listen, i don't want to scare you or anything, but i was inside of a tree today.

Aveda's tea is amazing and I hate tea.

2:52 A.M. is an entirely improper time to have not fallen asleep yet on a day which you know requires you to stay home and awake all day, or the UPS men will keep your new shoes forever and ever.

I Desperately Wish I Knew Joey Comeau

Richard Siken is Kind of Amazing

as evidenced

Pretty Things

Today At Work I Made A Friend On The Phone!

I work at a very environmentally conscious pizza place. This means that I get to be splashed with tomato sauce while taking out the compost, recycle properly or be despised to an unimaginable extreme by the Tiny Boss, and trip over bikes at least once daily. It also means that although I am but a lowly dishwasher, I am to, in due time, learn all positions equally. This means that I answer the phone and take delivery orders. I am terrified of using phones for non-typing means. I am terrified of strangers whose eyes I cannot see. I am terrified of non-Macintosh operating systems. Answering the phones and I do not remotely go together. Every time I pick it up I open with "__________-Pizzeria-this-is-Hannah-I-am-not-very-good-at-this-yet-but-we-will-figure-it-out-how-can-I-help-you?" Today I picked up the phone for the sixth time, and my distant technological companion replied, "Hey Hannah, it's Bryan, what's up? Bryan, with a Y." "Well pizza. And the stratosphere. And the atmosphere." I am terrible at small talk. "Do you think there's life on other planets?" he asked. "I think we're pretty goddamn pretentious as a species to imagine our selves as the highest possible form of life. And they found ice on Mars." "Ice," he said, "We are defined by ice. Do you have cannoli?" "I don't even honestly know what cannoli is," I informed him, "but I can check. Have you ordered with us before?" "Yes," he said, "last week". "I'm going to need your name," I told him. "Oh man," he sighed, "you forgot already? Bryan. Bryan with a Y." I typed Bryan with a Y into the customer database and drew a blank. "There are no Bryan with a Y's," I regretfully informed him, "they probably spelled it wrong." "Yeah," he said, "last time I ordered they guy didn't have a pen." I typed "Brian" into the system, knowing that there was absolutely no reason why anyone would require a pen for the entirely electronic task at hand. I read the various Brians aloud. None matched. I searched again with his last name, and once more with his street address. Bryan with a Y was not in the database. "Try Bryan again!" he commanded. "Oh, there you are," I said. "I told you so!" he shouted, gleeful. "Just kidding," I said. "Fuck you!" Bryan with a Y declared. "HANNAH ANSWER THE PHONES!" screeched the Tiny Boss. "I AM ON THE PHONE," I replied, muttering, "please do not yell at me pygmy man." "Hey, hey," Bryan replied, "I'm not yelling at you. And who the fuck says pygmy?" "I wasn't talking to you. And who the fuck eats cannoli?" He thusly launched into a tirade about the greatness of cannoli and his previous Manhattan addiction, interrupted only by my relentless "SO DO YOU WANT ME TO PUT YOU IN THE SYSTEM YET"-ing. Finally he shut up, only to ask, "What's that awful noise?" "That," I informed him, "is the sound of a metal sponge attacking bacon grease on a metal pan." "You're washing a pan? Why are you washing a pan?" "I am the dishwash-" "-Is now not a good time?" He cut in, "I'll call you back!" The dial tone beeped, and I was left to shake my head in disbelief and replace the phone in its cradle. The phone rang, and I took a perfectly normal order -- one I could have done ten times over in the time I had spent arguing. I stuck my bacon pan in the dishwasher and listened to its deafening waves. "HANNAH ANSWER THE PHONES!" Tiny Boss screeched once more. Stepping away from the dishwasher I heard the ringing as my brain projected Say Anything over it. "__________-Pizzeria-this-is-Hannah-I-am-not-very-good-at-this-yet-but-we-will-figure-it-out-how-can-I-help-you?" "I figured it out!" the voice on the other end proclaimed. "I'm calling from a North Carolina number! That's why I'm not in the database!" "Bryan with a Y," I said, "I missed you terribly. Your phone number doesn't matter. Please can I just enter you again and get it over with?" "This is why I hung up the last three times I called," He said, "I wanted your tact." "Great," I said. "Give me your address." I heaved a sigh of relief as he finally gave in, supplying all necessary information (though he spelled every single word out with animals; "M as in mongoose, A as in albino horse, R as in red rabbits, K as in Kangaroo, E as in elephant, T as in turkey!") and put his order through. "I am hanging up now," I told him, "I'm sure we'll speak again soon enough." "Are you sure you've never had cann-" I pushed down the switchhook. (Yeah that thing actually has a name, weird, I know.) An hour and eight phone conversations later the ringing was him again. "Cannoli is delicious," he opened, "you west-coasters don't know what you're missing." "Did you enjoy your pizza?" I asked. "Actually," he said, "not that I don't enjoy your company, but that's why I'm calling. My pizza appears to be a half hour late." "I'll go ask," I told him, putting down the phone. In the kitchen I saw the Tiny Boss and asked if Bryan's pizza had been forgotten. "IT IS IN THE SADDLE!" he told me, eyes bulging, a man whose every sentence requires extremism in capitalization. "Okay," I said, assuming that either the pizza was in the oven, on its way, or that Tiny Boss hadn't taken his pills. Picking up the phone I informed Bryan, "IT IS IN THE SADDLE!" "Uh," he paused, "I don't know what that means." "Me neither," I told him, "but we will soon find out!" Switchhook. Ten minutes passed and he was back, "My pizza is cold." "I'm sorry," I told him, "I will transfer you to someone more important than me." "Someone you hate!" he suggested jubilantly. "You've got it," I said, pressing hold and retrieving Tiny Boss. "There's a call for you on line four." Twenty minutes later and "HANNAH GET THE PHONE" burst through the air again. Greeting the inevitably obvious caller, I was interrupted at "Hannah" with "I tried to be a scary-ass motherfucker! I think it worked! I'm getting a free pizza!" "Bryan," I asked, "do you really think calling a pizza place this many times is normal?" "Nope!" he replied cheerfully, "You missed me!" "I'm going to take the compost out now," I said, hanging up. I hate when total strangers figure me out completely. Also I am probably the worst phone-employee ever. But I am a damned good dishwasher.

