friends under normal circumstances. Is this weird? Maybe there is hope yet for our friendship. It's not like he knows THAT much about me. But man- this dude really breaks the mold when it comes to the image of shrinks. When I let out a dramatic gasp as he pulled out his oversized mammoth of a seventeen inch MacBook (I still think my fifteen inch is awesome as is. I opt for cuteness over excess.) he proceeded to clarify that yes, he was in fact aware of its gargantuan proportions, and yes, it was ideal for viewing porn, and no, he was not compensating for something, if that's what I had been wondering. God I love this guy. 
Also- it should be noted that today's uploaded picture has zero to do with the content of this post, and everything to do with my shameless vanity. Enjoy.