YouTube Tuesday: Last Night

Katy Perry at Kool Haus

Since yesterday's post was filled with musical references, I figured I'd just expand here with fun visuals courtesy of YouTube. As is the weekly tradition.

First, my life in Toronto Star headlines:

• U2 is sold out. Sort of. Stupid Ticketmaster. (And no, I did NOT pay $252 for mine.)
• Katy Perry was sold out. And packed with teenyboppers. I'm still recovering from being assaulted with ponytails. But 'twas fun.
• And in other news, my friend and I showed up in the same pair of shoes. Apparently half a decade of absence does not negate amazingly identical tastes in footwear. The Star did not cover this. Should have.

The Daylights



They opened last night. And were quite good. With a bit of a U2-meet-The-Killers vibe. Too bad they confused "conceived" with "consummated" during an otherwise cute moment of banter. I care about the misuse of vocabulary. Especially when around impressionable/dumb teenagers.

Extra props for waiting until every fan who wanted to meet them did. I appreciate non-divas.

Katy



No, the video's not from last night. But she did grab a remarkably similar acoustic moment. And impressed me with her ability to sing live.

To keep things interesting, there was an inflatable cherry chapstick on-stage. And she sang in front of an inflatable "Kitty Purry" set. And wore a penguin mini-dress. Did I mention that teenagers love her? Adorableness-meets-questionable-lyrical-content.

And coming up....

U2



I heart "One." And to hear it played in Ireland would be pretty darn fantastic. Most of you know I'm not a beer drinker. But I'll have a pint in Dublin one day. Preferably with The Edge. I think he's highly underrated.

Am I excited for September? I'll have to get back to you on that one.

Monday with Katy

I'm not blogging tonight. Because I'm a Katy Perry concert. With a friend I haven't seen since her wedding FIVE YEARS AGO. I couldn't find any vintage pin-up pieces in my closet. Fashion fail.

You change your mind
Like a girl changes clothes

I once tried on the majority of my wardrobe just to go to a movie with a guy. A casual evening. With someone who could care less about fashion.

But I've also gone to the movies in worn-out cords and a stained shirt. With another guy who could care less about fashion.

Neither event morphed into a passionate love affair.* Apparently clothes have little to do with anything. Although I still choose to wear them. And change them.

*Oddly, the stained-shirt evening resulted in greater pursuit on the guy's part. Dirty is sexy. (Literal dirt, not Christina Aguilera "Dirty.") Nice guy, too. But I ran. 'Cause I'm hot and I'm cold....

Oh, and if you can't imagine that I would have a favorite Katy Perry song, you are wrong. This is it. It's on my iPod. I live to shock you.



Pastors' daughters, unite!

P.S. Less than a month until I see Flight of the Conchords live!
P.P.S. Today I scored tickets for U2's September show. My musical world is exploding into greatness.
P.P.P.S. I've never kissed a girl. And I'm trying to keep it that way.

Adventures in Blogging. Plus Keanu.

Here's my weekly Web-writing wrap-up:

• Indiana Jones is finally going to marry Ally McBeal.
• David Letterman married his girlfriend after 23 years together. Note to every guy who reads this: I won't wait that long.
• Some Lost scoop.
• Valerie Bertinelli wears a bikini. And Kirstie Alley cries. (I was challenged this week to wear a two-piece this summer and get over myself. Hmm.)
• Links to more Lost scoop and a recap. Seriously, I dig that show.
• And now Boone is a vampire.
• And there's even more Lost fun.
• Robert Pattinson showers. Zac Efron doesn't use Q-Tips. You know, stuff you need to know.

And as a bonus:

Here's possibly the most horrible/wonderful music video ever. Keanu Reeves and Paula Abdul. I'm not sure if I want to laugh, cry or vomit. Oh, Keanu, why don't you have an Oscar? Never mind. Don't answer that.

Earth Hour

I should really spend more quality time with candlelight. And learn to play the acoustic guitar. 

Colour Me Happy

This is my favorite photo spread of the past year or so. Because I love scarves. And layers. And neutrals. And comfort. And Keri Russell.

And this wedding just makes me happy. Because sometimes I just want to sit in the grass. The fact that she's wearing cowboy boots under that gorgeous gown makes it even more amazing.

Even better, Big Huge Labs now generates colour palettes from your uploaded photos. So the country wedding looks like this:

If the above 15 swatches were the only colours on the planet, I would have no complaints. In fact, I'd probably swap out talking for singing and walking for skipping. Sigh.

