i rest my case.

i mean, really.

who would you rather take to the oscars?

.almost makes you wanna fuck your sister.

i can maybe understand why jake gyllenhaall dated kirsten "fuckface" dunst for so long. i mean, she seems cool and funny. she has nice boobs. she's famous. but given that his own sister is so damn hot just makes the whole kirsten debacle seem inexcusable.


/post script/ i think it should be noted that the blogger spellcheck wanted to change the word "fuckface" to "backpack"/

(i didn't take this picture.)

.my cat is jewish.

.lucky.girl.

so this weekend, i went into the darkroom (yes it's true: i have a darkroom in my house) and developed my first two rolls of film. with chemicals that i mixed up all by myself from scary mushrooming powder that wafted up into my nostrils like the powdered sugar on deadly madeleines. and my film turned out! a bit purple (can't remember if that's good or bad), but there are images on the negatives, and i am thus endlessly proud of myself. i went straight (straight, as in two days later) to the super expensive photo supply store and bought 250 sheets of paper and a few rolls of way, way overpriced film.

and now that i've realized that i really truly have an entire darkroom in.my.house for my own personal pleasure at any.hour.of.the.day i am ecstatic. and i am similarly and suddenly aware that in addition to this darkroom, i have a huge fantastic antique letterpress, bookbinding supplies, and silkscreening supplies. i'm an arts and crafts princess, and i didn't even notice until now. silly girl. the glass overfloweth.

at the quaint little scrapbooking store near my house, i saw a little stack of cards with some of the most crisp lovely little designs on them. i got so excited that i almost died. they are made by a woman right here in home sweet portland, oregon, and she calls her company egg press. let me tell you, she is my hero.

so now i am inspired to .make. the photos and cards and sassy little onesies that i've always dreamed of.

.yay.

.family.album.

.celebrity.

portland is not a museum town. it's one of the only things i would change about the city if i could. i think we should get our own guggenheim or moma. but alas, we have only our little portland art museum and omsi (which seems to be hardcore in it's own right, but it is not art) and some forestry center building with a talking tree.

so i'm pleased as punch to make my first trip to see fancy snooty famous-people art in portland: the diane arbus exhibit starts tomorrow at pam.

.suprise.

the knitty surprises have been revealed. and they are adorable indeed.

.someone else's sunshine.

ask me how old i am.

i'm 24.

ask me how many cats i have.

i have two cats.

i'm 24 years old and i have two cats.

and lately, i don't want any cats.

lately, i feel like i want warm weather and sand. the kind of white hot sand that people who aren't afraid to wear bikinis romp around in with paperback novels in one hand and beers in the other. lately, i want to go on vacation.

i'm not a real vacation person- as in, i never go anywhere. and when i think about travelling (anxiety bubbles up in my gut), i think of cold cozy places in the north with snow and bears. i think of alaska. alaska is and will always be my number one destination, but when i think about travelling alone (anxiety, anxiety), i think it might ease the ache and fear to go somewhere warm.

i think it might be a good idea to go to hawaii and work on an organic farm. there's a place that i read about right before i graduated from college that i pretended to think seriously about going to- but i knew that i had no real desire to move to a far away island in the midst of college-graduation-what-will-i-do-with-my-life upheaval. so i moved to portland, oregon and adopted two cats. which is definitely a little safer.

but now i think, maybe i'll go harvest some sugar cane, stop smoking cigarettes (except for those kinds of cigarettes), drink rum, and turn brown. i think my skin would rather shrivel, crack, and crumble before it turned toward the sun. and then i look at the pictures of the golden naked hippies showering outside at the pahoa hostel and organic farm in hawaii, and i roll my eyes a little bit, because give-me-a-break- who are these people showering naked with their yellow dreadlocks and brown boobs? and i try to picture myself pulling up roots in my bra and then sitting around in the sun all day giggling with naked people and i just can't see it at all. maybe i'd rather be angst-bound in rainy portland where i can sit at a bar and drink and eavesdrop on the conversations of the bartenders and the regulars and then go home to my two cats and knit.

because what do you knit on an island?