you are my itchy sweater

groupeffort @ 2007-07-09T22:22:00

2007-07-10T03:23:40Z

Cupcakes, hi!

Since we last spoke I graduated from college and got myself a career. For whatever reason, TJX decided to take a chance and offer me a position in their buyer training program. I think they're now beginning to realize that they made a mistake. For the most part, I have no idea what I'm doing. I've been with the company for five weeks and I should probably have a thorough understanding of my duties but really, I just sit there and get all flustered and scatterbrained until it's time to pee which coincidentally happens every ten minutes. I want nothing more than to excel at my job because once that happens, the promotions kick in and (eventually) so does my title as a Buyer. Plus, I need health insurance and unemployment doesn't really facilitate that. Accidental Death and Dismemeberment insurance, as well. Mom's convinced my limbs are on their way out.

We're going camping this weekend with Amanda and the Brunswick boys. I will be on my period and the bears will eat me alive. I will die with frizzy hair as there will be no place to plug in my straightener.

Flight of the Conchords please&thanks. Bret forever&always.

I sold my Nikon. It seemed like a really great idea until it came to pack it up and ship it off. I t was too big to tote around and I didn't really know how to use it anyways. I'm simplifying with a point and shoot good for documenting those parties I can never seem to remember anymore. Recommendations, maybe?

Fiery Furnaces last week. The remix of the century. I should be a Friedberger.

Blah blah blah. The rest are on facebook.

groupeffort @ 2007-03-23T18:53:00

2007-03-23T22:57:37Z

In the process of longing for Parisian lawns and the like.

groupeffort @ 2007-02-27T15:17:00

2007-02-27T20:22:26Z

A lesson from Viktor&Rolf on how to make history.

spice cabinet.

2007-02-08T05:04:48Z

I realize Marc Jacobs is no bigger than my thumb, but the man got hot.

Nicolas Ghesquière still has him beat, though.

groupeffort @ 2007-01-21T23:48:00

2007-01-22T04:49:23Z

Disaster always. I came home to what I thought was going to be another bill for my car insurance but turned out to be a suspension letter stating that as of January 5th, my insurance has been revoked due to a failure to meet the inspection deadline. Oh the lies they tell. Naturally with a deadline on the 5th, I had it inspected on the 4th and while I would love to prove this, I can not as the supporting documentation was most likely used to wipe up another mess if not someone else's ass who had previous favors owed. The beauty of it all is that I have been driving for approximately two weeks without insurance, which by Massachusetts law is not compliant with Massachusetts law. This would all be realized on a Sunday--the one day in which those at MetLife are granted the day off for reasons that are either faith or football related and being the agnostic little priss that I am, I can't possibly relate. And all the while, there's fucking Snoopy. Dancing. In a strip of blue.

With that said, I am yet again stuck at home. Emphasis on "again." I came home Wednesday night to get four impacted wisdom teeth removed. I love January. The teeth are now gone and for a few hours then, so was I. The surgeon wouldn't put me to sleep but they compensated with some mind altering narcotics which made the whole process seem like it took fifteen minutes instead of the actual two hours. I didn't really wake up until three days later when my mom showed up at my bed with a green sippy cup and a handful of pills. Surgery is great because it's the only time my parents cater to my every need on command. They made me smoothies, timed my meds, changed my ice packs, brought me fresh towels to drool / viciously bleed on etc. Love.

Whatever rumors you heard about percosets were just that. Rumors. The pain is there to stay. It's Sunday and I am still very much discontent with the extractions. This of course might have something to do with the box of triscuits and almost pound of brie that I devoured last night post ill-timed night of partying. It was entirely against the doctors orders, every flowing ounce of it, but I couldn't bear to miss out on my last New Years "Even though It's Almost Feburary" Mixer. Even before returning to South Shore territory, I could barely speak coherent sentences but the swelling was down and so was my attitutude to get (...down!?).

I should go to bed but I'd much rather play with my stitches which are unavoidable and always in the way.

