If I had a baby right now, I'd name it Holiday.

A lot changes in a year. Circa this time in 2009, I would've killed to tote the label "intern" at something, anything. I would've been packing to go on a big Canadian adventure with a very different man than the one I see now. Graduate school and life beyond college would have been shimmering lights in the distance, figments of imagination, or maybe just figs. I was just getting into Dragon Age: Origins although I too-quickly suppressed indications that life of utter geekdom in my parents' basement would be fully satisfactory. I had high hopes for the newspaper, Overkill, a signed lease for an apartment with my best friends and some film project a cute, accident-prone guy kept talking about, something about the world turning into a porn.

I sit in bed. The sheets are adult blue plaid now and I don't know where my yummy eggs and coffee sheets are. Probably rolled up in the attic. I should be smarter, wiser or something like that but my GRE scores don't reflect any such thing so I'm taking them again, on a Wednesday this time. I'm gandering at paid internships in cities with taller buildings than the Corning Tower. I'm drooling at J-school programs that guarantee packaged futures for a price.

I'm looking forward to seeing Black Swan in theatres and I hope Anne Hathaway gets the part of Lois Lane in the upcoming Superman. I wish Joss Whedon would just do Wonder Woman, costs be damned, because if anyone else does it, it'll be like Catwoman. I no longer like how I look in purple lipstick. The two people I like the most at school, non-romantically, are suddenly engaged and there are rings and wedding magazines where there were just incense sticks and dinosaur piñatas. I've learned to clean my hair out of the shower drain.

I don't question that I still want to be a journalist, but I do wonder why. I've wondered at this motivation a lot lately, probably because graduate schools want to know too. I do love to write and I do want to help people. I don't mind a small salary. I do want to talk to new people every day. I'm good at some other things but they seem too self-serving. I do see ways to be creative and innovative and I see opportunities to lead. But as much as I want people to say, she's driven, career-oriented and well on her way, I also want people to say she's insane, unpredictable and we have no idea what she'll end up doing. Sometimes I want to reject a clear path and sometimes I have a craving for sushi.

Next Year Might Be A Hungry Year

I'm amidst applying to J-Schools. The application gods ask painfully broad questions like, how is journalism an integral part of U.S. democracy? I stumbled upon a screen writing application and one of the questions was like, OK --two people are in an elevator -- one's a Muslim, one's a Christian. The elevator breaks down. Write a two minute dialogue, GO! And I did that instead of working on my applications.

and we made bruschetta together on a sunday.

sign in, sign out

glasses slid down his nose, which was not crooked at all

as he wrote poetry instead of graduate school essays

blood mixed with jelly tears trickled down to the belly button area

nonsensical, because we don't need high fructose corn syrup

but we do need botanical gardens

It's thunderstormin'

Investigative Journalism

Video Production

Civil War Literature

Environmental Science

Advanced Workshop in Nonfiction

It's all quite interesting. Even the Civil War. Five classes plus the newspaper, Overkill, sorority, ACTV, Grounds for Change, a boyfriend and a kitty. Dyed my hair black for fall. I have some classmates who are getting married. I know one guy who has a baby. That's weird. My eyes hurt sometimes. My left eyelid has begun to droop (evident in this picture) and I think I might turn into a old woman with an asymmetrical face. That's okay, I think it makes my face more interesting, but I will certainly never be a news anchor now. They like their news anchors symmetrical on NBC. I really like the new journalism professor from the L.A. Times; she's inspiring. Maggie's teaching me to cook with olive oil. I eat cheesy puffs when I'm tired and drink coffee when I'm awake. Sometimes a cigarette. I feel fine, brother, I feel fine.

Daddy

As I grow into an excited adulthood full of responsibility and pressure, high hopes and potential, he grows out of his. As I speed up, he slows down. I always strove to match his fast pace. Now I feel like I zoomed past him too fast, and it feels like free falling.

My Second Poem from the Black Forest Writing Seminars

Girl Scout

She only came in December

which worked well for me

so I could spread her

on my winter toast

sprinkle her freckles on top

or drizzle her in my teacup

when my throat

caught an itch.

My little Thin Mint.

I was her best customer,

I bought one of every kind

except Tagalongs

because those were bad for my cholesterol

said my wife, but

she's in the freezer now

so, it doesn't matter.

Fourteen boxes and a flute of milk later,

although she played piccolo in band,

it became passé to market her wafers

or Dulce-de-Leche the grip of my hand.

