You're the only one in this picture who wishes they still looked like this. (With the possible exception of Nick Carter.)
Sucks,
Kayla
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Dear Ramona Quimby,
I signed a twelve-month lease on my apartment today; by far the most grown-up thing I have ever, ever done. It made me think of you because, well, we sort of grew up together and I haven't heard from you in a while and I was wondering what you're up to these days. If you've joined the Grown Up Revolution or not. I imagine that you'd be with me... one of the reluctant ones.
I mean it's been since like, before middle school, dude, so I don't even know what you did for college. I thought about looking you up on facebook, but I'm not a big fan of "the poke" and I'm pretty sure you wouldn't remember me by name/profile picture only and I definitely don't want to make my profile public so, you know... whatever.
Anyway, signing the lease made me kind of sad and miss the days of waking up whenever I felt like it every day of June, July and most of August, recess, actually using my library card and not just reading summaries and interpretations on Wikipedia. I've done all that I can to maintain my carefree 8-year-old existance, making minor allowances for things like a piece-of-crap car, a couple "jobs" that allow me to feel "creative," and not wearing my shirts tied in a knot that rests above the left side pocket of my jeans. Gotta keep the line short of offspring and a 9-5 to maintain what's left of my integrity. Not that I don't want to have kids, because I do... desperately... so much so that it's almost embarrassing. It's just that I'd rather rewind to 17 and do that for the next ten years and then repopulate the earth. (No offense, of course, if you're a wife or a mother or a career woman or corporate or anything like that.) I just really miss corn dogs and flavor-ice popsicle afternoons and asking permission to leave the house.
I miss you, too. Look me up on facebook if you're not too grown up for one.
Your friend,
Kayla
I signed a twelve-month lease on my apartment today; by far the most grown-up thing I have ever, ever done. It made me think of you because, well, we sort of grew up together and I haven't heard from you in a while and I was wondering what you're up to these days. If you've joined the Grown Up Revolution or not. I imagine that you'd be with me... one of the reluctant ones.
I mean it's been since like, before middle school, dude, so I don't even know what you did for college. I thought about looking you up on facebook, but I'm not a big fan of "the poke" and I'm pretty sure you wouldn't remember me by name/profile picture only and I definitely don't want to make my profile public so, you know... whatever.
Anyway, signing the lease made me kind of sad and miss the days of waking up whenever I felt like it every day of June, July and most of August, recess, actually using my library card and not just reading summaries and interpretations on Wikipedia. I've done all that I can to maintain my carefree 8-year-old existance, making minor allowances for things like a piece-of-crap car, a couple "jobs" that allow me to feel "creative," and not wearing my shirts tied in a knot that rests above the left side pocket of my jeans. Gotta keep the line short of offspring and a 9-5 to maintain what's left of my integrity. Not that I don't want to have kids, because I do... desperately... so much so that it's almost embarrassing. It's just that I'd rather rewind to 17 and do that for the next ten years and then repopulate the earth. (No offense, of course, if you're a wife or a mother or a career woman or corporate or anything like that.) I just really miss corn dogs and flavor-ice popsicle afternoons and asking permission to leave the house.
I miss you, too. Look me up on facebook if you're not too grown up for one.
Your friend,
Kayla
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Dear Gwyneth,
1. I can't eat any meat that is still attached to the bone. This applies most often to chicken. I don't love the taste of fried chicken (real fried chicken, that is) anyway, but I can't stand to see it being picked off of its bone and if I see veins, my stomach is gone. If I am in a situation where I have to eat a meat (chicken, or otherwise) in this state, my mom will still de-skin, de-bone and de-vein it for me. I don't really need her to cut it up for me, but she still does. I don't eat pork, just because in the 9th grade I decided I didn't want to. This decision wasn't based on any moral or religious reason, but simply because I wanted to think it was gross. It was easy for me to stop eating bacon, less easy to stop eating sausage because I love the breakfast burritos at McDonald's but I just learned to pick the little sausage balls out (now they remind me of dog food.) Once in 2002, I decided "that was so silly of you, Kayla" and tried to eat a sausage, egg and cheese biscuit and had to spit out the first bite. Then last year I was mistakenly served a pasta dish with bacon in it and I threw it up promptly. I have been able to successfully eat a ham and cheese since then, though.
2. I've only been a girlfriend to boys whose names began with the letter R. I am a repeat "Ryan" offender. In chronological order: Riley, Ryan S., Riley (again), Robert, Ryan M., Ryan G., Ryan M (again) and Raj. First dates that never lent themselves to a second date: Brandon, Bradley and Frederick (who went by his middle name: Boston.) I don't plan these things.
3. Asking me to be your maid-of-honor is the kiss of death for your marriage. I've been asked on two occasions and shortly after being fitted for the dress, the groom did something unforgivable and the wedding was off. (Side note: since I was seven, I've sung at fourteen weddings. All of those marriages are still going strong.)
