I haven’t posted in 7 months

If I want to get a thing done– a blog post, a hair cut, getting out of bed by 10– I ought to just do it. I would like to be here putting my thoughts to paper (pixels) more than I do. I really would. I read this 10-page article the other day on cognitive disconnect- why people say one thing and do another. There are all sorts of psychological tendencies– i.e. judgment heuristics, optimistic illusions, a tendency  to disregard the future– that make that non-hypocritical lifestyle hard.

Science is my favorite way of letting myself off easy. I’m also just a lazy 20-something whose peanut butter, hummus, and ice cream* you should never, ever eat because yes I double dip in that because I did not want to rope my tragic self in to washing a bowl. My milk* cartons are safe sometimes, but actually, please don’t ask me about them because I might be embarrassed to tell you whether they’re cesspools back-washy of bacteria or not. Please drink your own milk. Would you like some water or vodka? Ice? I might have ice.

I’m sitting in a coffee shop as I write this, procrastinating on another project or two. I’m not even in the right coffee shop, because I spent about 10 seconds looking up directions in the car, clicked “route,” then unwittingly got sent through dark, foggy, woodsy, u-turn-ridden and largely empty backroads to get here. I pictured a man with a chainsaw standing on every dark foggy bank. (My imagination might be the least-lazy part of me.) It turns out that this lovely 24 hour ‘Roasteria’ is a CHAIN. And the one that Google has the most hots for is in a different TOWN. Bollocks. Thankfully, the internet says there is a more urban route home, though I suppose I’m quite a lot more likely to get hit by a car in the disarmingly busy streets. Wish me luck, please and thank you.



*non-dairy frozen dessert

*soy “milk”

I haven’t posted in 7 months

The particular sadness of soy chorizo

This morning, like every morning for approximately 92 of the past 100 mornings, I got the oatmeal out of the cupboard, but then I paused. Most mornings I put peanut butter and jam on my oatmeal and relish in its sweet and salty glory, but a few days ago I decided not to buy more peanut butter when I was at the grocery store. This was unusual, as I usually go through one jar in 3-6 days, but a Dr. Oz article I read recently insinuated that this was a problem. I’d long suspected this but I took the professional opinion as a particular sign. I, Eva Derby, have a peanut butter problem.

And this morning I didn’t want to eat almonds.

I poked around on the bottom shelf of the fridge (This is my shelf- the only shelf without mold. But actually, on shelf two there’s a jar of nacho cheese that expired two months ago, and leftovers shrivelled like shrunken heads or turned fuzzy green within their tupperware.) I pulled out an unopened pack of soy chorizo. My dad used to cook with the stuff sometimes. He’d whip it up in the same fry pan as eggs, sharp cheese, fresh carrots or other vegetables, and a clever concoction of spices. I decided I didn’t want to use a pan, my only pan was boiling water for my instant coffee right then anyways, so I cooked up cauliflower, broccoli, and chorizo in a bowl in the microwave, then dumped half a can of refried beans on top, and added some slices of soy cheese and poblano salsa for good measure.

This was pretty tasty, thank goodness for spice, but it made me imagine the dish that Dad would have more masterfully made, which I don’t think I’ve had since early high school- sometime between my parents’ getting a divorce and Dad’s moving in with his first girlfriend- the prim lady.

These days Dad’s living with his second girlfriend, a much less prim and thin character than the first, a woman with whom I pretty thoroughly burned the bridge of potential friendship during the summer after college. Thus, I haven’t spent the night in the same house as my dad in over two years. It hit me while I was munching my cold-in-the-middle soy chorizo this morning that I might never eat one of Dad’s breakfasts again. I think I’m writing this to try to come to terms with that.

On the other hand, he’s not dead, so there’s hope. One or the other of us might yet decide to reach out in a big way. Granted, this would hurt my mom, who spent much of the evening crying the one night I went out to dinner with Dad over this past Christmas break. She asked me why I didn’t resent him more (over financial stuff mostly), I told her I do but that I didn’t want to, she cried some more, and it was all dead uncomfortable.