Dads Are Cool

Daddy Dearest

Anyone wanna meet my dad? Here he is. He just bought a movie theater. Uh, sort of.

L-O-V-E

This melts my heart. And inspires my inner photographer. Check out a photo shoot a father did with his daughter. This will be hung on the wall of her new big-girl room.

You should read his blog. Really. He's a tattooed pastor with mad skills in the kitchen. And takes a mean photograph. But you already know that.

I Should Be a Wedding Planner

I spend a lot of time looking at wedding photos. Thinking about strangers' weddings. Staring at flower arrangements, designer gowns and seaside ceremonies.

As a single gal, this does not depress me. Nor does it send me to the uncomfortable world of wishful thinking. For this, I am thankful.

But sometimes it gets overwhelming, mentally assessing the overblown budgets. Pondering the financial strain people must willingly endure to hold one fancy party that will be over all too soon. Maybe I'm just not a peacock-feathers-in-the-imported-bouquet kind of girl. Or I'm just comfortably poor and unwilling to consider throwing a bash that costs more than a house.

I should be a wedding planner.

Have you seen this? A woman was scouring through a used-clothing warehouse in Montreal and found her dream dress. For 5 dollars. The photo is pre-ironing, so don't judge.


Too bad the name Wedding Bells is already taken. Would have been a brilliant name for my business. There has to be a way to do gorgeous on a budget. In fact, I know there is.

Brides-to-be, call me.



P.S. You can now get married at the House of Juliet in Verona. Lovely. In theory. Personally, I'm a little wary of seeking a R&J kind of love. Quite frankly, faking my own suicide to avoid getting married to some icky man even though I already have a (banished and cousin-killing) husband (who I married out of that angsty adolescent lust that doesn't quite guarantee forever) only to have my beloved commit a real suicide (which inspires me to graduate my fake suicide to a real one too) doesn't spell R-O-M-A-N-C-E to me. But I'm old and cynical.

Brotherly YouTube

I've been slacking in the blogging department this week. I apologize. And now I'm leaving my apartment for another evening of computerlessness.

So until I get back to the blogging routine this weekend, meet my brother Joel. Well, his voice. And his double-screened super-computer of awesomeness. And his broken Xbox.



The comments crack me up. And for those of you super-concerned for his situation, the console was replaced and all is well once more.

I should make a YouTube video. Maybe I'll reenact Swing Kids on my porch at midnight. Or something equally as impressive.

P.S. My camera made that video. So maybe I'm partly responsible for the almost-4000 views.

P.P.S. I have another brother. His name is Nathan. He doesn't live with my parents. Or post on YouTube. Or have a phone. But I still love him.

YouTube Tuesday: Nadine

Because Googling yourself is so 2001, YouTubing yourself is now where it's at. Uh, sort of.

The Amateur

Lovable, no?



The Pro

My high-school music teacher used to sing this every time I entered the room. Yes, I survived until the age of 14 before discovering Chuck Berry's serenade to moi.



Please admit you've done the same. Everyone needs to find a song with their name in it. If there isn't one, start writing!

Doing Lunch

When I was quite young, in the first or second grade, I often went home for lunch. But on those days when I chose to stay at school, my mom would put a little note in my lunch bag. It would tell me that she loved me. And so did Jesus. And sometimes a fun sticker accompanied said encouragement.

In university, I worked this little anecdote into a monologue. My prof, an award-winning playwright who shall remain nameless, was quite moved by this. A mother of five, she wished she had done the same. Probably without the Jesus part.

A year or so later, I attended her newest play in Toronto. The lead actress stood on the open stage and told a story about her mother leaving notes in her lunchbox, reminding her that God loved her.

My brother told me to sue. Instead, I chose to be flattered. And greatly amused.

There's a father who takes personalized lunches up a notch or two. He designs a new lunch bag for his kids EVERY DAY. And they're amazing.

Check them out @ Lunch Bag Art.

P.S. I miss my Pound Puppies lunchbox. The one with the gimp strand tied to the handle.

Whatever happened to my
Whatever happened to my
Whatever happened to my lunchbox?
When came the day that it got thrown away
And don't you think I should have had some say in that decision?

~ John Mayer, "83"

Weekend RoundUp

Um, so in my attempts to pack quickly and efficiently this afternoon, I neglected to check my parents' basement for any remaining items that belong to me. Even when my bag seemed significantly lighter than when I arrived, I didn't clue into the fact that five or six shirts were still hanging to dry in their laundry room.