Also keeping me awake is my bad breath which I have been battling with since 5pm if not my birth. My toothbrush is at school and I figured if I kept eating applesauce and like substances, I could mask the stench. Additionally, I keep breathing into my hand and sniffing it because I am amazed at how horrible something can smell.

groupeffort @ 2007-01-19T22:08:00

2007-01-20T03:06:48Z

We're Obsessed With Eachother: A Documentary

groupeffort @ 2007-01-10T15:03:00

2007-01-10T23:07:38Z

Odelia took me in for New Years weekend. The celebration went into effect Saturday evening when we went into Williamsburg for a Mexican takeover. Maybe it was our burrito breath, but the fifty year old migrants thought they struck gold with us. ("Us" mostly referring to Odelia because she was all Chinese and shit). The one who was assigned to me did not speak a word of English so I brought out the remains of my six year strive for bilingualism to humor the dude. In exchange for flirtation, he bought me songs off the jukebox and let me tell you how positively unnerving it is to operate a jukebox in Williamsburg. I assumed that if Pitchfork didn't applaud it, it was best to avoid it. I introduced only the most regal beats into that bar, that is until the beer arranged for a takeover shedding my hesitancy to throw on AshSimp who I by the way, no longer like. Based on my infatuations with celebrities who have revolving eating disorders (Richie and Olsen most notably), you would think her transformation would be considered an upgrade but this isn't the case.

She's a tricky subject clearly having suffered from an identity crisis all along but I liked her more when she was all phonied up and doing her pseduo punk thing. Now she's a weird merge of her sister and Mischa and she is less hot because she is more hot? There's much debate about whether or not her poster will make its way into this semester's decor scheme. Why am I even talking about this.

We left our Mexicans for Supreme Trading to meet up with Chad and his entourage. Due to the timing of soul's demise, the DJ, like every other DJ in America that week, assembled an expectedly mundane James Brown tribute which more or less deterred from maximum enjoyment. It was at this bar that I was told to stop pretending like I didn't know how to dance when in fact I was actually dancing. Situations like this made it okay to continue pounding fists of Carlsberg despite its unfavorable aftertaste which I do not recall being present in Copenhagen.

Shortly after, we left the gentlemen to their dance party and somehow made our way to MisShapes which I still find shocking that I was even permitted entry. By the time we got there, I was an understated disaster holding myself up through means of the walls and woodwork. I didn't foresee much of a future but found myself cured by the DJs. We went hard until the early morning although you would never know this because LastNightsParty neglected us.

New Years Eve was a melange of immoderation. As soon as I got over my A.M. hangover, I moved it to another bar in Union Square for drinks with Doug and then as soon as that drunkneness wore off, I moved on to the Sparks to get a head start on the following day's hangover. I was in a solid state of inebriation by the time we left Brooklyn but Motherfucker wasn't really keen on maintaining it. We got there not too long after 10 and the line was around the block. We even purchased our tickets in advance but apparently that was a futile move because there was only one line mixing both the ticket and with the non-ticket holding folk.

They didn't let us in to the club until 5 minutes to midnight and 30 past sober. All our hard work wore off with time and considering the shift in circumstances, I wanted that alcohol. I expected Motherfucker to be some massive hipster dance party, and raised even higher standards when Nylon whored it out as the one place to be in NYC for New Years. It was without warning a haven for brazen drag queens, trannies, and S+M fans alike. To think, Odelia and I spent so much time teetering between ensembles and we could have just worn our underwear and been good. Or we could have not worn any underwear and still been good. We were entirely out of our element but made it work splaying our limbs appearing cretinous to skill due in part to the DJs surprisingly generous indie selection. What made it even better is that dollar bills kept falling from the go-go dancers bras onto the floor into the abyss and I made about $6 because of it.

I could have kept the party alive until the a.m. but death by feet cut everything short. The new boots required me to alternate between songs and the couch and eventually, between the booze and the footwear, I just gave up on standing upright altogether and nestled by tired, hurting bod between two men in vinyl ass bearing chaps and mesh t-shirts.

groupeffort @ 2007-01-09T10:50:00

2007-01-09T17:21:14Z

It's time to revive this thing.

