A mausoleum full of half empty hairspray bottles and frayed glitter gloves.

This isn't really my idea of a good time. First Farrah and then Michael? I usually try not to pay too much attention to celebrity gossip. Sometimes it's fun to see pictures of those silly celebs running around acting all high and mighty. But most of the time, I'd rather be captivated by the way these men and women portray characters on the big screen. Or hear their poetry set to the strum of a guitar, the kick of a drum. But this is different. The only other time I can remember in recent years, that I felt this strongly about a celebrity death, was January 22, 2008. Heath Ledger. I remember it was senior year and there were midterms to be taken. Essays to write, math problems to solve. But instead of focusing on those words and numbers, I was focused on the motivation behind this man's death. Pretty much caught in the scandal of the media. This time, a man and a woman have died...all in the same day. One was "supposed" to happen and the other one was as sudden as a blizzard in the middle of July. And the entire time I'm watching coverage on both Farrah Fawcett's tragic battle with cancer and Michael Jackson's weakened heart, I can't help but to think of everyone who has been touched by both of these legacies. (No pedophile jokes, yo!) These two, Farrah and Michael, are completely opposite in character; one a beautiful and iconic woman with hair for miles and a smile to match it, the other a King in his own sense with dance moves that shake the world. But they're both symbols of the world. It's tragic. It's not cool when someone is so consumed by their cancer that they practically melt away. Just like it's not cool when someone is overtaken by an unexpected massive heart attack. She was 62. He was 50. What the hell? Fucked up, man.

The important thing to remember while all of this media attention continues, is that the careers of Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett cannot be the only defining factor. She was a mother, a daughter, a friend, a sister. He was a father, a son, a friend, a brother. Two normal people in the loosest of terms. I'm a daughter, a sister, a friend, maybe one day a mother. Not so different.... Putting aside any unintentional rumors about molesting children, I'm pretty sure 50 years old is too young to die. There are a lot of people already who have fired out "good riddance, he was trash anyway" or "he may have had some good hits, but he still touched little boys." Wow...that's cool, guys. So did the little boy tell you this himself, or are you going off of what Wikipedia might have to say about the ruling of MJ's court trials? All I'm saying is what defines a person is not the media. Unfortunately, the truth may never be revealed now, but it's not like the public eye really had any business sticking their greedy noses into his business anyway. Before you start bashing Michael's affection for children, try taking a gander into the church around the corner...ya know, the one that's so deeply cherished for it's generosity? ... ya got any stories about the Priest? Or is there a justification cause he's in the Lord's house? I'm not a church goer myself, nor have I been diddled (it's a word) by Priests, so what truly gives me any say in the matter of faulty clergy? Point is, I don't know bout yo' Father Figures, just like you don't know bout the King of Pop. So instead of pointing a finger at rumored pedophilia in the pew or some squishy activity at Neverland Ranch, let's try to consider other qualities. Like the fact that Michael Jackson is probably the best dancer to ever grace a stage. Damn.

I think listening to the sounds of the Jackson 5 while Charlie's Angels plays on the tv in the background is the correct way to handle this. What do you think?

Eyes are like champagne. They sparkle, bubble over and in the morning all you got is rain.

Right now, my hands are veiny. I think it's cause I was doing a lot of strenuous work. Like opening and closing my dresser drawers multiple times. Yeah, that's probably what created the veiny appearance of my hands. Sometimes veins are gross when they bulge out like underground roadways. Hondas and Mini Coopers poking through your skin, riding down I-95. Yuck. But right now, my hands aren't sick nasty. The street under my skin is merely just a one way. Narrow and discrete. I wonder why I'm talking about my veins. Have I seriously run out of topics to blaguh about? Pssh, hail NO.