[Kick. Self. Now.]

If I'm wearing strange combinations of clothing for the next week/month, you now know why. I just might have to rock that shirt I bought in the seventh grade but can't bear to part with. Sheesh.

Instead of dwelling on the frustrations that come with being me, let's review some of the lighter notes of late.

Ouch

I feel a fist pummel my back. I turn around to see my brother feigning innocence. His defense? "Chiropractic." Apparently such a word excuses all physical violence.


Lost in Translation

Mom: What are you two talking about?
Me: Scalping tickets.
Mom: Don't you dare scalp chickens.


The Bedingfields

Those of you familiar with Hillsong music are probably aware of the song "Shout Your Fame," a worship hit (Is there such a thing?) out of the London Hillsong church. What you may not know (as I didn't, until today) is that Natasha Bedingfield cowrote the song! If you listen to this version, you can hear her quite clearly. And no offense to the always awesome Australian Hillsong folks, but this version trumps all.



Hilarious aside: Her single "I Wanna Have Your Babies" was never released in North America. Watch the video and understand. Cracks me up. For guys, it probably belongs in the horror category.

I miss the days when her brother, Daniel Bedingfield, was almost famous. I have vivid memories of putting on makeup to this song every Sunday morning during my Guelph days. I have no idea why it inspires lipgloss application.



But this is the number-one swoon-inducing ditty that will forever haunt him. Sigh.


Okay, I'm off to figure out how to salvage my existing wardrobe into something non-pathetic. I need to work somewhere with uniforms. Really, I need to join the Dharma Initiative. Somehow avoiding the violent purging of my people, naturally.

Oh, Brother!

Joel came home from work tonight after 9:30. He threw a pizza in the oven. I was playing Scrabble with Mom downstairs.

"Get me some chocolate while you're at it," I hollered.

"Okay."

There was no chocolate in the house.

And so he ran outside, down the street, to the variety store. He didn't like their options. So he ran to the 24-hour grocery store. And bought me Smarties and Clodhoppers.

He should teach classes on how to be a brother.

Thanks, Joel, for the sugar fix. Love ya.

Into the Twittersphere!

Oh, Twitter. I really hope I'm not using you to randomly brag about my unexceptional life. But I probably am.

If we can't Twitter, we don't exist!

If the above video hasn't scared you away, I'm @OnHerToes. Feel free to follow.

My blogging's been lacking this week. Two days of sick-day blahness is partly to blame. But I'm back in fighting form, save for the lunch-hour gluttony that is now trying to lull me into a coma. But that's the hot roast-turkey sandwich at work, not the flu.

For those of you trying to keep pace with my writing life elsewhere:

• I discovered a new lip gloss last week. Yes, this is important news. To me.
• Jennifer Love Hewitt and Jamie Kennedy love each other. Apparently. Weird.
• Natasha Richardson went skiing in Quebec. You know the rest. Tragic. (Aside: I once skied in Quebec. On a beginner hill. With an instructor. And no helmet. Could've been anyone.)
• Charlie Sheen + twin boys = One and two-half men?
• Project Runway's Kenley Collins hit her sleeping ex-fiancé with her cat. Crime at its best. (P.S. I want to be on Project Runway. Desperately.)
• PostSecret is amazing. Because people's deepest and darkest secrets are often quite universal. I mean, girls, how many of us HAVEN'T had this Lost discussion?

I'm off to the parental unit's place for the weekend. It's tax season, and I'm trying to make sense of the freelancing chaos that is my life. I will self-medicate with my mother's home-cooking.

Seacrest out.

Blah.

I slept for 13 hours last night.

I thought I had kicked it. There was a moment of mental clarity this afternoon, of revisiting energy.

And then it hit me again.

I just want to sit here. And stare into space. My bed is too far away to bother considering sleep.

I'm pretty sure it's a strain of mono that squeezes your head until you hate anything related to "doing." Because I crave nothing. A whole lotta nothing. Or it's the flu. In junior form.

Instead of Guinness tomorrow, I should raise a glass of green Triaminic.*

*Green Triaminic is the vile liquid that incited a rather violent outburst by a 5-year-old Nadine once upon a time. Sorry, Mom, for kicking and screaming. I couldn't help it. I'm pretty sure turpentine tastes better.

Oh, and according to the Triaminic website, I should be staying home from school. Good to know.

