I'm writing, which means I have Sex in the City on. I don't know if I can write without it anymore. That pleasant distraction of multiple topics in a hilarious, witty, and articulate dialogue somehow serves as a white noise for me - I can concentrate completely. Also, explain to me Charlotte's hair. How the hell is it so healthy? Yeah, fine, she's on TV and there's a hair person there, but still. No hair person can help me like that, unless they have a great wig for me. Oh, side note on that - there's no need for the dermatologist because my mom and sister have pointed out to me that I'm not actually balding (no hair clumps in the drain, no clumps in the brush). If I'm not balding, that means it's just me…I guess I've just become more aware of it, probably from reading the message boards from hell. Anyway, thin hair - my mom's side. How did I get cheated out of my father's side of thick Asian hair? Ugh. Well, now that I know there's nothing I can do about it, I guess I'll just complain without any hopes of healing. Just kidding. Maybe not. Whatever.

Before I move on to talk about anything unrelated to Sex in the City, I want to mention the fact that I actually feel behind the times for not having my own DVD player. I just feel like I fell behind a few different times, and now I'm one of those old people who beat their clothes with a rock because washing machines are complicated and unnecessary. I missed out on a huge stepping stone for the internet living off campus my junior year. That was the beginning of ebay and napster. I return to campus and everyone owns every song ever written for free and I think I'm hot shit because I can check my email. Yeah, so this DVD thing - I mean, am I really going to be in the DVD section of Blockbuster? Actually, the DVD section is bigger than the VHS. I can't believe it. You can't even avoid racing technology if you want to because pretty soon, you'll be like me, racing to four different Blockbusters to find a VHS of Defending Your Life.

So, I bought a hat. Buying a hat is nearly always a bad idea. Strike that, it's always a bad idea. You stand in the store, you see a perfectly shaped, clean hat that makes you feel fabulous, maybe even British, and you think, "What the hell, I'm going to get this hat and be one of those people who wears a hat." You wear the hat all day, collect your haphazard compliments for feeling bold, rummage your room for a place to put a hat, and then it's over. It stays there in that spot until it gets moved to another, and then when you move out of your apartment, it falls into whatever crevice of the earth all your socks and bobby pins go.

My best friend, Katie, who was renting a room in my apartment for the summer moved out. She moved out to the greatest apartment of the greatest location in the history of the world and I'm so insanely jealous that I keep asking her what her expenses are so I can feel better about my fantastic $550 rent with an enormous single purple bedroom and free parking. Wow, I guess that does sound pretty good, but it's not. Not when you see her apartment. It is the exact apartment I would love to have. If me and Laura lived in there, or me and Katie…wow…that would be ideal.

So she moved out, and this new girl moved in, one of Lauren's friends named Jenny who seems like a nice girl and a good roommate. This guy Mike moved in to wear the last of the psycho roommates lived, so now I finally have a house filled with normal people. Yeah, normal people. Now, I'm a solo kind of person. Though I have a house of normal people, I pretty much never leave my bedroom. It's my own little wonderland, and I love it. It has everything I need, minus the fridge and toilet. Still, it's nice to know that when I'm walking to the bathroom, there is no chance of bumping into someone that makes me want to put a red hot needle in my ear drum. So, I thought my current living situation was great (not Katie's, but good). And then I got new neighbors.

Beer guzzling guitar players. I do not like their singing. Yes, there are a few people in the world who do not like my singing either, but…well, I'm not friends with those people so I don't give a shit. Anyway, all this would not bother me so much except that they like to do this beer guzzling guitar playing outside my window on their porch that I could probably reach out and grab from my bedroom. I mean, it's practically my porch.
God, I need an avocado right now. Do I really want to go all the way to the store to get it? I think I do. That's kind of annoying.

Just got back from the store. Three avocados. I've eaten 1¾ so far…and I feel ill without feeling full. I'm getting tired. That nap I should have taken three hours ago is finally catching up with me. The problem is that the only hours worth going to the gym are passing right now. If you go any later than this, the place is too crowded to find any free weights. Shit.

Tonight is going to be some great TV. Real World Las Vegas casting special with Cara and Theo and the final episode of American Idol where I get to watch the sweet Kelly Clarkson who makes my singing sound like a toad puking flies become the next voice we worship unconditionally for the next year. She'll grace every cover of every magazine, and I'll sit and wonder why I joined the one reality TV show that boosts you to a pleasant plateau which makes you feel high and on the way up only to discover that the Real World Road is a dead end…more like a drop off from which you can never climb back up. I don't want to say that completely. Jacinda is doing very well and is extremely respected in the acting world. I have my faith in others as well, even when the faith in myself dwindles from time to time. Sometimes I feel like a Real Worlder is ten times lamer than anyone else in the world. We're not famous. We're not celebrities. We're faces people recognize, and personalities people think they know. Basically, we're assholes whom everyone has the right to give shit. They don't really have the right, but that's a lot of people to argue with. It's no wonder that members of BMP Fraternity find friendship and love together. No wonder they become a colony of bitter people looking for a little understanding and patience. Ugh…I'm not getting into this pity the RWs again. Off of MTV and onto E!
So, Cindy won the Wild On host thingy. As soon as I saw her, there was not a doubt in my mind that she would win. Not even a doubt. This is something I wanted to talk about last entry. I don't understand Cindy's body. I really don't. You want to look at that body and say that no one can have it, but Cindy does, so explain that to me. She is perfectly defined, has zero body fat, but has a full chest. A nice chest. 34B, apparently. Okay people, it's anatomically impossible to have full breasts and no fat anywhere else in your body. No matter how much negotiating you do, you can't decide where you want to lose weight. You lose it, you gain it, sure, but you don't lose in your stomach and gain in your boobs. It isn't possible. Again, explain this body. Her boobs aren't real. Okay, I don't have a problem with boob jobs. I don't have a problem when anyone does anything to feel better about themselves. I have a shitload of makeup and products and moisturizes. I always have highlights with the exception of the black hair phase, and that couldn't have been farther from "real." So, why do we get so mad at the girls with perfect bodies? I don't know because though I make fun of that girl, I can't help but want to have her body. Is that wrong? I mean, I'm not unhappy with myself or anything of that sort, but I think her body looks great, I would like to have it for myself. Problem, I won't get the boob job ever, I like eating two avocados in one sitting, pizza with onions is unbelievable, late night snacking is sinfully fun, and medium rare bacon cheese burgers are purely pleasurable. I would like to not care. Working on that too.

Either way, good for Cindy. Bad for Lori. See, this is what I wanted to get to earlier. I'm getting panicky.
Watching all these TV shows is starting to eat away at me. I mean, I don't know why I'm not finishing Harry Potter 4 instead of watching all this crap that feels like too much direct pressure on my directionless future. This is the plateau thing I'm referring to. Cheesy reality, huh? Well, Kelly is loved by all and has a career in the making. Cindy will be traveling the world getting paid to be wild. And the world is not discriminating them because they watched it happen to them, because we saw them start as nothing and work their way up. Maybe my Reality Television article is wrong. Does this mean that I can work my way up? Does this mean only RWs are not allowed to work up? Do I really want to go up? Oh God, that's an enormous topic that deserves isolation from ramblings like this one. God, I need to rethink the structure of this site. I'm throwing all this on the main page when I would have normally thrown it in Random. Ugh, I'll have to figure this out later. Blah, blah, blah.

Okay, though I kind of want to go back to bed, I think I'm going to run around the res. I hope I can make it around twice, but it's easy to lose motivation when you're cramping and suffocating. We'll talk later.