Part II in our continuing series of The Weekend that Was...

So we left off drunk and texting and possible regret as such.

Ashlee and I get up 10ish (me more at like 11). Order from Gracie's, very gently with the scrambled eggs. My head is pounding and I'm amazed I'm alive. This is a feat unto itself.

I check my email. Something from him. Oh lord, in my head I'm thinking I'm going to be chastised for breaking our Month Apart Plan and contacting him.

Instead, it's him breaking our Month Apart Plan. Turns out he couldn't pay his phone bill and will not see said text message for many a moon until he can afford to have a phone. He says 28 days is appropriate since it was our Romantic Detox. I saw 28 days and I thought of 28 days later; you know, where you wake up and everyone's turned into a brain-eating zombie.

I should just post what he wrote. But eh, too much effort. Needless to say, all my resentment towards him and the handling of our break up wasn't erased, just forgiven. It was a very redeemable message and pretty fucking funny since he was wasted when he wrote it.

My favorite part (which I guess I will post):
"This email is brought to you by the letter "WASTED" and the numbers "DESPERATE" and "PAINFULLY HONEST."

I almost fell out of my chair laughing. But, in the state I was in that morning, that's not really saying much. He wants to see me and though I know it's against better judgement because we all know how this little dance goes, I want to see him too. And so I write him to let him know Ashlee and I will be around eventually. We have plans to hang out with her brother.

Who, by the way, is wicked cool and awesome. He and I never chatted while he was helping us move. But a totally solid guy and I can see why he and Ashlee have the connection and history that they do.

We eat South African food and it is good. And then we proceed to drink. The original idea was to drink our way up the West Side of Manhattan (stopping at points on the way back from Brooklyn). But dinner took a little longer than I anticipated, and I knew for a fact that approaching midnight, Justin would be a little concerned that I was about to stand him up. And while I enjoyed knowing that he was probably sweating a little, he also knows that I hate the late night subway so we cut the Magical Mystery Drinking Tour a little short so we get to Hell's Kitchen a little past midnight.

Sure enough, as we were exiting the subway, I get a call. I don't know whose phone he borrowed, but he sounded a little meeker than I remembered.

Ashlee and I stop to get beer at the amazingly shutting down bodega and he's there stocking up as well. He gives Ashlee and I both kisses on our cheeks. I laugh and cock my head to the side.

He doesn't look like I remember. He not wearing any stuff in his hair, but still, he looks different. This always happens to me. If you've seen me naked, my brain starts to erase you the next day. It happened all through our relationship, too. I'd have seen him the day before and then when I saw him again, I could've sworn he had a different face. It's why on the down-low I try to get a picture of all the guys that have seen me naked, for sheer posterity and for the love of God, you should be able to remember these things.

I don't have a picture of him.

I had warned him to be nice to Ashlee, since he so royally fucked up any attempt to make a good impression on Abby. What I said in my email back to him?

"Abby will just kill you. Ashlee will make you wish you were never born."

He took this to heart. I also think he knew that if he wasn't on his best behavior, Ashlee's opinion would quickly become my own. If he wanted to salvage any good feeling between us, Ashlee is the deal-breaker. It's actually very amusing for me to watch: He averts his eyes and makes sure she always has a beer and he'll open it for her; she watches him with a look on her face that says "I know you. Just try it."

But he's being as polite as he can and it's hilarious.

We look at each other and the understanding that now it's time for Our Talk. Ashlee gives me a nod of approval: she understands that this is what I have to do. She's done it, too. Because she's dated this guy. Only his name was Alex. They're even both Cancers. So she knows how this story ends but she knows I need to write it myself, even if it is all plagarism and prescribed.

We talk like giddy schoolgirls. We are happy to be in each others' presence again. And while it's not the intense talk that I think we were either hoping/expecting, it's amusing all the same.