I was her best customer

until seventh grade when she quit

to grind lamb at the Do-Si-Do dance.

Next winter my knuckles started to twitch.

At a waffle house in upstate New York

while declaring, I’ll have the potato skins

I realized she was the waitress

with the apricot bosom and shortbread hips.

She gave me a bear hug and

made a joke

about how all these years later

she was still taking my order.

katrina tulloch

Realize

Oh NO, in 2030, when people have themed parties like we have 60s, 70s, 80s themes-- they're going to do 2010s and everyone will dress up as hipsters and carry around Starbucks lattes and iPhones. AHH!

PS. I don't feel like telling Howard's story anymore. I'll just keep it in my back pocket for later, but is a good one.

Brink of Tears #1

I almost cried twice today, for two different reasons. I might be in need of a good cry, it's been a while, but today was just ridiculous.

This trip was almost perfect. I haven't lost anything. I made it to every class, saw magnificent places, met unbelievable people, and became brave. I engulfed myself in culture, food, beauty, and did things that would terrify a 16-year-old me. Until today, when I woke up too late, missed my train, missed my plane, and had to call Daddy for help like a fucking princess. I can't stand my idiocy sometimes.

In any case, I am currently typing this from a lovely little room in a quaint Frankfurt hotel. Life could be much, much worse. But desperately running around train stations today nearly pushed me over the edge. I didn't have seat reservations, so every time I would snag an empty seat, some German would come over and start waving their reservation in my face, speaking their schloshy foreign tongue. Of course they sound much angrier than they actually are, but after this happened six times, I ended up curled in a ball in the train corridor, atop my red polka dot luggage, while people buzzed back and forth, giving pitiful looks to The American Girl.

At the hotel though, I made a friend named Howard. His story is the feature presentation, which will come as soon as I can purchase more expensive internet. Excuz-moi.

My First Collage Poem

. . october . .

scuttling along the sidewalk

I first got my period

thinly disguised as watercress soup

hugely embarrassing

due to its high frequency

sollte de Spritze und Kontrollen verlangen

Mel was 45 years old

Father was looking directly into the camera

the high drama of my young life

It killed him.

It killed him

and I stirred the ice cubes with my finger

I think I’m anti-hammock

Send the product and the reasons

for the return

along with the original receipt

before the bird eggs hatch

in a salad of sticky freedom

I Am So Very Easily Inspired.

Here I am in a place that looks like this.

Eating food that looks like this and smells even better.

I can't help but be saturated with inspiration and imagination. The color, the cobblestones! The smells of buttery croissants wafting from the baikeries, unlike anything in the states! Tomorrow we must prepare an action scene from our second short story and a draft of our first poems. My work is imbued with sensory words, no doubt a result of Freiburg itself.

Tomorrow we are also reading nonsensical poems and I truly love these the most.

Lines like Jeffrey McDaniel's:
I was gonna defy gravity in her celestial body
but I had performance anxiety, so I wrote Baby

Jupiter in black Magic Marker in her forehead
and plummeted back into the bar.

...appeal to the illogical, childish, and stubborn poets like me. I can't stand long lines of structured, ornamental language. I can't slow down that much. I want short, sweet, punches of absurdity. Not even just playing on my five senses, but transcending any notions that I have of everyday life. I love this kind of art and I hope you'll like the poems I come up with soon.

Trick-or-Treating (A flash fiction by Katrina Tulloch)

Here's my first draft of a short story for the Black Forest Writing Seminars. It's brand new and I'll appreciate feedback!

Don’t pick one with a lot of mirrors. You’ll get caught. Mirrored ceilings? Don’t be stupid. Have some common sense. Pick a place with a bar that juts out, like this one. Or lots of tables and chairs. The busier, the better. And don’t think you’ll hit the jackpot on your first try. Even if you get the bag, people carry the most useless things. Especially Americans. Especially American women.
Like this one time, not kidding, it was a Coach bag (designer bags never disappoint) and a blonde teenager from Arkansas. She had every lip thing you could possibly buy. Lip gloss. Lip stick. Lip balm. Lip “venom,” I don’t even know what the fuck that is. Lip glaze. Lip liner. Then a map of Freiburg. These pink plastic sunglasses. And a separate case for her eyeglasses. Sometimes you’ll get a duo – those eyeglasses that go dark in the sunlight, so when you go inside, you look like a blind person. Dump them if they’re not your prescription. Pens, pencils, all chewed up on the ends. Those blotting rice papers by Neutrogena that suck the oil right out of the pores on your nose for €5.99. Old movie tickets. Coupons. Coins. A condom – no! Two condoms. I remember because one was chocolate-flavored and one was banana-flavored. I laughed when I thought she could have a banana split night if she wanted. Old pieces of Orbit gum melted into gooey pink blobs. Tweezers. Rarely literature, but sometimes. A phone full of useless contacts, remember to chuck the phone always! They can trace that shit; you don’t want to accidentally get the bag of some Italian heiress and have the mafia on your ass. But then there’s the wallet. And that’s why you want this job.

