Tag Archives: caitlin pendola

Quotes by Me – Four

I play with words when I’m bored.

 

Meme_Darnnell

“Never underestimate the sex appeal of jeans and a plain white t-shirt.”

That is a photograph of my sister’s boyfriend that I made her take just for this stupid quote.

Meme_misfits

“Where dead ends meet is where us misfits will be.  Join us!  Everything will be beautiful, no one will fail and we will live like it doesn’t matter if we are remembered.”

I said this very recently, when I was fantasizing about starting a brand new colony.

 

Meme_Moonshine

“Let us go forth then, you and I.  We can burn our legacies down with cigarettes and moonshine.”

An old photograph of an ex-boyfriend and I.  No one freak out please, it’s just a fitting photo for the quote.

Meme_FuckPlans

“Remember that the world does not give a fuck about your plans.”

 

 

Meme_whisper

“Please, ignore me when I whisper in your ear, “It’s okay to leave now, there’s nothing left for us here.”

 

Meme_chaos

“There is no meaning to life.  There’s no karma or fate or divinities or reasons.  Everything is just cells reacting.  It’s all just organized chaos.”

I took this photograph during a lightning storm in Arizona.

 

Meme_WarCrimes

“The concept of war crimes is so extraordinarily ironic.”

 

 

Meme_CheatDeath

“We humans with our vaccines and cryogenics and manipulations have been cheating death.  But the world is far more patient than we.  It will bite back in one swift blow, and we will remember that we have never been better than a virus or a storm or the mosquitos that bite our skin.”

Mark my words… nature will get us back and it won’t be pretty.

Please see my other quotes in Two and Three.

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Never Date a Musician

Never date a musician.  He’ll write songs about you and songs that are dedicated to you, and songs that make you to forget that all they are, are some vowels that sound pretty when strung together, and some ‘a’ minor chords that make anyone’s heart break no matter what order they’re put in.  He’ll sing you to sleep and he’ll kiss your eyelids when you cry, and he’ll even figure out the chords to “Puff the Magic Dragon,” because you told him one time that it was your childhood lullaby.  He’ll be able to feel your pain from a mile away because he is so intuitive that it is almost like having a sixth sense.  While he’s cradling your face with his beautifully calloused finger tips, and kissing your forehead, using his manufactured words to make you believe that everything will be okay, he’ll never forgive you for your feelings, because he is so terrified of his own.

Never date a musician because he’ll inspire you.  He’ll bring out the artist within you and you’ll become an addict of passion.  The athlete you’ll date later on will be gorgeous, and he may even impress you with his wisdom and knowledge of current world affairs, but he won’t remind you of what it feels like to feel, and you won’t become addicted to him because he doesn’t make you want to explore the attic of that haunted venue in Milwaukee with him, and he doesn’t give you ideas for the new screenplay that you’ve been writing.  The tattoo artist that you thought you could fall in love with will be the perfect balance of passion, stability and kindness, but while you’re making love in his squeaky bed, he won’t do that thing where he stops for a moment, smiling, and tells you that you look beautiful under the pale moonlight that is shining through the open window.  The boy with the blond hair will make you laugh.  He’ll make you laugh so hard that he’ll wash away all of your doubts with his sweet smile and the way he can keep you up all night, entertained simply by watching bad television together and eating jellybeans.  But they’ll come back.  The doubts will come back when the blond boy can’t find the perfect lyrical analogy, or he can’t silently grab your attention from the other side of a crowded room, and they’ll come back when he doesn’t cause you to bite your bottom lip in lust, because only a musician can do that.

Never date a musician because that is not his heart on his sleeve.  When he’s on stage, setting your soul aflame with his Alvarez that hypnotizes you, his eyes that shyly stay looking down and his vulnerable voice that makes the audience fall in love with him because they believe that they can see what he his feeling.  They can’t.  That is not his heart on his sleeve you silly little victim, it’s just his ego on display.

