http://whatevergatsby.wordpress.com/

What up, four hour layover in NYC?

Oh. Don’t feel too bad for me, kiddies. I’ve got Season 5 of “Gilmore Girls”, “Elf”, and “Roman Holiday” to tide me over

Cannot wait to be in Chicago already. I have so much to write and talk about, that I feel like a drunken Russian man who has had far too much vodka. At 12:32 in the afternoon.

I know. Classy.

I have no idea what I’m going to do once I make landfall in Chicago, but I’m thinking a few of the following are definite must-dos:

1. Not get mugged. (I’m wearing a shirt that says “Hairy Otter” and a picture of an otter Harry Potter on it. I think that will help my case a little bit.

2. Possibly sneak into the Harper Library at UChicago

3. Get acclimated in the hostel I’m staying in for the next few days. Hopefully make friends with a bunch of swedes, as that seems like what you normally do in a hostel.

4.Cause a raucous i.e. gallivant around Lincoln Park, Millenium Park, Grant Park, and/or see Second City (and have my Mary Tyler Moore “You’re gonna make it after all” moment of glory.

5. Scrap all ideas for #4 and just sleep. And try and get a job. ‘Cause I totally got scarred today in JFK by having to buy a $10 sandwich as that was the most reasonable thing.

Le sigh. What a hard life I lead.

I’ll see you when I see you!

P.S. New Blog (‘cause, come on. This one is getting wayyyyy to ironic for its own good.) =

www.whatevergatsby.wordpress.com

Really. I promise. With bunion cream and dentures on top.

This topic in general is pretty ironic, given the fact that I was lurked on by multiple geezer men at the beach yesterday. It only affirmed my plans to get myself to the nunnery! Ophelia-style.

Second City, we’re going to be BFFs SO SOON (4daysbutwhoiscounting?)

But unfortunately for me, I don’t have a sassy gay friend to keep me from having weird (does anyone else have these?) crushes on older dudes.

To each his own?

Meanwhile back at the ranch, I made a mental list of old man crushes of mine that I’d be totally cool with giving up eating excessive amounts of garlic and the nunnery in order to woo.  Don’t hate, appreciate. Like I always say, feel free to cringe.

Stephen Colbert

Come on. I don’t even think I have very many guy friends that don’t completely want Stephen Colbert’s bod. If you don’t agree with me, you might just be a terrorist; a Love Terrorist.

Man, that would’ve been such a good name for a love song in the ‘80s.

I’m just going to say, that at the age of nineteen I’ve never wanted to be the statue of liberty or a cat so badly in my life.

 Steve Martin

This, I could have seen coming. I grew up watching “The Jerk” and “The Three Amigos”, all of the movies in “Father of the Bride” series, and reruns of SNL from the ‘70s.

And I’ll admit, I always wanted Steve Martin to be my father and he’d play me lullabies on the banjo and perform stand-up on a whim, and be an all-around “wild and craaaaazy guy” when I was growing up.

But I can say in all seriousness that if I was alive during the ‘60s and ‘70s I would have most definitely wanted Steve Martin to be my male companion and I’d sit on his lap, and most likely try to seduce him.

  I’m all about honesty here, guys. And running themes of creepy crushes holding cats.

Dustin Hoffman

Maybe it’s because they were playing “The Graduate” tonight that I reflected on the first time I saw the movie and how it launched my big-time crush on the gray fox that is now Dustin Hoffman, my all-time favorite actor. Seriously. I have such a crush on D. Hoffman that I have “Dustin Hoffman movie nights” with my best friend.

Which does not exclude the comedic gem of the movie “Tootsie”. If this movie doesn’t cheer you up, then you can join the people who don’t have crushes on Stephen Colbert, you Love Terrorists.

Why yes, I AM trying to seduce you, Mr. Hoffman.

Bruce Springsteen

Noooooot gonna lie. I’ve totally had a crush on the Boss since the age of eight. STRAIGHT UP COMMITMENT RIGHT THERE. And I definitely wanted to be Courtney Cox in the “Dancing in the Dark” video. Desperately.