What was that about mirrored ceilings?
Her eyes were wide. Christ. This girl was a moron. The only reason I agreed to teach her my art is because she’s a struggling actress and I have a soft spot for struggling actress. Her biggest role was Fairy #5 in The Tempest. Mine was French Whore #2 in Les Miserables. Ensemble girls gotta stick together. Develop a knack for being a prop and that’s really all you need in this business.

Also-- you look like one of those neon frogs you’re not supposed to lick. Do you want to get caught? Don’t stand out. Wear beige. Wear gray. From now on, neutral colors. Now go sit down next to those kids that just walked in so you don’t stand out like a fucking jelly bean.

She nodded, grinned and hopped off the stool. As she wandered around the bar, I pulled one of the menus from a pile on the counter. Off she goes. They grow up so fast. I couldn’t believe she needed a lesson on clothing, it’s the most obvious thing in the world. But no, she insisted on looking like candy, down to the acid green nail polish. Like a little Junior Mint.
I ordered a coffee and a salad.

Junior approached the table next to an eccentric hipster couple. A huge Pakistani guy, about 6’8,” sat across from a scrawny Japanese girl talking in fast French. Young and distracted. An excellent choice. Junior Mint seated herself behind Yoshi. Damn, in full sight of Muhummed. A liability, perhaps, if she got caught. But his electric blue skinny jeans would slow him down if there was a chase. Kids these days wear the dumbest things.
I saw the prize. A bulging, denim shoulder bag covered in Domo and Hello Kitty iron-ons sat under Sushi’s chair. Not bad. I sipped my coffee.
One minute in, Junior made her first mistake. The leg of her chair blocked the purse’s strap. She knew it. She lifted her chair up far too loudly and Konichi-wa turned around. I froze. That’s when the waitress got in my face with the salad.
Praust tu noch atwas?
Nein.
Some more dressing?
Nein.
Okay, just let me know if you need anything. I’ll be right over there, she pointed.
Her nametag read “Felicity.”
Great, I nodded vigorously.
My view was restored. Finally. The couple was talking again. Wait. Where was my fork? Goddamn. I never forgot the utensils when I was a waitress. Not once. I was a damn good waitress. Until the end anyway, but everyone has to start somewhere. And this is a much more profitable career.
After a useless glare at Felicity’s back, I returned my gaze across the bar. Junior stiffly gazed out the window while trying to edge her chair closer and closer to the bag.
What the hell was she doing? Don’t just sit there and stare off into space. Order something! I tried to motion to her with my coffee. She didn’t notice. Oh my god, she’s actually going for it right now. She hasn’t been sitting for three minutes. This is ridiculous. I released the handle on the coffee cup. It shattered. Pakistan looked up at me. Junior jumped and shot a look my way. Felicity sighed.

Café Bathroom
OK. First thing’s first. You gotta calm down and wait. You’re in full view of Aladdin out there so don’t use your arms or hands at all. No bending over. Tying your shoe is a dead giveaway. It’s all in the feet. The strap is lying out there in the middle so sit on the edge of your chair and feel around with your heel. Keep your chair close to hers. Don’t get the strap stuck on the chair leg again either. Pay attention to the details. If you make eye contact with me, I can let you know when you’re close. Take your time or Harold and Kumar will start to notice you. Got it? And make it look like you’re waiting for someone -- order a cappuccino or something, you’re an actress for chrissakes. Now go.