I would say ‘we’ll see,’ but that sounds too passive, though I guess maybe not too passive from an honest perspective.

Good luck,


The particular sadness of soy chorizo


Yesterday, I spent a lot more time engaged in social interactions than I usually do in a day, and I ended up feeling pretty skilled. Not skilled at friendships, per say, but at peeling sticks of imitation crab apart into smaller sticks, at haggling for apartment prices, and at other randomy gidgety tasks.

In the morning, I received a text message from my friend Ivan who was going apartment hunting in my neighborhood with his friend Sandra, inviting me to join. I ran over to the address they sent me (then apologized to the broker for the sweat dripping down my temple, but hey, health). I asked more questions about the three places we looked at than either of my friends did (Is there roof access? Is 24/7 maintenance available? What can you say about the landlord’s character? Are real Christmas trees allowed? and so on), twas fun. About half an hour after I got home, my friends called me because they were about to be shown an apartment we’d already viewed again by different broker at a different price, and wanted my advice. I was flattered. I called my haggling-expert of a father for help (though he’s trained me enough tthat his advice didn’t surprise me: call the broker out on the inflated price, saying that you can’t disclose your source, and use the knowledge as a bargaining chip if you can). Thanks, Dad.

That afternoon (for six long hours that afternoon), I helped my friend film an instructional cooking video for his Korean final project. I was dubbed ‘intern’ by by his project group. I was asked to peel the carrots, among other things, while they practiced their lines. The carrots looked sparkling beautiful when I was done with them.

Later that night, when I was in the library writing an essay, wearing sunglasses under the fluorescent overhead likes like a cool kid, an amiga texted me with “I just got broken up with by text message. I’m not really okay.” I did my best to make her feel better. Selfishly, I appreciated her texting me. I love feeling wanted, emotionally and otherwise.

Earlier this week, I was asked to have sex with a man who I used to be almost-in-love with, and haven’t heard from in six months, who apparently up and got married a couple of months ago. He wants to sleep with me again, for mutually beneficial mindless release, to use his rhetoric. I asked him why me, and “you’re good in bed” was part of the answer. This from someone who’s way more experienced in the sack than I am, and eight years older, and very intelligent (though an impulsive sleaze bag); so I found the comment flattering. Though arguably that’s immoral.

I just felt strange about all of the above. I received positive feedback on my real estate and haggling advice giving skills, my cameragirl skills, my vegetable peeling skills, my being-a-caring-friend and counselor skills, and my sex skills.

I have no idea what I want to be after I graduate this fancy pantsy college, armed to face the world with an obscure (useless) sort of humanities degree. Usually I say ‘like a professor or a waitress or something.’ But yesterday made me feel more optimistic about my prospects than I usually do. Like, hey, I can do anything! (Sort of.)

Excuse my ego, though by all means give yours a little love.




Posting Day

Today is Monday. Today is my day to post on this blog. I have iZombie open in another tab, several emails I ought to answer in a second one, a blank document entitled “Essay 3” open in a third, and an assortment of syllabi, readings, and course listings in six more poor neglected tabs. The essay is due distressingly soon.

Yesterday, I asked my housemate if he was going to mop the house soon, or should I just go ahead and do it. I knocked on his door to ask while he was high and with his girlfriend. He said yes, he was planning on mopping the next day. He had never mopped the place before, and he’s been here for ten months. This evening, our floors are sparkling. Thank you, housemate Todd.

Timing is everything.

I should write my essay.

Love and hours,


Posting Day

Art School Taught me to Hate Poetry

Growing up for seven years at an art themed public school lead to a lot of parts of my personality.

