Wednesday, January 05, 2005


Who told Bono he was allowed to sing in spanish?

I understand Ireland and Spain are both part of the EU, but let´s get real.

Uno, dos, tres, catorce my ass.

Monday, December 20, 2004


It´s a couple days before Christmas.

I´m not really that excited, for once. I mean, I like the lights. And the kick ass ice-skating rink in the Plaza Cervantes, roughly comparable to a thin layer of ice cubes spread out in a kind of oval´s kind of like off-road ice skating. I like it. You never know if you´re going to glide across the rink or get caught in a little ice ditch, pushed by your own momentum into a wimpering heap, huddled against one of the temporary walls. It adds a kind of danger to ice-skating that I´ve always thought was lacking.

But Christmas is kind of a family time, and seeing as my family has recently decreased by 1/5 I´m just kind of looking at this holiday as a day to get through, and try to appreciate what I still have. Which is a lot, I do realize.

So maybe I´ll go ice skating again. Or look at the big pyramid shaped Christmas tree. Or play "dodge the lighted cigarette" at some packed-to-the-rafters club. Or maybe chain-smoke some more. Either way, Merry Christmas everyone. And let´s hope for a better 2005.

Saturday, December 11, 2004

Aspirations of Bitchiness

I’ve found that the majority of aspiring female writers inevitably must become, first and foremost, a pretentious bitch. Given this essential truth, I have to admit that this is a fairly substantial roadblock on my way to writing the Great American Novel.

Because I can’t be a bitch. This is not me congratulating myself on my saintly disposition, on the contrary there has been many a time when I tried hard to be one, but it always just comes out as a random outburst.

For example: in high school, I had two arch nemeses. (Is that the plural of arch nemesis? Moving on…) I don’t think either of these girls actually knew that I was at all angry with them. A typical conversation might go like this:

Archnemesis #1: Hey, Katie, can I borrow that pen?

Katie (in mind): Yeah, sure. After you wrench it out of my cold dead fingers! I’ll never give you anything you cold-hearted blood-sucking toad. You’re so awful. And your hair? Ugly.

Katie (out loud): Yeah, sure.

Or the ongoing rivalry I had with Witness My Fitness down the street. Every day I would turn off of Camino Corto and onto Sueno to ride to campus, and every day I would see him. Smug, self-assured skin-and-bones skeleton of a man with a street racing bike and “Witness my Fitness” scrawled across his satchel in permanent marker. Well, I’m not gonna lie. I’m pretty fast on my bike. I had won many a bike race, and when I saw that cocky bastard’s motto on his backpack, his brazen attempt to assert his fitness over mine, and his suggestion, nay his demand that I witness said fitness—it really made me want to prove him wrong.

So we had a bike race.

The bastard kicked my ass.

So after that, he became my new arch nemesis. After that fateful bike race I would see him everywhere. Walking by me on campus, buying coffee from me at Nicoletti’s, strolling the halls of Girvetz…and everytime I saw him, I just glared. Glared and repeated silently in my head, “Witness my finger, bike fucker.”

Now this might be interpreted as just passive aggressiveness. But sometimes, even though I can’t manage to say anything really mean, I just blurt out something that’s not really nice. Like the following, that happened to me one time last year when I was working at IV market, and my neighbor Fatty walked in.

(Katie bagging groceries)
Fatty: Well, Katie, it was good to see you, and—
Katie: Cut your hair.
Fatty: (looks surprised)

That’s it! That’s as mean as I can get! To be fair, the hair needed to be cut. I learned later that it had been caught not once but twice in an automatic car window.

So, I’m working on it. But besides being a bitch, I think I need to work on my girl power-vagina monologue-female pride. Is it bad that I just don’t care? Is it bad that I think women’s studies classes are a waste of time? Seriously. If you’re a women’s studies major, what the hell are you learning? How to pee sitting down? Give me a break.

So being a bitch isn’t working out, and I can forget about being pretentious, listening to Tchaikovsky and quoting Ibsen. The only thing I ever quote is Old School, and that is only because it quite honestly relates to every aspect of my life. And I listen to Britney Spears.

Well, okay so I can’t be mean, I’m not able to “celebrate my femininity” and spell woman “womyn,” so I guess my only course of action to become a writer, since pretentious bitch is beyond my reach (for now) is to keep an online journal. Check.

Wednesday, November 17, 2004


I had to pee really bad, so i went to the bathroom (Katie Grandsaert: reigning queen of unnecessary explanations). I was washing my hands, and I noticed this weird birthmark on my arm. I started to get really worried, but then it turned out to be a piece of lint.

Crisis averted.

Wednesday, November 03, 2004

I think it's too late now

Do you ever wish you could go back in time? You know, change something you did by mistake, some non-thinking slip of the decision-making process, and then return to the present to witness your life immeasurably improved?

I'm having one of those moments.

See, I wanted my title for this little blog thing to be "onepercentmilk". But it was already taken (who the hell would take that name? note to self: check out "one-percent milk" blog because I'm pretty sure that person is my soulmate) so I decided to go with the title "twopercentmilk". Logically, this title has as much to do with my life as that of one-percent milk, given that I rarely drink milk, and when I do, it's nonfat.

So what does all this have to do with anything? Just that I'm sitting here thinking, why did my title have to do with milk in the first place, couldn't it have been cooler, couldn't I have chosen something better?

I can't believe the fat content of the liquid discharge expelled from the stomach of a barnyard animal has this much impact on my self-esteem and confidence as a writer.