And I Am Going To Post The Only Thing I Wrote And Liked Before!

To Whomever Poured Half A Can Of Coke Into My Bike Helmet This Afternoon


Uh, why?

Maybe you were almost done with it and then decided you didn't want any more. School and proper garbage receptacles were about ten feet away. To carry your happy little can of Santa Coke that far would to you, feel like the equivalent of walking barefoot across the Sahara Desert. Couldn't you have just nicely poured it onto the grass, and left the can there? I would have picked it up for you. Hell, I would even have recycled it.

Maybe you didn't want to be a litterbug, and you thought sticking it in my helmet would be a better choice. My bike has a basket for a reason, you know. It is there so that you can dispose of any liquid or solid items you may not want, or you may just want to annoy me with. This is a much kinder idea because, unlike my helmet, I do not have to put my basket on my head in order to go home without it costing me two hundred dollars (hooray for the Coronado Police Department, and their choice to take care of the most threatening lawbreakers).

Maybe you hate me and want me to have Coke in my hair. First of all, that is one strange choice of revenge. Secondly, you suck. I hate all sorts of people but do I ever anonymously attempt to put sticky liquid in their hair? No. That is because it sucks.

Maybe you are just really strongly opposed to bike helmets. I am too. I recognize that for fourteen minutes every day, I look like an idiot. I am willing to accept this rather than face yet another encounter with Coronado's best cat killers. They are mean and angry and bored and if they catch me without a helmet on, I will be fined hundreds of dollars. I possess a grand total of eleven dollars at this point in time. I'm sorry if it bothers you, but I am going to keep doing so until I have a job or large inheritance. Regardless, it is none of your business.

None of these reasons make enough sense for your decision to be one of any validity, which leaves me with the belief that I do not understand you. Maybe no one understands you and you cut yourself. Maybe you are just the epitome of teenagerness. I don't care.

All I am asking is that you dump your shit on a part of my bike that does not need to be affixed to my head. Pretty please.


PS. Fuck you. I get to wash my stupid fucking helmet now.

Once Upon A Time

I had a lovely blog with my best friend. We didn't really tell anyone about it because it was ours and we aren't really that exciting, except to us. And then my mother learned our secret internet codeword, and googled us, and found it, and started reading it every day, even though it was filled with secrets. Probably because it was filled with secrets. Because that is what mothers do. When they are not looking through the things you hide at the back of your bookcases, and smelling your laundry for smoke. So we are starting over, and we are not using the H word. At all. Ever.