4. When I get a new CD, it's impossible for me to listen to any song all the way through before I feel like I'm familiar with the project as a whole. Then I can go back and take the CD song-by-song. I tend to listen to the radio single last and hate it the most. In my opinion track 11 is usually the best on any CD and if there is no 11, track 2, provided it's not the radio single or namesake of the album.
5. Can't listen to commercials on the radio. Can't stand it when someone changes the channel during commercial breaks on the television. Go figure.
6. I am internally conflicted until I can identify a celebrity that reminds me of all the people I know. This is why I'm forever saying, "You remind me of Dakota Fanning" or "Isn't he like a young Dustin Hoffman?" etc. I've never really found anyone that reminds me of myself. It makes me a little sad.
7. I can't drop a deuce with shoes or socks on. Add that to the list of reasons not to take a dump anywhere but your home.
Pretty quirky indeed,
Kayla
P.S. You looked so hot in Iron Man!
1. I can't eat any meat that is still attached to the bone. This applies most often to chicken. I don't love the taste of fried chicken (real fried chicken, that is) anyway, but I can't stand to see it being picked off of its bone and if I see veins, my stomach is gone. If I am in a situation where I have to eat a meat (chicken, or otherwise) in this state, my mom will still de-skin, de-bone and de-vein it for me. I don't really need her to cut it up for me, but she still does. I don't eat pork, just because in the 9th grade I decided I didn't want to. This decision wasn't based on any moral or religious reason, but simply because I wanted to think it was gross. It was easy for me to stop eating bacon, less easy to stop eating sausage because I love the breakfast burritos at McDonald's but I just learned to pick the little sausage balls out (now they remind me of dog food.) Once in 2002, I decided "that was so silly of you, Kayla" and tried to eat a sausage, egg and cheese biscuit and had to spit out the first bite. Then last year I was mistakenly served a pasta dish with bacon in it and I threw it up promptly. I have been able to successfully eat a ham and cheese since then, though.
2. I've only been a girlfriend to boys whose names began with the letter R. I am a repeat "Ryan" offender. In chronological order: Riley, Ryan S., Riley (again), Robert, Ryan M., Ryan G., Ryan M (again) and Raj. First dates that never lent themselves to a second date: Brandon, Bradley and Frederick (who went by his middle name: Boston.) I don't plan these things.
3. Asking me to be your maid-of-honor is the kiss of death for your marriage. I've been asked on two occasions and shortly after being fitted for the dress, the groom did something unforgivable and the wedding was off. (Side note: since I was seven, I've sung at fourteen weddings. All of those marriages are still going strong.)
4. When I get a new CD, it's impossible for me to listen to any song all the way through before I feel like I'm familiar with the project as a whole. Then I can go back and take the CD song-by-song. I tend to listen to the radio single last and hate it the most. In my opinion track 11 is usually the best on any CD and if there is no 11, track 2, provided it's not the radio single or namesake of the album.
5. Can't listen to commercials on the radio. Can't stand it when someone changes the channel during commercial breaks on the television. Go figure.
6. I am internally conflicted until I can identify a celebrity that reminds me of all the people I know. This is why I'm forever saying, "You remind me of Dakota Fanning" or "Isn't he like a young Dustin Hoffman?" etc. I've never really found anyone that reminds me of myself. It makes me a little sad.
7. I can't drop a deuce with shoes or socks on. Add that to the list of reasons not to take a dump anywhere but your home.
Pretty quirky indeed,
Kayla
P.S. You looked so hot in Iron Man!
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Dear Pat Buchanon,
THIS* is the most foul thing I've ever heard anyone say EVER.
Right from the beginning, my ass,
Kayla
*First, America has been the best country on earth for black folks. It was here that 600,000 black people, brought from Africa in slave ships, grew into a community of 40 million, were introduced to Christian salvation, and reached the greatest levels of freedom and prosperity blacks have ever known.
THIS* is the most foul thing I've ever heard anyone say EVER.
Right from the beginning, my ass,
Kayla
*First, America has been the best country on earth for black folks. It was here that 600,000 black people, brought from Africa in slave ships, grew into a community of 40 million, were introduced to Christian salvation, and reached the greatest levels of freedom and prosperity blacks have ever known.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Dear Rev.,
So you ask me in this ridiculously dramatized voice, 'What if "he" came into your church... What if he sat down and you could literally smell; not just see, but smell how dirty he was? What if he sat down right beside you?" I know you were trying to get me to think, but probably not like this:
I think we are trying to be "post-modern" in a "post-post-modern" world. We assume that the homeless and downtrodden, that the black eyeliner and white faced ones, that the pierced and tattooed, the the ones without teeth and the ones without SUVs need something we have. We generalize and profile and we become hell bent on "showing them Jesus." On ministering to them, because of course, they are the ones who need to be ministered to.