This girl had a lot to learn. I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror. Stringy bangs stuck to my forehead. I had no reason to sweat, but steals are always nerve-wracking. The first time I took money out of the Applebees cash register was the sweatiest I had ever been.
I had it planned all night long, the day after we got robbed. Those guys got away with over €500. They were good too, swooping in glamorously in their plastic, dime store Sarah Palin masks. I was agog. It just made sense. They haven’t been caught since.
All the restaurant’s finances were messed up, so the timing was right. I won Waitress of the Month so they trusted me with closing up. Only a little bit at first, ten bucks here, twenty bucks there. I logged the register on my closing nights, so only on nights I didn’t work did they discover missing cash.
First Juan got fired. Then Alexander. Then Christina, which was a shame because I actually liked her. She snuck ice cream with me twice a week. But, I mean, girl’s gotta eat. I left the restaurant after a couple months and dyed my hair red.

The first time I stole a wallet was in Starbucks. I had an awful day, it was over 100 degrees out and I got two bills I couldn’t pay for in the mail that morning. Standing at the back of the line for a small green tea (the cheapest thing on the menu), a guy tried to charge through the line and knocked me almost clean off my feet.
Lo siento! An exchange student. He dashed out, his iced coffee sloshing everywhere.
A brown wallet had fallen out of his bag in the mad rush.
No one saw.
When I got to the counter, I ordered a Venti Cookies & Cream Frappuccino with whip and two of those jumbo corporate muffins. It was €9.39. His passport read Luis Barcia-Varno, 27, Cuba. He was loaded.
I washed my hands.
When I came back out, Junior’s chair was empty. The Domo Hello Kitty bag was gone too, but no one had noticed. They started laughing at something. Sashimi had a high-pitched laugh, the way anime characters do. Prince Ali was booming.

Strauss St.
Junior fidgeted by the yellow post box outside. The denim purse was positioned on the ground between her feet.
Did they see me? Are they coming?
No. You did good. Let’s go.
Like a kid on Halloween, Junior ripped open the bag.
What did you get? I felt like a mother.
Junior’s brown eyes sparkled as she peered down and pulled out a pink iPod.
I’ve always wanted one of these!

My Obsession on the Way to Freiburg, G

Germany in two days!!!

HERE is the map of Uni Freiburg's main campus, where I'll be taking writing workshops and staying in Germany (click).

Check out those departments! Institute of hydrology, Medieval archeology, Slavic languages and meteorology, all on just the main campus! I feel like my little bubble of Allegheny College has severely skewed my idea of what higher education can be.

I am so fucking excited.

Also, up there in Platz de Universitat III, there's a Cafe Senkrecht, which according to Google Translate means "Cafe Perpendicular." It probably actually translates to Southside Cafe or Down Cafe, but I am calling it Cafe Perpendicular and that's that.

Wheeee new country! Wheeeeee learning, exploring!

Cool things

Lightly salted chips. Having a job. Stealing company water bottles. Calling your girlfriend "Dude." Licking neon frogs. Helicopters.

Girl on the Radio

I did my first WARC show last Thursday. I don't think it was very good, but I want to do more. The WARC Office is a wonderful, wonderful place. I didn't have a key but a friendly staffer walked by and let me in with his key, rescuing me from my frettage around the campus center.

(Not to be confused with "frottage," which Colin just told me means "sexual touching.")

I did not know what to do. I sat on the WARC couch for 10 minutes, waiting for my partner, not wanting to touch anything, break anything, destroy the beauty around me. And it is beauty, such beauty in that office. All the color, the band stickers, old photographs, stolen McKinley's pepper shakers, etc, in a chaotic, lovely mess. It was everything the Overkill music issue should have been, right there on the WARC walls.

I had never been in there before.

After 15 minutes, I could no longer refrain from touching the candy-colored packages inside the CD bins. There was a boombox on the desk. It wouldn't hurt to play one disk. I judged CDs by their covers.

THE Brett Bacon was kind enough to eventually come by and show me how to start my show. I did a pretty piss poor job, considering I wasn't ready for the end of any song, and let a few seconds of dead air seep in between selections as I scrambled to play something new.

I don't know shit about music. I listened to and loved my parents' old stuff until 8th grade (Nat King Cole, The Platters, Roy Orbison...) when it became apparent that it wasn't cool to listen to such things in 2003. A rather nasty experience cut me off altogether when I tried playing Sinatra at my birthday party and the pretty girls went, ewww, wtf is that?, and immediately put on Green Day. I stopped liking music and just listened to whatever my friends did. Sad, dark years.

My own two hours on air and a collection of college student-approved music to play with is like cocaine and freedom.