Never date a musician because he’ll always try to recreate that one night when everything was perfect.  The night that the two of you went to the bridge and splashed rocks into the water so that you could see the bioluminescence.  Then you ran through a park, in the dark, and played tag together and climbed up a tree until you both made it home and sat on the kitchen floor listening to Cat Power and eating left over beans and rice that you cooked together the night before.  You’ll wake up with rashes on your knees from making out all night on the scratchy rug that the two of you keep meaning to replace, but you both hate IKEA so the rug remained.  He’ll always try to recreate that night, never accepting the evolution of relationships because he’s a musician, and they never have to grow up.  When he can’t recreate that night, he’ll hate himself and resent you, and then just write a song about it instead.

Never date a musician because he’ll lie.  He’ll lie about everything.  He’ll lie about his father being an alcoholic, just because it sounds dramatic and captivating.  He’ll lie about the origin of his name and the time that he saved this little girl from drowning.  He’ll even lie about a tragic drug problem he supposedly had just because he wants to pretend that he can relate to Neil Young’s, “A Needle and the Damage Done.”  He’ll lie about these things because they sound romantic.  He has learned from the best… Jim James singing about death and bigotry and Jeff Mangum writing about the only girl he ever loved who got buried alive one day in 1945.  These lyrics will make him believe that he needs to experience the worst of the worst, and somehow that means that he has lived large and with integrity, but it doesn’t.  You’ll realize later that the song you used to play by Carisa’s Wierd that says, “saying sad things that don’t make sense, can just make you look like a liar” didn’t make him squirm because an ex-boyfriend of yours introduced the song to you.  Now you know he hates that song because it hit too close to home.

Never fall in love with a musician because he’ll make you feel like you’re crazy.  When you wake up crying for what you think is no reason, in hindsight you’ll realize that it was because deep down you knew that he was on the other side of town waking up with Adelina, or Calico or Berlin… or some other girl with an exotic name.  She probably has multi-colored hair, and her lips are probably fuller than yours, and she’ll pretend to know all about Wilco just to impress him.  You’ll plead with him on the corner of 3rd and 5th, as strangers are walking by and tears are spilling onto your blue shirt that you’ll never wear again, to tell you the truth about the girl with the Kurt Vonnegut tattoo, but he won’t.  He won’t because telling the truth would mark the end, and all musicians are terrified of a conclusion that cannot be depicted with a few “la-la-la-la’s” and a gentle fade-out.

There will be a tombstone marked “Muse” where you will lie dead.  The day will come when he’ll bring that Alvarez, and sit on top of this grave, and sing to you sweet lullabies, trying to resurrect a time, a place and a you that has long since passed.  Do not fall for this though my friend, because he’ll never love you completely, because completion would mean The End.

Also see, Never Date a Writer.

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The Juggler

Please, remember me, fondly
By the jukebox falling on each other’s hopes
to stay afloat.
The Captain sailed us to our secret haven
destroyed, by angry boys,
making fools of all our candy covered lies
to stay by your side.
I’m sorry Doc Holiday never saw us through the night.

Please, remember me, as in a dream
Summer rain pouring along and playing our secret songs,
tearing down walls
On that playground in Angel Falls
Only now I see we always loved him more.
Your bedroom floor, gave way to all temptations of the years,
we ran with fears, then you disappeared.
So I’ll sing you a lullaby, it’s no Billy Joel,
“Lay down my love, so I can breathe in your soul.”

Please, remember me, courageously
By the host stand laughing at that girl,
I forget her name, but she later called you beautiful.
The time then passed, and overlapped
You were fighting lions while I simply fought a lamb,
and then we just got buried in the Middle Eastern sand.
So here’s to you, and I’ll kiss your cheek,
And tell you to never look back at me.

Please, think of me, painlessly
After school racing with time, before your Mom came home
and we were overthrown.
Making up names of faceless kid’s we’ll never have
A girl and boy
our fucked up joy
Someone save us from eternity.
And please, ignore me, when I whisper in your ear,
“We can say goodbye now, there’s nothing left for us here.”

