On the 18th lunar year after my mother spent 9 hours of labor, my rebellious teenager phase finally kicked into gear. Today, I:

– Decided there wasn’t a chance in hell that I was going to go swimming in 10 degree weather on my birthday, so I forged a note in order to skip PE class.

– Waited over 30 minutes in traffic just to order a #1 at In n Out, which included a Double-Double, a Medium Coke, and Well-done French Fries.

– Spent more than an hour at the grungy-hip Haight Ashbury tattoo parlor. Mutilated my body with a tattoo. Almost fell asleep if it wasn’t for the incessant buzzing sound. And woke up with some black lettering on my upper back that will always be there. Great.

– Was hit on by middle aged, over-the-hill french waiters as their pot-bellies poked out from between their black capris and tight white and blue striped sailor shirts.

– Continued to consume alcohol illegally and “underage”.

– Ate a devilishly delicious crème brulée.

– Went to bed completely and irrevocably happy with a prominant sting on my left shoulderblade.

Couronnée de Lauriers

Hope your day wasn’t as great as mine,

Laura Marianne


With every rejection, I realize what was meant to be, and what was not.

With every acceptance, I find somewhere that is willing to take a chance on me, somewhere that believes of what I can achieve.

With every letter I get in the mail, I am one step closer to my future, to finding out who I am.

Everyday it gets easier. As my wrinkles soften and my nails grow out, I begin to accept the course of my life and deal with what is given to me. Today, I got into SEATTLE UNIVERSITY. Hmmm… Seattle………… When I think of Seattle, I think of Tom Hanks racing through the Empire State building taking his son into his arms, I think of trendy graphic designers rocking out on the bass with their fashion forward Asian drummer girlfriends, and I think of eccentric independent coffee houses covered wall to wall with multicolored piano lesson ads and miscellaneous band fliers.

Seattle sounds enticing, a whole new world of grunge music, hobo fashion, and aspiring writers.

What more can you ask for?

Laura Marianne

“I wanted to move to Seattle, sell my ass, and be a punk rocker, but I was too afraid.”

– Kurt Cobain

“Her heart did whisper that he had done it for her. But it was a hope shortly checked by other considerations, and she soon felt that even her vanity was insufficient, when required to depend on his affection for her— for a woman who had already refused him— as able to overcome a sentiment so natural as abhorrence against relationship with Wickham.”

– Jane Austen

Take me back to those times, to times when unintentional glances were the beginnings of an epic romance, where subtle concise vocabulary determined whether you were  admired or not. Now you think you’re in love when you are described as “hot”. Back in the day being romanced was not about just buying a dozen red roses as the local grocery store and a cheap Walgreens chocolate heart. It was about feeling wanted in a simple and sophisticated way. All romance is today is just a movie genre and an excuse for Hallmark’s existence.

Back in the time of Dukes and Duchesses, of detailed gowns and exuberant jewelery, of seven course meals and extravagant balls, everything just seemed more romantic. Electricity had yet to be invented, so dark rooms were lightened by candlelight as it shimmered off the room’s occupants’ flesh.  Today, in a time of guys and chicks, of mini skirts and tongue piercings, of half a dozen tequila shots and jam-packed nightclubs, things have changed. At sunset, the horndogs come out and our vision becomes impaired in dark rooms brightened by electric lights, blinding our eyes and our senses. With each others tongue down our throats, we have yet to realize the near extinction of romance.

 Lady Georgiana Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire by Thomas Gainsborough

Lady Georgiana Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire by Thomas Gainsborough

However, the seventeenth century carried with it mischievous lies and cruel affairs. Condemned to eternal unhappiness through fixed marriages, most found comfort in a different bed than their spouses’. Then again, is that really any different than today?

I’ll take the good with the bad.

Take me back,

Laura Marianne

“She’d stopped reading the kind of women’s magazine that talked about romance and knitting, and started reading the kind of women’s magazine that talked about orgasms, but apart from making a mental note to have one if ever the occasion presented itself she dismissed them as only romance and knitting in a new form.”