Home happened on the 16th although it doesn't feel like I even left. It was a smooth transition back into American life, but physically getting to this point wasn't as easy. The skim version is that baggage policies vary from airport to airport, country to country. In Italy, Alitalia had no beef about me bringing on a small suitcase and a tote. They basically encouraged it. They encourage anything that will result in them having to do less work. The folk in London were not as lax about quantity, however.

The extended version is that after we got off the plane, we had to go through security again before we could board our connecting flight. It was there that I learned that only one carry-on bag was permitted on London flights. When others heard about this, they didn't fret. They simply consolidated everything into one bag. I, of course did not have this option because traveling lightly has never been my forte.

My carry-on's were a result of superfluous consumerism and since my checked baggage could only hold so much, I stuffed my carry-on suitcase with jeans, shoes, and textbooks: all the in-flight essentials. It barely zipped, but at the time, it still served as a valuable team player in the balancing act. Likewise, my goddamn purse which is and was of course the size of a small coffin, was at maximum capacity featuring journals, books, various electronics, a melon size pillow shaped like a fat duck, and other things that were far from necessary for flight. As apparent, consolidation was not an option so I was instructed by the security guard to go down to the American Airlines counter and check my bag. So, I followed directions. He made it seem like it was a 2 minute walk but as I later found out, Heathrow could qualify for its own zip code and to walk from from our gate to check-in is a good thirty minutes, excluding the time it would take the obligatory trip through passport control.

It was the first time I ran since August. Sweat cascaded my limbs and left evidence of rush. Children were rendered helpless as nothing could stop me from knocking them over. But in hindsight, I would probably knock them over regardless of emergencies. By the time I found the counter, it was 3:50 and I had been in transit for a half hour. Irregardless of duration, I was there. What wasn't there was good news. In London, you have to check-in an hour before your flight. My flight was in 55 minutes. No flight for me. I cried like a little bitch and got passed around between agents. My last chance was a 6:30 flight to JFK but the seats were all full at the time, so standby was going to have to suffice. If that didn't work, I was sleeping in the airport. Sono stata una FIGA.

Since September, I've been sleeping in international airports alone but with the reality of returning home just at my fingertips, I was not metally equipped for disaster. For the 90 minutes that I was in the security line, I alternated between bawling and hyperventilating whilst reiterating the situation to those at home. In my defense, I had pancakes scheduled for the following morning and I hadn't had pancakes since Paris, so you know, I had to get to the states in time for Sunday brunch.

Stand-by actually worked out though. They got me on the plane sans problem. The boner kill was that I still had a 10:40 flight from JFK to Boston which I was so worried about missing, that I could not sleep an ounce during the eight hour flight. So, I sat there and listened to my v1.0 iPod. I couldn't read because I was too tired and there were no movies to watch because AA has some sort of notion that their passengers are only interested in horses and magic. All the while, I smelled like absolute crap. The deoderant was packed away and my sweat had permeated through my dress conjuring up an odor to be undesired. I was so paranoid about being that girl so I threw a blanket across my body to trap the grossness. I don't think it worked. I think I'm the grossest person alive.

9:45, we're at JFK. I booked it through customs, my luggage was magically waiting for me in the Land of Unloved Luggage pile, an AA connecting flight desk was situated twenty feet away, and the idea of a higher being no longer seemed so unlikely. What was not so convenient was the placement of my gate which required yet another sprint across the airport. More sweat and grossness, but I somehow made it with 60 seconds to spare.

Boston finally happened at 11:30pm that night. Keep in mind I left my apartment at 3:45 am, European time which I think translates to 26 hours of traveling time. By that point, I didn't even care that they lost my luggage because Nicole was waiting for me at Logan with 2 Diet Rockstars and the notion that airplanes were past tense.

groupeffort @ 2006-11-03T15:37:00

2006-11-03T20:37:20Z

groupeffort @ 2006-10-25T14:46:00

2006-10-25T12:46:14Z

The exchange rate rapes but I'm happy.

We just left Paris and are now in Barcelona.
The most thorough update will be provided once I fetch some sleeps.

groupeffort @ 2006-10-17T15:44:00

2006-10-17T15:51:56Z

Everything was going well until I stumbled upon the CMJ 06 lineup.

