Holy Subsistence Agriculture, Batman!

Yes, it's been a long time since my last post.

Like, a year and a half.

I started writing everything on paper. I just didn't see the point of putting random, personal information on the internet. I'm not that into myself.

A few months ago, though, I started a garden. Good for me! Awesome! Hooray! Subsequently, I have found that there is a dearth of information related to my very specific question about whether certain things are going to grow or not, or how crazy I am to plant tomatoes in mid-winter. Most of the good answers came from people's personal gardening blogs, so I'm reconstituting this blog with the intent of tracking my garden's progress; maybe it will help someone else with their little slice of Eden.

Why garden, you might ask? It all started when I when to a simulcast global screening of a global warming movie, "The Age of Stupid." The docu-drama is set in an increasingly plausible future where humans fucked up and pissed the planet off and now it has killed most of us off like a bad roach infection. It looks back and says, "yep, we were pretty dumb not to do anything when we had the chance." The creators of the film achieved their goal of making me want to do something about it, but probably not in the way they expected. I'm sure they were hoping to galvanize people into writing their senators in preparation for the upcoming Copenhagen climate talks. I knew that wasn't going anywhere, so I decided to invest in something more practical: the ability to grow my own food. If a man-made apocalypse is coming, then grocery stores are going to be obsolete. I'm going to learn how to feed myself from the earth. Of course, if temperatures rise, it's going to be pretty hard to grow anything anyway. But in the meantime, it lowers my environmental impact and gives me a skill set that will be way more practical than say, banking or real estate.

Long story short, I found out about intensive gardening, especially a method called Square Foot Gardening. I made a bunch of wooden planters and lined the patio with rail planters. I'm growing flowers in the rail planters and vegetables in the wooden planters. On the lower patio I've got a couple of fruit trees (lemon and orange) as well as the beginning of a potted herb garden. I'll post a summary of my progress so far when I have pictures.

Obama is a traitor. It makes me howl.

That's right people, now that Obama has the democratic nomination in the bag, he's selling out his base faster than you can say "lobbyist." Turns out he's looking to scoop up some potential McCain supporters by backing the FISA legislation, a surveillance bill linked to the warrentless (and illegal) wiretapping of American's cell phones un the Bush administration. Read more here. Of course, Obama had great, seemingly reasonable responses to his critic's suggestion that he was just playing the political game with America's freedoms--available here--but I don't buy it. It's all very well and good to say that a bill such as this one would be carefully monitored and only implemented during times of crisis, but it all too easy for "times of crisis" to be interpreted all too liberally when a president deems it fit. His talk is as wholesome as apple pie, but the fruits he's baking with are more bitter than he lets on. Watch this one--he may just be a great sweet talker.

I read Ginsburg's "Howl" the other day. It was fantastic. Rare are the times poetry is so vivid and profound; I encourage you to read it now:



