Listening to Magnetic Fields on repeat

I'm so sorry. I haven't updated in what, a month? I have had plenty of petty frustrations to write about but they've been overshadowed by this totally faggy thing that happened.

You see, guys, I uh. I kissed a boy.

It'd been seven months, but if you only count the ones I wanted to count, it had been more than a year. I was a little nervous when I saw it coming because that's a long time to get rusty on a two-person game, but I quickly found it's like riding a bike. But warmer, and uh. More fulfilling.

All the geniuses were tortured, or at least crazy, right? Vincent Van Gogh, Gene Roddenberry, Nikola Tesla, Phillip K Dick, Emperor Norton ... .

Now that I've got daily reminders of how wonderful I am, I'm compelled to wonder: Have I lost my inspiration?

I tell myself my personal blog is to keep far-flung friends up to date on what I'm doing in this town most of them abandoned at first chance. But really I spend a lot of it crying. My lengthiest and my best work is always about how poor Miranda was slighted in some way or another. Me against the world. All the blogs I've had have invariably been -- my favorite word -- mastubatory. I'll admit it.

And given that, why would I want to go it alone when I can just call up some asshole who was dumb enough to put his face near mine a few weekends ago anytime I feel a bit blue?

But the moment after I start to settle into this being happy thing, the neuroses come pouring in.

What if I like him more than he likes me? What if he likes me more than I like him? What if he knew I didn't wash my hands at the Waffle House? What if he's mad I threw away that peanut butter sandwich he made without eating it? What if I call too often? What if I don't call enough? Why hasn't he called yet? What does this song he sent me mean? Does it mean anything? What is he doing right now? How exactly did he say he knew this "Shannon" girl? Why did he say "goodbye" instead of "goodnight" this time? If he doesn't reply to my text message within six minutes, is he dead? Did I just offend him by saying that about his nose? Is he going to find out that I don't know anything at all about Ben Gibbard, really? Can I really deal with a guy who likes Star Trek, but not as much as I do? Can I really be considering dreaming about maybe someday saying those three horrible words to a guy who likes Depeche Mode more than I do? Is he really that sensitive about his teeth? Am I really that sensitive about his teeth? Is he joking about my ass? Did he even really notice my ass? Am I not worrying enough? Am I worrying too much? Does this make me That Girl?

So fear not, friends, if you missed me. The ambiguous arms of uh... well, "not really dating, but not 'just friends' either" will propel me to this text box again soon.

In the meantime, I hope the best holiday in February was as good for you as it was for me.

Bweak

Sorry, we went on hiatus because Jenni is in Italy.

The Internet: An Abrreviated Personal History

I've had access to the Internet for as long as I can remember. I vaguely remember Prodigy waay back when I lived on Indian Ridge, and finding my mom's dot-matrix-printed copy of a romance novel. She snatched it away from me before I could read beyond "Tina's long brown hair", though, and when I asked her about it recently she denied its existence. I also remember finding a web page about Daniel Boone and copy-pasting it into Word Perfect for one of my first book reports. The intense guilt I felt as I did that is a really strong emotional memory and I'm not sure why.

From there we moved to AOL and my memory jumps forward to 3.0 chat rooms on the old computer in my bedroom at my house now. So it must have been 6th grade. Anyway, Sarah was there and we definitely talked to some really mature, cool Depeche Mode fan in Denver. I can't for the life of me remember his name, but his screen name was egodram. I think. I remember putting a blanket over the tower when we signed on at 3 am to make sure that my parents didn't wake up to the sound of it logging on.



Then that computer broke (it is in the attic still for some reason, I harvested it for the power cord I am using on this one), and we bought an AWESOME new Compaq. That one was downstairs in the kitchen and I remember talking to Chris Britten on it. (My first kiss omg) and I remember typing "I love you" and totally wigging out about it. My first I love you. On the Internet. On AOL. Jesus. I am pretty sure Sarah and I did some cybering on that one, too.

