An Open Letter.

Dear Michigan,

I’m sorry that I seem to dislike returning to your vast rolling hills and forests. I really don’t hate it here, I promise. It’s just that… being here, Michigan, reminds me of just how bored and lonely I am.

I have very few friends left on this Mid-West Coast. And those that remain are scattered about, have left Muskegon, have their own lives and friends and jobs. Due to this, timing never works out. I can’t let myself be convinced that my friends simply don’t want to see me; I refuse to believe that’s actually the case (even if that is an overwhelming fear and hurt that I feel with all of my friends, everywhere, leaving me convinced that I posses some pretty impressive personal interaction problems).

My mom has spent the last few days trying to get me out of the house. She has been asking if I want to go to this store, run that errand, eat at this ice cream parlor. I feel bad being a wet towel like I have been, but I really don’t want to go shopping if I don’t have any money. I hope that doesn’t make me seem crazy. I don’t really know how I’m going to afford my monthly T pass when I get back to Boston, let alone head to Goodwill to overstock myself on used T-shirts that I don’t really need to further overload my suitcase. I don’t want to go to the beach because of the massive and annoying sunburn I gave myself on Saturday.

These feelings aren’t new, and they’re not your fault, Michigan. I’m always bored and lonely; that’s what I do. At least out East, I have a job to keep me preoccupied. I have nothing but time out here.

Nothing at all.

I suck.

Love,
Kim

Every rose has its thorn.

I had kind of vowed to myself to save the “trip-to-Michigan” post for when I’d returned and the trip was over, but I just got back from seeing POISON at HERITAGE LANDING and OH MY GOD it was freaking AWESOME.

Except for this. This is a) unfortunate, b) just a part of being at a Poison show in Muskegon, c) very brave at a beer tent during Bike Week, d) a little bit disgusting, e) a lot bits hilarious, f) ah, fuck it… all of the above (and then some):

What you can’t see is that those aren’t just hotpants, but are, infact, Poison boyshort panties.

Oh, Muskegon. I’ve missed you. And I’ve missed drinking underage in public at washed up rock shows next to that guy with the huge spliff.

Shock and Awe.

MySpace gets a pretty bad rep some days. I’ve been known to make more than a few scathing snide comments concerning the people using the service and the service itself. Regardless, I still have an account there–if not to just keep up with the friends that I’ve become so accustomed to neglecting over the last few years.

Seeing this Amber Alert post on MySpace re-instills a small bit of hope in an otherwise ridiculous and inane bit of webspace.

Then again, maybe MySpace is starting to realize that they’re basically the market for pedophiles.

Our thoughts are with you, Salena.

Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world.

I landed in Michigan at about 10.30 this morning. My bag of (basically only dirty) laundry has not yet arrived.

There is a weird shady evacuation of Casnovia right now… hardly any of the news crews are reporting anything, and the one that is so far is only able to say that the police are evacuating for “safety concerns,” and are refusing to say what the concern is.

I’ve missed this place. Michigan, with your fields full of port-a-potties and propane tanks, beaches and sunshine and murder… Oh, Michigan, there’s nothing quite like you anywhere.

I’ll be 49444 for two weeks. Call me, ya’ll.

Don’t hate us ’cause we’re happy.

Pardon the shitty cameraphone picture, but in case you were wondering, that’s Jaret from Bowling for Soup rocking my fucking face off.

Points from tonight’s show:
- Army of Freshman, KILLER opening act.
- Chanting. Including such hits as “You Brushed Your Teeth” and “Take a Shit.”
- Jaret: “I want to get…”
Me: “NAKED!”
Jaret: “No, actually, I was going to say a disco ball for the bus. But maybe we can get a boat, and put the disco ball on the boat, and THEN get naked.”
- Being the first female in the history of rock concerts (may or may not actually be true) to yell “FREE BIRD,” thus making me “The Douchebag Who Yelled Free Bird.”
- SEEING BOWLING FOR SOUP LIVE AGAIN. Someday I will save up enough to follow them around the country on tour. Someday, just not today.

EDIT: Can’t believe I almost forgot that one time screaming “NAKED” would then lead them to change the words to the encore–The Ramones’ “I Wanna Be Sedated”– to “I wanna be naked.”

“Bam bam buh-bam, buh-bam bam buh-bam, I wanna be NAKED…”

Gods, what a great show.

Gone to see Bowling for Soup, BRB.

Therapy.

I’m sick.