He says something about the duality of my nature: the child vs. the old soul/sex kitten/filthy-mouthed sailor. It's the first time I realize that while I've been doing this character study on him, he actually did the same to me. I don't know why that was a realization, but it was. Maybe because everything was always on his terms, I always wondered where I fit and whether or not he ever really knew ME, as much as I knew HIM.

But turns out, he does know me. He gets me. And it was a surprise to me. Of course, all of this is too little too late, but you should always learn something new everyday.

He's sitting closer and closer to me. In his email to me, he promised to keep his hands to himself, but we both knew that this is a lie. It always is. For as honest of an effort as we try to make to Close This Thing, our gravity fields always draw us together in that way. His arm is barely brushing mine, and this I think, might have been the hottest moment for me. Not that the sex wasn't great, because it was, but sometimes the sheer anticipation of it all is exciting enough.

I don't know how exactly it happens, but I know it wasn't me and I know he didn't make the Pre-Kiss face that Ashlee and I were mocking earlier. You ladies know what I'm talking about. While you're in this conversation that you know is leading somewhere, the guy will come at you with THAT FACE that says, "I'm going to kiss you." I can never take a guy seriously who does THAT FACE.

He doesn't do THE FACE. The first kiss is always the sweetest. And I felt a little self-conscious because I'm wearing my glasses and that's odd to me.

The first time is about as close to "making love" as we get. Which I find odd, because this was a month in the making and you would think that it would be like frenzied monkey love. But he was so gentle with me then. A little discombobluating, to be sure.

He grabs me and cradles me in his arms. He nuzzles into my neck:

"You smell just the way I remember."

He doesn't. He smells different to me, too. Good, but different.

And then we sit, naked and talking, for God knows how long. I've never been so comfortable being naked with someone like I am with him. Maybe because we joke about our imperfections: his beer belly, my junk in my trunk. I was joking about my small boobies and he was like:

"Just stop. You have a great rack."

"Oh, I know that. Just they're small, is all."

On what planet would I normally be okay with all this?

And the next time is more like us. At some point, I said something to the effect of "I wish we could stay like this forever." And if he remembers the comment at all, I'm sure he took it to a meta-extreme that I want to still be together. But I meant it more like, "This is the only thing we ever got RIGHT." All the knowledge we have of each other and we can't translate it into the real world, only into the little microcosm we create in his bedroom.

Sometime during the night he had a bad dream and I went to reach for him like I used to. We both are plagued by bad dreams that we comfort each other from, but I realized it's not my job anymore. I let him whimper and I turned to hold onto the cat.

I woke up in the morning and looked down at him. When he's sleeping is the only time he's not covered in the muck and mire he creates for himself. I felt sympathy for him, since what we have is something worth holding onto, but neither one of us know how to actually proceed. So it won't proceed. And he'll lose the best thing that happened to him. He'll realize it eventually, but like everything else, too little too late and I'll be on my third marriage by then. And I'll be cynical like he is now and he'll be hopeful like I am now and once again, our paths will just miss each other. There's a Deep Thought that says "If you're traveling forward in time and you see someone traveling back in time, it's probably not a good idea to high five." Yup. Sounds about right.

An Ani quote came to my head (go figure):
"Too much is how I love you
But too well is how I know you
I've got nothing to prove this time
Just something to show you
I guess I just wanted you to see
That it was all worth it to me"

I smiled kissed him on his head and retrieved Ashlee from the futon and we went onward and outward.

And thus ends Part II of the Weekend that Was.

Mathmatically speaking, 1 hour should never equal 12...

This weekend was epic. I think I need to write about Saturday first, but Friday and Sunday should be addressed at some point as well.

We can all take a collective groan right now that I slept with him again.

OK, done?

Let's proceed.

Well, I guess I do have to start with Friday. Hmm, this entry might be a little excessive and take me all day at work to compose (seeing as somewhere in my weekend post-mortem I actually have to do some work--bad trader, bad. i'm sending you to litigation).