Then we got a nice computer desk and a Dell. That's where I really spread my wings. We had AOL for a while on that one, and I think my screenname went from being mje0203 (my initials and birthdate, to match Chris' cmb0219, which he still has) to MzNutty33. I was really into Pokey the Penguin and downloading music. One of the first mixes I ever made, in 2000 (because I dated them all) is still really, really good. Like I love every song on it. So I think it's safe to say that the Internet really, really opened me up to some good stuff via -- shit, what was it called? -- well, it wasn't Napster and it wasn't Limewire or any of that. Oh well, what's important is that the first stuff I downloaded was The Beatles and Low and Space and The Cardigans. Before that I had been listening to Powerman5000 and Godsmack and TRL was my favorite TV show. Ew.

We got cable modem thinger when I was a junior, I think. It was so awesome because I was like the only kid who had it yet. So Carlos would come over to watch Bjork videos with me and I would watch and listen intently for good things to use for away messages. I didn't need AOL anymore so I went through about a billion screennames on AIM before I finally settled on sleepylovelorn, the one I used for two years. It's my cell phone's screenname now, but sometimes I miss it. It was emo before emo and still entirely true. This is about the time I got my awful, horrible, inexcusably depressing LJ.

When I was leaving for school I had to have a computer of my own. So I had Anthony's friend (I think?) build me one. I wrote him a $300 check and asked no questions. I think it is made of stolen parts. At least that's what I tell people, because sometimes it tells me I have a fatal horrible error and that it has to shut down and then it does and then it's fine. Whatever. Anyway, while at school I was on my computer a lot. Reading webcomics, updating my Xanga (ew) every twenty-five minutes, chatting with Betty and Anthony non-stop; I was queen of my corner of the digital world, and nothing (like Core papers) could stop me from reading the entire archive of Boy on a Stick and Slither or WIGU or Perry Bible Fellowship while listening to Rock and Roll Part Three over and over again.

When my computer died, I was pissed. Really, really pissed. I made up for it though, by being in the office (at a computer) all the time. It was a slow little Apple and it was then I discovered the wonders of Safari. I Googled shit all day long, posted to my blog notes from work meetings, streamed some awful radio stations. It was an okay substitute.

I moved back home where my parents had for some reason set up wireless Internet in my house. So I got a wireless card put into my big black desktop computer and then--- an awful thing happened.

I stumbled on this webcomic messageboard. I talked to people who had posted there on AIM. Then the phone. Then, Monday, I met one of them.

Her name is Jess Mason. She isn't the first I'd talked to, or the one I've talked to the most. I don't think she even reads webcomics. But she is one of the only girls I talk to online, and she was in Pittsburgh (a reasonable drive opposed to, say, Seattle, San Fransisco, New York, Sacramento, Los Angeles). So I met her!

It was fun. We took pictures for the Internet to see, we talked about people from the Internet who are dating each other or did or should or who should not be allowed near a computer, and about these people's real lives as if they were real, live people we actually knew in real life. In Jess's case, she's met a lot of them in New York and a visit to SF. But I have no excuse. I read these people's blogs and I am friends with them on MySpace and Facebook and OKCupid and I talk to them on AIM probably more often than I talk to my real friends in real life.



So, here I am wearing the ring of a fake engagement to a guy who works for Apple in Sacramento, whose dad was a cop in New York and is taking care of his ferret which is illegal in California. I have the address of a guy from OK Cupid who is a PhD student in Arizona with a really ridiculous moustache in front of me, and I'm thinking of what to mail him and what I'll say when I call him later tonight like he asked me to. I am listening to a mix CD sent to me by a guy from Modesto who is spending a night in my house a few weekends from now; his girlfriend is named Katrina and he really likes scarves and playing cello. I am looking at a button I bought because it says "polka mit mir" on it, and polka is the messageboard name of this chemistry student at Berkeley who lives behind a 7-11 and likes to paint her face and pretend she likes YuGiOh; she listened to me being depressed for months and then, one day, summed up my problem with myself in about three IMs.

Since I met these people on the Internet, I've listened to a lot better music and more music, I've seen a bunch of movies, I've renewed my interest in Star Trek, I've started eating better, I've been reading fewer and less shitty books, and I've started to think that maybe there's some hope for assholes like me.

They're real friends. Is that creepy? I hope not, because if so I am The Biggest Creep.

Check out what Ryan, a landscaping student in Oregon who has a lip ring and dressed as a pirate for his senior prom, made for me:



And now my foot's asleep. But as a parting gift I will leave you a screenshot from last night.