When I thought of the scariest thing that I could dress up as for Halloween, I instantly got discouraged. How do you dress as Cancer?

Maybe I could go as Breast Cancer. For 49 dollars at Super Stop and Shop, I could get 49 of those pink ribbons and tape them to myself. October is breast cancer awareness month after all.

Or maybe I could go as CantAffordTheRent...Again. I could be the sheriff in Roger and Me who comes and actually takes your shit out of your house and puts it on the sidewalk. Or I could be the woman in that film who is raising cats for food. Spooooky!

How do you dress up as MinimumWage? Or his scarier uncle MinimumWageForTheRestOfYourLife.

Or maybe I could dress up as Police have documented cases of madmen randomly distributing poisoned goodies to the little tykes who come calling on Halloween. But people would get mad when they realize I just as easily could have dressed up as Bigfoot or the Gyroball (Hint: none of them exist).

This Halloween I'm going to dress up as TheGhostOfHalloweenPast. I'm going to dress up half as that cherished memory from your childhood, and half the realization that you'll never be that happy again.

At least no one's ever accused me of not having an imagination.

Roses are red
Violets are, too
Wait no they're not
Who invited you?

---

if you stand close to an airplane
you might not fly
but at least your eardrums will be shattered
by the powerful jet engine

---

dreams are like puppies
they're cute when they're young
but eventually they grow up
they're less cute
they're bigger
they eat more
...
I never had a puppy as a child

---

Camels are brown
Violets are, of course, violet
Zoos are fun
But what's the point?

---

If being depressed is like being In Jail
Then I'd like to believe I'm 'Just Visiting'

This is an open letter of apology to anyone who read my previous blog post and was offended.

Although I'm no newcomer to blogging, I'm still struggling to find a middle ground between "say whatever the bleep you want" and "be sensitive, people are listening".

So fuck fuck fuck, I can say whatever I want. Whoopdee-poo hoo-ray la la la. The dumb part is that I'm writing naughty things about myself on my own bathroom wall.

Smoking is the opposite of talking to yourself. The former can safely be done in large open places where there's not anything or anyone (living) around. The safest way to talk to yourself, meanwhile, is in a dark room, preferably owned by yourself or your family. You should be under covers. The curtains should be drawn. Sometimes it's fun to cry and pretend people care.

The sad thing about talking to yourself is that it's a great way to think about things. Especially if you're "talking" to say a book (they communicate via flashlight). Or an iPod/Gameboy (Duh, the light's built in). Or maybe you're "talking to yourself" into a phone that got disconnected (ad campaign) or whatever.

Maybe you're just sitting on the fucking Blue Line having good ideas (talking to yourself) about what clever technologies you can apply to your shitty blog that no one reads.

The awkward stares are hard. What's worse is the questions.

What's much worse is coming to the realization that the CleverAd you're staring at that claims Hey-Wanna-Work-In-Software-We've-Got-Cool-Stuff-You-Can-Think-About-All-Day is for a company that builds shitty blogs that no one wants to read. Or more likely bank software. (How the fuck does anyone convince creative people to work on bank software nowadays? )

Actually maybe it's worse when you realize that the candidate that you're "secretly" Googling just wrote you what he (hoped) was a CleverWay to tell you Fuck-Off-Stop-Reading-My-Blog. Sorry for the profanity, but it's the goddamn cloak-and-dagger 'secret' part that pisses me off. I've got a blog. You're reading it. Let's both be adults and realize that it's okay. I also have sex and it's awesome.

Duh.

I was on an impromptu vacation starting August 30th. Sorry if I didn't answer your calls or emails. But I'm back now (I've actually been back for a number of days) and I'm ready to live in the real world again.

Except for the fact that I left my job at Brightcove. Did I mention that? Apparently I got it in my head that I was a 'professional musician' and I didn't need my day job. Can you spot the error in that logic? I can, with three words: source of income.

So now I'm looking for another job. Wish me luck.