So, Dru finally broke and started the 9-5 gig. Seeing as he has never had one of these strange creations called the 9-5, I invited him and Devon out for Happy Hour (being the best part of a 9-5). Devon was really hungover from a party on Thursday and took a half-day and I put him in charge of finding a bar to go to.

We went to the Russian Vodka House, which was, essentially that. No beer. No Happy Hour Specials. If you're Russian, every hour is Happy Hour. Or not really Happy. More like every hour is Let Us Drink to Forget our Fucked Up Lives Hour. Which, to be fair, is more honest than Happy Hour, since that's we're all doing anyway. But it doesn't give you a beer special, so we do one vodka drink and head out on our way.

We go to Bar 2 (that's not the name, just the order of events). Since we only have 15 minutes of true Happy Hour left, we double fist our drinks to get them in under the wire.

Here's where it all starts to get...not bad, but this is where the degenerate in all of us takes the wheel and drives us into the median.

Dru:
"The bodega on the corner is going out of business and is doing buy one, get one free deals on all the beer."

Well, that's just too amazing to pass up. And Dru has some pot, it's 7 pm and I have plenty of time to get home before Ashlee gets here.

Off to FlatPlex we go. Stopping at the bodega, of course, we each get a six pack of beer (which means we each get two--bodega deal and all) and we get all different kinds of beer and get the brilliant idea that we should have a beer-tasting night. At this point, I really don't believe anyone could go through this much beer.

I completely underestimated us.

We created some sort of drinking game, the rules of which I'm still confused about, but there was some sort of spin the bottle action pointing to the various brands of beer that were in the fridge and something about drinking them and who finishes first spins the next time. We had smoked a lot at this point that I'm drinking very very slow behind these boys and I don't think I ever catch up.

Ashlee comes around midnight. I'm pretty toasty already at this point. She walks in the room and my soul lights up.

We have the best hug I can recall in recent memory. Which is great, because although we are kind of affectionate with each other, I can't remember having that great of a hug with her. My Yang met with my Yin. Or something.

The boys see this and want us to make out. With the notable exception of Devon.

"Two vaginas?!!?? I'm going to vomit."

This is where I sort of tap out of the game. My soul mate has arrived and we proceed to talk, though I'm a little (maybe a lot) sloppy. And while events of the evening were fuzzy and Ashlee filled me in on them the next day (which I'm getting to, slowly but surely), I remember our conversation and most importantly, how focused on her face I was. We never have been apart this long since we met and I'm soaking up her presence as my liver is doing its best to soak up the alcohol.

Events of the evening besides that:
-Dru spilled salsa into the pipe which then we proceeded to try to clean out using Listerine and salt (yeah, I don't know)
-Devon dropped Dru's newly re-purchased (6 days old) cell phone into the toilet while talking to their friend Sara.
-The boys pass out together on the futon at about 3:30 am. Dru and Devon always seem to pass out together, little degenerate soul mates that they are.
-Ashlee and I talk until about 6 am. We realize we should probably head out, and soon, but I know I won't have to run into Justin since I know on Fridays he usually heads out to afterhours and sometimes that meant he'd crawl home at 9 on Saturday morning. All the same, Ashlee and I have exhausted all the resources at FlatPlex and it's time to exit, stumbling gracefully to a cab.
-But on the way out, I straddle both the boys and write "911" on their foreheads with a red Sharpie. This I had totally fogotten about until Ashlee reminded me the next day and Devon mentioned it when he crawled home the next day at like 2.
-Oh yeah, we tried to get Devon to come with us, but he oh-so-gently flailed his arms out trying to hit us as nicely as possible. All right, sweetie, but I'm writing on your forehead.
-Even though the month that we took apart isn't quite up, I break and text-message him all the same. Not anything bad. I just thought as Ashlee and I were leaving that so many nights Devon would be passed out on that futon and I would be upstairs waiting for him and the Coming Home to Me Sex. Only now it's different, yes? I'm not waiting for him upstairs and Devon is all alone, wasted and unconscious with "911" on his forehead and we're all going to bed alone. Well, I'm not totally alone. I have Ashlee.

