Saturday, May 10, 2003
and no, you can't join me

three facts need to be examined:

1. i'm still at work, and probably will be for another 30 minutes.
2. this week woke up on monday and decided to kill me. i survived.
3. tonight's my first night alone in the apartment.

as a result of these three things, this is the plan for tonight:

go home. strip. run bathtub bath. select calming music [perhaps dave brubeck album, perhaps mingus, perhaps bossanova]. pop open bottle of bubbly chilled prosecco. pour in glass. walk to bathroom. turn off lights. light one candle. add girly bath ingredients to piping hot water. slide in. take sip of bubbly drink. slide in further. take one long deep breath. light cigarette. take deep drag. sip bubbly.


love, krissa .... 2:55 AM ... link!

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baby did a bad, bad thing.

i'm a good person. seriously. just sometimes, my competitive edge overwhelms me.

it was some winter evening, probably a weeknight, back at
sarah lawrence, senior year. seastreet and i had settled in my living room for a round of scrabble. we were in the middle of a grueling 4,000 point tournament. he'd been holding the lead by about fifty points, for weeks now. i was doing everything i could to stay on his tail.

now, my venerable partner had this intensely obnoxious habit of spending about twenty minutes each turn. he'd stare - brow furrowed - at the board. i'd wander off, listen to music, attempt conversation, drink myself stupid. and then he'd smile that grin and put down a fifty-point whopper of a word and blazzzam!, there'd go my shot at winning.

so one night, i had a motley assortment of interesting letters .... B, M, E, H, C, A, and a J. there was this .. this ... sweet little piece of board at the bottom right hand corner. you know the one. with the triple word score. so i was itchin' for it, kids. i was gunning for that spot. i needed it. i would have traded my firstborn child for a shot to cream sea. but what could i do with those letters?




and there it was. bechamel. the french cream sauce. the space directly to the left of the 3W score was, inexplicably, miraculously, the extra E i needed. all i needed was a motherfucking L.

well, you can guess the gory details. sea, that sweetly unsuspecting darling, got up to go to the bathroom [he can't ever sit still, so i knew he'd get up eventually]. there it was, that tantalizing little cloth pouch that just screamed at me - 'dig. dig! you'll find that pesky L! trade the useless J for that coveted, desperately-needed L! do it!'

and i did. shamefully i face you, jury of my peers, and tell you i did. i dug desperately until i found that L, and threw my J back into the cloth pouch. that guileless, trusting creature came back, and with the right amount of dramatic bravado, i pretended to simply stumble across such scrabbling perfection known as the 3W Bingo.

yes, folks. because not only did i score that 3W. oh, no. that wasn't enough for my greedy, competitive soul. it was also a bingo .... all seven letters used. one of them being that treacherous, deceitful L. so there it was. bechamel. seven letters used, some of them quite valuable, on a 3W score.

i think the total damage was about 150 points. and sea, of course, he challenged the use of the word. and looked it up in our trusty scrabble dictionary [which, for the record, i did not do while he was in the bathroom, probably because it simply didn't occur to me. if it had, i would have]. and of course, the word was there, in all its obscure french glory, and my scrabble partner took a humbling hit to his winning streak. he looked at me with profound respect for creaming him so. and you ask, did i feel guilty that i had won such a dear friend's respect with such wicked, wicked ways?

no. i didn't. i was riding the high of humbling him, of success against the only person who is ever a real scrabble challenger. why? because i'm pure evil.

months, months later, when sea left for estonia, i decided to tell him. i built it up quite a bit, during a very tender 'we're really going to miss each other' moment. i told him i had something very serious to tell him. he was full of concern. i built it up a little more [wicked. wicked.]. he was even more concerned. i told him i hoped it wouldn't ruin our friendship. he assured me that would be near-impossible.

"sea, i.... cheated on 'bechamel'."

and friends? i wouldn't trade the look on his face for all the money in the world. it was absolute shock, betrayal, anger ... in short, it was absolutely hilarious. he was so upset, so terrifyingly traumatized that i would have snatched my only victory from the hands of deceit ... i think a little part of him died.

but he's forgiven me since then, right sea? i'd never cheat him again.

that doesn't go for the rest of you, however. be en guarde. bechamel may rise again.

love, krissa .... 1:07 AM ... link!