I Dream In Color

I didn't sleep well last night. When I finally fell asleep, my brain went into dream-overdrive:

I was at the University of Guelph. On the playground. I hopped the fence into Alaska, which happened to be adjacent to New Zealand. I quickly realized that people would want to know where I was, but I wasn't sure about the time change, so I texted a friend and told her to tell my parents that I was in New Zealand and not to worry about me.

New Zealand happened to resemble a rustic cabin-like indoor resort world, where I could book a room for the week for only $100. I later upgraded my room so I could have Internet access.

The end.

Back to Basics

I spent my morning with eleven preschoolers. Some of whom need a refresher when it comes to New Testament basics.

Teacher: Jesus was a real person.
Little Boy: He was?!
Little Girl: A long time ago.
Teacher. Yes, a long time ago. And then he died....
Little Boy: He did?! He died?! How?!

Lex Luthor Bailout

Have I ever mentioned that I love Jon Hamm? Just checking.

"Lex Luthor Bailout" with Jon Hamm from Jon Hamm

Fake It Like You Mean It

I was standing in line at the Alumni Theatre last night when I heard the girl behind me start bragging about her boyfriend's job in Stratford. She was clearly an actress-wannabe, flighty and melodramatic, very aware that everyone around her was listening in. Her speech patterns weren't natural. She was reciting the brilliant speech she'd so often practiced in her head. I've been there. I've performed instead of conversed. It's embarrassing, but it's part of growing up in dreamland.

It would have been easy to just let her be, excusing her ditsy hair-flipping as she waxed poetic about her amazing man. But I couldn't. Because she didn't know what she was talking about.

"I mean, it's not that bad. Actually, it's awesome, hanging out with Graham and Jonathan Goad."

Graham Abbey hasn't been in Stratford for a couple of years now. Anyone with Google knows this. As does anyone who actually hangs out in Stratford. Or who watches TV. And both he and Goad recently married their former Stratford costars. They don't hang out with shallow young women. I know this much is true.

Her Stratford bragging is straight out of the summer of 2003, back when the two mentioned men were the theatre's headlining heartthrobs. A prof of mine once told me that Graham was the one parents wanted their daughters to date, while Jonathan was the one daughters actually wanted to date. I begged to differ. But I go against the grain.

I understand the appeal of the name-drop. And I also understand the thrill of sounding important and theatre-savvy. But this young actress needs to learn to use a search engine before she starts to gush about her fantasy life. And for the sake of her boyfriend, maybe she should lay off the handsome-actor references. She should be excited that HE is in Stratford. And that Shakespeare is forever awesome.

Sheesh.

I should teach classes on how to be a girl.

Feeding a Crush

I want one.


See more baby wombat here. And melt into a marsupial-loving puddle.

Thanks, Kathleen, for the link. You know me so well.

YouTube Tuesday: Africa

Confession of the day: I love "Africa." The song. I'm sure I'd love the continent, too, but as I haven't been there, I don't feel qualified to ramble on and on about its greatness. But I will go. Believe you me. In fact, it was only last year that I was seriously considering quitting my job and volunteering at an AIDS orphanage.... But that's another blog post.

Back to music.

Jeffster

You should watch Chuck. For the many nuggets of television gold as seen in the clip below. Jeffster's "Africa" is so perfectly horrible, it might be my favorite version of the song. (And how can you not embrace a show with a Captain Awesome in it?!)



"This is as good as it gets, man."

I concur.

Karl Wolf

My iPod likes Karl Wolf's version. Yep, I have a song that features Culture on the Nano. I try to keep my musical life interesting. (My running playlist is three hours long. In case my 5k run magically turns into a marathon.)



I'm not really into music videos full of bikinis. Or robes. Or shirtlessness. Or baseball caps (called "lids" by the cool kids). But what can you do? I love this song. It was totally worth the $0.99.

(But really, people, who dances in front of a campfire in a bikini? Burnt bum = not sexy. That's your lesson for the day.)

Toto

Toto deserves the credit for such musical genius. So I shall leave you with the original.



Bonus: Scrubs

If you're a Scrubs fan, watch JD sing along in the bathtub.

Best Joint Birthday Party Ever

Happy birthday, Jon Hamm.

And happy birthday, Chuck Norris.

Canadian Club (neat) and roundhouse kicks for everyone!

Keeping Up With Me

For kicks, I'm going to start recapping my online writing adventures here once a week. Just so you can cyber-stalk me (if you so choose).

