Kimya Dawson Loves Me

Chances are if you knew me sophomore year of high school, you remember that shirt, or at least the whole ordeal. I sent Kimya a $10 bill in the mail for her to make me a t-shirt. Just a simple shirt, like the kind you buy at Hobby Lobby, with this blog's title on the front with some type of drawing, and "Go Love Yourself" written on the back with a little heart.
Why was it an "ordeal," you ask? Well, after a few months of feverish obsession with the Moldy Peaches (and to be honest, it was mostly an obsession with Adam Green, Dawson's cute, young, Jewish counterpart; however I've since fallen behind on his solo albums... too bad), I was really excited to learn I could get a Dawson shirt for cheap! Handmade, too!
Well, after a few months, it never arrived and I assumed some mailman stole my $10.
But then! It arrived in the mail, on the envelope it said "Sorry! :(" and lo and behold, there were my $10 dollars, too. She felt so bad, she just did everything for free. Even the postage!
And that is why Kimya Dawson has my overwhelming respect.

However, I'm not sure what happened to the shirt in the last four years. And now the soundtrack to the movie Juno is about half of her songs, and one of my favorite Moldy Peaches songs. Damnit.

Which he doesn't.

Because when he finally offers, you're just too exhausted from the 20 texts that were sent and received over the course of an hour and a half (instead of a call), and you just want to go to bed. You were also waiting up, and therefore going to bed much later than you wanted.
But it's okay; he was working on a video for his funny blog. A blog which, everytime he posts, he asks you that same day if you've read it. And you're pretty sure the handful of times that you yourself have posted, he hasn't even read them.

...Throw back to sophomore year of high school xangas, anyone? I mean seriously, how frickin' accurate is that?

Sometimes all you need...

Is your boyfriend to just call you and tell you he loves you when you're anxious about the ultrasound you're getting the next day because at the age of nineteen, the doctor found a cyst in your right breast. (Yes, the small one, a.k.a.- Shirley[as in Laverne and Shirley].) And it's not like this is causing you major identity issues because, let's face it, you always were more of a Shirley than Laverne. As much as you wanted to be loud and funny and never worried about anything, you're really a die-hard Coca-Cola fan, and you'd never be caught dead with your first initial on anything you own.
You've already studied the map for the apparent 20 minute long car ride you'll take on your own. (And you prefer to do it that way, on your own.) And you're not really scared, because you only let it scare you enough to make you cry for less than 120 seconds on the drive home from the initial doctor's visit. But you're not really not scared either. It's not like you're blogging about it the night before on a blog none of your friends read anymore (because you stopped posting regularly nine months ago), and it's not like you're writing said blog entry in the second person. No, because that would just be crazy. Fool.
But it's not like you can blame your boyfriend. Your phone battery did die, and you didn't notice it. So for hours he worried about you and had to take his mind off of it by going to a friend's. And when you were busy not noticing your phone was dead, you were taking your mind off of your present cyst issue-- cystue, if you will-- by decorating your tree and house for Christmas, and then playing three games of Disney Scene It with your 12 year old sister. Well, now she's in bed and let's face it, you need the comforting from the man who knows your breasts the best.
Luckily a half-way amusing blog post is keeping you entertained by, distracted from, and petrified of what's to come. It will be nothing, says 99.8% of your confidence, but it's amazing how that .2 still reigns. Kind of like the way that .3% ineffectiveness of the NuvaRing still looms for the three days in between the time you take it out and your cycle begins. You do nothing but pray that you're not one of those 3 out of every 1,000 women who still ends up pregnant at the end of the... however they judge it.
But what can you do but stay up (because you can't sleep anyway, anxious about tomorrow) and wait for your boyfriend to call.

Not Even a Joke

Pete Seeger dropped out of Harvard to ride the rails across the country. On the way he met Leadbelly and Woody Guthrie.

...I just heard this on a radio program about Seeger. I just about laughed so hard I cried. And then I felt about actually crying.