The message:

"don't take advantage of devon"

I crawl into bed, thinking I'm probably going to regret that one in the morning. That, and the 12 hour Happy Hour I just had.

And so ends Part I of my weekend. I'll try to write about Saturday when I get a chance, since that one's a doozie.

Well, sure, she's a phoney, but she's a REAL phoney...

Ashlee comes in tonight and I couldn't be happier about that. Not a single bit happier.

-----------------------------

Yesterday I spent all day with little butterflies in my tummy that I couldn't explain. Normally, I would just say that the baby was kicking or something, but since the gods have smiled on me and made me NOT pregnant, I wondered what the feeling was. It felt very pregnant.

Anticipation of something. But what?

I just read on LiveJournal that apparently one of the crew is, indeed, pregnant. Maybe I was having sympathy flutters. She sadly has to face that decision that I was praying to avoid.

Or maybe it's anticipation of something that's coming up for me.

Who knows how this amazing thing called perceptiveness works?

Yvette came over and did a full Reiki session on me. I was a little worried because these sorts of energy readings can be very telling and I wasn't sure how exposed to Yvette I wanted to become. Not that she's not a lovely person, but I had this sneaking suspicion she would find all my secrets hidden somewhere in my chakras.

I was afraid she'd figure out what a fraud I was.

Or, that in fact, I'm not very happy.

Because here's my thing. I have been feeling better, but you never know how that really works when you're an actress. Especially if you've ever studied method. "My lover died, my lover died, this is what it feels like to have a lover die" goes on in your head until you believe it. You create the sensory reality of having your lover die. What would it feel like? How would my hands move? Would they shake? What would come from my eyes when my lover died? The grief becomes the whole package and you feel this reality that you've created for youself. No doubt it's why we're all crazy. And though a part of you knows that it's just a play and your lover hasn't died, you've convinced yourself enough to convince other people and perception is reality.

I'm good at hiding what's really going on with me. So good, in fact, that I might have tricked myself into thinking I'm doing well. But deep down, I wonder how true it is.

I have secret habits that I don't tell anyone about, even here. Little rituals (no, not smoking crack or anything like that). In fact, they're really quite innocent. But the fact that I feel like I can't share them or am embarrassed by them makes me wonder how well I really am, or what progress I'm really making.

And I was scared she'd see it all. I wonder now if she does. I'll never know, because you can easily keep to yourself secrets you discover from other people. Especially secrets that aren't shared openly, but discovered on happenstance.

Maybe we're all frauds. Maybe we're all just faking it.

But it kept me from focusing too much on the session since I was afraid of what she was learning about me.

But it was interesting. I did feel energy exchange between us and it was warm and I think it must have been healing because today was the first day in a long time that I woke up and my back wasn't killing me. The rib thing still hurts if I cough, but I'm coughing a lot less today as well. Reiki? The body's natural healing?

My paranoid fellow temp while I was at M*A*C was overly concerned with what was really going on. If I told him I had a Reiki session and felt better, he would have replied,

"Well, it's like a placebo. It doesn't really work, you just think that it does."

It was his reaction to all my echinacea consumption.

My reaction? Who cares if it's a placebo? People have believed so strongly in placeboes that they actually work. So what if you believed in something that wasn't real so much that it then became real? That's the power and the beauty of the human mind.

I feel better. Psycho-somatic? Placebo? Time doing its thing?

Who knows? But my physical body feels better. That's something.

I'm pretty sure the rest of me is still a fraud.

-----------------------------

I wish Ashlee happy travels to me. And even happier still will I be. At least I think so.

Does this mean I get my pony now?

It's a little late into the New Year for all this reflection.

But the other night, smoking with Devon, I compared myself this year to myself last year.

