Lust List!

Have you seen these? Their from Versace, and I love them. They're also two hundred dollars, so I only wear them in my dreams.

These are far more reasonable, and in fact, I plan on having a pair within the next year. Look out, Miss West, yer abowt t'git real loud!


OH, chambray. Are you the fabric of my soul? Probably.


New Mexico, New Mexico, these are mini stone animals, and I'm in lo0o0o0ve with them.




And for the new vegetarian on the block, Gourmet 5-Ingredient Vegetarian! I love it!

First Day of School

Hey all!
I made it back to Cincinnati yesterday morning at 3am. Everything is great, so far, and I'm looking sooo cute in sweaters.

Here's the thing:

I pump myself up to walk into school. I walk confidently.
I carve out time to take care of the business I missed, coming back from Hawaii so late, so I stride my self over to the callboard to jot down important dates, and I see....TA DA! The annual celebration of Fourth Years leaving the school! Horray! Every year, the head of the department puts up photos of the Fourth Years as a lovely piece of comedy, and I've looked forward to the day when my face will be up there as well.....wait............?????......where is it.

It's not.

Of course it's not.

No worries, this is just how Life at CCM goes.

Hawaiian, Decoded

So you're female in Hawaii? Wow, what an experience! Congratulations on stumbling upon the Hawaiian Male Phraseology Translator!

You say:

I've been here a week!

He hears:

I've not slept with anyone here!

You say:

I'm visiting from the Mainland...

He hears:

Boooooty Call!

You say:

...for a month!

He says:

Score!

You say:

I'm leaving in two days. :(

He hears:

I want to make it worth it.

He says:

Let's get coffee.

He means:

Let me touch your boobs.

You think:

I love coffee!

He says:

Can I walk you up?

He means:

Can I touch your boobs?

You shoot a smile, realize the evening has gone quite farther than you're willing to let it go, you're starting to get the Big Picture, and you are, in fact, Allyson West, just too young to read between the freaking lines sometimes.

You say:

No worries, Buddy. I got it.

You leave.





Geez Louise, these boys would be more successful if they would just tell a girl what they were up to. Then if she wanted to, they would, and if she didn't, they wouldn't waste their time trying not to be confused. Gross.

Top Three Songs for Shaving your Legs

3. "Pretty Woman," Roy Orbison

At some point in my past, there was a boy who was hopelessly, devotedly (hopelessly devoted?,) and forever in love with me. He sang me this song. Always, always, I was delighted, happy to sashay my way around into his heart, and moreso, because man, oh man, does it feel good to be female.

"Pretty Woman, give your smile to meeeee"

Oh, yes, absolutely! What could I want more than submerging myself in a bathtub, flipping my legs up, finding all the curves, following them, and then pretending to flirt with Roy Orbison who is somewhere in my bathroom falling over his tongue over me? I'm positively giggly and flirty and sassy and lovely. I need a ponytail. And some pink bubblegum. Check. Now I'm ready to meet Bobby at the Homecoming Dance.

2. "Santa Baby," Eartha Kitt

I don't think I desired anything more after hearing this song when I was eight, and fully capable of understanding what sexy sounds like, than to drape myself in diamonds and a Tiffany Blue velvet gown lined in white faux fur and sit atop a Tiffany Blue painted porsche, surrounded by lavish, velvet wrapped gifts in order to tell my lover that I absolutely wanted nothing more than him. Oh, and one little thing; a ring, noo, I don't mean on the phone, thank you very much for getting the hint.

Let's be honest: The fantasy has advanced a bit. Now, I'm sure I could dress myself up entirely in ribbons and walk as if I hadn't a care in the world around my flat strategically untying them. But the first one? The second-grade fantasy? Hey, that's pretty advanced for an eight-year-old. Talk about Catholic repression...

1. "All that Jazz," Catherine-Zeta Jones, Chicago

There's a disclaimer I'm adding to this Top Number One Song to Shave your Legs to. Here's why: You might not actually get your legs shaven. If you're like me, you may get about two swipes up half your leg, before you start sassing your legs around. You might get to the knee before your hips are moving, and the water's splashing all over the tub. And if you're superbly like me, you might not even get to your thigh before you're already out of the tub, jazz-handing your way around the flat, using the futon as a kick stand and vaulting off of it into the air for the high points in the song.

You may forget that you're completely naked, and that the windows have no curtains on them.

You may remember that you don't actually care because there's a huge mango tree there anyway.