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This Might Sound Bad…

…but I think I have an explanation for some forms of prejudice against black people.  Let me be clear, I am discussing prejudice, not racism.  My theory is, that our primal survival instincts subconsciously raise red flags when it is difficult for us, to “read” another persons face from a comfortable distance.  A distance where if we needed to, we could still “flight,” and easily get away.  So, it truly is only skin deep.

I made my discovery while I was walking down the street in Savannah, Georgia one not so very special day.  Outside of some house were a few men.  One of them, I thought I worked with.  I was at a close enough distance to where I should have been able to absolutely tell if I recognized the person for sure or not. But I couldn’t tell!  Why?!  It wasn’t until I was relatively close in proximity to him, that I could see that he was not in fact the guy I knew.

Another example.  While walking at night, EVERYONE tries to read the person who is nearing them. It’s inane, we’re programmed to read an approaching creature, and decipher if we see them as a threat. This brings me to my main point. A white person, is easier to read from a safe distance, a distance where we could still “flight” if we felt the need. A black person however, is harder to read SIMPLY because light does not reflect off of their skin as well. So! Even though that sounds bad, I think because light does not reflect as well off of black skin, that is why there are ridiculous racial divides that still exist, and it’s simply that it’s harder to “read” black people from a distance. Excuse the run-on sentence.

Of course, when approaching a white man on a sidewalk at night, I attempt to read their face as well, and decide if I feel he is a potential threat.  I can come to a conclusion at a safe enough distance to where if I DO feel threatened, I still have time to cross the street or do whatever I need to do to prevent confrontation.  With a black person, I have to be closer in proximity to be able to adequately read their face, decide if I do feel a potential threat, and if so, it is now too late to comfortably dissipate the situation because I’m too close in proximity.

I know it sounds absurd, but I think it makes sense.  Thoughts?

I’d like to conclude this by stating that I have ZERO tolerance for racism.

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Quotes by Me

I’ve got a sore neck, a crippled bank account and a broken down dream.  But tonight, I’ll set your soul aflame.

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Love in the Time of Amenorrhea

We all know how much I despise discussing my menstrual cycle, but it is necessary to preface this entry with stating that I have not had my period in eight months.  This disorder is called, “Amenorrhea” and is common in girls my age.  It can be caused by many things, stress being one of them, which is the cause in my case.  I have not been taking care of myself, so my body is pissed off at me, and lashing out by not allowing me my period.  This may sound like a gift, but I promise it’s not, it’s really unhealthy.  Keeping all of that in mind, now let me move on to the story which correlates with this information.

My best friend Lance is in town visiting.  Since I left Florida over a year ago, I have only seen him one other time, when I went home for a wedding.  This has been hard on me because Lance is my better half.  I’m going to full on embrace the cheesiness and go as far as saying that he completes me.  I like myself when we’re together, we can talk about everything, and we always have so much fun.

He’s staying with some other friends of ours, but I decided to kidnap him for the night, bring him out with me and then have him crash at my place.  Best idea I’ve ever had.  We knock on the door of the wannabe speakeasy that I discussed in Confessions Vol. 8, and Adam, the door guy who I befriended during my last visit, opens the peek hole.  “I smell hair,” I say reluctantly, rolling my eyes at the ridiculous password.  “Do you?”  he says back, granting us access, and so the night begins.

Inside, there were two other patrons, a karaoke host, the door guy and the bartender.  That’s it.  So of course, because I’m with Lance, the two of us make it a great time. We kick off with our awful rendition of “Lola” by the Kinks.  One thing leads to another, and we’re pretty much best friends with the three staff members.  We were all buying each other shots, dancing, hooting and hollering and just having what was essentially our own private party.  Right about now, is when I don’t remember a good two hours of the night.  Lance filled me in a bit, and from the sounds of it, I was having a grand ole’ time.  We decided that the party was not over when the bar closed, so myself, Lance and the bartender, whose name I believe is Brian, decided to walk to a 24 hour Korean BBQ restaurant.