Last year, this time, I was a virgin.
I was in college.
I had nightmares of Russia and lived in a perpetual panic attack.
I smoked too much pot and drank too much vodka.
I don't think I was happy, but sometimes I feel that I might have been happier than I think.

And now? not virgin/not college/nightmares of moving/too little pot/too much whiskey/happy? who knows?

You have to think about where it all fits in. The passage of time. The growth of self. The fuck ups and screw ups and trials and tribulations and cliches and the best of the worst.

It all fits together. Russia, the mugging, the boy, all these things I think have been part of some greater lesson.

The lesson?

I need to let go of the controls.

Beauty in the breakdown again. Seriously, this mantra is following me around like a lost dog.

Being in the hospital and knowing that there was a strong possibility that I might die during surgery (fixing a papercut at a 105 fever is a risky endeavor) was the most dramatic wake up call that in the end, we cannot control certain things. Hell, we can barely control anything. I control what I put on in the morning. Past that, I am a slave to time/MTA/work/other people. How did I ever think that being a control freak would actually mean that I could control things?

The mugging taught me that bad things can happen to you all at once and maybe it isn't so bad. He didn't get my purse. He reminded me that I shouldn't assume safety because I'm on the Upper East Side and to take the well-lit streets. But he didn't take me with him. And that's something to cling to tighter than your purse.

The boy taught me that I like the fact that I live in the world where things end, and they always will, but it's not a sad or bad thing. When we had that fight that night and I was talking to Abby, I slipped into cynic mode and said "Why even do this? If it doesn't work, you get hurt and if it does, one of you will die and it will hurt, too. Why bother?"

I realize now that this was a very Justin thing to say.

Why bother? Because everything ends. It makes the time we have more precious with each other. Just because I know I'm going to die someday, maybe tomorrow, maybe in 5 minutes, does that mean I kill myself now?

Inevitability can only take you so far and then it will kill you before you die. The ending of things does not negate the start of them or the continuance. It's. Just. What. Happens.

Being the walking dead is not the way to live.

So sayeth the prophet in accordance to the prophecy.

Money makes the world go 'round...

So yeah, I posted again on LiveJournal. But, to be fair, being offered whiskey by a street vendor is one of those things only the LiveJournalers could appreciate if they did.

And yeah, I'm working on Wall Street now for the New York Stock Exchange. You can't get any more of "The Man" than that. But I'm in the Enforcement Division where we bust all the bad traders. Bad trader, bad. No more prostitutes for you. Go to bed.

I have two badges. I get to pass all the Asian tourists posing in front of the building and say, "Excuse me, I work here. Out of my way, bitches." And then I have them deported by telling the security guard that they hate America.

I look awful in both pictures. I need to find a place to get my contacts refilled. Jesus. When am I going to do that? Where? Why? Wait, What?

This place is like a catacomb. Or a honeycomb. But less sticky. And it's a long-term gig so we'll see how it goes. Right now, everyone has left for a meeting so I'm like "yea! Now I can post on my REAL blog!" Or I guess, if I was feeling naughty, I could sneak out. But that's much more like Whiskey Carrie, and I told you, she died.

And I'm eating a chocolate donut. Life can't be all that bad, right?

Yea!

My boss looks like a school marm-y version of the hot chick (not Denise Richards) from Starship Troopers. I bet she has cats. And she sometimes does that funny walk where someone hunches over like a cartoon character and scurries with her elbows out and close to her chest. I'm pretty sure she wants to sleep with Steve, an analyst here. She playfully smacked him with her ID card and I saw the lust in her eyes.

That's what I enjoy about temping. I go around, and it's almost like going to see a play. Unless the play that you are seeing starts at the beginning of time, you're being introduced into a world already in progress. Office politics, flirtations, aggravations, and all the hoo-la in between. And I just sit back and watch it unfold and try to figure out where my part is in all this.

As David Jaffe used to say about when you highlight your lines in a script (he didn't allow us to do it):

"What it does is, you move through [the script] and go, 'bullshit bullshit bullshit--MY LINE--bullshit bullshit."

