PlatKat.com

It’s a sabotage. And that’s the only time you should ever use that phrase.

A fellow ex-Austinite at work just asked me how long it took to drop “y’all” from my vocabulary. I smiled sweetly and replied that I haven’t, and wasn’t going to. He looked surprised and amused by my response, so I went on to explain that although “y’all” is not a fully accepted form of speech in most areas of the country, I continue to use it when I need to get someone’s (or some group’s) attention.

Normally, I make a strong effort to speak properly and use slang sparingly among close friends only. This way, when a situation creeps up in which I do not have full command of a room and need it, I throw out a “y’all” and everyone is so surprised, they shut the hell up. I understand that this can be achieved by swearing, but that’s something I’d always like to avoid. Swearing in frustration is what simple people do because they can’t think of better words to describe how they’re feeling. Failing my attempts to keep a clean mouth, I only want to swear when I’m really pissed off and in good company.

My coworker seemed intrigued by the “y’all method”, and I hope he tries it. If you decide to try it, keep in mind that it only works outside the South and that results may vary if you or anyone you’re talking to has been drinking.

Balls to the wall, y’all! (Translation: Go get ‘em, tiger!)

I’m still technically homeless, even though I signed a lease on a studio apartment in Downtown Seattle and paid a deposit. That should change tonight. It’s a long, stupid story that pretty well matches all the other long stupid stories regarding my living situation since I arrived here.

Anyway, the purpose of this post was to mention that I’m feelin’ the love. Eleven days after my birthday, I have once more been reminded that it’s still worth mentioning. My favorite 8-bit musician, Bud Melvin, wished me a happy belated birthday on myspace. Despite my growing displeasure with the 5-million-headed social networking beast, I still keep a strained grasp on my account and often forget why… until stuff like this happens.

Consequently, that reminded me that even though I’m a homeless freak with no direction in life, people really do like me. Lots of people, in a bunch of different states. I got phone calls and text messages from Louisiana, Texas, New Mexico, California, Illinois, South Carolina, New York, and Kansas. And several of my new friends in and around Seattle each did a little something awesome to make this birthday stand out. Some super-sleuth even gave me this.

Gush, gush, gush. I think I’m going to melt.

Think “Killing in the Name” by Rage Against the Machine.

The story of my move to Seattle is so ridiculous, anyone who isn’t me might find it hilarious. It started when I sublet an artist’s loft conveniently situated on a series of train tracks by the shipyards. Also, the “one girl who’s never around” that I was supposed to be living with turned into the “one girl and her boyfriend who are always there talking, playing music, setting off fire alarms, and fucking”. Combine that with train horns blasting at all hours of the night, I couldn’t get to sleep without sex, drugs, or alcohol. Even with those, it was still dicey sometimes.

Growing very tired of that, I explored my options further. I want to be close to a bus, enjoy a short commute, be able to conveniently buy groceries, and pay as little as possible. Perhaps Kirkland was the answer.

Maybe it could have been, if the stars were properly aligned. But instead of living with one other female around my age (criteria I should have stuck with), I moved into the million-dollar house of a man in his forties who was so hard up for cash that he couldn’t wait for my 700-dollar check to clear. And because he was not only over-extended, but also just plain fucking creepy, I was out of there in less than two days.

Then, I was homeless. Yes, the prissy PlatKat, with her fur-collared jacket and diamond earrings, curled up with her laptop and Sidekick LX at the Seattle YMCA for a long weekend of wallowing in apartment-hunting woes. So many people in this town are ready to collect a check from a short-term roommate, but so few are ready to actually house the said roommate.

I don’t know why I didn’t think about this. When I moved to Austin, fed up with a controlling boyfriend, crappy job, obnoxious roommates in a cracker-box apartment, and a lackluster program at a sub-par school, I decided I was going to live alone in a place that made me happy. I wouldn’t talk to anyone unless I felt like it. I wouldn’t have to escape. My place would be mine. And the only stuff I had to see or hear would be as a result of me. I set those parameters, in addition to my requirement of being on a main drag near a landmark, since I get lost more easily than a set of keys. I assessed my needs, and then I met them.

Why did I ever stray from that?

Some crazy shit happened around this time last week, and I procrastinated making a decision. I found that my life here was not going as planned, and I needed to do something about it, but didn’t know what. A huge change was in order, and I was so scared of making the wrong decision.

It turns out I did anyway. For some reason, “Just move to Kirkland, buckle down, do your work, save money, the commute is good, etc.” sounded reasonable. It sounded like something that would be really good for me in the long run. But it dawned on me: I came here to be here, not to live in a fucking suburb. So to everyone who said “Kirkland,” I say, “Fuck you.” And, “Let’s go out for coffee and get to know each other a little better.”

Daddy was a crackhead, momma was on Acutane.

My only question: Why?

This picture makes Microsoft more dismal than it is. Or maybe I just haven’t been here long enough.

I feel like I’m in ‘Nam set to the tune of an old-timey sci-fi movie. Perhaps a dystopic film.

The Seattle Transit-copter air-dropped me in the Microsoft Jungle at 08:00 hours. It’s constantly raining, everyone is foreign, and I want to smoke cigarettes like they’re candy.

Everyone seems happy, and I can’t understand why.

On Thursday, I went to a biker bar near my house and met some bikers. One of the bikers said he was going to a bike show at the convention center by Qwest Field. Since I like bikes and I can throw a rock at Qwest Field from my loft, I suggested he take me with him. He did and that’s how I found this beauty:

If I wasn’t so hell-bent on buying the most expensive car I could realistically someday own, I might have looked into getting my very own zebra bike for fun and transportation. Oh, and I also heard it rains here sometimes.