I

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo in the machin-
ery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene-
ment roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
publishing obscene odes on the windows of the
skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn-
ing their money in wastebaskets and listening
to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through
Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in
Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their
torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al-
cohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and
lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of
Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the mo-
tionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery
dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops,
storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon
blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree
vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brook-
lyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless
ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine
until the noise of wheels and children brought
them down shuddering mouth-wracked and
battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance
in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's
floated out and sat through the stale beer after
noon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack
of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to
pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brook-
lyn Bridge,
lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping
down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills
off Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts
and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks
and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days
and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the
Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a
trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic
City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grind-
ings and migraines of China under junk-with-
drawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the
railroad yard wondering where to go, and went,
leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing
through snow toward lonesome farms in grand-
father night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telep-
athy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos in-
stinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking vis-
ionary indian angels who were visionary indian
angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore
gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Okla-
homa on the impulse of winter midnight street
light smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston
seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the
brilliant Spaniard to converse about America
and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship
to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving
behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees
and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fire
place Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the
F.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist
eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incom-
prehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting
the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union
Square weeping and undressing while the sirens
of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed
down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also
wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked
and trembling before the machinery of other
skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight
in policecars for committing no crime but their
own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were
dragged off the roof waving genitals and manu-
scripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly
motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim,
the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean
love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose
gardens and the grass of public parks and
cemeteries scattering their semen freely to
whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up
with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath
when the blond & naked angel came to pierce
them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate
the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar
the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb
and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but
sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden
threads of the craftsman's loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of
beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a can-
dle and fell off the bed, and continued along
the floor and down the hall and ended fainting
on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and
come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling
in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning
but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sun
rise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked
in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad
stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these
poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver-joy
to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls
in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses'
rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with
gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely pet-
ticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station
solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in
dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and
picked themselves up out of basements hung
over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third
Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemploy-
ment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on
the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the
East River to open to a room full of steamheat
and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment
cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime
blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall
be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested
the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of
Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their
pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the
bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in
their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned
with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded
by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty
incantations which in the yellow morning were
stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht
& tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable
kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for
an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot
for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks
fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccess-
fully, gave up and were forced to open antique
stores where they thought they were growing
old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits
on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse
& the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments
of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the
fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinis-
ter intelligent editors, or were run down by the
drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually hap-
pened and walked away unknown and forgotten
into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alley
ways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of
the subway window, jumped in the filthy Pas-
saic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street,
danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed
phonograph records of nostalgic European
1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and
threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans
in their ears and the blast of colossal steam
whistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying
to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude
watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out
if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had
a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who
came back to Denver & waited in vain, who
watched over Denver & brooded & loned in
Denver and finally went away to find out the
Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying
for each other's salvation and light and breasts,
until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for
impossible criminals with golden heads and the
charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet
blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky
Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys
or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or
Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the
daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hyp
notism & were left with their insanity & their
hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism
and subsequently presented themselves on the
granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads
and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding in-
stantaneous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin
Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psycho-
therapy occupational therapy pingpong &
amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic
pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of
blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible mad
man doom of the wards of the madtowns of the
East,
Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid
halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rock-
ing and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench
dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a night-
mare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the
moon,
with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book
flung out of the tenement window, and the last
door closed at 4. A.M. and the last telephone
slammed at the wall in reply and the last fur-
nished room emptied down to the last piece of
mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted
on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that
imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of
hallucination
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and
now you're really in the total animal soup of
time
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed
with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use
of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrat-
ing plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space
through images juxtaposed, and trapped the
archangel of the soul between 2 visual images
and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun
and dash of consciousness together jumping
with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna
Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human
prose and stand before you speechless and intel-
ligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet con-
fessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm
of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown,
yet putting down here what might be left to say
in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in
the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the
suffering of America's naked mind for love into
an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone
cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered
out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand
years.

II

What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open
their skulls and ate up their brains and imagi-
nation?
Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unob
tainable dollars! Children screaming under the
stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men
weeping in the parks!
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the
loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy
judger of men!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the
crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of
sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment!
Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stun-
ned governments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose
blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers
are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a canni-
bal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking
tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows!
Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long
streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose fac-
tories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose
smokestacks and antennae crown the cities!
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch
whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch
whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch
whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen!
Moloch whose name is the Mind!
Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream
Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in
Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom
I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch
who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy!
Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch!
Light streaming out of the sky!
Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs!
skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic
industries! spectral nations! invincible mad
houses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pave-
ments, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to
Heaven which exists and is everywhere about
us!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies!
gone down the American river!
Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole
boatload of sensitive bullshit!
Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions!
gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! De-
spairs! Ten years' animal screams and suicides!
Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on
the rocks of Time!
Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the
wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell!
They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving!
carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the
street!

III

Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland
where you're madder than I am
I'm with you in Rockland
where you must feel very strange
I'm with you in Rockland
where you imitate the shade of my mother
I'm with you in Rockland
where you've murdered your twelve secretaries
I'm with you in Rockland
where you laugh at this invisible humor
I'm with you in Rockland
where we are great writers on the same dreadful
typewriter
I'm with you in Rockland
where your condition has become serious and
is reported on the radio
I'm with you in Rockland
where the faculties of the skull no longer admit
the worms of the senses
I'm with you in Rockland
where you drink the tea of the breasts of the
spinsters of Utica
I'm with you in Rockland
where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the
harpies of the Bronx
I'm with you in Rockland
where you scream in a straightjacket that you're
losing the game of the actual pingpong of the
abyss
I'm with you in Rockland
where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul
is innocent and immortal it should never die
ungodly in an armed madhouse
I'm with you in Rockland
where fifty more shocks will never return your
soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a
cross in the void
I'm with you in Rockland
where you accuse your doctors of insanity and
plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the
fascist national Golgotha
I'm with you in Rockland
where you will split the heavens of Long Island
and resurrect your living human Jesus from the
superhuman tomb
I'm with you in Rockland
where there are twenty-five-thousand mad com-
rades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale
I'm with you in Rockland
where we hug and kiss the United States under
our bedsheets the United States that coughs all
night and won't let us sleep
I'm with you in Rockland
where we wake up electrified out of the coma
by our own souls' airplanes roaring over the
roof they've come to drop angelic bombs the
hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls col-
lapse O skinny legions run outside O starry
spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is
here O victory forget your underwear we're
free
I'm with you in Rockland
in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-
journey on the highway across America in tears
to the door of my cottage in the Western night