I actually don't know where that fits into my analogy, but it's one of my favorite David Jaffe quotes.

I schmoozed more with people here than at any other of my assignments. I don't know. Something about working on Wall Street makes me feel like I should be wheelin' and dealin'. Even though I'm just doing more data entry. Do they elevate temps to traders? Probably not. And I'm positive I would not only suck at it, but hate it as well. Money is the bane of my existence. For REAL.

Oooo, they're back from the meeting. Must look productive.

Dying is easy it's living that scares me to death...

That's an Annie Lenox lyric, so don't worry, this isn't a maudlin entry.

I'm high. And it's fabulous.

It's like my Prozac. Amelia was telling me I was drinking too much, and I agree, and so I did what any wayward true pothead does.

I put down the whiskey and picked up our makeshift bong.

People are all addicted to something. I think pot smoking is one of the least harmful. Fame or Fortune being the most.

Whiskey Carrie died when the mugger attacked. Or soon thereafter.

Weed Carrie has a far more exciting time. She cleaned the apartment and laughed while cleaning the dishes because she noticed we only have 2 drinking glasses but we have 9 shot glasses. I don't think we've ever even used those. Maybe once or twice, but we drink beer mostly in the apartment. So of course, it would have to be the most prolific dishware we have.

She danced around the apartment and laughed when she went into the bathroom and lifted up the toilet seat, like, I don't know, she had a penis.

I don't think Weed Carrie has a penis. At least let's hope not.

I'm listening to my Sucks to your Ass-mar CD and washing dishes and loving every song on the whole damn CD.

Whiskey Carrie cries a lot. And pouts. Weed Carrie makes a face that looks like she's going to pounce on you at any second. And you don't know if it's cute or terrifying.

Whiskey Carrie throws things. Weed Carrie stretches.

Whiskey Carrie sleeps with people she shouldn't. Habitually. Weed Carrie busts our her vibrator.

Boo Whiskey Carrie. Welcome back, Weed Carrie.

This is my journal to the world that sometimes writes to me.

Go out and seek your truth.

That's an Alice in Chains lyric.

it's 3 am and I must be hungry...

drunk quote from me:

"I'm listening to you, I'm just not sure if I should be believing anything that's coming out of your mouth..."

I'm not that drunk--Devon's intoxication is rubbing off on me. One beer, two whiskey and cokes. Alarm is set and we are cooking pork chops and rice before watching "Wicker Park" and going to sleep.

And I take care of someone's child tomorrow. I'm amazed I'm allowed to take care of anything. I'd kill a pet rock if given enough space and freedom, I'm sure.

Ah well. Going to go sniff around the kitchen now.

You ever spend a Thursday night...on WEED??

Conor came over last night and promptly proceeded to get me and Devon extremely stoned. It's been almost a month since I last smoked, methinks, or at least it's felt like eternity. So I felt like I was in high school again.

I couldn't write. My hands wouldn't function. And Conor said a really funny quote and I couldn't get my fingers to wrap around the pen. A phenomenon that I found hilarious.

Here's the quote to the best of my ability. We were talking about how Conor and Paige (his high school girlfriend) had songs for each other:

"And she's all, 'That's so perfect. Because I'm the perfect drug for you and you're the perfect love for me. It's so perfect because it, like, describes our personalities.' and I'm all, 'That's great. That's fine. We're 15. Can we have sex now?"

Awww, puppy love.

I also was very antsy. I had to get up and dance just to work off some of the energy. I haven't had the urge like that since I took x at my graduation party. I love the youthful re-introduction of drugs in my life. If I stopped drinking, I could use my booze money to go towards pot. I'm begging to become a stoner again and not a drunk.

I laughed so hard. Conor and I fondly remembered our Arkansas trip and how awful we used to be to each other. I summed it up right:

"You were passive-agressive with me and I was just aggressive with you."