And if the fact that I wanted to name my first cat “Springsteen” and get him black leather kitten-pants and teach him how to meow “Thunder Road” by heart doesn’t prove my point, then I don’t know what will.

Daaaaaaaaayumn.

And that’s that. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to enjoy the rest of my night either Photo-shopping my face over the wives of these strapping old men, or ogling Andy Samberg on SNL.

I’m not sure which one is better.

I can’t lie. If someone asked me out by reciting the lines of “You Can Call Me Al” by Paul Simon I’d definitely say yes.

If you’ll be my bodyguard
I can be your long lost pal
I can call you Betty
And Betty, when you call me
You can call me Al!

Come to think of it, if a guy ever decided to propose to me and and all my craziness I don’t think I’d say yes unless he asked me to “be his body guard” and for him to be “my pal Al”. Extra brownie points if he asks me to be the Chevy Chase to his Paul Simon.

BUT NOT UNTIL I’M THIRTY.

P.S. 10 days until Chicago. Not that I’m counting or anything…

“So, ya got any boyfriend yet?!”

I’ve usually tried to figure out some witty response or something uncomfortably awkward so that the conversation can be steered towards something more neutral and less embarrassing, like table linens or what kind of air freshener they use (Hopefully, “eau du Febreeze”).

I usually stick to the following replies:

“Eh. I had one once, but he fell off a cliff and died on impact.” (My brother and I both use this one, actually. Thanks, “Happy Gilmore!”)

“I was dating this one guy once, but then I found out he was actually a…she. AWK-WARD!”

or

“I have many friends that are boys, so kind of you to ask. Wanna play Mario Kart with us?”

But when it really comes down to it, I’m just not as fixated on dating and guys as I was in high school. It’s just not that important to me. I’m not even all that skilled at giving a crap about what certain text-message/facebook replies mean and in what context, looking up the zodiac sign of my ideal mate, or if I chew a certain flavor of gum because the guys in “Seventeen” magazine say it makes a girl “TOTALLY KISSABLE!”.

And that’s not to say it’s due to the fact that I’m in anyway uncomfortable with myself or feel that I’m going to die alone amongst cats and fur-covered muu-muus. Far from it. Even though I oftentimes make jokes about becoming a spinster or a nun, due to the evident tumbleweeds that blow through my love life. Heck, I embrace the fact that when I wake up (and even up to several hours after I wake up) my hair STILL defies all laws of Hair-odynamics.

Really. We need some scientists over here to figure out why on earth I can go to sleep with wet hair and wake up next morning with the closest thing white girls get to Jheri curls.

And besides I really like the way I look when I wake up in the morning. It’s probably my favorite part. And I don’t think “Ew, gross” when I look in the mirror like a sad percentage of girls my age do. I usually do more of “Hey, how you doin’ ”, because who doesn’t like being woken up by an impression of Joey from “Friends”?

And I embrace any form of flatulence. Either caused by me or anyone else. To be honest, I usually give high-fives for either.

So in short, I’m really daggone comfortable with myself. And I’d be totally okay with not dating until I’m thirty. Or whenever, but it really doesn’t need to be now. Actually, I’d love to not date right now. I embrace date nights with myself anyways. Home cooked dinners with myself ( I make a mean grilled cheese and tomato sammich. Why, thanks, self! No problem, self! You’re the sweetest, Mackenzie. I’m so glad I met you, Mackenzie…)

Yeah.

Which isn’t to say I’m some bra-burning feminist screaming to the high heavens about Freud and chauvinism. No. I’m just interested in so many other things that dating is the last thing on my mind. You see, I realized today when I made a mental 1 year plan of my life while talking Chicago-talk with mother dearest.

My rough plan is to take enough classes at Second City so that I can audition to be apart of their conservatory, some acting troupe, or any other acting/writing opportunity that comes my way in some mysteriously magical fashion.

But if it doesn’t, what do I do? Which is where I pretty much realized that no, at that point I wouldn’t pack up my bags and go bee-line it back to school to go a more reliable and clear-cut route.