Barack the Mic

In a friend's blog, I remeber warning her that although Barack Obama is black, she cannot count on him to represent black interests when he gets into the White House, given that special interest lobbyists don't care what color you are. That said, Barack does appear sincere in the recent speech he gave considering the latest stupid controversy about some scary thing his black pastor said. He wasn't my first choice when the democratic caucus began, but as it becomes increasingly more likely it will be him versus McCain, it's nice to know that besides not continuing the ush legacy, there is some other merit to his name. Watch the video below, and tell me if you agree with me:

Flow of Consciousness 1.0

So I read that some French Surrealists have created a great method for creating subversive, yet beautiful, art, by simply the first thing that comes to mind, by simply typing the first thing that comes to mind. I find this idea very interesting and a good way to explore one's self, to uncover what the logical mind buries below. I also intend to make these kinds of entries while I am at least slightly intoxicated, as I am in the present moment, as alcohol tends to impair judgment, allowing for freedom and creativity in expression instead of my typical monotonous rule of reason, as tends to be dominant in my mind, allowing for later discernment of underlying things I had no awareness of. Without further ado, a stream of consciousness entry:

I won't let this build up inside of me. She isn't real. Even if I wanter her to be, it wouldn't matter, for those I have a sort of platonic, semi-amorous love, even among males, abound, while those that may stir passions of the soul deeper than simple attraction, those to whom I would submit my constant stubbornness of disposition, those to whom I would risk vulnerability for freedom, remain few, if non existent. And those who I--perhaps--may find myself thinking about as I passing from conscious nightly, are the unattainable. My tarot reminds me that this is a time of penance for past sins, but what has my karmic sin been that I deserve a fate in which my passions must be suffocated for a superficial life when the soul yearns for something more? If only there were some other option between ignorant bliss, knowing paralysis of the senses, and frustrated desires! The worst part is looking into self and seeing the void of ego, the superficiality, the insignificance of that which is sought, intra- and externally, and the resulting depression of the blood that pumps through an inconsequential heart, in vain. Perhaps, to escape from this trap, the necessary is be the fool, forget the wise, do that which needs not doing and in so doing, create a needs to be fulfilled, if only individually, and perhaps through the luck that always seems to accompany these intuitions we call coincidence, create some beauty. Why, then, even when taking the risks, when reaching with emotional tentacles to reach someone precious, do we end up, with despair, when in times of arrogance we shrug off the open hearts of others? It seems in this manner that he dream of playing a C-chord, C G E C E G C with dominant and root 7th to lull our child to sleep, will never become reality, because love will always roam, wandering an endless abyss, while the unsolved heart stands alone.

Two girls, one disgusting waste of time.

Back in the day (read: a couple years ago), I had a friend with a very very gross sense of humor. We both had problems sleeping at night, so we would amuse ourselves by calling each other and browsing sites simultaneously, to see what weird and gross stuff we could find. Because of that I thought I had seen it all, that I had achieved a sort of Buddhist indifference to the obscene. Apparently not. Recently my flatmates had been making inside jokes about something called "Two girls, one cup," which, from what I could ascertain, was a gross internet video. I was horribly mistaken in that assumption; it's probably the grossest internet video I have ever seen. Another friend of mine just blogged about it, saying that she had filmed some of her buds watching it. So, in tribute to her and her sick and twisted pleasures, I present to you, my reaction to the video that is taking the internet video by storm, "Two girls, one cup."

In case you were wondering where this video is, or what's in it, don't. It's one of those creations, like the atom bomb or Frankenstein's monster, that just goes against nature and should be buried forever. I want that 60 seconds of my life back.