Granted, I will be in Paris and Barcelona next week.
Followed by Berlin.
And Prague.
And London.
Then Copenhagen.
And then Interlaken.

But The Cardigans? Acoustic?
Mommy. No.

groupeffort @ 2006-10-04T12:54:00

2006-10-04T11:07:27Z

ALERT ALERT ALERT.

I think I did something horrible to my iPod as it is no longer functioning.

All I did was plug it into a Mac computer to play a song. I've done this in the past and have never run into any problems. We had a nice little run through of some Fountains of Wayne tracks but then when I tried putting on the next artist, it gave me that little "!" error message that pops up next to the song when it can't be found / played. I then ejected the iPod from the computer and tried listening to it on my headphones. When I pressed play, it reacted in the same manner and skipped over every track that it couldn't play which was literally EVERY SONG ON MY IPOD.

WHAT THE FUCK DID I DO.

If I am without my music until December, I am going to take the biggest dump in someone's mouth.

MEANWHILE, my parents called to tell me that my computer at home will not turn on.

Crying might be on the list of things to do today.

milano, milayes

2006-10-02T18:54:52Z

Of all the days I could have been shit on, it was the one day I go to Milan for Fashion Week; the one day where I am actually required to wreak of style and poise. Instead I wreaked of bowels.

We had just sat down on the train when I saw a strip of green and white grossness smeared across my forearm. Even after sniffing it, we were still clueless to what it was and where it came from. It was at least two hours since I had last wiped my ass, so I knew it wasn't that. This mystery glob was fresh like Lil Kim. Plus, I haven't pooped green since 1987. After excusing myself for a quick trip to the W.C. for cleanup and further examination, I decided to close the book on the case. The iPod went on and my attention went elsewhere.

About an hour before we arrived in Milan, I started to run my fingers through my hair to primp before our arrival. I was able to move about two inches south until my fingers got stuck. Conditioner had made its way in there at an earlier hour so I wasn't too sure what the hindrance was. Oh, don't worry, though. It was only a quarter size dollop of SHIT. I knew it was only a matter of time before I fell victim to avian excretions but during fucking Fashion Week? It should be noted that my right shoulder was also included in the disaster and was essentially sheeted in feces.

Remains are still encrusted on my bag straps.

Meanwhile, during all of this, the W.C. light was illuminated in red indicating that the stall was in use and remained this way for about fifteen minutes thereafter. I sat there at the table with my hands clenched over my mouth, staring at Holly with dead eyes. Vomit was so close to happening and I'm surprised it didn't. As soon as the light changed to green, I booked it towards the sink and shoved my head under the water until the remains of the pigeon's feast spiraled down the drain. As for the dress, it didn't completely wash out so I had to proceed with a newly assigned color pallete consisting of blue, white, and green. And to think, I had a white dress on earlier that morning. My indecisiveness saved me from a day of humiliation.

As for Milan, we didn't make it to one historical site. Not even the reknowned Duomo, which was #3 on the Top 10 Places to See in Italy list. Our first stop was Via Tortona for a trade show event which showcased over 300 womens' wear and accessory collections for Spring and Summer 2007. It was knowingly closed to the public, but Holly and myself prefer to beat the system so we faked identities and professions through means of a business card. Without question, we were granted access as buyers for the Israelian retailer, Zipora Gendler. I actually have no idea what or who Zipora Gendler is nor did I make an effort to check beforehand. I just handed over the card and matched my stance to the others. Clearly my unrehearsed fabrications were sufficient for the registration rep because not only did we get badges, we were entitled to enter the three shows (Neozone, Cloud Nine, and White).

Never before had I been to an event like it. There were DJ's, a posh decor scheme both inside and out, and racks and racks of garments curtained to the masses. We were hesitant at first to even enter into the booths, but then we quickly set aside our fears, pawing everything we considered to have mild appeal - which was pretty much everything. The brand reps didn't know any different. To them, we had all the power so they let us do as we pleased. The few times they approached us with questions, we retreated as if there collections were unsatisfactory, as if cashmere could ever be unsatisfactory.

