Last night I dreamt that I had 5 pairs of the same glasses, but I had inadvertently snapped them all. The dream consisted of me sifting through the many fragments, muttering “Fuck ... Fuck ... Shit, no ... Fuck ...” and wishing I could go back in time to a point where I had a pair of glasses intact.

A few nights ago I dreamed that my Financial Aid advisor gave me a decent haircut, to remove some of the damage caused by my repeated home coloring jobs. She was very gentle, but I was reluctant to let her touch me.

Symbollic? Nah.

I should warn you that I keep making jokes that no one but me might appreciate. But man, I appreciate the hell out of them. Dammit.

I’m updating from a different coffeeshop today, because life is nothing if one does not try to expand one’s horizons.

If the last cafe I mentioned made me feel like the anti-heroine in an overzealous feminist college film, this one makes me feel like the unwitting subject of a horribly awkward love poem.

I actually was the unwitting subject of a horriblly awkward love poem once. It was composed and read by a friend at an open mic night. When I realized that the poem was about me, I ran outside to hide behind clouds of second-hand smoke so I didn’t have to face the author. Maybe that was chicken-shitted of me, but I was 17, he was at least 25, and the poem focused on how I smelled, which was probably supposed to be romantic but just came across as creepy. How does a 17-year-old kid react to that?

Anyway, that was then.

The ratio of hipsters:non-hipsters in this place is overwhelming. It’s like a Weezer concert formed a tidal wave, flooded through the door, and puddled by the sandwich cooler in a clattering tangle of their -- or should I say our -- head-scarves and designer eyewear. I don’t think I have the breadth of music knowledge or wardrobe from Urban Outfitters necessary to really qualify as a “hipster,” a subgroup from which my friend Mike says that I am automatically exempt based on my fondness for musical theatre, but I kind of feel like these are my people.

Am I being mean? Sort of. What’s wrong with me?

I love my headscarf and my designer eyewear. I also love the pink Puma sneakers that I bought yesterday at a thrift store for $4. It’s funny how writing about how I love these things makes me hate myself a little.

SOME ATMOSPHERE:

* Ho, dude, that guy who walked in with his girlfriend totally just checked me out. I repressed the urge to compliment him on his windbreaker.

* The barista who served me my Italian soda is really sweet, has gigantic plugs in his ears, and inoffensive whiteboy dreadlocks drooping down to his ass. In describing a menu item, he used the phrase “Our world-famous ranch dressing,” which for some reason cracked me up. I have heard him speak in several different non-specific accents since I’ve been here, and I can’t decide whether he’s actually foreign or if he’s just being silly. (Woop! I just heard him talk accent-free American, which means he’s being a silly faux-foreigner. Or maybe he’s Canadian. Which is sort of the same thing.)

* Two dogs, accompanied by their masters, are socializing outside the cafe. One is a lovely golden labrador whose tail is shaking so hard I fear her spine might snap. The other is a formerly white chihuahua who has been dyed green. Yes, green. He is as big as the other dog’s snout, and really cute, but who the hell dyes their dog green?

Everyone in here is eerily good-looking. I mean, even the unattractive people are somehow good-looking because of their calculated efforts to look casual. I’m very confused. Maybe I’m ovulating. At any rate, I’m horny, and I’m in a pleasant mood so instead of frustrated I just feel pretty. Or brainwashed.

Being jobless, while it makes me feel vaguely unclean, turns everyday activities into something more glamourous and risky, like I’m Henry Miller or some shit. For example, I just called Planned Parenthood, which made me feel responsible and grown-up, but somehow avant-garde. I gotta hand it to Planned Parenthood, they are out to protect your ass. And based on my uninsured/unemployed status, I can get a full annual pelvic check-up for free!

Free!

What a luxury, not to have to pay a stranger to stick a freezing speculum up my coochie and examine the scrapings under a microscope!

Scrapings! Free scrapings!

I hate pelvic exams.

I don’t know why I’m so disjointed lately.

I think will follow suit of one Ms. F. Films, and compose some 2-minute poems.

Ready? Go!

Pink Puma sneakers,
Do you define my existence?
Perhaps not, but man, are you comfortable.
Kiss-colored little foot-hugs..
Pink Puma, you sound
A little
Dirty.

* * * * *

O, Fertility!
Scrapings and pap smears!
I take responsibility for
The red carpet of my womanhood
Which is actually more of a mauve.

* * * * *
A man once wrote a poem
Extolling my vanilla aroma.
The next time I saw his car
I peeled out of the parking lot
Before I could run into him.

Hi! I’m updating again. I have to go ... there’s a puppy outside with whom I must get acquainted.

~ Last Five Entries ~

CAMEL NOISES OF DEEP LONGING - 07.11.06

Outer Richmond House - 07.04.06

My Sister's Wedding - 06.27.06

Meltdown? Who knows? - 05.09.06

You probably won't be surprised to learn there are flies circling me. - 04.23.06

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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