Triple Axle

So this Winter break, Rachel invited some of her friends from back in Tucson to Madrid, some of which have been staying at my house. Many, many awesome things have transpired as a result, one of which was John, Rachel, Chris, Maeve and I's trip to the free skating rink Madrid set up on account of it being Christmas and everything. Being the type who is always willing to try something new, I decided to test my skating legs. At first we couldn't go out, because they had to smooth out the ice again; since they didn't have Zambonis so they did it by hand using really wide plows like on the front of a dump truck.

Learning to skate consisted of a lot of little baby steps for me. Mainly those steps were very very awkward, as the majority of the time I did my best impressions of Thriller trying to keep my balance, much to everyone's amusement, myself included. Making things more difficult were the constantly falling children, who would sprawl out on the ice and flail their limbs around in an apparently intentional attempt to brings anyone around them down with them, turning the rink into a veritable obstacle course. Still, I managed to not crush any of them, though I did end up grabbing this one dude's girlfriend when I as about to take a dive, for which I earned a dirty look from the boyfriend and shy smiles from her (it was evident she hadn't skated before either).

My roommate John and I have what can best be termed a love-hate relationship, and unbeknown to me, he played Hockey for about six years. So when I went out there with no skating experience, he was waiting pretty much the whole time, like a shark that smells blood in the water, to see if I would bruise my ass or ego. I managed to do the first, with some hilarious spills reminiscent of the Flinstones run or that Russian kicking dance, but by he end of the day I was getting more aggressive, and really didn't want to leave, despite the occasional flurry of skate-by snowballings John and Chris decided to hurl at me. I got my revenge, though, returning fire in slow motion when they weren't paying attention.

The day definitely made me appreciate hockey more, in which people manage to shoot pieces of rubber into nets while gliding along at high speeds while trying not to get brutally clobbered by other mischievous ice-devils.

Below is a video of me skating for the first time. You can't really tell, but I definitely felt more confident on the ice by the end of the day. I really want to go back and try it again!

Subconscious Thesbian Cookery

I just had the wierdest dream from which I have just awoken. It was actually a series of dreams, but I can only remember pieces. One of them featured me being somehow casted simultaneously by Carey Barney to act as both Othello in the play of the same name (which I have played as before in "Goodnight, Desdemona, Goodmorning Juliet") and aleading role from another Shakespeare play, and I remember being flattered that I was being trusted with two lead roles at a time and also intimidated by the sheer amount of line memorization and character development that would be required. I also found this ironic upon awakening because after watching "Twelfth Night" I came to the conclusion that either I didn't do as good of a job acting in this one as I thought I did or I'm just really good at seeing all of the things I could have done better. Anyways both of the plays were interestingly being done during the same semester, echoing the reality of "Twelfth Night" where I had a really short time to figure out my role. I also remember snippets of me hanging around the theater where we have done the plays with some of the people from "Twelfth Night;" I can't say who exactly but I suspect Patrick Benson, George Stoica, Daniel Snow, Cathy Smith, and most of the people from the SLU female apartment near the school were there, given the second half of the dream.

The other half of the dream was at the SLU apartment near school where Sadie, Eleanor, Myriem, Jelena, and Tadz live, but something was wrong with it, because apparently by opening the door from the kitchen, instead of leading out into the hall it just lead into another apartment where other SLUdents lived. I remember something about a lime pie being in this other student's house, or I was making a lime pie, but in either case I got ballsy and went over into their apartment to get something out that I needed, which I guess I wasn't supposed to do, but I didn't get caught. Then I was in the kitchen, which wasn't set up the way it is in real life, and Ealanor and Danielle Lagman were chilling on the couch from the living room which was now at the end of the room in the kitchen, and I was cooking salad and spaghetti for them. For some reason I wanted to grill the tomatoes and some of the salad leaves, for "texture," and then put them back in the salad. I was going to finish the salad later, and I started boiling the spaghetti, which I managed to finish, but then when I went back to finish the salad, which they had already started eating, I got really weak and fainted. They didn't really notice what had happened and it took a supreme amount of effort to sit up and call to them for help, and then Danielle comes over with the spaghetti, but all of a sudden it has lots of olives and spaghetti sauce in it, neither of which I had put in it! Anyways I ate it and felt better, so I could get up again, and as I got up to finish cooking I also got out of the dream and woke up to realize how bizarre it was to dream about cooking for friends. Now I'm really hungry for spaghetti...