Wanna know the reason I've been opening and closing my drawers? Ok. It's cause I'm interested in the clothes that I own. Especially a new dress that was purchased today. Twelve dollahs. Cha-ching. I'm playing dress up. And then dress down. And then dress up again. My face is being painted with purples and greens that accent my hazelnut eyeballs. The sort of hourglass that is my hips and my torso is being wrapped in soft cloth. I'm heating my hair with a ceramic iron until it's forced to stand straight just so I can pin half of it up and pretend I'm some kind of greek goddess. All the while, Josh Ritter is singing me tunes about his girl in the war (see: alcoholic title) and a thin blue flame. I'm glad I listen to his music, but especially his words. He is a brilliant poet. Having a secret love affair with every meaning of every word. Mister Ritter is having a major impact on me...so much that I had a crazy weird dream involving him turning into Rob Schneider (of SNL, Big Daddy and all those other Sandler flicks). But besides the silly metamorphosis, Joshua is superb as ever.

I need to take away some of the yellow on my walls. By that, I mean I need to find adequate wall hangings. I might just have to start drawing more. And that's fine. But I want things that I don't do. All I've been drawing are old women that turn into popcorn boxes. And I don't know how much I want to see a saggy woman on my wall everyday. So I think what needs to happen is I need to go dumpster diving (or you could just give me anything you don't want anymore. Fabric, posters, orange peels....anything). Also, if you have old time books that you aren't interested in anymore, send them my way, por favor. Tanks a bunch.

I'm going to build an ark. I figure with all this rain, I'm sure this is like Noah part II, right? Except this time, I want the ark to be a petting zoo. And the main attraction will be alpacas. Gots ta make a livin' :)

The fringes on the rug broke your vacuum cleaner, sir.

I'm not feeling extremely wordy as of right now. But I can't think of anything else to do that won't put me to sleep. I could continue on reading Dharma Bums to enlighten me spiritually and Kerouac-y. But once I do, my eyes will get heavy and I will have no other choice but to doze off into dreamland. If I wanted, I could sketch my face. I attempted that two nights ago because I was feeling particularly self confident as well as radiant in my appearance. But soon after my 3B (I work dark) pencil was set down on the paper, and my soft curls bounced around the egg shape that is my head, I grew drowsy again. What is making me so goddamn tired? It's not like I'm working my ass off at jobs. I'm not raising a bunch of kids, trying to make them successful products of the world. I'm pretty much sitting on my ass waiting for opportunities to arise. And some have. Like today. I ripped down (unscrewed) my fan blades and painted them. Seven years ago when I moved to this house, my mom painted my fan a precious shade of puke orange. It was too much and didn't really go with my new room at all. So today I fixed it. If you had to compare the end product of what I did to an organ in your body, it would most closely resemble the heart. The colors of the fan are blood red and aorta blue. Just kidding....cardinal red and turquoise. Same thing though, right?

It's 10:29. What am I going to do to stay awake? Can you please start a conversation with me. Tell me how 85% of your day is spent thinking about me, so I can tell you that 86% of my day is spent thinking of you. Hop through these hours with me like a cricket in flight. But don't hop too high, cause I want to savor this time.

What's the "N" stand for? North.

Today I watched Into the Wild for the third time this summer. From June to August last year, I watched the movie 12 times. I honestly can say that I could watch that film over and over again and never reach the point where I want to turn it off. In life, there are some things that can re-route your existence. Some may be rewarding like witnessing that lottery drawing between Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune that includes those same numbers that you've etched so delicately on a piece of paper for the last 15 years. Or seeing that pink plus sign on a plastic stick that screams out "Welcome Aboard the Mommy Train." It's possible the re-route may just be a simple change in scenery that paints the new landscape of retired life. Well Christopher McCandless and his story will never be considered simple, but they definitely have figured out a way to make me more aware of myself. I plan on watching Sean Penn's brilliance at least 17 more times this summer, mostly because my tv has decided on dishin' out Showtime and it's been playing frequently, but also because there is nothing more refreshing than opening a can of wanderlust. Who can deny that feeling to live, to escape? There may be two of three handfuls of people out there who think the sole purpose of living is to surround yourself by humanity. That can be part of it, but don't reject the part where you grow as a result of seclusion. Part of finding out who you are is based on the interactions...completely. I am a strong believer in that. (I wrote about everyone having a story. it's true.) But there's another part of yourself, the part that relies on being alone with your thoughts to gain a deeper understanding of strength. But who am I to tell you what not to reject...live your life the way you see fit, even if that means being surrounded by the chattering non-stop of the world. But I'm pretty sure you'll always have that desire to be footloose, just like good ol' Supertramp :) ...expect another entry about this before the summer ends. it's inevitable!