I proceeded to throw-up in the bathroom, which just needed to happen, and then continued with my evening.  Lance and Brian were making fun of me the whole night for it, but it didn’t bother me.  It was funny, and I owned it.

Caitlin Rule:  If you throw-up, own up.  It’s way more embarrassing to try to deny it when everyone knows it happened.

Lance and I began rapping a song that our friend made-up, with lyrics that say, “Bitch you better suck my dick / Now put your pussy in the air and get fucked.”  I think it’s hilarious, and hopefully everyone else in the restaurant did too… because we were loud.  I remember there being a whole fish, eyeball and all in front of me, so being the mature adult that I am, I plucked the eyeball out and put it in Lance’s soup.  Throughout all of this, Brian and I are exchanging physical flirtation.  Gently holding hands under the table… touching my leg… and so on, but thinking back, I have NO idea why, because I was a HOT MESS.  I’m pretty sure my hair looked like I had just been skydiving, and there may or may not have been a piece of vomit on my face… and I’m also pretty sure that Brian was sober.  Why in God’s name a very cool, sober guy with no agenda would want to be within ten feet of me that night, let alone hold my hand, is beyond me, but I’m not going to complain.

From there, we drove up to the Griffith Observatory, which is on top of Mount Hollywood, and has one of the best views of the city.  I flung my heels off and ran to the ledge, where I was met with a view that never gets old.  The city lights against the night sky.

Me and my heels at 4:00 in the morning, against the back drop of Los Angeles.

Sorry the picture is dark, but that’s why it’s the best look-out point, because it’s the Observatory, so there are no lights.

The three of us sat up there and talked, and this is when I finally started sobering up.  Lance disappeared to the other side for a while, so Brian and I had some one-on-one time, during such, I realized that he’s probably the most genuine guy I’ve met in Los Angeles.  He radiated this humbleness that is so rare out here because everyone has an agenda.  I can’t hate, because I’m the same way, we’re all out here for something.  Everything in LA is so fast-paced, that even human interactions are rushed.  But not this night… this night felt real.

The industrial sized sprinklers came on, and after our pretty bonding session, I grabbed Brian’s hand and we ran together through the sprinklers.  Surprisingly, he didn’t object or hesitate at all, and completely went with it.  Without even thinking, I turned around, dripping in reclaimed water, and kissed him.  Again, he went with it.  It only lasted for a second, but became one of my favorite kisses ever because of the innocence behind it.

Lance and I then ran through the sprinklers together, as Brian sat on the sidewalk, waiting with my heels and anklet ready for me.  Perfect way to end the night, running through sprinklers with your best friend just before the dawn.  We drove Brian home, and part of me wants to seek him out again, but the other part of me wants never to see him again, because I don’t know if it will ever be as perfect.

Lance and I passed out on my bed, and the next day, I got my period.  I don’t think this can be brushed off as a coincidence.  Being with Lance again made me remember who I am.  Being with him and a stranger, letting the night take us all for a ride made me feel alive and all of my stress was alleviated, even if only for a short time.  So maybe the cure for Amenorrhea is simply a single dose of love.

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The Nights Here Will Eat You Alive

A playlist from me to you.  Perfect for falling in love to… or out of love to.  Or good for just sitting on a windowsill, smoking cigarettes and breathing in the winter air while the night-time hours set your soul aflame.

A Playlist: Never Date a Writer

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The Adventures of Touring with a Rock Band – Part 3

To continue with my list of reasons why everyone on Warped Tour is miserable, I will start with what perhaps, I should have started with in Part 2.  All day long, you are…

That will put anyone in a bad mood.  We put that sticker on our tent as a reminder, not that we had the luxury of forgetting.  Maybe it was more of an attempt to add humor to the hell.  There were six stages on the tour if I remember correctly, which meant that at all times, there were six different bands playing within earshot, which also meant six different forms of torture all day long.