I played She & Him, Radiohead, The Brunettes, The Mountain Goats, Overkill, and several other bands I had never heard before, but only because their album covers were groovy. A ridiculous medley of indie folk, metal, and doo wop.

More to come with WARC adventures, now that I have an idea of what I've gotten myself into [which is rare]. In the meantime, here is Guitar Update #2.

H+

In high school, a nickname I had for a brief time with a brief friend was K*Tron. The friend liked robots and I did too. That was it. It was cute. I've always liked robots.

In that vein, I've been thinking lately about artificial intelligence.

I imagine a cool 10-20 year span of lab experiments where the public only knows, somewhere, somehow, scientists made a living thing in a safe, white vacuum like an Apple, Inc. backdrop and this will assure us, once again, that we are the greatest species on the planet.

Then some random scientist will fall in love with the robot she's working on and people will get angry and Massachusetts will wed the first human and humanoid.

Cool words like "droid" or "bot" will suddenly take on negative connotations like "fag."

Cybersex won't be what it is today in 2010.

What if?

I've been scrounging Wikipedia pages about "Roboethics" and "Transhumanism."

Wiki-montage #1 (Transhumanism is an international intellectual and cultural movement supporting the use of science and technology to improve human mental andphysical characteristics and capacities. The movement regards aspects of the human condition, such asdisability, suffering, disease, aging, and involuntary death as unnecessary and undesirable. Transhumanists look to biotechnologies and otheremerging technologies for these purposes. Dangers, as well as benefits, are also of concern to the transhumanist movement.)

Think about a future that isn't tangible or realistic. Think in the absurd, where Starbucks cards and cupcake vs. macaron trends are only wisps of a vintage past.

What if I were a robot? A cyborg. An H+. What if humanity got to the point where we had bypassed robotics as an aid and took it on as a permanent booster to our species? What if humanoid energy could be charged and recharged at our discretion (the new coffee shop -- get your jolt here, literally!) Plastic surgery would be replaced with plastic reconfiguration (For when things start to sag!) with synthetic materials made to be soft, warm, and elastic. Who wouldn't mind coming home to that? What if we started manufacturing companions so no one would ever have to be lonely. Advertising for companion marketing would be through the roof, ROBOT COMPANIONS-- what a naughty idea! like the sexy sleek ads for Absolut vodka or cigarettes.

H+.

Wikimontage #2: The term "transhumanism" is symbolized by H+ or h+ and is often used as a synonym for "human enhancement".^[2] Although the first known use of the term dates from 1957, the contemporary meaning is a product of the 1980s when futurists in the United States began to organize what has since grown into the transhumanist movement. Transhumanist thinkers predict that human beings may eventually be able to transform themselves into beings with such greatly expanded abilities as to merit the label "posthuman".

Transhumanism has been described by one critic, Francis Fukuyama, as the world's most dangerous idea,^[4] while one proponent, Ronald Bailey, counters that it is the "movement that epitomizes the most daring, courageous, imaginative, and idealistic aspirations of humanity.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science_and_environment/10132762.stm

In other news, this album cover is terrifying.

Do I only care because I'm a wannabe journalist and would guiltily love the chance to be alive and writing when humanity is forced to grapple with the prospect of "drastic self-improvement" with science and machinery? There are a lot of things that interest me, but people top the list. People never get boring. BUT! If people try to make themselves bionic - into perfect, longer-living, predictable beings, I think it will go against our very nature. Watching us deal with that will be fascinating.

Chaos will ensue, ethics will be questioned, dangerous risks will be taken by corporate suits, and I'll have a shit ton to write about.

Things are going to change so much.

For instance, one day at work, Matt, one of the lovely videographers, told me about his son Max. Max is about three and is great at the Wii, says Matt.

When I was three, I was great at playing with blocks and digging holes and reading books about dinosaurs.

If the military pushes for increasingly robotic technology to save the lives of our troops (i.e. the Air Force robotically operating planes to keep manual pilots away from the line of fire, etc.), are video games going to become something other than "the stuff that rots your brain?"

Will it actually be a marketable skill to have high scores in FPS games as technology becomes more and more integrated into a vocation like the military?

I don't have answers to any of these questions. But I have a lot of questions. It's a somewhat troubling self-realization for wanting something as much as I fear it. But, much like the concept of a zombie apocalypse, it would really suck but there aren't many opportunities in life to kick that much ass than in a zombie apocalypse.