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Friday, May 09, 2003
the greatest joke ever played.

Harry Potter 5: literature's most-guarded secret. true/false?

false. literature's most-guarded secret is, and always will be, "Why Did James Joyce Write Finnegan's Wake, and has Anyone Actually Finished It."

love, krissa .... 7:29 PM ... link!

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Thursday, May 08, 2003
while it's a close race ...

the only thing better than talking about sex for hours is having sex for hours.

just trust me on this.

love, krissa .... 9:00 PM ... link!

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Wednesday, May 07, 2003
your sunny, funny face!

in a highly uncharacteristic move, i've posted this rather unflattering picture of myself here at the holy stomping ground of my vanity, petit hiboux.

see? it's a silly, wholly unflattering picture. why do i post it, you ask? why cause such a shock to the masses? why even risk breaking some hearts who were living in a fantasy world where people are always pretty, all the time?

because i like this picture. i do! it was taken the morning i moved from my dorm room to my apartment. i was graduating college in a few days. i had a job. i was surrounded by friends [
this wonderful friend took the picture]. i was utterly happy. and as i stood out on the fire escape to my gorgeous dorm room and smoked my morning cigarette with matthieu and watched the sun warm up a glorious day ... i was really happy.

so i turned to the camera and made a silly, silly face.

because i could.

love, krissa .... 10:22 PM ... link!

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we're talking about cars here. cars.

think about a porsche. it's sleek. it screams style, and danger, and live-in-the-moment gorgeous. it says to you, get in. don't think about your insurance, don't think about your family, don't think about the future. live a little. it's not the right car. it's the right now car. even if you have it for twenty years [which you probably won't because if you can actually afford it without selling your firstborn child, you'll probably get bored of it in two years, and if you can't afford it, like most people can't, you'll lose it eventually], you never refer to it as 'my car'. it's 'my porsche'. because it's not like other cars, is it.

it's nothing like a honda, for instance. what is a honda? a honda is, quintessentially, a car. you don't take tight corners on it and feel the seratonin flood your brain. you don't check out your reflection when driving by a shiny building. you drive a honda, for chrissakes. now, it's a good car, isn't it? you sing its praises to your friends. you say, look at the mileage! look at the maintenance! man, i've driven this car a million miles and she looks exactly the same as the day i bought her! you are intensely happy with your sound purchase. you make fun of guys with porsches.

but there's always that moment, isn't there. when you're out with your honda. you're cruising. you're happy. you and the honda, you understand each other. you're on the same page. and here he comes, that guy. with his porsche. he pulls up next to you and bam. ten years with your honda suddenly slips into meaninglessness. look at that porsche. wouldn't you grovel on your knees on your best suit all the way across the continent just for a chance to run your hands over that sleek body? you would. of course you would. you'd forego food, water, society for a chance to take her for a spin. doesn't matter if the fling only lasts two days before you realize what you've left behind, the solid affection you have for your wise, quiet honda. in that moment, in that disco-ball, flashing moment ... all you see is the racy danger of that porsche.

and you know what? the honda knows it. she always, always knows it. she comforts herself that ultimately, she is the wisest choice. that she's in for the long-haul. that she's dependable, fun, and smart. she likes being a honda. she doesn't want to be a porsche. she's met the porsches - they're empty inside.

but she knows. she knows you'd never crawl on your knees for thirty miles to adore a honda the way you'd gladly grovel for a chance with that porsche.

love, krissa .... 7:56 PM ... link!

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Tuesday, May 06, 2003

readers, i need your help. i cannot seem to post about anything, and the dentist post wasn't funny enough to be up there for three days. so, i provide you all with some choices, in the classic american tradition of have-it-all-ism.

1. How I Survived a Staring Contest ... with a Hippo.
2. Why I'm going to Law School.
3. My All-Time Top Ten Favorite Places in New York City and Why.
4. Ways I've Been Really, Really Bad.
5. A Rant About The Topic of Your Choice (please provide Subject of Rant. and it can't be dominick dunne, since i've ... dunne ... him already.)

none of these are very exciting. nonetheless, in the spirit of democracy, you decide, and i'll oblige.

love, krissa .... 9:20 PM ... link!

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