You may rewind the song and do it again. Yep. Rewind that baby.

In which I find myself in High School.

There's something to be said for chillin out. It's not something I do so very often. I'm at school, I'm at work, and I constantly, actively plan to have my life keep me busy. That is, actually, before I went to Hawaii, where the culture and atmosphere kept me chillin' out. Every morning, I would wake up, slowly roll out of bed, watch the sunrise over the ocean, water the yard, stretch, shower, dressed, oh and at some time I'd go to work where I also just spent the day selling sunglasses and talking with anyone and everyone passing by. It was quite easy. Quite lovely.

And here, back on the Mainland, I've obviously slipped back into my "Normal Life" of being busy, or being bored.

OR HAVE I?

I'm at Melissa High School today, spending time with the Mom at her new work. Honestly, this means that I'm sitting in on an entire day of high school english classes, and being surrounded with the riveting minds of the future.

I'm kind of bored. :) It's still kind of fun. So far, I've been most entertained by this:

"Leave me alone. I am NOT a leprechaun!"

Buoyancy

Dear People of Hawaii,

You absolutely blow my mind. You know, I've heard a lot of people talk about "culture shock," when going from Hawaii to the mainland, and here it is, dear lovelies: it's the lack of family. Lack of Ohana.

Hawaii is Ohana. Family. Togetherness. Giving. Receiving. Always going above and beyond for your neighbors, and always being appreciated for it. Hawaii is support, tenderness, opportunity, and love.

Hawaii is the thousands of kind acts that are keeping me fed and afloat while I make ends just barely meet. Thank you, my Ohana, my Hawaii, for keeping me at the surface.

I'll see you again soon.

All my love,
Allyson West

Trevor

Dear Young Men of the World, particularly "Trevor," who took me out last night,

Yes, you may ask me for coffee. Yes, you may take a night time walk with me, tell me about your life, and share a photo essay of your favorite photographer with me. Heck, I've probably even showered today, so your compliments about how nice I look/smell are even justifiable and appropriate. And yes, you may indeed walk me to my steps. Thank you.

However. No, you may not put your hands on my hips and/or thigh area. You may, maybe, may in fact touch my shoulder as we walk outside in public, but you may not, in any way "casually" nuzzle said shoulder with your slobbery lips, AND/OR TONGUE. GROSS. I DON'T EVEN KNOW YOU. You may not put your hands even near my breasts, and actually, why don't you just stop thinking about them now. You especially are not allowed anywhere near my neck, and please to God, do not throw away any dignity to ask for "just a peek, please, just a little peek?" while gesturing to my bosom.

When I am finally able to wrap my head around such an invasion, remove your flobbery tendrils from my personage, and direct you with a stern push back to your vehicle, I would highly recommend you actually go instead of asking to "just hold me."

Once you do leave, please do so quickly and efficiently and not as if your second chance is right around the corner, 'cause, baby, it ain't. I'm already upstairs, journaling you off my body, dreaming of days when companionship was much sweeter.

With little respect,

Allyson West

aka

Allyson the Great

Potty Hands

I'm learning American Sign Language, and, of course, this leads me to looking up the terms I use most frequently. The list keeps running, and I cannot wait to get my hands on a book of conversational sign language.

Here's the thing, andI'm not gonna lie--this list includes some not nice four-letter words.

The big surprise though, comes of course from the fact that I'm proving to be more embarrassed "saying" some of these words in ASL than I am verbalizing them in English.

They are incredibly literal.

It's one thing to let a sound fly out of your mouth--heck, we arrange and re-arrange sounds all the time. Language evolves and transcends, means one thing, means another, and changes drastically according to the generation. But placing my hands opposite on top of each other, jiggling them up and down a bit, and moving on to something equally literalized, and I'm blushing in my sweet, red, chipmunk-y cheeks.

Potty hands are turning out to be much messier than a potty mouth.

This Skirt Gets Me Dates

Instance Three

I ride into the University 7-11 on the moped (affectionately referred to as "Scootie,") and she's running like a charm, all silk and butter, especially after the 2-2 Birthday tale. I pull in to the pump, park, and notice another bike already parked and waiting at the pump. It's not my turn. I slide off Scootie and wait. A man walks over. He's 33. I don't know this yet.

"Hey, you're exquisite. How are you?"

It's obviously a line, but I'd like to think that it's not. He's not so great, a bit creepazoid. Short, bald, shaved head, and a studded black lip ring. Fit, though.