(Also, if you were wondering. If I ever did go back to school it’d probably be to become a veterinary science major, so that I could become a bear trainer. No lie. That’s the only reason why I’d go get schooled.)

Freedom would taste too much like being able to get a gyro at 3 a.m. when you could only get gyros on old people time (4:30p.m., as in dinner at New College). Yaknowwhatimean?!

Yeah, I’m probably pack up my bags and move to Prague. ‘Cause I can. And I’ve always wanted to go to Prague. And I could teach English and learn Czech and all of my high school linguistic-dork dreams could come true, finally.

So in short, I’m kind of a big old bag of crazy. And I’m not expecting any guy to be able to ready for all this jelly. And that’s fine. ‘Cause I’m my own best friend. Really. I’m moving too fast in way too many different directions all at once for anything that even the most romantic part of me isn’t screaming out in pain. (And if you were wondering, I do have my chick moments and have most definitely planned parts of my wedding. Cake. First Dance. And the groom is wearing a monocle, jacket with coat-tails, and a top hat with a cane. Oh, and a string quartet playing “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey will play me down the aisle, by the way.)

And I’d much, much rather focus on having an awesome job that I love and will be there for me indefinitely. And anyways, I make daggone good grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches AND I’m good at watching movies without giving away the end…to myself.

And besides, by the time I’m 30 Andy Samberg will be 42 and the fact that we have a 12-year age difference won’t be so weird to society.

I wish I was joking.

Kind of.

Oh, to uncover you
Your claw submerged under sediment, tar, your own words
And I would have you, preserved in amber
And copies made to be overpriced at science centers.

But you are not some majestic, rampant saber-tooth tiger
You outran the towering of dirt, heat, and time.
Your large talons scratched out of the debris unscathed.

And I was left with only a rusting trowel,
A go-get-‘em attitude, and a fading, worn-in cap.

As eons passed , I have found nothing,
Only twisted, dried out weeds, and
Not even a fang to string around my neck
Or a foot to keep for good luck, for more discoveries to come,
Of more missed glances to report by kerosene lamps on crumbling parchment

I could’ve uncovered you
Been the face in front of flashing, intoxicating lights
Beneath large exclamations of bolded text to be read by proud relatives.

If only you had been so gracious,
To allow the welcoming hands of time, pressure, and clay
To imprint themselves upon you, in the places where I could not.

My tool kit, all the while, glinting in the sun, in my eyes
Chiseling away chunks, in waiting to find that something
An arm, a tooth,
A something, an anything.
Even if it was the quarter out of your pocket.

Or rather, we’re all creepily looking into everyone’s lives, lurking their Facebook pages, which have come to be today’s version of silently creeping through your ex-boyfriend’s air-vents.

Wait, what?

But really. I’m not exempt from this trend. I mean, really. You’re talking to the girl who has a blog-tag with the word “creep” on it; a tag that is ENTIRELY TOO LARGE AND NOTE TO SELF: I SHOULD DO SOMETHING ABOUT THAT?!

And although I’m no Humbert Humbert (…or am I?!), I do find myself creeping as well as admiring other atypical voyeuristic things on that glorious thing called the internet, most notably the “What’s in your bag?!” photo collection.

Yeah. Sorry if I made you lose an hour or two of your life. Too. Daggone. Fascinating.

Which leads me to, yes, the contents of MY purse. My purse, like my mind, is a pretty terrifying place to be at times, but sadly my purse does not have The Beegees and Vampire Weekend as the soundtrack. Not going to lie.

Behold, my purse that swallows up junk like it thinks it’s Mary Poppins’ purse.  That due to my lack of girliness, I did not even realize was a vintage Coach bag until a week after I bought it at a thrift store. Figures.

And the junk that I put force into it. Now, not all of it fits in there at once, but all of this finds its way into my beloved purse from time to time. I occasionally sit on it to make it fit. Kiiiiind of.

Two, count ‘em TWO (out of the six?!) Burt’s Bees lip glosses I own, the most sinister-looking hair clip ever, eau du Febreeze (<3), and matches from a seedy comedy club in Sarasota. Just to pull it all together.