I do understand that there is a big difference between music that is bad, and music that I just don’t like.  One of my pet-peeves is when I hear someone say, “That band sucks.”  No, they don’t suck, you just don’t like them!  With that being said, a few of the bands that were on 2010 Warped Tour sucked.    It did make me wholeheartedly appreciate the good songs/bands however, which is another romance I had in my misery that I will get into later.

I am going to speak for the boys here, and say that another reason why they were all pissed off and frustrated is because they were forced to watch half-naked teenage girls flaunting around shamelessly all day everyday.  While many men have no qualms with checking out underage girls, there are also many men that do have issues with it.  The guys that I was with most of the time, hated that they had these inappropriate thoughts about underage girls.  It made them feel skeezy.  But when a fifteen year old girl who looks like she’s twenty-two walks by wearing nothing but tiny shorts and stickers over her nipples asking them to autograph her stomach or boobs… you can’t blame the men for not being able to help but imagine titty-fucking her.

Of course, I know the guys would not be turned-on by the disgusting girls above – they’d be repulsed – but it’s just an example of how some of the attendees dress.  I would imagine trying to jack-off on the tour would also be difficult, so releasing their built-up sexual frustrations probably felt like more of a chore than it did a pleasure.

You may think that as a musician, getting laid on the tour is as easy as drinking water, but it’s actually a little more complicated.  First of all, you can only get backstage or to the bus area if you have a pass, and security is pretty strict about this.  There were a couple of times when I forgot my pass on the bus, realizing it as I approached the gate, and had to walk all the way back to retrieve it.  At a lot of these venues, the busses were sometimes parked over a half a mile away.  The point is, getting a potential lay back to the bus is not a simple task.

Also, there is “bus call.”  Bus call is the time we head out and you have to be back to your bus.  Those driver’s will leave without you!  Obviously, we travel at night, so bus call varies, depending on how far away the next city is.  Sometimes bus call was as late as 3:00am, but other times it was as early as 11:00pm, and the festival usually lasted until 9:00pm.  So, if a guy did go through the trouble of getting a fan/groupie to the bus, he then has to make sure that he gets laid before bus call.

That was my very long way of explaining why the men are always pissed off and sexually frustrated on the tour.

On top of that, you are sharing a tour bus with sometimes eleven other people so you better hope you love all of them because unless you’ve retreated to your bunk, there is no personal space.  The petty arguments that stem from who gets drawer space and who doesn’t is awesome.  On most of the busses there are twelve bunks, two columns of three on each side.

That was not our bus – ours was way dirtier – but the layout is the same.  Half of the tour there was eight of us on the bus, but the other half we shared with another band that were high school kids (literally the members had just graduated high school or were going into their senior year), so there was a full twelve of us.  Nightmare.  Although, we did get one of the high schoolers to smoke weed for his first time, and while he was high he said, “It feels like my legs are having an orgasm.”  That was a fun night.

It’s safe to assume that everyone on the tour is also going through some serious relationship problems, which also adds to everybody’s misery.  Touring murders any type of romantic relationship.  Obviously, being gone for three months at a time while living a rock-star lifestyle will put a strain on any relationship.  But if the boyfriend/girlfriend comes with you on the tour, that’s a recipe for killing a relationship as well.  Conundrum.  I have never seen a relationship turn out well when the couple is on the tour together.  This is because of my main point, that everyone is at their absolute worst while touring.  Couples see each other in a whole different light.  Like I said, relationship murderer.  Even trying to maintain a casual, we-just-like-to-have-fun-together-fling-type of relationship with someone from back home, is nearly impossible.  So on top of everything else, it’s safe to say that 90% of the people on the tour are also going through some type of personal crisis.

Touring is this strange break from real life, so people who do it enough, never really have to grow up in many ways.  This is why most musicians are at least partly insane.  And that is why I am plagued with always falling in love with one.

…see. This is us going insane.