"Very fine, thank you," I say. All business and stuffing, as usual. I'm not gonna lie--people, men in general, just take me by surprise. It doesn't take much to catch me off guard, and I believe in the human race so much that I always assume everyone has the best intentions when it comes to me and my welfare. Nay, this is not the case, and yay, I am slowly learning it sufficiently.

He starts pumping his gas, and I go back to my life in my head. I take my shoes off, and spin around. The skirt flies out from me, twirling and twirling, and yes, Jacin and Seana, I am wearing a slip underneath so don't worry about him seeing my underwear. The concrete feels warm and good under my feet. They ache so much now that I'm standing all day at Sunglass the Hut. I stick my arms out, tilt my head back, and calm myself down from the day, spinning and twirling in bliss.

"Hey," he says. "That's pretty. You look about as good as I feel. Why the pirouettes?"

"I like it. The skirt's good for it. See?"

I spin for him.

Of course he comes closer, starts talking. "Where you from?" he asks, and when I answer, "Texas," he whistles low and shakes his head. He lika da western woman. We compare notes, and it comes out that I'm leaving in a week. He's apparently got two full-time jobs, no lady, and is living by himself in paradise.

"Look, I ain't got time for games, but your smile is exquisite, and that sweet twang is music to my ears."

He's abrupt, quick, fast-paced. He's talked me up in a storm the past four minutes, and by this point, my head is swirling and I'm about ready to start giggling. He's gone before I get the chance. He heads inside, pays for my gas, hands me his numbers, and drives away.

"The ball's in your court, Lady."

Instance Two

I'm working at Sunglass the Hut, having a pretty boring time, but making up little games about what kind of person would want to wear the different sunglasses, and still enjoying my life. I start humming a bit, and then, this incredibly stunning bevy of blonde boyhood walks by. Oh my sweet Jesus, boyhood be damned, he's older than me, I absolutely know it. He's tan, blonde, and sweet, sweet piercing blue eyes.

Let's just be clear here for a moment--I NEVER expect the cute ones to be interested. I've been told, quite unfortunately, that my girlish figure is long gone, which I absolutely refuse to believe. All that being said, it IS true that my curves are quite advanced for a woman of my age, and I just don't get the appreciation from the cutie patooties in early to mid-twenties, that I do from "mature" men near their thirties on up.

Blue Eyes Heart Attack shuffles up to the display case, and ambles around a little bit. I size him up, and decide once and for all that he's definitely not interested. He's way, way too cute. So I flip around and go back to my business on the other side of the kiosk.

Here's the thing: I do indeed have a favorite brother, and said Favorite Brother's coloring happens to be blonde, blue-eyed, rosy cheeks. And while I have ABSOLUTELY NO SEXUAL ATTRACTION to said favorite brother, I cannot help but see a parallel between my comfort with this brother, and my general pattern of fondness for anyone who looks remotely like him. Thank goodness, this guy, Andrew (as I soon learn,) looks better.

So, of course, I'm wearing the skirt. I finally turn around to talk to Andrew, who has been standing there long enough for me to know he means sunglass business, and we start chatting. He needs glasses. He is indecisive. AAAAAHHHHHH. The big one, the big answer, that explains a lot of things to come: Andrew is shy. He stays at the kiosk, and it's slow, so we start trying on pairs and pairs of sunglasses. He truly cannot make up his mind, which is never a problem for me, because I absolutely adore telling people what to do. Twenty minutes pass. I make for another customer, expecting Andrew to walk away, and to my surprise, he absolutely does not. In fact, he repeats the entire "trying on" process one. more. time. from. the. beginning. with. feeling. my. dear. I get back to him, and he's still there, ready for another round, and another string of questions.

We talk about his glasses, his needs, his family, his life. He answers all, loosens up, and I'm really just being nice, as anyone would, at this point (I like gumption.) He finally decides to take down the information of a brown lens Maui Jim, and I suspect it's precisely so that he can have a good reason to come back to Sunglass the Hut, soon. "I'm Andrew," he says. "You're an excellent conversationalist, and you're beautiful when you spin. Can I see you again?"


Instance One

His name is Jacin, and we've been together all day, pretty much. He doesn't offer up much, emotionally, doesn't hand me any risks or openings, and I'm pretty bored. He met me at rehearsal, and let me choose whatever I wanted. I, of course, chose a walk, because I LOVE WALKS. So we're at a creek, no shoes, and then, now, we're late for dinner, which he invited me to, and he's calling his hanai parents to tell them we're on our way.