NERD ALERT, I repeat, NERD ALERT! Books and journals. Yup, those are two super hipster Moleskine journals (one planner, one journal chronicling Chicago plans), ANOTHER journal (chronicling other thoughts of a nineteen year old girl. So it’s mad deep, of course), “The Little Prince” by Antoine de Saint Exupery (a.k.a. the book that is the equivalent of a “Chicken Soup for the Soul: Peter Pan Complex edition” to me), and “The Salmon of Doubt” by Douglas Adams, my author crush that I had a book-date with tonight.

  Post-its for Operation Beautiful, a Pizookie coupon (??!?!?!?!??!?!), and a lovely letter from my dear friend Chelsea.

Who could be a good nerd without their good ol’ fashion Tina Fey glasses and pencil/ pen case?! “Blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!”, said my pen case.

Yeah. I love pens that much. The purple sharpie pens are my favorite, but don’t tell the other 40 (?) pens and highlighters that.

Don’t hate. I just really love color-coordinating things.  

Chelsea <3 Look, The Biltmore Estate!  Also known to me as the “Hogwarts of America”.

And that’s that!

What’s in YOUR purse? Tongue of dragon? Tooth of Wolf? Your cousin’s inhaler? Dog treats?! Come on, I AM a voyeur.

If you are a girl and you don’t find that you relate to this song, heart and soul, you might not have a heart or a soul.

If you are a guy, I’m sorry if your manhood was compromised by the overwhelming amount of estrogen in that song.

And the fact that she does a cover on “Irreplaceable” by Beyonce makes her almost too sweet that you get diabetes.

But I think my use of the word “magical” extends far from house elves dropping cakes and the shenanigans of adolescent teens kickin’ tail and takin’ names.

Ah, yes. The magic of the internet. Where you find that after 10 minutes of writing a paper that is due the next day, you are drifting off to checkin’ out some sweet picz of a hill on a different day or pictures of bookshelves so beautiful you might cry a bit on the inside.

But then again, that’s just me.

Books.

Could you expect anything else from yours truly? Well, if you did, just close your eyes and scroll until you find something off the subject of books. Actually, that’s not a good idea. You’ll probably still find something about books and decided to curse my name.

Anyways! So I definitely have the habit of looking for new, more hardcore (harder-corer?!) book resources for my budding bibliophilic self. And my mother so very much appreciates this, I’m sure.

Especially since I’ve been takin’ over every spare space on our bookshelves like I’m Cecil Rhodes or something.

That’s right.

But my two favorite tumblrs have just made my imperialist tendencies grow ever more and I can honestly say that when I go back home there will seriously be a Scramble for Bookshelvica.

‘Cause I mean, who can honestly say they still have motivation to write papers after discovering bookshelves to impose their mother country’s laws upon of such beauty and intrigue?!

This is basically me when I go home. Not even lying. Except that all of these books are on my bed and one of those cameras would be replaced with a mug full of ice cream. Not even gonna lie.

Oh, and The Book Seer is always a good resource that saves me 50 pages (I have a 50-page “If it’s totally crappy I will stop” rule) and time that might be spent reading terrible books.

The stuff I look at when I run out of books.

 Virtual Gilmore. Yeah, the jig is up. I am THAT fan of Gilmore Girls that after endlessly searches to see if they are ever going to make a movie after the show. Virtual Gilmore is basically my dream come true. It’s a bunch of people with a lot of time on their hands (sound like anyone familiar?) that write their own Gilmore Girl episodes, THAT ARE ACTUALLY GOOD!

Okay, I’m going to finish this one before I get too excited and use far too much capslock.

Ah, Hark, a Vagrant. The reason why I lost so much time that should’ve been spent doing homework. Probably because I don’t consider this to be a guilty pleasure like bookshelf ogling or reading fake transcripts of “Gilmore Girls”, mostly because it is about 300+ comics based off of historical figures and events, made by a woman who got a history degree. Since I’ve decided to leave school, I’m pretty sure that at the end of four years I will get an honorary history degree from iTunes U podcasts and Hark,a Vagrant, as that’s how homegirl over here is going to get her knowledge fix.

