IS THERE LIFE ON MARS?

The last time I drove home to Greene County for Thanksgiving, I listened to this old tape of The Bends (Radiohead) and cried while I sang along to "Fake Plastic Trees." Yeah, I didn't tell any of you about that. I have this self-perpetuated notion of some kind of emotional toughness, which is a lie most of the time. This is what it feels like to come home. Some of the things that you used to feel when you were in highs school have been sitting there, just waiting for you to exit off of 79 south, and they all hit at once. Adam wrote something recently about how holidays are about pain and anguish for adults. How exactly on the mark.

I'm really not pained or anguished, but I think I'm more of an adult this time than I was last year. Like, a whole fucking lot. So, resignation and sadness, what is new?

Well, it's really an experience to drive home in a car with a twisted frame, let me tell you. Usually I just listen to my Biz Markee tape and chainsmoke on the drive home, but this time I ended up talking to myself a whole lot, I think to convince myself that my car wasn't going to veer off into another lane and take out some other travelers. And that didn't happen, but my dad took the car into the garage today, and they said it's totalled. Which means that it would cost more to fix the car than it's worth. Which means that today, during Steelers halftime, we went outside with the duct tape to fix up that damn bumper again. So I'm officially driving a beater these days. Xzibit, won't you pimp my ride?

Mom told me that Pittsburgh drivers usually have a lot of respect for somebody driving a car with some obvious scrapes and scratches, and I guess that means that I really have landed myself in selacious badass territory. And the Sonic Youth bumpersticker is still hangin' on.

DON'T KNOW ABOUT YOU BUT I AM UN CHIEN! ANDALUSIA!

Some of the old magic is coming back. This is both good and bad. I found myself sitting at the bar in the Squirrel Cage last night, wearing fake eyelashes and waiting for Adam. The fake eyelashes were something of a lark (and I had just watched Bonnie and Clyde) so I bought some from the drugstore and put them on in the bathroom of the 61c. Let me tell you what I've learned about fake eyelashes: people are really nice to you. Seriously. I didn't have to light a single cigarette on my own last night because the bartender or barback was always right there with a silver lighter. I find it difficult to be as glamour-afflicted as I once was (possibly because the idea of embracing "glamour" as drag or performance is seeming less and less legitimate. and it's cold) but I guess some of those old tendencies don't die. And bless Adam forever for wearing a suit. Sometimes I think our lives would have been easier if we hadn't read Mysteries of Pittsburgh as an ur-text for what it must be like to be a writing student in Pittsburgh. But the Pitt MFAs are ALWAYS at the Cage, looking all writerly. I want them to either embrace me in my own coolness or get some non-Buddy Holly glasses. There are only two choices.

It kills me to sit in the bar and listen to your favorite song on the jukebox and realize that you didn't play it. I wanted to stand up on my barstool and say, "Excuse me, but who played 'Skulls' by the Misfits just now? I would like to give you my phone number." This is not something that polite people do, but I get the sense that I'm a little too reserved most of the time. I'm afraid of what would happen if I were suddenly more open with what I said and did. I would fall in love all the time and end up building a fire under the Polish Hill bridge. I've been talking to strangers a little more lately. (Mom and Dad: do NOT WORRY. I am 21 now.) I mean, strangers who are waiting around for buses or smoking in front of the library or working at coffeeshops.

I must be getting older because face cream is my favorite thing in the world these days. I used to think facial moisturizer was really gross and insufferable, but it's one of my favorite parts of the day. Also, this is how I get skin so soft that a stranger at Primanti Brothers came up to me a few weeks ago and said, "Your face is so soft, it's like wet toilet paper." Man, that is a great pick-up line, espeically for writers. Come on, I'm a sucker for an accurate metaphor! Maybe the tone was a little off, but who wants to hear about dewy rose petals anyway? Fuck that shit.

MY BABY IS THE QUEEN OF THE ESKIMO

So, I'm on campus trying to finish off that longass stupid paper. You know, the one that I resent having to write. Trying is, as always, the operative word here.

I would like to thank Fritos, Cheetos, and Twinkies for underwriting my education.

Do you like trinkets, especially rubies and braided locks of hair, and such? You will really like the mondo mondo trading post: http://mondomondo.net. Don't forget to listen to all of the different MIDI files and look at the pictures.

Our "Asshole of the Week" award will go to not one, but two dudes driving a white SUV who smashed into both Rachel's car and my car last night. Thanks, douchebag pieces of shit. My rear fender was going to fall off anyway.