The one flaw of the trade shows is that the items are not up for sale at that point in time so by the time we left, we were itching to put our credit cards to use. We then hailed a cab and instructed him to take us to H+M which ran adjacent to Zara which was just feet from another H+M.

Long story short: We were happy ducks.

Happy until we missed our 8:00 Eurostar train. Had we not spent 45 minutes trying to decide on the most econonomic bottle of wine and cheese selection, things would have been different. We were literally running onto the platform just as the doors closed. It was a scene from a movie that didn't need to be reinacted. Our cheese, however, was pleasing.

Eee-tahl-yah

2006-09-15T17:03:01Z

Italy shopping. You do me right.

groupeffort @ 2006-09-12T13:18:00

2006-09-12T11:29:45Z

Monica Vitti is the preference.

Michelangelo Antonioni yourself while I am away. He's to blame for my fixation.

groupeffort @ 2006-09-11T20:30:00

2006-09-11T19:38:01Z

groupeffort @ 2006-09-11T19:48:00

2006-09-11T19:26:07Z

Our idyllic weekend in Capri concluded with a man committing suicide by means of throwing himself in front of our moving train. That would have been fine had I not been subject to starvation and enveloping FILTH.

He's dead and such, FYI. Bits and pieces of him sprinkled here there and everywhere.

I secretly wanted to go check the tracks for his remains but I'm trying to make friends and I think it might be too early in the semester to promote my skeevy habits.

Naples = Aesthetic disappointment.

SO LONG NAPLES.

And hello Capri.

Sophia Loren's sweet ass pad.

The one weekend we venture off to an island, it rains. But just momentarily. But enough to make me frown.

And then the dude killed himself and we were all re-routed to the sketchiest alley that ever was.

groupeffort @ 2006-09-07T13:19:00

2006-09-07T12:23:13Z

In the time that I have left the country, Facebook became unbearably obnoxious, TomKat finally revealed their byproduct (except no one really cares anymore nor did we really ever), the Croc Hunter croaked, and John Mayer confessed to being in love with Jessica Simpson? I've been gone just a little over a week and everything has gone awry. Everything excluding Angela AND Vincent's auf on Project Runway.

Aside from the above, I am entirely disconnected from pop culture and civilization so please, please fill me in on the goods.

Four years ago, I wouldn't have been caught dead making that request. I was easier to digest then.

Whether it be Team Paris or Team Nicole, I feel like I'm starring in my own season of The Simple Life. Laundry for example. The instructions on both the detergent box and washing machine are clearly in Italian so I kind of just press buttons and go with intuitive measurements. Then there's grocery shopping which is a process in its own. Everything that is in my cupboard was a result of either instinct and/or Patrice friendly pricing.

Wine is cheaper than water so I think the choice is obvious.

I already found myself an Italian boyfriend. I spotted him at Nova, some uber trendy bar outside the Duomo. Approaching him was brilliant as it led to complementary bottles of wine, a round of shots, and a phone number exchange. Look at me go.

The initial weekend plans involved an Italy versus France soccer game on Saturday but now we seem to be booking hostels in Capri and Pompeii. My first adventure! There's already talk of going to Paris next weekend and then to Milan the following following weekend for Fashion Week. Clearly we will be depraved of access to any and all shows, but just saying I went to Milan for Fashion Week is sufficient. It's an easy process adjusting to the life as a jet setter.

About that Fashion Design class I dropped. The professor is the head designer for Roberto Cavalli. Not pleased with my decision.

Hey, more photos at a later date when it doesn't take 10 minutes to upload 3 photos.

groupeffort @ 2006-09-05T14:18:00

2006-09-05T12:36:26Z

Italy is great namely because the people here do not wear Crocs and compromise with high tops and awesomeness.

groupeffort @ 2006-08-24T21:24:00

2006-08-25T01:24:47Z

Snakes On a Plane was inconceivably genius. It wasn't so much the script as it was the triumphant marketing forces behind it. With minimal effort, they tricked us into lapping up shit like horse flies. All that those MBA bearing geniuses did was top off a three minute trailer of exaggerated chaos with a depthless title and tagline and left the rest up to us. Ctrl+C followed by Ctrl+V and bam. Maximized fame. Automatic cult film.