• My Lost thoughts. Please tell me you watched. It was one of the best episodes of the season. Sigh. I kind of love Sawyer now.
  
• I unclogged my shower drain this evening. With baking soda, vinegar and water. I'm the super-resourceful green-living Donna Reed.
• El Naturalista has super-cute eco-friendly shoes. Now that the snow has melted, I get to wear shoes again. I count it all joy, friends.
• Hermione might go to Yale. Sometimes I wish I applied to Harvard just to brag that I got in. (Of course, if I was rejected, I just wouldn't tell anyone that I applied in the first place.)
• Vince Vaughn is engaged. Jennifer Aniston is not.
• The Bachelor rejects won't go away. More reality TV for everyone!
• And most importantly, Dakota Fanning is now a vampire.

Not Quite Spring

Cooking With Nadine

I went to the market yesterday. I came home over $600 poorer.

I did not spend $600 on vegetables.

My trip also happened to include the purchase of the coolest glasses ever (to be ready in three weeks), expensive greens+ drink and protein powder, and the writing of a food-bank cheque. Yep, it hurt. But only because my nickname should be Ebeneezer.

Back to the produce.

If you look in my fridge right now, you will see little of yesterday's bounty. In my attempts to be organized (and to consume massive quantities of vegetables daily), I've prepared most of my week's meals in advance. I heart leftovers.

Oven omelet:
(4 breakfasts - each slice served with one Roma tomato)

8 eggs
Shredded mozzarella cheese
Paprika, chili powder, cayenne pepper (I like red spices)
Entire bag of arugula
Can of mushrooms
One diced red pepper
One diced sweet onion

[Vegan-friendly] Pasta:
(tonight's dinner + three lunches)

Whole wheat pasta
Chick peas
Tomato sauce
One diced sweet onion
Entire bag of white button mushrooms, sliced
One diced yellow pepper
Minced garlic
Oregano, chili powder

I find one long afternoon in the kitchen (with one large mess) is far more productive than half-heartedly throwing together lunches every evening. I'm lazy. I know this about myself. So I'm trying to circumvent my own weakness by doing it all in one fell swoop.

I should have my own cooking show: How to throw everything in your fridge into one dish.

With red grapes on the side. I'm addicted.

P.S. As a single lady (and hardly active in the pick-up world -- although I did wear a dress today. Apparently that means I'm on the prowl), I am free to consume as much onion and garlic as I please. There are perks to going solo.

Breakfast Vs. The Afterlife

I read Heaven: A Breakfast-Free Zone this morning. And laughed. Out loud. And almost cried. There HAS to be breakfast in heaven, no matter what the the "No mo' bacon" guy sings.

(Oh, and you should blogstalk Jason Boyett too. He's brilliant.)



See, I spent most of my adolescence* with a certain Newsboys song in my head:

When the toast is burned
And all the milk has turned
And Captain Crunch is waving farewell
When the big one finds you
May this song remind you
That they don't serve breakfast in hell

*I also spent most of my adolescence wishing my hair looked like Phil Joel's. Best blond curls ever. He's from the land of Bret, Jemaine and Brooke Fraser. And New Zealanders have to be awesome. It's in their DNA.

I assumed, naturally, that the absence of breakfast in hell alluded to a breakfast utopia in heaven. With streets of Golden Grahams. 'Cause breakfast is important. Even Jesus thinks so.

Jesus said to them, "Come and have breakfast."

John 21:12a

So I think I'm gonna risk it and anticipate an eternity full of Cheerios. Please bury me with a spoon.

This is me (in Muppet form). I am a cereal girl.

Sunshine and Kale

notebook by twoguitars

"Writing is the only profession where no one considers you ridiculous if you earn no money."

~ Jules Renard

Today was gorgeous. Perfect. I wanted to hug a weatherman. Unfortunately, the sunshine damaged my work ethic. I took a lovely long break around midday, walked to the newly renovated library about a half hour away, convinced myself not to take out every single book, took a few photos of my not-all-that-pretty neighborhood, and meandered home two hours later.

So good.

I did get enough writing done to make the day financially worth it, but it felt a little labored. By the time I sent off my invoice, I was ready to reward myself with piles and piles of nutritional greatness.

Try Kath's Kale Chips, folks. You will never look at kale the same way again. I will probably die of a Vitamin K overdose now. Yeah, my once leafy-green-packed fridge is now empty.

My window is open. I am not cold.

It has been a good day.