And two of our dear friends from high school got engaged last night. Jon Wilson called to tell Conor he was proposing that night. I made sure I was going to be invited to the wedding. I recall many a night spent on Conor's porch with Ms. Kaela where I advised her about Jon (at the time they were having a weird hook-up thing and Jon was being a bitch). But, like all strange twists in fate, Jon actually got his head out of his ass (a one in a million occurence when it comes to the menfolk) and they fell in love. And now they're engaged and I'm honestly really happy for them. I'm amazed. No resentment or jealousy. Maybe because I saw how much of an epic struggle it was for them to get there. But my heart beamed and the room was filled with joy.

And that call came before all the weed so I know it was genuine.

Maybe I'll do laundry today. Maybe I'll just sleep. I'm going gay-clubbing tonight with Devon and his epic-ex Jason. I need to start leaving the apartment more, now that I'm finally feeling something closer to human and further from lichen. Maybe I'll even make out with a gay man. That's always fun. But he'd better be really cute.

A good night, 'twas. A healing night. I woke up not wanting to just crawl back into bed and never leave. The Hermit is coming out of her shell. Which is a good thing, I think.

What I need as a theme song...

...Though my nostrils are still clogged.

Mein Herr

from Cabaret

You have to understand the way I am,
Mein Herr.
A tiger is a tiger, not a lamb.
Mein Herr.
You'll never turn the vinegar to jam,
Mein Herr.
So I do...
What I do...
When I'm through...
Then I'm through...
And I'm through...
Toodle-oo!
Bye-Bye, Mein Lieber Herr.
Farewell, mein Lieber Herr.
It was a fine affair,
But now it's over.
And though I used to care,
I need the open air.
You're better off without me,
Mein Herr.

Don't dab your eye, mein Herr,
Or wonder why, Mein Herr.
I've always told you I was a rover.
You mustn't knit your brow,
You should have known by now
You'd every cause to doubt me,
Mein, Herr.

The continent of Europe is so wide,
Mein Herr.
Not only up and down, but side to side,
Mein Herr.
I couldn't ever cross it if I tried,
Mein Herr.
So I do..
What I can...
Inch by inch...
Step by step...
Mile by mile...
Man by man.

Bye-Bye, Mein Lieber Herr.
Farewell, mein Lieber Herr.
It was a fine affair,
But now it's over.
And though I used to care,
I need the open air.
You're better off without me,
Mein Herr.


I've had it stuck in my head for a couple days, and I don't even know the whole song. This, of course, means that though I don't really have the money, I will be spending any that I have on the Cabaret Soundtrack.

Excellent. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

MacDonald's and dinos and Grossy McGrosserson...

So I blew off my last day a M*A*C so I could have a full day of babysitting at $15/hr tax free and I do it again tomorrow, which ends up being a full week at Core Staffing for only two days. So I'll probably never get sent out again because it seems flaky, but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. Babysitting is a million times more palatable than data entry, that's 'fo sho.

It's nice to play like a child. It was an innocent day. I'm really good with kids, probably because I am such a kid myself. But I'm really good with this 7 year old boy demographic because they enjoy my sarcasm and I like coming up with weird sports. "Carrie, I just farted!" "What, you want an award or something?" [laughter abounds] This kid is really cute and pretty smart and 10 hours went by like nothing. And tomorrow we even have a playdate, which gives me a break in focus. So it's good. I think.

Still doesn't mean I want a kid. There's nothing better than when Mommy comes home and I pass them off. Good luck. He just had a soda. I'm going home to drink a really really BIG beer and watch Queer Eye. Which isn't in the guidebook for Modern Parents Magazine.

So yeah. Easy day, easy money, doing it again tomorrow. Now I really must attend to my beer and my gays.

Eternal Paranoia of the Spotless Panties...

So, nothing makes me happier than to have Ashlee have a blog as well. Now she can comment on my blog and I won't feel like I'm sending all these messages into the abyss. Godspeed Ashlee, these things turn into crack. Trust me.