We brainwashed ourselves and eachother.

I've never been to a movie where the crowd was that roused by cheap theatrics and reptilia. The plot could not have been any less developed but we didn't mind. We as an audience always found a reason to applaud or joyously howl at the screen wthout hesitation. It was by far the worst film I have ever seen and yet oddly enough, I couldn't bring myself to up and leave for a pee break. Each scene was too precious to ignore. For those ninety minutes +/-, Samuel L. was our messiah.

SEE! BRAINWASHED. This is like CCD all over again.

I should be more excited for Italy. Correction. I should be excited for Italy. Just a few months ago, I was excessively thrilled with the idea of casting off to Europe for a semester. Of course all of this was before my friends started to talk about moving back into the dorms. Senior year is scheduled to commence this weekend and I won't be there. It's my last first day of school and my first of many lasts in fact. I have no reason to buy pens or popstar laden folders and this disturbs me. Of all the years I could have studied abroad, I foolishly chose this year. I expect that this slight hint of regret will pass once I get overseas but until then, it's a difficult concept to digest.

My Italian vocabuluary is limited to "excuse me" and "thank you" so I went to Borders to pick up something a bit more expansive. There were a handful of options to assist in this matter, however, the only one I found of extreme value was the book offering expressions such as:

Quella tipa ha una malattia venerea?
She has a venereal disease.

E sicuramente una lesbo.
She is definitely a lesbo

Qualcuno ha fatto uno scoreggione!
Someone farted!

Afterwards, I bought a map of Florence which conveniently features every street excluding my own. I know where Pinko and Gucci are though, and I think that's really all that matters.

Okay. Now I'm excited.

Brooklyn last weekend. Fine dining and whining.

Humidity makes our bangs curl and that makes us sad beavers.

OKAY. SO. That mess you see is urine as produced by Nicole and myself. That wall was our BITCH.

Compensating for the lack of eyes with extra glow.

Eric replicating the Patrice smile. Shaniqua in the background.

Shiny shiny.

groupeffort @ 2006-08-16T00:15:00

2006-08-16T04:15:51Z

I don't know what I have against closed smiles. It appears as though I am always in limitless pain.

Ocean State Job Lot sells youth medium/large Hilary Duff tour t-shirts for $3. Let me know if you want in. I haven't even decided if I want in.

As for the Simple Life season finale, it was a waste of thirty minutes that could have otherwise been spent airing repeats of the Girls Next Door. It's an irrevocable fascination with those three. You can only imagine my giddiness when I came across the November 05 and September 06 issue the other day. Leave it to your friend's boyfriend's boss to have the issues archived on his kitchen countertop. Scones and airbrushed vag really pair together quite well, I'd say.

And since I don't hold back on information, I had my one year anniversary with the crotch doc on Friday. It was particularly special. I brought her roses, she swabbed my cervix; just great. Based on the circumstances (Read: legs spread like the Red Sea), I could not refrain from incessant giggling. I responded to her probing with what appeared to be absolute enjoyment but was actually in fact a disregard for maturity. From the beginning, I donned an expansive smile and did not stop until I made it to the parking lot. I guarantee she thought I was loving it -- loving it in the Saturday night, too many drinks, carpet craving kind of way.

Oh, and let's talk about the blood drive. I didn't eat breakfast prior to the donation, so they made me snack on some Lorna Dunes and juice before rolling up the sleeves. I wasn't really sure what to do with the trash so I tossed them in the closest bin and proceeded to my assigned chair. Just minutes later, I realized the container that I had brilliantly mistaken for the trash was the blood bin. It's not that it wasn't marked or anything, because it was. Blatantly. Size 400 font and thensome. What's particularly special about the event is that the nurses kept iterating how many Type O donations they had that morning. Type Oh Fuck, because I contaminated each and everyone one of those bags with my salivated cookie remains and an open bottle of juice.

700 people just died because of me.

