When I applied for college, I applied only to the UW, but I remember being assaulted by a constant barrage of paperwork. There was the initial application form to fill out, along with an essay and a list of academic achievements, followed by an acceptance form where one had to declare that I would be in the Arts and Sciences College rather than the College of Engineering, etc. On the same form, I also had to disclose unnecessary information for statistical purposes. Did the UW really need to know what my sexual orientation and race were? Say I hadn’t fit neatly into the straight/white American ideal and had been a lesbian Native American/Hispanic (Mexican, Puerto Rican, Cuban)/African American/Other. As a high school student, I know I wouldn’t have been comfortable checking off all of those boxes and breaking down the percentage of my “racial heritage”. In reality, I wasn’t even comfortable checking off that I was 100% white; it made me feel guilty for my race. In what I now realize to be a failed attempt at retaliation, I chose the “Other” box and wrote “Euro-Mutt WASP”.

That barrage decreased slightly after I was accepted to the UW and had registered for classes. But once January shuffled around, the paperwork returned in the name of taxes and the FAFSA. As a poor student, taxes aren’t so bad- unless you have the unfortunate circumstances to find yourself in the complicated realm of the 1099-R and how the hell you’re supposed claim that thing. But then, that’s what Turbo Tax (and a high speed internet connection to “download” it) is for. A synopsis of the two years following my freshmen year would read: taxes, the FAFSA, correction to the FAFSA, an application into the English department, an application into the Comparative Literature department, more taxes, another FAFSA, another correction to the FAFSA, and another application into the Comparative Literature department because the Registrar lost the first one. All in all, things weren�t so bad after I had made it into the UW.

But then this year happened and I suddenly found myself knee-deep in paperwork. So far there has been/will be/might be if I’m not too lazy: an application for “graduating senior priority”, a graduation application, an internship application, an internship contract for credit, taxes, the FAFSA, a study abroad application, a third application into the Comparative Literature department because the Registrar lost my first and second one, a passport application, and an application for a student visa. And I haven’t even strayed into the world of the GRE and graduate admissions yet!

So this is what my life has come down to: a mass of paperwork and forms and filling out personal information in all capitals with blue or black ink in the white areas only.

I usually don’t get much in the way of spam on either of my personal e-mail addresses. The spam that I do get at work consists solely of ads for penis enlargement, horny college freshmen or anything Jewish related. The Jewish stuff is okay- being as I work for a bunch of Jews and I have yet to see anything along the lines of “h0t & h0rnie Jewish Mamas l00kin%g for @ G00d Time!”- but the other stuff is annoying as it’s clear the same two people (or perhaps it’s just one loser who runs two outfits) have nothing better to do than send 100 identical copies of the same e-mail with different headers each day (this is not an exaggeration!).

So, you can imagine my amusement when Tyler happened to show me the below spam for Soma. Is this real? Has Soma really stepped off the pages of Huxley’s book and into our everyday lives? Is this a government conspiracy?

A simple Google search has proven that there are a couple of spammy looking drugstore websites that do, in fact, sell a muscle relaxant known as Soma. As for whether this is a Bush Administration conspiracy– well, I’ll let you be the judge…

Update 10/11/2004: if you hotlink this image, you will be punished.

What a beautiful spring-like day it was in Seattle. I enjoyed a nice saunter to the HUB on Campus to grab a cup hearty soup before wandering around aimlessly and taking pictures. I didn’t end up taking too many pictures during my two-hour break, but I did enjoy the warm weather. I didn’t even have to wear a coat!

Apparently the pigeons were enjoying the weather as well. These two were certainly enthusiastic about a wire belonging to Flowers sign. Their fight over the wire lasted at least ten minutes before a third pigeon joined in. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to witness the rest of the fight and who the victor (if any) was since the bus rolled up just as the third pigeon decided that delicious looking wire was worth braving two of it’s fellow vermin.

Ever since I read Middlesex, I’ve found crocuses to be quite sexual. Yeah, I know; those crocuses are always so proud and erect, how can you not naturally draw a connection between them and sex? But I honestly never did make that connection before. But now I can’t even briefly think about them without sexual connotations. The funny thing is that it took me awhile before I realized the reoccurring motif of the crocus in Middlesex. Sure, the first time the motif appeared, I thought, “Wow, that’s a cool way to describe that.” And the connection Eugenides draws between crocuses and sex makes perfect sense: crocuses are the first flowers of spring, spring is deeply associated with mating and thus sex, and flowers are often deeply associated with sex. Thus, it’s easy to connect the dots to create a line that reads “crocuses and sex are connected.” However, Eugenides’ motif was so subtle and matter-of-factly placed that it carved a deep impression in the dark corners of my mind before I noticed it. Now I can’t get the blasted correlation out of my head.