I'm still bored, but, I absolutely was thrilled to agree to go, and for reasons unknown, I've got a lot of faith in this Jacin fellow. Dinner is delightful, and, in fact, his hanai mother invites me to go snorkeling the next morning with them at the North Shore.

So, now, Jacin and I are up at his house, and I'm spending the night (I carry my toothbrush and bathing suit with me already.)

"You make me nervous," Jacin says. He's grateful for the companionship, but not really tripping over himself to get to know me, (which could, indeed, be my own fault.)

"You make me nervous," I type again, getting back to the point.

"Why?"

He pretends not to hear me, and I take a subtle note that he thinks pretending not to hear me is sufficient for avoiding well-articulated questions. Jacin heads across the room and pops open a bottle of Crios.

Five glasses and whatever was left that I drank out of the bottle later (oh--this is between the two of us, by the way :P,) the statement surfaces again.

"You make me nervous."

This time I wonder if it's an apology.

"Why?"

Jacin walks to the bathroom, flicks on a light there, flicks it off, and comes back out, swishing his hips the way I eventually come to recognize and love as a sign of confident capability. I refuse to let the question drop this time.

"What about me makes you nervous?"

"Well, for one thing, your skirt."

Jacin's still "playing it cool," still "keeping it suave," but I detect a solid honesty in this response, and my heart thrills. Here is some open-ness. Here is a bit of a risk. Here is what I absolutely call communication. I laugh, delightedly, absolutely glad that I stuck around for this heart, stand up, twirl, and curtsy gracefully onto the floor, leaning against the fridge.

"Why do you want to know?" Jacin sends back.

I answer, truthfully, "Because if I could find out what about me is specifically setting you off, setting you against, then I could change it. And if you could be more comfortable, and I could facilitate that.....well.......(and Dear Reader, here, I truly am at a loss for explanation)....well, really, what more could I want?"

Jacin breathes in, deep, and laughs out loud. He tilts his chair back, his head back, and "Wow," he says. He looks my way, and moves a little closer to me.

Password Protected....for GOOD

I got a notice today to change my password. "Your password will expire soon. Please take a moment and click on the link to change it."

So I did.

"In order to verify your identity, please answer the security question you have chosen, below: Security Question: who has broken your heart?"

My answer: Are you kidding me? Did I really type that eons ago? Did I really believe that there was someone, somewhere in my past who stood out among the thousands and thousands of heartbreaks one encounters day-to-day? This is akin to the time I picked up my diary from second grade and had drawn hearts all over the taped picture of Shane Politz. Did I really recently assign my "heartbreak" as someone else's responsibility? I'm under the impression now that I can choose to have my heart broken or not--hopefully this proves true, yeah?

Anyway, I could only assume it was Kaiao, and that maybe my Old Self was relying on my ability to assume that I'd answer with the person I have the most romantic history with, especially since my Present Self still has a fear of being locked out of a password-protected forum for not scoring the correct password within a maximum of three attempts. But what the heck, I started typing in all the names of anyone I'd even ever remotely been let down by, even if for the briefest moment, starting with my Dad, my best friend, Leah, previous boyfriends, professors, and eventually, yes, Kaiao, which proved to be the score.

Too bad, though--I think I might have appreciated my humor at having "Richard Hess" be the big winner. :)

Things that Make a Heart Melt

1. Letters of recommendation from employers that mean a lot to me:

"In this short time everyone at TAG has come to love and appreciate Allyson for her youth, enthusiasm and dedication to the theatre. In fact we have done everything we can to try and keep her here in Hawaii because she has so much to offer. Our hope is that when she finishes school she will return to the islands and again join our TAG family."



2. Pua Heimuli

She's like the Jordan Schramka of Hawaii.

Maopopo ku`u `ike i ka nani
Nâ pua rose o Maunawili
I laila hia`ia nâ manu
Miki`ala i ka nani o ka lipo

I have seen and watched your loveliness

The sweet rose of Maunawili

And 'tis there the birds of love dwell

And sip the honey from your lips

3. Beautiful Italian men buying sunglasses for their beautiful Italian wives (or even just photos of them brushing their girlfriend's hair. Heck, what I wouldn't give for someone to brush MY hair. OOOH! This could be like that story, you know, THAT one, where the girl sells her hair to buy a chain for her husband's pocket watch, and HE sells his pocket watch to buy a comb for her hair! I can sell my hair to have him brush my hair, and he can sell his hands to ......................................wait.............................................................eww.)



