MySpace: You're Everywhere That I'm Not

I did not want a MySpace account. Honestly. I didn't. So why do I have one now? Good fucking question.

In fact, I have no intention of maintaining my MySpace account beyond occasionally looking at it so I can listen to "Everywhere That I'm Not."

So why am I even talking about this? The other day I had an ensemble lesson with Greg and Loren. They make me feel a hundred years old, but it's because they're 17 and adorable, and I'm twice their age and probably never was as cool as they are. Or maybe they're not that cool. I don't know what I'm trying to say. Was I that young in high school? Jesus. During our pizza time, it came up that these two (or it might just be one of them... now I've forgotten) have MySpace pages, and I was curious what 17-year olds put on their MySpace pages, and it turns out to be not that different than what 35-year olds put on their MySpace pages: Me-centric. Hey! I can do that! Seriously? I may have perfected that.

So here I am, futzing around with MySpace (and seriously, my page could not be any more ugly if I fucking tried. It was hard enough making this page look exactly how I wanted it to look [what, you thought all this was accidental?]... I'm not wasting time [my precious, precious time] messing around with MySpace. Maybe when Patrick gets home I'll ask him to play around with it. He's good at that stuff. I could CARE LESS), and I'm looking at that whole "Irene has 0 friends" business, thinking, wow, what a fucking loser I am!

Anyway, this blog has plenty of readers, which can be proven. And so... Oh, wait a minute. There's no conclusion.

...

Today I was supposed to spend the day doing laundry, straightening up the house and getting ready for my trip, which I keep talking about, but instead, I have spent the day doing everything but those things. I slept in until about 9:30, and then I got up and took a quick shower so I could go back for a checkup at the chiropractor. I'm just fucked up, people, there's no getting around it. I am creaky and tight and not relaxed at all. He had to twist me around and lean on me and like I've said before, listening to my body's pops and creaks is not my favorite thing in the world to do. When he was done, he goes, well, you might want to come back in again on Wednesday; I kind of panicked, because (as I've already mentioned, no?) I'm going to be out of town until the 15th. I asked if that is going to be a problem? and he goes, "Well, not too much SITTING or STANDING."

I'm getting on a train for SIXTEEN FUCKING HOURS tomorrow; I don't think there's much walking around I can do! Oh, well. I'm screwed.

After that I went to Borders to stock up on magazines (I'm pretty set as far as books goes: Paul loaned me "King Dork," which I'm sort of enjoying (maybe not as much as he anticipated?), and I have some other novels I haven't read yet and some I have (I always travel with re-reads)... I'm good, book-wise) - I bought Interview, Mojo, Martha Stewart Living, the New Yorker, the Atlantic Monthly (fucking "fiction" issue... I hate the fiction issue), Real Simple...

Now instead of getting up and doing what I need to do, I'm sitting here wasting time until it's time to head back down to Santa Monica for rehearsal with City Garage.

And I'm wondering if I should bring the laptop with me to Albuquerque... Did I post last year from the convention? Just one more fucking thing to carry around with me...