[in other news]

I also recently had a dream about a classic zombie apocalypse and Kristin Baldwin was the first to turn. I remember it being tragic and everyone said she should have never been the first, because she was so nice. When I eventually turned into a zombie, the nightmare suddenly turned into a fun, reckless dream. I slept in. There was sledding down cream and my teeth were weapons.

He stole my idea for COMRT 290 next semester, but I'm ready to forgive

I'm in love.

Xanaduchess

I moved into the apartment two days ago. Golly, it's weird to be this independent. I don't have towels yet so I've been running from the bathroom to my room after showers. I just returned from a grocery shopping spree at the Market House. They sell tofu and gummy bears! I love the little old ladies selling fresh strawberries, but the Meadville male gaze is just the worst. I don't mind it in NY, but it's awful here.

Happily, Xanadu is full of incense, guitars, and cheddar whales. Maggie and Colin are wonderful housemates and we have dinners followed by guitar jam sessions. The mirrors and windows in my room make me feel like I have a high-rise apartment in Boston. Pictures to come. Kitty to come.

I'm not grounded.

This was a blog post from late May that I never published. I started it, didn't like it, and had a bad attitude for the rest of that day. Today I rediscovered it in my long list of drafts. I like it now. I am so fickle, so fluid, so quick to change my style or mood or wants or dreams at any given moment, which is part of why I love writing -- nothing else permanently captures my sudden sense of self at any given time.

"I wake up and get out of bed five hours after I wanted to, because I was too engrossed in a dream about re-acquaintance with an old friend from Holy Cross Grammar School but having to fill the pothole in front of her gigantic house. Then my dream ricocheted to another scene, an exotic pet store that looked and smelled exactly like a Filipino fish market, but with baby plesiosaurs and placentas, and I was shopping with a current friend who wanted to buy everything even though they were phasing out the sale of plesiosaurs because they were too slimy.

Meanwhile, in real life, I peeled myself from the forty different covers I have on my bed, which I nightly wrap myself in like a corndog, stumble downstairs and pour myself too-big of a bowl of Oats and Honey, which I am currently half-way finished eating, but it is too soggy to enjoy anymore and the sad little flakes are droopy like my mood.

Professor Nesset said once that he writes best in the morning. This has been an attempt and I say, fuggit. I have no motivation. The only good thing about this day so far has been getting a text message from Sam, and all it says is 'Falafel!!'"

Sometimes I worry I don't have a grounded sense of self. Maybe knowing that is the only grounded, steadfast thing about me. I have a memory of doing yoga in Montgomery Hall during Fall semester of last year. It was just me and Maggie with Jacquelyn Shannon instructing us. At one point, we were all laying on the ground, listening to yoga music, eyes closed, arms out but legs scrunched close to our butts.

"Breathe in, breathe out," Jacqueline said. "Don't think about anything, just breathe and exist."

We did this for a while. Then she said:

"Think about where your palms are. If you want to feel grounded and closer to the Earth, face them down. If you want to be open to the air and space, face them up."

She said something else about heavenly energies that I don't remember but I immediately faced mine up. It was no question. Then I cheated and opened my eyes to look around at Maggie and Jacquelyn. They both had their palms faced down. I closed my eyes and suddenly felt a bit lonely.

Books

I always actively accept book recommendations. This summer, I have sadly only read one so far. The downside to the internship is very little free time, but I did pick up pretty little dirty and managed to spend a weekend enjoying it. It was quite artful and the characters were so realistically pompous and full of themselves that I spend two days after finishing the book acting pompous and full of myself because I felt so in their heads. Not a good thing, but certainly an impressive trick by Amanda Boyden.

A few excerpts I especially liked-

"You have been let into the club early, hours before others, by the boy who jizzed straight into your sinuses.."

"'Rose Bitch and me are just friends. Isn't that what we're tellin' the rich girls, honey?' He spoke into her magenta scalp and squeezed his arm again. I watched his bicep pop up like a bun."

"Celeste often sat at the Formica kitchen table with the scale, measuring and weighing and packaging. She had a knack for folding what became her signature glossy-magazine envelopes that she cut carefully from high-end publications, making sure some artistic scene appeared properly centered on the smooth side. Pretending occasionally to move single grain after single grain from one pile to another, she would call out to Rumpelstiltskin to come put an end to her toiling."

How Overkill! I mean, if Overkill ever dealt cocaine.