4. Peter Clark and Karen Valasek as Toby and Angela in "Duets." Every night, Victoria peeks through a hole in the back wall (a la "Porky's") about the size of a screw. A few nights ago, she waved me over, pointed to the hole, and I was miraculously transported into the most beautiful viewing of human nature that I have ever seen in my entire life. Essentially, what transpires is that a brother admits to his sister that he admires her bravery by allowing herself to fall in love. What I see is two beautiful, attractive heads, one veiled and costumed in a wedding gown, surrounded by angelic, pure light....all about the size of a brooch. The proportions are perfect, I'm telling you.


5. Scavenger hunts from Jacin (WHO IS ACROSS THE FREAKING WORLD, THANK YOU VERY MUCH) that are not accurate enough to be followed to a birthday present, so I am, in fact, still scavenging. He says the fourteenth step--apparently, we both don't count fourteen the same way. :)

The 2-2 Birthday Tale

This is Murphy's, in Honolulu, Hawaii.


This is me, in a moped helmet, which was lent to me, along with a moped (for the remaining month I was in Hawaii) by this guy:

Isn't he cool?



So, this is the Birthday Tale. Yesterday, I awoke to this:


A perfect, mysterious double rainbow. "What a lovely sign!" I thought, innocently.



I thought about this guy (who is now living happily in France,) and I got ready for the day.

I now work at this place (and thank goodness, I should be getting a paycheck soon), so I dressed in my customary black and whites, hopped my happy little rear on this happy little moped, made sure to put my Birthday Earrings on, and away I went, happy as a clam not being baked, and prepared for my day of birth.

Then it started to rain.

A little bit.

Then it started to rain.

A lot more.

And I was soaked.

I got to work, walked quite briskly to the bathroom in the hopes of not being recognized, took of all my clothes, wrang them out, wiped all the running make-up off of my face, and wrapped my hair up. Then I got creative.


I ended up tying a cardigan around my waist, pulling my sopping skirt back on, pinching my cheeks to give them the ol' rouge look, and eating a CINNABON to make up for the fact that I just got drenched first thing, the morning of my 2-2 birthday.

It was awesome.

So I worked.

I worked well.

I worked so luckily, in fact, that I got off of work early.

I went home, worked on a treasure hunt, and thanked everyone individually on facebook for sending me such wonderful birthday love (not to be confused with birthday sex--mind you,) and went to the theatre.


I also work at this place. TAG, The Actors' Group, and what a marvelous place it is. This summer, I've been interning and loving my life with TAG. Now, I'm in "Duets."


Here I am, propositioning a gay man for marriage.


Here I am again, looking sassy and with good make-up. Everyday life, if only.

So I went to the theatre. Lo and behold, I had friends in the audience tonight!


That's Pua, that's Seana, and the guy in yellow is a boy that I love who loves France.

Good thing they came to the show tonight (Pua and Seana) because man, oh man, was it happening! It was so happening, that my scene partner blanked out, rolled and rummaged and rambled through his mind, and pulled out the next line he could possibly think of: putting us, FIFTEEN PAGES AHEAD.

That's right, we jumped fifteen pages, and still made it work seamlessly.

Says a little bit about the writing, yeah? :)

The show ended (rather soon, in fact), and it was time for us all to go out for the big 2-2 Birthday Celebration!


We went to Murphy's!


We went to JJ's!


And we went to SoHo!


Then, I bid my dear, sweet friends adieu, and they went to the mountains, and I went to the sea, in search of my moped, which was parked at Murphy's.

Now, the tale takes a perilous turn. For as I packed my gear up, clambered onto the moped, and began to drive away, I noticed something peculiar. Very peculiar, in fact. So peculiar that the bike was wobbling on the road, slipping and sliding, and bouncing up and down and up and down.

"This is not the way mopeds ride," methinks.

So, as any smart enough girl will do when something is not going right even though I have no idea what it was, I got off. I checked the gas. I checked the oil. I checked the tires. Bingo. My back tire was absolutely blown out. How? Lordy lordy, I have no idea. But it was shot.