These, clearly, are the ones who don't know Jesus because if they did they'd be wearing pleated front Dockers and driving Ford Explorers and trading in art for theology and communal living for a 9-5 at Kinkos or wherever it is that you've chosen as a career. Obviously, poor people are lost and kids with dog collars and mohawks need YOU to go TEACH them something that they couldn't have possibly learned from the Holy Spirit themselves.
And while we're at it, the Catholics need to be "saved," too. And if one ever walks into your church, so help you, you're gonna be the one to do it. You're gonna explain to them exactly what's wrong with their doctorine and you're gonna be the one that leads them to Jesus because there's no Catholic on God's green earth - not Mother Theresa, not the Pope, no way, not anybody who claims Catholicism that knows more about who Jesus really is and what he really wants than you. Because you're Protestant. And you're wearing pleated front Dockers. And you drive a Ford Explorer.
And because his hair is matted together and hangs over the collar of his visibly dirty shirt and his shoes are worn on the bottom and he doesn't smell like he's had a bath yet this year there is clearly no way that he could have something that you need. That he could minister Jesus to you. That the very word of God could be in his mouth or that he know who Jesus really is and what Jesus really wants.
Yeah, what if? What if John The Baptist came into your church? What if he came as a thunder in the dry desert of your congregation? What if he came as a voice crying out to the wilderness of your comfortable and safe doctorines? What if he came preparing the way of the risen Lord to the spiritually dead places you've kept in your heart? What do you think he smelled like? What do you think Jesus smelled like?
What if someone with blue hair had the prophetic word of deliverance for your life? What if someone dressed as a mourner, a wailing woman - I think you would probably want to call them "a goth" - came saying "Repent. Mourn. Weep. Lament?"
You would automatically take John the Baptizer down the Romans Road, right? Teach Blue Hair the ABC's of Salvation and have Gothic Girl repeat the Sinner's Prayer. Am I right? Because surely that's what they needed. They need to be delievered and set free and born again into the Church of the Pleated Dockers and Ford Explorers who consistantly reject the Word of God Made Flesh unless it comes from someone in pleated Dockers or a Ford Explorer, or whatever your Sabbath Day Observances may be.
Yeah... what if?
Kayla
So you ask me in this ridiculously dramatized voice, 'What if "he" came into your church... What if he sat down and you could literally smell; not just see, but smell how dirty he was? What if he sat down right beside you?" I know you were trying to get me to think, but probably not like this:
I think we are trying to be "post-modern" in a "post-post-modern" world. We assume that the homeless and downtrodden, that the black eyeliner and white faced ones, that the pierced and tattooed, the the ones without teeth and the ones without SUVs need something we have. We generalize and profile and we become hell bent on "showing them Jesus." On ministering to them, because of course, they are the ones who need to be ministered to.
These, clearly, are the ones who don't know Jesus because if they did they'd be wearing pleated front Dockers and driving Ford Explorers and trading in art for theology and communal living for a 9-5 at Kinkos or wherever it is that you've chosen as a career. Obviously, poor people are lost and kids with dog collars and mohawks need YOU to go TEACH them something that they couldn't have possibly learned from the Holy Spirit themselves.
And while we're at it, the Catholics need to be "saved," too. And if one ever walks into your church, so help you, you're gonna be the one to do it. You're gonna explain to them exactly what's wrong with their doctorine and you're gonna be the one that leads them to Jesus because there's no Catholic on God's green earth - not Mother Theresa, not the Pope, no way, not anybody who claims Catholicism that knows more about who Jesus really is and what he really wants than you. Because you're Protestant. And you're wearing pleated front Dockers. And you drive a Ford Explorer.
And because his hair is matted together and hangs over the collar of his visibly dirty shirt and his shoes are worn on the bottom and he doesn't smell like he's had a bath yet this year there is clearly no way that he could have something that you need. That he could minister Jesus to you. That the very word of God could be in his mouth or that he know who Jesus really is and what Jesus really wants.
Yeah, what if? What if John The Baptist came into your church? What if he came as a thunder in the dry desert of your congregation? What if he came as a voice crying out to the wilderness of your comfortable and safe doctorines? What if he came preparing the way of the risen Lord to the spiritually dead places you've kept in your heart? What do you think he smelled like? What do you think Jesus smelled like?
What if someone with blue hair had the prophetic word of deliverance for your life? What if someone dressed as a mourner, a wailing woman - I think you would probably want to call them "a goth" - came saying "Repent. Mourn. Weep. Lament?"
You would automatically take John the Baptizer down the Romans Road, right? Teach Blue Hair the ABC's of Salvation and have Gothic Girl repeat the Sinner's Prayer. Am I right? Because surely that's what they needed. They need to be delievered and set free and born again into the Church of the Pleated Dockers and Ford Explorers who consistantly reject the Word of God Made Flesh unless it comes from someone in pleated Dockers or a Ford Explorer, or whatever your Sabbath Day Observances may be.
Yeah... what if?
Kayla
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