Right now, I am happily devouring the late Stieg Larsson's The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo as well as Muriel Barbery's The Elegance of the Hedgehog, per Katie Locke's recommendation. Both are wonderful so far; Stieg is unexpectedly sexy and Barbery teaches me ten brilliant new words every chapter.

I can't believe Girl is already a Swedish film and is going to be a Hollywood film. I'm really excited to see both and hope they do justice, unlike The DaVinci Code. Not that I loved The DaVinci Code, but you know. All of this is quite embarrassing because I'm following Rule #127 of Stuff White People Like to a fucking T.

I really ought to read more biographies, like this one that I wanted so much that I took a picture to remind myself to buy it when I finally have an income:

GUITAR.

I went to the music store fully bent on getting myself a ukulele [Julia Nunes inspires me, not because they’re trendy and cute]. But they only had crappy $40 ones with kitschy frogs on them [more on that in the video below].

So I started looking at the amateur guitars, all of which started at $90...rough. The friendly salesboys (who all seemed to have mastered the musician hairflip) kept pushing the Union Jack electric guitar that I admittedly drooled over when I first walked in the store BUT I stuck firmly to my price range. One of them remembered a mini guitar (travel guitar? guitarlet?) that was brought in just today, because some dude died and it got sent to their store [SCORE!]. It was used and therefore ON SALE!

I’ll take it, I said, without having even seen it.

Don’t you want to play it first?, asked a salesboy.

Oh, I don’t play guitar...

He raised one eyebrow.

And my knowledge of guitars is embarrassing at best, but I want to start, I said, with my most winning smile.

So he offered me a free lesson next Sunday at 1:00 and I got two free picks out of it, a blue one and a red one.

Superman colors, I said.

He smiled widely and offered a mini lesson right then and there.

Okay, why not?

What’s your name?

Katrina, what’s yours?

Sam.

Of course.

They have extremely creepy backrooms for lessons. As soon as he took a good look at my hands, he cleared his throat.

Uh, first lesson. You gotta cut your nails.

I tried to pluck some strings to no avail.

Yeah, I know. They’re nasty.

This’ll be a little harder than I thought, he said.

I could bite them off. Give me two minutes.

And so I did, which didn’t gross him out as much as it should have. I learned an A chord and he promised to teach me a basic version of a Vampire Weekend song on Sunday! Today I taught myself part of Stand by Me, part of Little Boxes (from Weeds), and part of La Bamba. I also am now acutely aware that I have quite a fat ring fingerpad, which makes the C chord unbearable. Feel free to laugh at my struggles below.

Inherent

"No, listen mom, I'll never be an engineer because I've never cared to take apart a toaster just to see how it works. It was always more like, let's paint this toaster electric blue and see if anyone likes it enough to buy."

Kick your knees up, step in time.

The intern life? I am learning oh so much, but my progress feels very -two steps forward, one step back,- which has instilled quite a fear in me of screwing up something big. Suddenly all my work is REAL!, LIVE!, and ON AIR! & if I don't keep up, I'll get dizzily left in the dust [without recommendations]. Yikes! A sampling of my stepping pattern... (like how the bees dance, Ms. Frizzle says that's a whole science.)

1. Learn rotational sphere animation on the Avid.

2. Learn rotational pancake animation on the Avid.

3. Am given a simple project of cuts and cross-dissolves and manage to crash the Avid.

4. Stay late into the night doing graphics for Senate session.

5. Rewarded with egg rolls from staff and bond over after-hours Chinese takeout.

6. Exit wrong doors and set off alarms on entire West side of Legislative Building.

7. Am given golden opportunity to do shoots for press conferences.

8. Successfully shoot first press conference.

9. Accidentally unplug camera with my foot during second press conference, in the middle of a sensitive speech about autistic children.

10. Attend the Senate-sponsored Dairy Day, collect ice cream, yogurts, and cheeses.

11. Spend day happily wheeling camera equipment to and from conference rooms, munching on treats.

12. Realize at end of day that the cheese I put in my pocket in the morning has melted into my good business pants.

13. Learn to set up all media equipment for on-the-fly press conferences.

14. Cleverly purchase blazers with big pockets to hold important microphones and cables for whipping out at the last minute.

15. Forget important microphones and cables in pockets and accidentally steal them. Twice.

Somehow, they're still nice to me.

Today, one guy even brought in a box of Cheez-its!

Learnin's good, but when it gets tough, I indulge my sweet, simple childhood dream to be a dancing chimney sweeper. Or in the glad company of one.