Like, for example, I now study science in college because I just hate artists and the majority of artist culture.  I still perform, I still dance and write choreography and express myself in body language, but the culture of “UGHHH I HATE MYSELF” or “LOOK AT THIS ANGST I MADE” gives my local optometrist more business with the expansive eye rolls that are generated.

So, to celebrate my third year of passing on from Art School, I give you my Shitty Poetry.  I hate reading poetry, I hate writing it, I hate the seriousness that comes with most poetry.  A lot of it is redeemable, I know, but literally every poem became some reflection of how someone’s mom made them mad or why basically everyone has depression all the time.

I wrote a goddamn haiku about how my bus caught on fire and suddenly it became about the ‘struggle present in the imagery’.  Bitch, the only struggle was that the firemen who came to help me didn’t have any sticker badges on hand.

Shitty Poetry
a reflection: by storm

A Crappy Poem About Taco Bell

I love Taco Bell

but I don’t eat meat.

So I get those crunchy little potatoes instead.

They taste like ranch

and I don’t like ranch.

But I love cheap tacos

and I’m broke.

I love Taco Bell.


Early morning flames

Smell the burning diesel fumes

Late to Poetry

I’m not an artist.  I like swords and trees.  That’s all.

Art School Taught me to Hate Poetry

Basically Just a Weird Post

The view from my place.
The view from my place.

Today was one of those days where you lay in bed and eat seven string cheeses.  And those days are totally okay to have — sometimes a girl needs protein, don’t hate.

In other news, I will be leaving for WGI World Championships next week.  The team that I teach won their class at circuit Championships, which was excellent.

But I’m still not really happy.  Look at all these glorious things — and I still don’t really find joy in them.

I guess that’s okay.  Feelings are legitimate simply because you feel them.  I mean yeah they can suck.  But nothing is permanent.  Just like this beautiful view, which could be annihilated in seconds by a massive invasion of self-aware raptors from incoming comets who proceed to make us immortal but also spend the rest of eternity torturing us*.

Keep on trucking,
This is a weird post,

*Alpha Scenario for The Worst Day

Basically Just a Weird Post

Easter Diary

Dear World,

I spent this Easter weekend in a swanky apartment on 5th Avenue because my internship boss was out of town and hired yours truly to take care of her darling dog and elderly (crab appley) cat.

On Easter Day itself, I was awake from 9 to midnight thirty.  I spent an hour and a half walking the dog, about four hours with my intern hat on reading manuscripts, about one hour playing with the dog and snapchatting with her pre-teenage owner, about three hours at an f.w.b.’s house, writhing around while watching “The Dark Knight Rises” and part of “Superman,” one hour seeking a particular brand of Lapsang Souchong tea to replace the box I’d nearly finished at my boss’ (thank you to Manhattan grocery stores for being as close together as Barbies in a box), then twenty minutes traveling to Central Park, about ten minutes waiting for a guy I met last May (who had texted me while I was with the other guy- and I barely didn’t make a pun about res-urrections), then we spent about ten minutes looking for a discreet location in the park (we didn’t so much find one), about four minutes fucking (this was an adventure at any rate; misdemeanors activate my adrenal glands), then I was on my own for about half an hour getting home, then I took the dog for a walk again and texted Stormy.

Further, I’d done a number on my appetite by trying a juice fast the day before, which resulted in my just not feeling hungry the next day. I ate 2 bananas at 4 pm and then some tofu at about 10:30, the latter because ‘ah, protein is healthy.’ I did drink a smoothie, too, and I felt light-headed a few times, but never actually hungry. It was eerie.

Reading over this, I’m not sure what I did with the threeish hours not accounted for here. I shaved my legs and did other vanity and wardrobe-based things. I guess the rest of the time is in some long-gone vortex with all the other time that’s been here before. Maybe there are griffins in that vortex who fall truly in love with one another, subsist on perfect snickerdoodles, and who know on what day they’ll die. Who knows.

Love, cookies, and more sleep to you than it takes to survive,


Easter Diary