I suppose it’s a true testament to Jeffrey Eugenides’ skill as a writer since his words made more of an impression upon me than Georgia O’Keeffe and her vagina flowers.* I’m not saying O’Keeffe is a horrible artist, since what she created was quite revolutionary for her time. However, the words of Eugenides stand out more in my mind than the constant barrage of O’Keeffe’s paintings I’ve encountered over the years. I find this quite interesting as most people would agree that images from paintings are more likely to stand out in one’s mind than images from books. And yes, I am quite partial to books and literature, but I often find that photographs and paintings can evoke powerful feelings byway of concrete imagery where books cannot. Though Eugenides certainly has done well to prove this isn’t always the case since I can’t get those damn crocuses and their sexual connotations out of my mind.

*It’s good to note here that there is a controversy over this topic, and that I don’t read her paintings as sexual repression like most critics who lean towards the sexual interpretation of her works.

Dear “Rattanack”:

I hope you enjoyed the embarrassment that ensued once members of your bulletin board saw the naughty picture courtesy of my boyfriend’s porno collection. Because you either lack any ethical convictions or are too dumb to realize the consequence of your actions, let me explain something to you:

I have made a selection of my photographs and words available on the internet for the enjoyment of others. However, this does not mean that said “others” can steal what I’ve made available. I take it personally when someone takes my photos or words and does not credit me as the author since this is a direct violation of my rights as the sole creator of those works. In the future, when you decide to directly link images (or steal them) make sure you note the origin of what you linked/stole out of common decency toward your fellow human being(s).

Furthermore, I’d like to remind you that I am also a student on at the University of Washington. Do you really desire to make enemies with someone who may share your classes and could potentially make you’re life a living hell quite easily? I didn’t think so. I don’t give a rat’s ass what your excuses and validations are for what you did, but I do want you to know that it was wrong and you offended me.

Dear Mr. Williams:

Ever since I first heard your poem, I was always struck with how un-useful your dependable wheelbarrow was. Although your poem isn’t very long and it’s rather hard to tell exactly what image you had in your mind, due to the stark contrast of the red against the white chickens, I’ve come to the conclusion that your wheelbarrow has an untarnished coat of paint. If you had ever chanced upon an encounter with a wheelbarrow that’s been used, you would know that the brilliant red of newness quickly dims to a more muted and earth-tone red.

Because of your oversight, I took the liberty of rewriting your poem so it conforms to my standards. I hope you’re not offended. If you are, however, please roll over in your grave three times and hit your head against the coffin wall three times more.

The Rusted Wheelbarrow

A Response and Parody by Mindy Messenger

nothing depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

rusted from rain

water

beside the black

roadside

It seems that everyone knows a crazy old cat lady. For me, there was a scary woman in the north university district (or, as I named it, “the university ghetto”) that always sat with my former landlord/neighbor on his overflowing porch of rusting and rotting junk. They would remain unmoving on the porch, even in the rain or during the winter, where they would watch the news on a blue and white 13″ TV late into the night. Because both she and my landlord pissed me off, and because she seemed to always be lurking outside my living room window, she earned the name “My Landlord’s Ho.”

My Landlord’s Ho was a reputed crazy old cat lady. She never used the term herself, but she had admitted to owning over ten cats (the number might have even been closer to twenty). In a fit of rage over the fact that she hadn’t taken proper care of my landlord’s cat while he was away, my landlord once disclosed to Tyler that his ho kept her cats separated into different rooms- some even in “compartments”. Since this is second-hand knowledge, I’m not sure what he meant by “compartments”, but I always had the image of cats stuffed in those large plastic Tupperware containers. Anyway, My Landlord’s Ho had a couple of living room cats, a couple of bedroom cats and a couple of bathroom cats, and I assume the most annoying were stored away in under-the-bed boxes. She separated her cats because she owned so many that they often fought with one another.

To this day, I conjure up images of what it was like before My Landlord’s Ho started keeping the cats locked up in different rooms and compartments. There must have been one time where there was a huge living room brawl where all ten+ cats screeched and hissed at one another as they flew to the center of the room in a giant orgy of claws and teeth. Fibers of upholstery and fur must have clouded the air in an impenetrable dust, while the weaker cats were tossed against walls and the floors, kicking up the smell of sour cat piss forever soaked into the rotting floor and carpet.

It’s images like this that make me wish there were more crazy old dog ladies in this world. But you never hear stories about them, only stories about people like My Landlord’s Ho. I think this world might be a better place if there were more crazy old dog ladies. I doubt it’s that hard to become a crazy old dog lady; there certainly are dogs smaller than cats these days (my dog being one of them). Besides, at least you can house train dogs and don’t need to live in a house full of stench-filled litter boxes. All you need to do is fence in your yard and install a doggy door and you’re good to go. Of course, there are minor setbacks- like having dogs that dig and burglars that can squeeze through a dog door. But I’m being hypothetical here. Even with the consideration of what troubles you’d have when owning over ten dogs, at least you won’t have furniture and door jambs that have been shredded to bits.