How do we all feel about the Nikon Nikkor Coolpix 8700? It usually sells for about $600 - $800 but my co-worker is willing to hand it over for $250. I'm in desperate need of a camera for Italy especially since I am still sporting an HP Photosmart circa Jesus but I don't know how I feel about the chunk factor. Plus, I am wayy cheap. Advise me.

groupeffort @ 2006-08-09T00:25:00

2006-08-09T04:25:53Z

Two nosebleeds in two days. At least I didn't get it over my make out partner this time. Achievement.

The liner notes of Sufjan's new release really should have included a quiz organized to determine which version of "Chicago" one might identify with. Is your associative track the Acoustic Version, designed for those with a fixation for commitment and eye gazing? Perhaps the Adult Contemporary Easy Listening Version for the aging hipster who occasionally finds himself calling into Bedtime Magic with David Allan Boucher. There's also the Multiple Personality Disorder Version for those bearing erraticism and abandoned genitals. The final option would include none other than the critically acclaimed Illinois Version, intended for those with insatiable appetites for perfection.

I noticed my dad was on his way out the door in a Hawaiian t-shirt and khaki shorts so in my inquisitive fashion, I asked him where he was headed. "A wake," he said. What the fuck. Five hours later he comes home imbalanced and inebriated. To think that I've been skipping out on wakes all these years is just entirely troubling. More people should die so I too can booze in a celebratory manner.

Neither of my parents are willing to drive me to the airport for Italy. It's not even a matter of ability. We're strictly dealing with will here. There's talk about dropping me off at Logan Express in Framingham where I can then catch a bus to Boston -- a bus in which I assume if not predict I will have to pay for. I don't think they realize that August 26th is going to require heavy lifting in that I will need to be piggy-backed into the assigned terminal. With that said, if anyone wants to drive me to Logan, that would be greeeeaaat. The only pre-req is that your health is in fair enough condition that you can withstand ceaseless hugs.

I'm pretty much sick of attractive people.

groupeffort @ 2006-07-26T17:07:00

2006-07-26T21:15:51Z

CONFIRMED. Lance Bass likes it up the ass.

groupeffort @ 2006-07-25T09:53:00

2006-07-25T14:11:59Z

HYPERVENTILATING.

I have an appointment in less than 24 hours with the Italian Consulate in Boston to apply for my student Visa and my passport is NOWHERE to be found.

I don't think you understand the seriousness of this.

I AM SUPPOSED TO BE ON A PLANE IN A MONTH AND HAVE NO MEANS OF CROSSING INTERNATIONAL BORDERS.

HATE HATE HATE.

PATRICE + AMERICA = FOREVER

groupeffort @ 2006-07-24T00:14:00

2006-07-24T04:14:33Z

The day Italy won the World Cup.

Effective Date: 07.19.06
Effective State: Wasted

Let's talk Project Runway. Season three sucks irregularly shaped DICK. I have no idea what is going on with the judges. Kors, Klum, Garcia; all of them. Their calls are completely thoughtless and have yet to bear any validity. As respected operatives in the industry, they should be well equipped to properly assess the runway features and Auf Wiedersehen the underqualified.

There was no reason for Malan to go home last week, no reason at all. Although his Miss Universe dress was a bit flawed, he exuded far more potential then either Angela or fucking Vincent "Baskets Make Good Hats" Libretti. Vincent should have been axed Episode 1 and anyone who wishes to debate this is clearly a proud owner of Skechers. Episode 2 gave the judges a second chance to turn it all around and dispose of him as they should have from the get-go but naturally, they fucked it up yet again. Not that I wish to defend Angela, but she took so much crap from the judges for her lack of teamwork. Perhaps if Vincent didn't get all DICKtator on her, then there would have been room for involvement. He's a basket case, both literally and figuratively speaking, and he needs to peace out.

While we're on the topic of people who suck, who's idea was it to bring on Kate Spade as a guest judge? Her understanding of style is limited to stripes and hideousness. If hopeless amateurs are what they crave then we should certainly send Vera Bradley an invitation to deliberate.

And finally, I have a sweet little crush on Alison who is coincidentally from Massachusetts and studied at Lorenzo de Medici in Florence. Just. Like. Me. We're a bit of a match.

This concludes my Project Runway entry.