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The Adventures of Touring with a Rock Band – Part 1

I was on Warped Tour the summer of 2010.  I was the merch girl for one of the bands, and for those of you who live in some sort of weird alternate culture, or in a different country, Warped Tour is a giant touring music festival sponsored by Vans.  It travels around the country and parts of Canada every summer, reaching out to a mostly teenage demographic.  Lots of destruction, terrible music and terrible behavior.  America in all its glory.

Being on Van’s Warped Tour was possibly the worst experience of my life, but somehow looking back, there is this oddly romanticized sentiment associated with the memories.  What is it about being miserable that heightens the soul in a way that lets us have our own love story with all that we see?  Touring is an entirely different lifestyle that absolutely brings out the worst in everyone.  Specifics as to why, will be the topic of a later blog.

I was tragically sad for ninety percent of that summer while on the road.  I won’t get into reasons why, because that is related to wounds that are still fresh, but I will share some of my observations… my romances with the world if you will, that I probably would not have noticed had I been blissfully blinded by good times and contentment.

Andrew W.K.’s bass player and his cigarettes.  Obviously, there is no smoking on the tour busses.  Of course, smoking drugs on the bus, snorting drugs and everything else you can do with drugs and alcohol is a-okay.  I don’t smoke, but a lot of socializing took place at night during cigarette breaks in between the long rows of busses; that detached space polluted with generator exhaust, rivers of spilt beer and the eerie feeling that home has never been so close or so far away.

Andrew’s bass player, this tall, kind of goofy looking man with chops and a deep, soothing voice, would smoke his cigarettes all the way down to the filter.  I’ve noticed that people who would not generally litter, always litter their cigarettes.  It’s like this weird exception to the rule for some reason.  But not him.  Every cigarette, he would put it out on the bottom of his shoe, and then cup it in his hand until he went back on the bus to throw it away.  Often, we would all talk for a good thirty minutes, and he’d have a second cigarette, but he never once littered a single one.  He’d just stand there, hovering a good foot above me, holding the burnt out things in his hand, while everyone else had long since discarded their’s onto the already infected soil.  The amount of damage Warped Tour does to the environment is obscene, and I could write an entire blog just about that, so littering a couple of cigarettes seemed almost harmless (even to me, the litter police) when looking at the big picture.  While I can’t even remember his name, I’ll never forget that man standing there with those cigarettes in his dirty, calloused hands, doing what he could in a small way, to leave a place the way he found it.

Another unspoken romance I had that I probably would not have appreciated had I not been miserable, was this beautiful display of what real punk rock is.  On one not so very special evening, I was pushing the dolly back to the bus which was carrying the usual, over two hundred pounds I’d say, of all the merch crap.  Earlier that day I was hanging out in a big group and a couple of the guys present were band members of Alkaline Trio.  The singer mentioned that he was losing his voice, and I remember this because I thought it was cool that he was still talking and carrying on.  That might seem like an absurd thing to think, but it’s disgusting how often these lead singer’s are on “vocal rest.”  Vocal rest means that you simply don’t speak or utter a sound.  At all.  It’s obnoxious.  You call yourself a rock band but you baby your voice with hot tea and Slippery Elm Bark?  Take a shot of Jameson and hit the stage!

The vocalist of the band I was working for, I swear to God, was on vocal rest eighty-five percent of the time, which meant I often had to be subjected to snaps and whistles in order for this person to get my attention.  So to hear Trio’s singer mention that he was losing his voice, and to be laughing about it and kind of brushing it off, was something to take notice of.  Getting back to later that night, as I was heading to the bus, I was passing Main Stage and Alkaline Trio was about to play.  Being alone and miserable, I decided to stop and watch the show because I certainly had nothing else to do.   I had seen their set plenty of times that summer, but Trio holds a special place in my heart and I was interested to see how he would handle his voice situation.  They get up there and he immediately says to the crowd, “I’m losing my voice… I’ll do my best, but you guys are going to have to help me sing tonight.”