Now. This moped does not belong to me. I'm about seven miles away from my home, in a not so reliable part of town, and I know that if ANYTHING was to happen to this moped, I would not be able to replace it. $11.88 does not go very far, let me tell you that.

I did what any smart girl would do, then. I pushed it!

I pushed it out to the next gas station, and paid .75 cents for air. Little did I know, it was pointless. The air spigot did not suit my air gauge on the tire. I walked inside, spoke a bit with the attendant and the site's policeman, had them confirm what I was seeing with the spigots and gauge, and then sat down and cried a wee bit.

I'm not gonna lie. It was rough. First of all, the "nearest gas station" was about half a mile away. This bike was heavy, and it was three a.m. I have no phone, no numbers, and nobody with a truck to help me, and I absolutely have no money. I was pretty stranded.

But, in reality, was I? Absolutely not. I've got legs. So I used them. I pushed that beautiful, heavy scooter seven miles home. My arms were burning, my legs were pulsing, and my head was spinning (bday, remember?) I kept going. I got there, a bit of two hours later, near four.

I finally locked the bike up about .7 of a mile away from my home. I live up a winding mountain, quite literally, a mountain, and I knew that if I even attempted to get that bike up the hill, it would absolutely roll over and flatten me. I know my limits, and they had been reached. I chained that baby up, and trekked the rest of the way home.

At some point, I got briefly followed and asked to smoke weed. I said, "Thank you, no, I've never smoked in my life," and continued on my way.

At some point, I made it up the mountain. I made it up the stairs. I made it into the yard. And I lovingly allowed myself to crash on the lanaii, falling asleep to a half-clouded, half-starry sky, and thinking, "Shoots. What a birthday night this is."

Such it was, such it is. Thank you, Life, for teaching me life.

Here we go!

Eleven Eight Eight

Some of you may know me as the Smelly Girl, a lapsed blogger who wrote a dieting sounding board over at www.asmellygirl.com.

Some of you may know me as Allyson West, a fourth year student at the College-Conservatory of Music in Cincinnati, Ohio, and actor, currently finishing up an amazing four month stay in Honolulu.

Some of you may know me as Allyson Helmberger, a funky sassy girl from Farmersville, Texas.

And some of you may recognize me from the eight mile moped trek I made this morning, at 3 am, celebrating my 22nd birthday. If you saw a beautiful young woman, hopeless, crushed, and desperate making her way along King Street this morning with a busted back tire....it was probably me.

Nice to meet you too.

I previously ran the blog "Sugar Cookie, Don't Waste My Time" started a bit over a year and a half ago. I loved that blog. I worshipped it. I posted on it religiously, until I didn't. And then it was shot. That's the way blogs go, though. Dedicate yourself to them, or you are lost in the rust. Or the dust. Or the rusty dust, yeah, that's better.

A few eons ago, as in "days," I thought about how fascinating my life is right now. I'm 22 (as of yesterday!), just finished a tumultuous and wonderful four month life in Honolulu, and now, I'm being forced by societal reasoning to go back to school and finish my last six months for my BFA degree. Do I want this? Absolutely yes, I do.



And in wanting this degree, I'm agreeing to switch my life, to jump track, from where I've been for the past four months. Where have I been? Well, I've been happy. I've been healthy. I've been learning about life, and remembering that human beings have hearts and souls. I've been trusting my own beauty, my own capability, and I've been absolutely thrilled by life.

I want to take all of this back with me to school. I want to stand strong, on my own feet, and survey the world from that point. I want to own who I am, and I refuse to apologize for it. I want to trust that I can take care of myself, that I am qualified to take care of myself, and I will change my life when something better impresses me.

I want to love, I want to give, and I want to not judge myself for being so.

And mostly, I want to document it. I'm into journaling, again, and here we are with this blog. I have no computer, no cell phone, and it's not by choice. Believe me, if I had the moolah to have that technology, I absolutely would. I LOVE the internet.


In fact, the inspiration for this blog's title comes from the $11.88 I have sitting in my bank account right now. Because of that $11.88, I have apples and oranges in my fridge. I have a new tire, tube, and grease for the moped, and I have a week to make things work before a paycheck hits the bank. What more could I want in my life?

Welcome. I'm sure we'll see my Eleven-Eight-Eight grow, I'm sure we'll see my moods shift and change, and I'm sure you'll absolutely love the documenting of my last six months as a Dramatic Performance student at the Cincinnati College-Conservatory of Music. Let's get serious.

All my Best,
Allyson West