A year and 4 days ago I graduated from high school. About an hour ago, close to five hundred fresh faces were introduced to their diplomas as well. Now all that's left is a graduation celebration tonight, about 52 parties and two summer months before a gaggle of new kids on the block can finally rid themselves of their 13 year old public school titles. Once these kids move on to their higher education, the football player that everyone in school knew only by a single name, just like Aristotle, Jesus and Beck, might have to settle on being called "that kid in my Psych class" from now on. The girl who was notorious for having a bird nest of frizz perched on her head can forget the way she used to style her hair and buy a flat iron. No more name calling or misunderstood personality traits. The dork can finally date the suave intellectual. A year ago, I hated the fact that I was leaving behind the comfort of public schools and I'm sure there are a lot of others in that same boat as I sit here and type. But they don't know how good it is. How good it will be.

Would you see then, what I see now?

I woke up from a nap an hour and 32 minutes ago. My body still hasn't adjusted to being awake from the 45 minute slumber that consumed me. Sure, my right arm has stopped tingling from being shoved under my body without room to breathe, but that's only because I haven't stopped moving it since I woke up. Either way, I have a feeling I'm becoming dependent on the semi unconscious world of sleep. Last night, it took an hour and a half after I layed down to actually fall into sleep, until there was some yelling in the house that shook me awake for another 2 hours. I was three inches from pretending I had back pain so I could take some p.m. medicine and call it a day. Or night, rather. There were many things that created an unpleasant atmosphere for me last night, but the only thing that matters is my brain activity. Putting aside the humidity of my room and the mattress pad that won't stop spilling me off the edge of the bed along with it's down feathered innards, I was completely racked with ideas. I like it, but only during the day, please. Not when I'm trying to rest. That's why I've been frequenting the napping scenario so much this summer. My brain tells me that it's better to consider the happenings of that day rather than who to meet in my dreams.

As the sun was setting last night, the sky turned magical. All day, we were stuck with the drab gray sky. Maybe a slight hint of dark gray came about every once and a while when a storm threatened to explode. It wasn't until about eight thirty that the gray went away and the sky worked up the most intense orange I'd ever seen. A bright orange that turned the green grass into an illuminated brown. It turned the red car across the street into a fire engine. The newly paved road separating my townhouse from the ones across the way glittered with the orange lava burst. Even the kids running around in sandals throwing hula hoops into the air glowed as the surreal light made it's way onto their tiny cheeks. But as time continued and the sun was making room for the moon, there had still been some dark blue and gray storm clouds that forgot to vanish. So as this synthetic orange color blew up the sky and mixed with the blue clouds, I couldn't help but to compare what I was seeing to a bruise. I was looking up at the world's largest kneecap with the biggest Oowwiiee known to man! Maybe the kneecap hit into one of those damn corners of the table, and what I was seeing in the sky was the result. A tie dyed contusion of the healing process every great bruise endures. And as I looked up from my bedroom window, I got to see first hand. It was pure and beautiful. For the 12 minutes it stayed, anyway.

I miss my roomie. It's been 26 days since I've seen her. I wish we were rooming together next year. She'll pretty much no matter what happens, always be my roomie. Even in 30 years when we meet up in her trailer park neighborhood, with Gretta and Babs for our monthly book discussion, I'll still refer to her as Roomie. And when her children get knocked up and have babies, I'll tell them how great 2008 and 2009 were when we paraded down the hallway in our bras and underwear (Oh wait..that didn't happen!) or smacked the ceiling with all our power to let our upstairs neighbors know that it's not proper etiquette to have bowling tournaments in their dorm room at 3 in the morning. (that definitely happened!). She's probably the most well rounded person I've ever known, mostly because she doesn't exercise (i keed i keed. you are jacked!) but she also knows who she is and I love that. SAMantha ya friggin dork! You smell like a turnip bulb <3