When I grow up, maybe I’ll do a great service for this country and become a crazy old dog lady. I’ll own a house and surround my decent-sized yard with a six foot fence. Then I’ll spend my solitary days relaxing on my porch in a rocking chair and idly throwing a dirt and saliva covered ball to one end of my property. The thought of sitting in the sun with a drinking glass full of vodka and watching ten frantic dogs run over each other in pursuit of a ball is rather appealing.

Replace the dogs with children and you have the typical backwoods Mormon family I grew up near. Maybe that’s why the idea is so appealing- it’s like the frantic sibling-filled days I envied my Mormon schoolmates for. Of course, I have no intention giving birth to that many kids, so dogs seem like a fitting substitute. And on the rare days that I feel my life is meaningless and I’m crazy for owning so many dogs, I can just dress them up in some random doggie outfits and pretend that I’m a Mormon with a house full of children.

Although I think it’s a good thing to observe the accomplishments of Mr. MLK the Junior, all I did this weekend was stay inside and watch random anime that Tyler scavenged with our Ethernet access. Unless you consider watching cartoons made by another culture a worthy way of observing the holiday, it seems rather pointless for me to have had the day off.

Not that I’m complaining about my freebie day- I love having a day off from both classes and work. However, I’m still perplexed about the purpose of having classes cancelled when at least 95% of the UW students spent the holiday skiing or doing other selfish and menial things without a thought to the meaning this day is supposed to have. I certainly didn’t spend a second thinking about Martin Luther King Jr. or racial equality today. It wasn’t until I started to write about something else that this idea popped into my head, and even these words were written with less than an hour to spare before the clock struck midnight.

Having this day to serve as a reminder is one thing, but having the day off for observance is yet another. To be blunt, MLK Jr. Day has no meaning or importance to us white folk- the people who need to understand the meaning of this holiday most. It’s like Christmas without the presents; we get the day off for our own selfish desires to be fulfilled.

My newest obsession is “One Piece”. If you don’t like cartoons, then you won’t be able to understand. I, however, have always had a soft spot in my heart for cartoons (and pirates!). It’s a double whammy on my brain- not only do I get a healthy dose of colorful art, but I also get imaginative story lines that movies tend to shy away from due limitations of the human body (such as our natural inability to stretch limbs to insane distances). And with over 100 episodes (all about pirates!), it gives me a good reason to procrastinate. Oh, and did I mention pirates?

Although “One Piece” is not released in the US, you can download fansubs from here. Since I’m kind of lazy right now and don’t feel like writing a review, visit this site to learn more about the series.

My life isn’t a particularly interesting one. I go to school in the morning, work at a Jewish Community center for a couple of hours afterwards, catch the bus home and then lay around and do nothing during the time that I should be doing homework. Sometimes my dog acts like she had a whiff of catnip so I sit on the floor and play with her. But most of the time, I don�t go anywhere or experience anything worthy of being in a movie.

Despite what I feel to be a typical life, I find inspiring moments that I want to write about every day. Most days there’s at least one image in my mind that I replay over and over again, wishing nothing more than to write about. On particularly inspiring days- days that I woke up happy, refreshed and stress-free- I have many images in my head that I want to write.

Lately, those images have stayed in my head, unable to flow through my blood, through my fingers and into words. This makes me more unhappy than I’ve been recently. I have homework I don’t like (German always does that to me), a professor that makes people in my class cry, and the fall weather has depressed me ever since my mother died three years ago. But worst of all, I lack the confidence to do what I love best. I lack the confidence to write.

Perhaps it has something to do with the creative writing class I’m in. Perhaps it has something to do with depression. Perhaps it’s because I’m too sensitive to my style and story ideas, realizing that I’m nothing compared to the masters of fiction. Perhaps it’s a million different reasons all rolled together with seaweed and rice. I really don’t know what my problem is, but it’s frustrating.

I told myself that I would write something today. It didn’t matter what it was, but it had to be something. And here it is. My essay on why I can’t write. It’s a topic that many people talk about, especially in blogs. It’s also a topic that has been examined too many times. But after having written this, I can see why. It gets one to write and it gets them to think about why they haven’t been able to write. My next step is to write something more creative than an essay. After that, I want to write something every day. This is a constant struggle with me, which is why I started this blog. At first it worked, but that’s because I had extra time on my hands. Given my habit of procrastination and my current state of homework, this won’t be easy.