I kind of rolled my eyes, because I have seen this before with other bands, and I knew what that meant… he would just sing softly and then let the audience take over every two lines.  The song begins, he starts to sing,  and I think I fell in love with him in that moment a little bit.  It was probably the most genuine thing I saw happen on stage that whole summer.  His voice sounded like absolute shit, it was a cross between singing and yelling, it was scratchy and cracked, but so beautiful for all of the same reasons, and because it was real.  He sang his heart out in a way I have never seen before or since, and somehow made Warped Tour fun again for a glistening minute, and I remember thinking, “that is so punk-rock and awesome.”  He didn’t care, he was there to give the audience the best show that he could, and on that not so very special night, leaning against my cart of wrinkled merchandise, watching the sun set behind the stage and embracing my loneliness, he did give me one of the best shows I have ever seen, along with a feeling that I desperately needed a dose of: that everything was all right.  God, music is the glue of our soul.

I have many more love stories and other tales to tell from that summer, so stay tuned, my friends.

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Some of My Rules to Live By

  • Always carry a toolbox in your trunk.
  • Don’t sleep with someone you might not be talking to in a month.
  • Own a great stereo system.
  • Listen to full albums, not just songs.
  • Don’t boo.  Not even at the ref.
  • Meet your neighbors.
  • In disagreements, don’t dredge up the past.
  • Get over being a germaphobe.
  • Let your kids believe in magic.
  • Pretend to be brave, even when you’re not.
  • Spend your money on experiences, not things.
  • Buy the orange properties in Monopoly.
  • Eat mostly what comes from the ground.
  • Defend people you care about.  It’s the most powerful expression of love and respect.
  • Remember names when being introduced.
  • Go see live music and support your local music scene.
  • Never question someone’s tattoo.
  • Chew with your mouth shut.
  • Put 10% of every paycheck into your savings account.  Just do it.
  • Listen, instead of always waiting for your turn to speak.
  • Learn how to learn.
  • Keep secrets.
  • Take the stairs.  Elevators are for suckers.
  • Begin each day with a happy song.
  • Acknowledge the person you’re walking past on the street, even if it’s just with a head nod.
  • Don’t be a slave to your phone.  Learn cell phone etiquette.  The person in front of you should always be the first priority.
  • Give.
  • Never underestimate the sex appeal of jeans and a plain t-shirt.
  • Remember the people from your past, but forgive yourself, and each other for growing up.
  • Immerse yourself in art.
  • Never sign for certified mail.  Nine times out of ten it will get you in trouble.
  • Put your cart away at the grocery store.
  • Never use the word fagg_ _.  It’s the most offensive word in the English language and it was only funny in The Hangover.
  • Play in the rain.
  • Remember that you’re only as happy as you try to be.
  • Pay the toll for the car behind you.  Unless you’re in New Jersey where there’s a toll booth every fifteen feet and they’re $6 each.
  • Embrace your vices, it’s fun.  Just do it in a non self-destructive way.
  • Girls, don’t be afraid of getting your hair wet at the beach/pool.
  • Love wholly.  Having “your guard” up is lame.
  • Don’t judge what you don’t understand.
  • Never lie to your doctor.
  • Treat the garbage man the same way you would the Queen of England.
  • Don’t be afraid to do things alone.
  • Respect the person you’re kissing.  Put your hand on their chest and feel his/her heartbeat.
  • Listen to NPR.
  • A handshake beats an autograph.
  • Get out of your car and knock on the door instead of calling to tell someone that you’re there.
  • Don’t litter, you prick.
  • Refrain from annihilating the English language.
  • Remember that a healthy relationship is wanting the person you’re with, not needing them.
  • Return all things you’ve borrowed.
  • Always have at least one plant to take care of.
  • Brain sex is the best form of foreplay.
  • Stop buying stuff you don’t need.
  • Give people chances.
  • Give everyone the time of day.
  • Just be nice.
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