Belated YouTube Tuesday: Girls' Day

Yesterday was Girls' Day in Japan. It was also Square Root Day (3/3/09), but I'm not really in a mathematical mood.

So in honor of Girls' Day, let's have some nostalgic little-girl fun.

With the Chipettes.



Why did I always relate to the one with the glasses? (Jeanette. I Googled.) Even before I wore glasses. And Jessie Spano instead of Kelly Kapowski. I guess I just embraced my inner brainy-non-cheerleader at a young age.

Girls' Day with Zac Efron.



Confession: I can't not run when this starts playing on my iPod. It's just so darn catchy and fun. And lyrically quite hilariously sketchy. Yes, I'll be running to this when I tackle my first official 5k this summer.

And is it really ladies' choice? I've had this discussion with some rather respectable men who firmly believe that women hold such power. I'm on the fence. The fence of complete disagreement.

Girls' Day with Eric Hutchinson.

Yep, Eric and I are still going strong. LOVE him. And "You Don't Have to Believe Me" is my girl-power anthem. (Well, this and Sugarland's "Settlin'." More on that later.) And it's another running* song.

*I wonder how many times I can type "running" this evening. It might convince me to head back to the gym.

If I were a boy, I'd dress like him. And then I'd sing this song to every girl on the planet.

Lyrics are here. For some reason, I can't find a YouTube version that ends with this:

But you sure better believe me
When I tell you your mind's what's hot

Start at 3:50.



Maybe I should just buy a vest and get over this whole dress-like-a-boy insanity. Sheesh.


Okay, off to watch Lost. My phone will be off. Just to warn you.

Richard Gere, I Like Your House

I know, I know. I've said it before. Richard Gere and I don't really get along. I don't get him. His appeal makes minimal sense. I have learned to accept his sex-symbol status as one of the great mysteries of the world.

I would, however, buy his renovated farmhouse in the Hamptons had I an extra $8.8 million kicking around.


It's borderline residential perfection. See the entire slideshow here. And drool a little.

If I come into a massive fortune in the next little while and then suddenly disappear, you can assume I'm sitting on that porch, scribbling away at a novel. Maybe sipping tea. If it's after this coming Sunday,* that tea might be coffee. If I'm not there, I'm hanging out in the artist's studio, creating something amazing and top-secret.

*I'm assuming it will be. Or else I'll be indoors. New York isn't the tropics. The porch will have to wait until I'm warm.

To those who've scoffed at my dreams of farmhouse living, I hope you're happy living in your sterile characterless condos.

The rest of you are welcome to crash at my new place. I'll make you omelets for breakfast.

(The only deal-breaker would be a lack of laundry room. I'm assuming there is one, but it's not listed. My dream house has laundry. Non-negotiable.)

What Dreams May Come

Dreaming permits each and every one of us to be quietly and safely insane every night of the week.

~William Dement

I couldn't sleep last night. Being caffeine-free, I couldn't blame the day's beverage consumption. I wasn't particularly preoccupied or stressed out. I was just restless. I was in bed by 11 and tossed and turned until well after 3.

Needless to say, my Sunday plans quickly adjusted to include a wonderful afternoon nap. (No sleep + no caffeine + 8 little preschoolers running around like superheroes = inability to function.)

There was a really strange moment last night as I lay awake in bed, half dreaming though still conscious. I thought someone was smiling at me. Someone very specific whom I haven't seen for quite some time and who, to my knowledge, has never before stood in my doorway and watched me sleep. (What's perfectly acceptable in dreamland would be quite creepy otherwise.) It was the weirdest, oddly reassuring and somewhat jarring feeling. It was so real and so fleeting. And the moment reality smacked me, I felt really alone. Which I was in the first place.

Brains are weird.

And I refuse to read into any meaning behind this midnight stalker.

I hate how I can rarely relive a good dream. I usually only remember fragments as if the short story was told to me second-hand. It's no longer real. It ceases to make sense. I once dreamed the most gorgeous original song. A song that will never be written, because it faded into nothingness the moment I awoke.

I wish I could revisit dreams just long enough to scribble down the hope and beauty my mind escapes to when my body forfeits consciousness. Or to capture the details into a crazy Charlie Kaufman-esque screenplay. Because I'm never that creative when I'm thinking.

Bad dreams stick with me all day. Even when I can't remember them, they tug at me. I'm shaken up, unsure of what's true, and hoping that I'm not really pregnant. Or orphaned. Or on someone's hit list.