Welcome To My Bed

Round up.

Things have been happening. Or. I am caught in the perfect storm of my own making. Since returning home from tour, I've been on a steady diet of highway driving, Boston, New Jersey, motivational speech, and wearing heels out to spite the snow. It's been working well.

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Last Saturday night, I was in Montclair, NJ with my little sister, Button, and a few friends to see Girl Talk's final installment of the All Day tour. We danced for two straight hours and, man, was it a gorgeous evening. I realized that the amount of dancing in my life is directly proportionate to my resting happiness rate (RHR, to speak in faux-medical terminology). Back in the fall, I went dancing at least once a week, resulting in a very high RHR, glowy skin, sore-but-content leg muscles, and the envy of all my dance-inclined friends. However, since the onset of the snowpocalypse, dance nights seem not only impractical, but downright silly to attend. Who wants to booty shake in rubber boots? Certainly not me. Cambridge, my home base for most dancing endeavors, is jagged with snow drifts and rife with icy patches of sidewalk. The last thing I need to finish out the winter with is a sprained ankle. Cos the only thing harder than crutches is crutches in the New England winter when you live in a third story walk-up. So, until spring, I'll have to get my dancing fix where I can. The Wellmont wasn't a bad spot for it, in spite of the Bieber squad (in their neon atrocity) gumming up the bathrooms and somehow managing to drink with X's on the back of their hands. A word of advice to the high school set: your sweat band does not make you cool, no does your homemade Girl Talk t-shirt with glaring grammar errors. Stay home and study hard! Your little brains clearly need it. Leave the partying to those of us who've earned the right after a hellish work week. When I was your age, I was at home watching the Lizzie McGuire movie and...well, maybe I should cut them some slack.

In other news, tour has legitimized my writing and performing life to my family in a way that chapbooks had failed to and now I'm getting all kinds of odd requests. My favorite one comes with a bit of backstory. My father's younger sister Casey has always been adamant about not getting married. She's had a handful of serious boyfriends that made into inside the fortress of family gatherings, but none of them ever stuck more than a handful of years. However, I am proud to announce that she's found the man she's going to marry (fanfare and all that jazz). Which means I've been invited to me first wedding. My grandmother is practically spamming all of our email inboxes with questions about ceremony and reception details, etc. My favorite inquiry thus far has been along the lines of, "Will you be bringing an escort?" The bride has been wisely absent from all of this insanity, probably off somewhere riding horse, practicing law, or actually living her life. The one interjection she did make my way is that she'd like me to read at the wedding. I'm not sure if that means Bible passages or what, but I am flattered to be the first name she thought of. Look! My first non-poetry gig gotten by being a poet! Now all I need is a desk job that doesn't frown on visible tattoos. Go, liberal arts degree, go!

In closing, my car started last night on the first try. I take this as a surefire sign of spring. And George Watsky made a new video. Kid's now been a Def Jam poet, a guest on the Ellen show and viral video phenom. Show him some love.