Castle Clouds in the Sky

I can't decide if I'm cold or freezing. I also can't unravel as to why my face won't stop sneezing. Is it allergies or am I coming down with some silly case of the sick? One minute I feel peachy and pretty content with being blanketed by my skin. The next minute, I'm considering if my quilted epidermis has developed some holes that I wasn't aware of, letting in a frigid breeze. I'd be glad to patch up any mishaps, but I just can't seem to locate them. I'm uncomfortable to say the least. Thinking of June 4, I expect to be clad in thin cotton shorts and an airy tee as I prepare for sleep, not my sagging winter pants and a rounded long sleeve shirt. Who am I kidding? It's about to be summer...I need to get over this sniffly goop and get back into my June frame of mind.

Last Monday, I became a productive part of my own personal society. I applied for jobs. Only two in real life and half of one over the interwebs. I took my time gazing through the mall in search of places I felt would best suit my needs. Out of probably about 50 stores, I only felt two would suffice. I don't care what you or anyone else has to say, but I can't find it in me to throw down with the old folks who shop at Boscovs. And I definitely can't wear a fake referee shirt and fit people's feet all day for the right size shoe at one of the Foot Lockers. Hell noooo...a girl's gotta have standards, right? Prior to my application process, however, I browsed in some of the stores in hopes to find some new attire that would provide adequate relief in the blistering summer months. (apparently I don't need anything summery at this moment in time...dumb goosebumps and head clog!) The browsing helped ease the tension of the scary job hunting. I'm a newcomer in a lot of ways, especially when it comes to making the money. I'm pretty damn good at saving my cash $ so it wasn't too much of an issue before. I never felt it was necessary to have a job. I didn't really need the things other kids had (i.e. a car or a life). Now that I'm a big time college student, with big time loans, it's probably best to be making some sort of dough. Plus, I never really intended to make a life long career out of standing on the street corner. It was more of an after school hobby.

So applications went through to Bath & Body Works and Barnes & Noble. *Note to self: Don't limit yourself to only jobs with an "&" symbol in their name* I got halfway done with FYE, which had an online application, but then I stopped temporarily until I decide who my professional references can be. Hey, do you wanna be a professional reference for me?! So basically, out of the jobs I've applied to/sort of applied to, I've got some pretty sweet ass times ahead of me if I'm hired to one of the three. I could either be a scented chick who tries to sell you loads of lotions, the crazy chick with the knowledge and good looks (bahahahaha! I meant good books!) or I could be the sassy ass chick who can provide directions to the newest release in heavy metal music. I hope I get a job. It kind of sucks that I have no prior work experience though. Not only did it make for a pretty thin application but people might think I'm lazy cause I haven't ever had a job. I'm not, though. Maybe a little. And I've already heard from some friends and zee Mudder that it shouldn't matter if I don't have prior work experience cause my charming ways and personality should win the employers over. Hmmm...true. But it wasn't that easy to dish out full frontal Kim and make a bitchin' first impression when close to the only words spoken were "What is the process for applying at fill-in-the-blank store?" and "Thank you". It'll be better if I get an interview. Keep yo' fingers crossed!

When I was done applying/becoming sucked into a world that works for money instead of pleasure, I took a stroll to a patch of grass outside of the book store. It was sandwiched in between a parking lot and a busy road. I just sat there. At one point, I layed down. Why not, right? A year ago, if I had been in the same position on that same spot, I highly doubt I would have found comfort in the prickly grass and yellow dandelions. But I honestly felt no shame in maneuvering in between passing cars to plop myself down and just look up. Maybe people were looking at me. Maybe they were too concentrated on rushing home to grab a bite before it was time to return to the routine of working for money as well. Either way, I felt good.