I’m sick of this life. I’m sick of having five dollars to my name, of working full-time at a part-time job, of trying to support myself on nine dollars an hour in a city where the minimum wage is seven-seventy-five and you can’t find a two bedroom rathole apartment for less than 1500 a month, and then wondering why I don’t have a life. I’m sick of feeling like I don’t have any friends. I’m sick of feeling like the third wheel. I’m sick of alienating people. I’m sick of pushing people away when I feel the loneliest. I’m sick of being fat–not thick, not pudgy, not chunky; no, I’m sick of being sixty-pounds-overwieght-FAT. I’m sick of NOT having sex, of not being wanted by anyone but Internet predators and crack addicts. I’m sick of crying. I’m sick of feeling like I have absolutely no talent, no niche, nothing to offer society. I’m sick of feeling like I’m running at full-speed on a treadmill, of feeling like I’m pouring my heart and soul into harvesting hope. I’m sick of not wearing waterproof mascara, and I’m sick of wishing that I was. I’m sick of not having anyone left that I can just TALK to, about whatever, whenever, whyever, whoever. I’m sick of constantly feeling stranded in the crowd, when those around me stop paying attention to whatever I was saying in the middle of a sentence because somebody else with more beauty, talent, and charisma had something to say just then. I’m sick of repeating myself, because I only ever have one thing to tell everybody, and nobody seems to care. I’m sick of being dumber than all of my friends. I’m sick of always forcing my presence on people; never am I requested. I’m sick of how much I talk when I really have nothing to say. I’m sick of failing, I’m sick of being a disappointment, and I’m sick caring about either.

And most of all, I’m sick of myself for being so FUCKING unhappy with my own life. NEVER has there been such a blatant display of PATHETIC than RIGHT fucking NOW.

I’m sick.

GREATEST T-SHIRT IDEA I’VE HAD IN WEEKS (inspired by this afternoon’s events):

“The sax is always better after a couple of beers.”

… Or something along those lines. It’s a work in process.

The man standing next to me on the train home this evening smelled distinctly of taco seasoning.

I fell down an escalator today. Twice. Same escalator. There is a bruise on my left leg that also contains escalator-step-lines, and a few MASSIVE bruises on my ass that are so far bruised, they’re practically fuschia.

Reissen is a highly under-rated candy product.

Roommate Ali and I created some bomb sundaes today, in our heads. Now everyone in the house wants ice cream.

I’m the only single person in this house. Problem.

Well, I know that it’s early

… And it’s too hard to think, and the broken empty bottle’s a reminder in the sink. But I thought that I should tell you–if it’s not too late to say–I could put back all the pieces, they just might not fit the same.

This is probably my favorite song to sing right now. “This” being Bowling for Soup’s “When We Die” (which, I believe, is also their newest single… but I don’t listen to radio, so I can’t be sure). How anyone can hate on BFS, I just don’t understand. They’re fun, they’re funny, their lyrics are great, and they can write a pretty killer ballad when it’s all said and done.

I’m still homeless in September, but I’ve recently acquired a roommate. Win some, lose some.

Apparently–in Boston, at least–federal holidays (such as, oh, the Fourth of July, for example) are an excuse to completely abandon any and all escalator etiquette that one might have previously possessed. Why stay to the right when there’s only one escalator going up in Porter Square? It’s not like they’re five-hundred feet down and moving at .2 miles per century or anything. And will someone PLEASE explain that glove-art thing to me? Or the “windmill”? I’m too lazy to look them up myself.

The Fourth is also one of those federal holidays that–regardless of the day on which they fall or whether ALL commuters work federal jobs and get federal holidays off or not–is actually a Sunday, no matter what the calendar says. This means that the first Red Line train won’t show up until 0600, when you’ve been sitting there since 0530 waiting patiently and listening to the same MBTA warning messages AT LEAST twenty times. This bumps your commute up to an HOUR to get downtown, when it should take thirty minutes, tops. This, in turn, causes you to be half an hour late for work, which is really fucking frustrating when you made it to the train ON TIME and it was the rest of the world that decided to fuck around. Griping about this situation at work will lead you to learn that the person you were complaining to is something like the VP of Operations for the T, or an equivalent. And then you feel silly.

No pictures of the fireworks; it was too rainy for me to want to keep my camera out long enough to get a good shot. Great show, though. I cried.

Okay, I’ve been on the go-go-go since about 0400… 23 hours ago. G’night.