dearest D.C.,
PEACE. OUT.
love, it's been an awesome ride. let's do it again real soon.

so I read an article a couple days ago about the makings of a social media slut.

granted, I am not to the level that this man is at, but I still eat, sleep and breathe it a lil.

sometimes I feel like I speak another language. for instance...

• my klout score is 40. apparently I'm a networker?
• I've checked in 29 times on Foursquare.
• 94 connections on linked in.
• I've tweeted 1,127 times, 118 followers on twitter
• dlvr.it and pinterest. and bloglovin. and springpad. and google reader. daily.
• oh. and google analytics, feedly, twuffer, hootsuite, tweetdeck, tumblr, yelp, instagram, groupon, livingsocial, layar, QR codes, google voice, heytell, mashable news.
• oh, and I have this blog.

in the world of social media, none of those things are all that spectacular. but compared to the rest of the world, they kinda sound reeeeally really cool. well, I think so anyways.

unfortunately {or maybe fortunately, who knows}, I am not an avid google + user yet. mostly because I just don't get it. anyone want to enlighten me on that?

maybe someday...

what are your favorite social media apps / toys / tools?

apparently you are too. thanks for stopping in today :)

"You Should Date An Illiterate Girl"
By Charles Warnke

Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment.

Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi, and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale, or the evenings get long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed.

Begin to notice.

Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city.

Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.

Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail, frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return, or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.

Do those things, dammit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, dammit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.

so. this is what I've been doing involved in for the last 24 hours.


www.theinsideexperience.com
or 
youtube.com/christinaperasso
or
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Christina-Perasso/214021851970980 {this is where most of her posting comes from}


basic idea, according to Wikipedia--
In July 2011, Intel and Toshiba partnered together to create Hollywood's first Social Film experience, a thriller called Inside, directed by D.J. Caruso and starring Emmy Rossum. The project is broken up into several segments across multiple social media platforms including Facebook, YouTube, and Twitter. In this instance, the audience is challenged to help Emmy Rossum’s character, Christina, safely make it out of the room she’s been trapped in.


so right now we're trying to figure out where Emmy Christine Daaé Christina is exactly and get her out of this room. there have been notes taped to things, phone numbers found on pipes, websites found behind wallpaper, etc. now we're just waiting for another clue, more pictures or a video.


... and just so you know, I've done lots of other things. like work. and eat. and sleep. and go to an FHE talent show. stuff like that.


in hindsight, I definitely look like a dork being involved in this. but it's mildly captivating, okay!? don't judge me. it's intriguing.


care to hop on?

dear DC weather,
okay, this is no fun anymore.
sincerely, heat index of 116? no thank you, I'll just go home now.

dear sophomore year of college,
remember how AWFUL that was? don't worry. all will be redeemed.
love, all your freshman boys are coming home now, so you will have friends again!!

dear checking account,
hang in there, sweetie. it'll all be over soon.
sincerely, 15 more days...

dear Icelandic singers,
ummmmmm... what!?!? guys, this is WEIRD!
love, every cool new song I'm finding on Grooveshark is from some obscure Icelandic artist. ??????

dear J Crew,
I'm sorry I was skeptical about your swimsuit quality. it's seriously darling.
sincerely, I may or may not have wanted to wear it to work today. the temperature outside is not helping that urge, either.

dear beaches of California,
I'm super glad your entire western border is the Pacific Ocean, but this is really hard.
love, brain. overload. too. many. options. can't. make. decisions.

so last night, we did it.

11 of us took on the challenge of eating the $77.00 Treasure Chest at Serendipity.


yep. Sean's reaction basically says it all.

mountain of ice cream, cheesecake, cookies, deep fried oreos, berries, waffle cones and peanut putter pie. all shoved in a solid chocolate treasure chest box.

hooooooooooooooly yes. and holy sugar.


my favorite part of this picture is that Janet looks so hesitant.

and in about 20 minutes time, this was our end result.


minus our fearless leader James who was determined to finish the chocolate box part.


ya. see that crazy sugar-glazed look in his eyes? we're surprised he wasn't diabetic by the time it was over.  as hard as he tried, the box didn't get finished.

yes, it was epic to say the least. and it was TOTALLY worth it. but I won't be trying it again anytime soon. :)

guys. guys!!


my childhood is ending tonight. siriusly.