Additions to my room (post 1930's kitchen desk):
- A beautiful sunburst pattern batik cloth that is nailed to the frame where my closet door used to be. The "door" almost has a tie dye feel to it. There are amazing greens, blues and yellows in it but the main color is the exact purple that contradicts the yellow of my walls perfectly.
- An assigned painting on primed, ripped kraft paper of a chair that I did first semester. Now when I say a chair, I really mean a close up of a bundle of winter trees with their boney limbs. The painting holds a great deal of significance because my professor had asked us to paint a chair on paper about six feet tall. I was the only one to not paint a portrait of my desk chair or a bar stool. Instead I chose to portray a tree, which as you know, does indeed act as a chair and for this I received a thorough pat on the back. Birds and squirrels choose to sit on a tree's branches. During a game of hide and seek, young children might climb 15 feet off the ground and sit on a dense branch hoping the seeker won't look up. Hell, you could cut down the wooden subject of my black and white painting and mold it into a normal chair that is fit to go under the cut out of a desk. It is different and it has a good message behind it. Think outside of the box.
- Insignificant drawings of pancakes, mountain ranges, parakeets from Detroit and a free vacuum courtesy of Oprah once she dies.

Sufjan Stevens. Paradise and Ypsilanti.

Dootsie Pringle says we're all just human beans

“We were once so fresh, a dazzling snowfield. Let’s promise to each other that if we ever meet again we will never plow and push our new-fallen snow. We will not become slush. We will stay like this field and melt away together only in the sun’s good time.” - Stargirl

It's true. Star people are rare. Reading Love, Stargirl was probably the best decision I could have made coming into summer. About five years ago (wow) I read Jerry Spinelli's Stargirl, not expecting any major feelings to come out of it. And to be honest, the thoughts of that non conformist girl who was unhappy with her blah name really didn't have an impact on my way of life. When I was in eighth grade, I thought it was great that the main character was cool enough to change her name unofficially and set up her own personal picnic area during each separate class. But it didn't really hit me until probably last year when I revisited the idea of Spinelli's fictional Star person. I am so relieved that I am not just like you, or you, or even you. I am me. (really, kim?) I am so happy that I don't own designer labels just to be like other girls. And I'm happy that I am creative enough to think of my own ideas. For cereal. This sequel book is so incredibly inspiring. I read it in a matter of only a couple of days. I've never done that with a book before considering how slow I read and how I feel it is necessary to digest almost every word on a page. But this book was slightly different and written so well. In a series of letters to Leo, Stargirl wrote for the duration of a year to the boy she fell in love with. She talked about her five year old best friend, Dootsie, who went as a square waffle for Halloween and won best costume in the "festibal'. Stargirl spoke of a possible new fling with Perry, the poor thief with piercing blues and a mysterious presence. For months, Stargirl's main goal was to create real time using spatulas and the sun in preparation for the Solstice to cast a tiny beam of light.

At one point, Stargirl was given some great advice from Betty Lou. She was told that "today is calling to you, trying to get your attention, but you’re stuck on tomorrow, and today trickles away like water down a drain. You wake up the next morning and that today you wasted is gone forever." If that advice doesn't apply to me 104%, then I don't know what advice does! God damn, I should really take these words and run. Run 2 hours north. I need to just go, right Betty Lou? Because if I keep considering what tomorrow might hold, I'm going to spend all my time not focusing on what today could hold. It's just that every time I think about possibly doing (I'm Hamlet, remember?) something that will kick this situation into high gear, I think about what might go wrong instead. It's the opposite of what I want. But similar to the agoraphobic Betty Lou, I'm also slightly afraid of an unfamiliar environment. I've become comfortable in this safe place of mine because it's basically all I know. So venturing out into back alleys, places I've never been before will just send me into a fit of squeals (and twist waving). Fortunately, Betty Lou took her own advice and left her house after nine long years of seclusion, so I have faith that I will grow a set very soon and spill my beans. That sounds nasty but it's not. Plus, it's very possible that he could be my Leo. My star boy :)

I wish there was a third installment of Stargirl. I'm not done reading about her eccentricities. I'm not done comparing her actions to things that I've done, or would do as well. A lot of people I run into who have read this book say how amazing it is. It's true..it's pretty damn fancy. I think as a result of this, I'm going to start a happy wagon where I put pebbles in it (I'll try not to take any out) when I'm super happy. Amen to being unique. Keep it up! here here. cheers. shalom!

IN 12 HOURS FROM NOW (8:05 a.m.) I WILL BE A NINETEEN YEAR OLD FRUIT LOOP!