And last but not least, some of my favorite magical photographers: 

 Jan von Holleben

and Paul Octavious

Who, alongside Chelsea (who taught me what manual focus does, and now I can finally use my SLR without disgracing it), have made me want to get my photographic feet wet, ya know?

Dang, I’m impressed. For a subject like magic I only referenced “Harry Potter” once.

Crap.

But this post might get deep.

In fact, it might get MAD DEEP.

So deep that you all might want to refer to me as “Ocean” from now on, that deep.

Except I would spell it like “O-shun”, ‘cause I’ve heard you get more street-cred that way.

Speaking of oceans, this is my most favorite ocean. The Billy one.

Okay, so I guess I should get back on track, but to be honest all my endless yabbering about oceans isn’t that off subject when you really think about it.

I guess the idea for this post came from the fact that I found that I really needed to let people know of my plans of moving to a place that’s quite far away from oceans by the end of this month. You know, it’s kind of odd to just not let people know of my plans to skiddaddle so soon without letting them know until I set off upon my grand odyssey and be all voyager –like. That just wouldn’t be very Odysseus-like, yaknow? And Home(r)-girl (Ya see what I did there ) over here’s got to be courteous to the lovely,amazing, fabulous friends she’s made over the last couple of months.

But I have to say that what others have said to me in response to my grand plan have made this choice any easier and in some ways much, much more difficult. And don’t get me wrong, I really don’t think I’ve gotten any negative reactions to my choice to leave school to follow mah’ dreamz, so to speak. Actually, the reaction has been overwhelmingly supportive, like a really daggone good sports bra. My friends and family are truly the best metaphorical sports bra I could have. And I’m the kind of girl who thinks that shopping for sports bras is like one of life’s greatest pleasures.

…And there I go off subject again.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch. But it’s just the decision that I’ve made to leave school next week to go home, not finish school, and all that jazz that has really gotten some panties in a bunch. Yeah, that’s right. Two metaphors about undergarments in one post. Impressive, I know.

And I can understand why they would advise me to do otherwise. It’s impractical (what else could you expect from the girl who actually considered and still does consider bear training to be a viable job?!), rash, and just plain silly. And that’s understandable. I totally respect that.

I AIN’T DISRESPECTIN’.

But when it comes down to it, I’m 19 years old. I’m tired of the place I’ve been in, not because of any personal Degrassi-style drama or anything academic. I need a change of pace. College just isn’t the place I need to be right now, especially given the career I want to get involved with. And I’ll reiterate it, I’m tired on so many different levels that only a good round of sports bra shopping has the ability to really perk me up, which explains my less-than-perky posting schedule. And I’m not going to lie, all of the differing opinions and advice I’ve been given by people when I tell them what I’m about to do has been overwhelming to the point that it seems like I’m constantly imitating a pack of teenage girls who just watched “The Notebook”, if you catch my drift.

And that’s just not me. Especially since I actually…kind of laughed at the end of “The Notebook”.

And I appreciate all of those pieces of advice and guidance, don’t get me wrong. But my decision to leave early rather than finish the year is really the only decision I’ve really felt that is making me feel like I just got back from an intense sports bra shopping spree. I feel intensely at peace with that decision in all its glorious impracticality (once again, look at who you are talking to), rashness, and silliness. And come on, give me the benefit of the doubt. This is coming from the girl who was the notorious Overachieving White Girl from 1996-2009. I’ve never made a silly, rash decision such as this in my life, and I figure that I’m due for mine. This is my Big Girl Decision and I’m sticking to it.

Oh, wait. There was that time I got a Harry Potter themed tattoo.

But that’s besides the point! Sure, maybe I’ve been listening to far too much Stevie Nicks and am wanting to be all bohemian, adventurous, and mysterious or I’ve been watching that episode of “Gilmore Girls” when Rory drops out of college too much, but I’ve really given this a lot more thought than what it seems like.

Because when it comes down to it, you really have to do things for yourself that make you feel like you just got back from shopping for sports bras and not for anyone else.

Unless they want to go sports bra shopping with you, that is.

Then it’s fine by me.