– Terry Pratchett, Good Omens, 1990

I fell upon this really interesting music video by Oren Lavie called “Her Morning Elegance”:

Then it got me thinking about dreams. We dream every night. Every night is a new adventure, and every morning is back to reality. I’ve been dreaming, and remembering my dreams, quite frequently lately. Simple, quiet, calm dreams sometimes buoy into the ocean of turbulent, disruptive, troubled nightmares. Most of my dreams consist of normal everyday scenarios scarred with a surreal event that I know is impossible but yet still feels real.

I wish we could control our dreams. If I could, I would only dream simple easy dreams, where everything seems right, and everything is effortless. You don’t have to think about getting in trouble, or getting hurt. You just are. Like the girl in the video.

We dream to escape what we live. I wish my subconscious knew what was right for my head, because I can’t keep dreaming of lions and tigers and bears. I wish I lived in a parallel universe of white clouds, blue sky and crisp sheets.What a naïve girl, you must think of me. But if it’s what I really want, I can dream, can’t I?

Yours truly,

Laura Marianne

“Make every thought, every fact, that comes into your mind pay you a profit. Make it work and produce for you. Think of things not as they are but as they might be. Don’t merely dream – but create!”
– Robert Collier (1885 -1950)

What do you do when you hit rock bottom? When you truly have nothing else to hope for? Hope has gone out the window to follow Pain and Despair as it refuses to stay inside Pandora’s box any longer.

Every year at my birthday when the time comes to blow out my candles, I wish for the same thing. Happiness. And every year at my birthday when the time comes to blow out my candles, I realize, that my wish has yet to come true. Granted, I’ve had moments or pleasure, of sporadic happiness, but I’ve never felt a moment of genuine happiness, that I could just die at that moment and I would feel like my life would have been complete. Is that so much to ask for? I’m not asking for a pet rhinoceros or to be pretty because God only knows how that those are never going to happen. I just want everything to fit into place. I’m jealous of everyone who seems to have it together. That’s all I want… That’s all I really want.

It’s almost springtime right? Flowers are blooming, birds are singing, it’s supposed to be the happiest time of year. Yet, for some reason there’s always something wrong. Why is it that no one can truly have it all? Why can’t we all just find the perfect outfit, perfect man, perfect job, perfect family, perfect friends, and perfect life, according to our own demands? Is it really that much to ask for? Some people seem to have it all, while other seem to have nothing. Yet even these people, who have all the ingredients to happiness, don’t know what to do with them. They know others are so much worse off than them. So they live lives of quiet desperation, pretending everything is just fine. When nothing really is.

Valentine’s day is coming up, and instead of hoping and wishing to find Mr. Right now, I’ve given up. Is that normal? I see boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands and wives, happy as clams, and I just want to hurl. Pink makes me blind and dressing up in the morning seems pointless. Is it normal to be this cynical at such a young age?

From young adolescents, to middle aged housewives, to old tenure professors, none of us can be cured of this sickness. Is it so hard just to ask to be happy?

Confused at the bottom,

Laura Marianne

“It’s sad but it’s true how society says / Her life is already over / There’s nothing to do and there’s nothing to say /Til the man of her dreams comes along picks her up and puts her over his shoulder / It seems so unlikely in this day and age.”

Lily Allen, “22” It’s Not Me, It’s You (2009)

It’s self preservation. Everyone for themselves because it’s a dog eat dog world out there. Why put your heart out into the vulnerable world of love, if you know very well it’s just going to be ripped to pieces? It’s a suicide mission yet everyday people take the chance, they fall hoping someone will catch them. And I’ll tell ya, you’re one of the lucky ones if you don’t fall flat on your face.

Break my heart, baby, Ill love you for it.

Break my heart, baby, I'll love you for it.

We stick our hand in the dark hole, not knowing what’s in there, expecting the worst yet hoping for the best. Inevitably, our hand gets bitten off by the unknown. And the paradox is that with one hand gone, we stick the other right back in the dark hole again.

Why do we always hope for the best though? I mean once you learn that nothing good will come of it, why try again?

We say “never again” and “I learned from my mistakes”, but come Monday, and the pain of the weekend has washed away, those feelings wash away as well. We think, well it wasn’t that bad right? What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger?! Pah, whoever said that certainly was never in love.

Don’t we ever learn?

Laura Marianne

“Here’s my philosophy on dating. It’s important to have somebody that can make you laugh, somebody you can trust, somebody that, y’know, turns you on… And it’s really, really important that these three people don’t know each other.”

– Brooke Davis, One Tree Hill

Sex. What a broad fucking topic, right? What is it? When to do it? How to do it? Where to do it? Who to do it with? These are the fundamcondomental questions of life, people! Something that started as a primal instinct to reproduce became a vital pleasure in our lives. Then why does it always make them so complicated!?

I mean virgins… As a virgin, you’re either idolized or shunned. It’s like you’re a saint, so pure, so innocent, so naif. Or you’re a prude, so stuck up, so shy, such a tease. I mean when do you know when to give up “your most precious gift”? First chance? First love? First marriage?

And how the HELL do you know what you’re doing? What’s this? What’s that? Is this okay? Does that hurt? I don’t know what to tell you boys and girls, but sex is a science.

And anyway, what’s sex? Home plate? Third base? Short stop? It’s supposed to be hot, and sexy, and maybe even romantic, if you want, but for some reason you always end up doing the nasty in a park at 4 in the morning against a tree, with a bottle of Tequila in your hand, and all you’re left with the next morning is a hangover and a serious case of rug burn.

And then the mushy gushy emotional baggage that comes in two overweight duffel bags and an extra carry on. Now that is where everything gets really complicated. Between the self conscious slut who fucks guys to feel wanted, and the over confident player who fucks any moving female, there’s always someone who gets hurt. So just take a step back, and think about it, it’s not as big a deal as those cheesy soap operas make it out to be. The first time isn’t going to be romantic and beautiful. You’re not gonna want to write poetry about making love for the first time. It’s gonna be awkward, and messy, and scary. But after that, you just enjoy the ride, no pun intended.

Here’s my philosophy: In the wise words of Nike, Just Do It. Doesn’t matter if it sucks, or if it’s disgusting, the truth is, you’re gonna have some bad times, and you’re gonna have some good ones. So go out there kids and fuck!

I’ll leave you at that,

Laura Marianne

“Sex. Yes well Sex. What do you say about sex really. You like a guy… you do it with him… sometimes he calls, sometimes he doesn’t.”

– Anita Olesky, Never Been Kissed (1999)

Slut. Skank. Whore. Absinthe. Mini dress. Thigh high boots. Silver lipstick. Bare back. Trashy.Drugs and Alcohol

Let’s go crazy, let’s be free. Do what you want, because that’s all that really matters anyway. Why care about everyone else? They have their own lives to worry about. And you have yours, and I have mine. The big city is my destiny. New York. London. Paris.But not San Francisco. This town is just too homosexual. I need myself some bright lights and long nights. Shine those LED club lights in my eyes, and blind me for minutes at a time. Let’s catch up with some old friends, Jose, Johnny, and Jim. And maybe flirt with some new ones.

Sleepless nights are always my favorites. I hope and wish to wake up with an ear splitting headache because then I know I’ve done my best. Remembering the previous nights or not is always the biggest challenge. We get to go back through the adventure of the rampant night. The sweet alcohol breath kiss, the Urban Decay Asphyxia eyeshadow melting down my cheeks, the vintage slip falling off my shoulder, and the runs in my brand new Ralph Lauren sheer stockings. There’s something romantic about trashy, forgetful nights.

Contemplate that druggies,

Laura Marianne

“Las Vegas looks the way you’d imagine heaven must look at night”

– Chuck Palahniuk (American fiction novelist and freelance journalist)


I’m Laura and I’ll be your attendant during this crazy flight called life. I’ll attempt to decipher the hieroglyphics of love, follow the yellow brick road to happiness, and uncover the placebo for the common woes so many of us are diagnosed with. Aboard, you will receive complimentary criticism, with a side of sarcasm, and if you wish, for $5 more, you may purchase some sympathy (choice of red or white) to drown your sorrows. There are two exits at adolescence, two during marriage, and one at death. In case of emergency, look to yourself because no one else knows what the hell we’re doing here. If you have any answers, don’t hesitate on interpreting them your own way.


Give us a smile, love

Laura Marianne

“It is not the answer that enlightens, but the question.”

– Eugene Ionesco (1909 – 1994)