My cracked rib hurts more and more everyday. One of these days, if it doesn't get better, I may have to go to a doctor. Lord knows I'm always in the mood for some pain pills.

Friday night was old-school pre-degenerate debauchery. Me dancing like a ho to Britney Spears and leading some poor sap on. But it was good. Much more like I usually am when drunk, not whatever freak I had been turning into at FlatPlex.

Saturday was very quiet. Many naps and much sleep. Still working off that emotional hangover. And the plague. Combined in a neat plague-emotional fuck up coctail.

Sunday had my meeting with NTI-ers about the show. I'm excited. Me and Liz (the stage manager) are going to start work on our application to the Fringe Festival. I have faith that the unique nature of Daniel's show will get us an in. I think it's utter brilliance. And I stayed out in Brooklyn at Daniel's and we talked well into the night. I can tell him anything. I even told him about my fears about the pregnancy thing and he, in turn, offered his support.

"Well, in all seriousness [we have a tendency to never take anything too seriously between us] if you need me to drive you somewhere or loan you some money or..."

"Hand me a coat hanger while I take care of business."

Immediate diffusion of this conversation. He tells me that it's an awful statement to make through all the laughter, and I say it is just like us to make a horrendous joke right at that moment. I know he wouldn't judge me, but it's a weird point for me because of how I always felt about abortion vs. the actuality of my situation and my complete inability to take care of another human being. I shouldn't bring a child into the world. This world sucks anyway.

But this is just paranoia. I'm almost 100% certain I'm not pregnant. An STD is far more likely. I should look into that as well. Or just stay celibate and let the syphillis take over my brain.

I can take my pregnancy test next week. This is the first test I really really REALLY hope I fail.

On a lighter note, I finally saw Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and it was incredible. I loved it and I know I'm the last person to see it, but there it is, I loved it. It was incredible.

And now, I retire to bed.

Searching for Bobby Fischer? Apparently, you don't have to look too hard...

from

www.newsoftheweird.com:

Chess Glandmaster
Controversial former chess champion Bobby Fischer, who fled to Japan to avoid U.S. visa-violation charges, and who is smarting from a recent Time magazine description of him as something less than a babe magnet, defended his virility to a Mainichi Daily News reporter in October by pointing out that he wears "size 14 wide shoes. Just keep that in mind when (they) say I'm not a dreamboat. After recounting an episode at a hot spring nude bath in Japan in which two fellow customers seemed in awe of his "size," Fischer then accused Americans of having persuaded Japanese authorities to lock him up in a facility close to a nuclear plant so that the U.S. government can "make me impotent." [Mainichi Daily News, 10-18-04]

Hi-larious.

They too, shall pass...

I get a call from Daniel while I'm about to get on the train to go home last night. But I let it pass since it will cut out soon enough. He invited me to come over to his place and drink copious amounts of vodka. Which, to be fair, is exactly what I felt like doing last night.

But on the train ride home, I had to examine my state-of-being for such activities. I'm probably not quite well enough to drink so much, on top of the fact that I have my last day of work here.

It's what my gut told me, though, so I called him and rain-checked.

So I did what any single girl would do in my position. I watched season five of Sex and the City . Chicken soup for the single girl soul. The only slight problem was that season five is where Jack Burger makes his arrival, the character Sleazy and I thought was him. Truth is, Burger's a thousand times better than Sleazy, but they have that whole dark-and-brooding insecure writer thing going on. Burger's is just less intense and for any normal woman, more bearable.

We all feel like Carrie Bradshaw. She's the character on the show that gets treated with the most depth and as women, we relate to that. She fucks up bigtime and yet still remains somewhat hopeful and optimistic about the whole thing. I get to feel even more like her because I share a name with her. And I have curly hair. And she does it all with fabulous shoes. That is definitely one thing she's got on me.

She's been hurt. And she's hurt people. But, unlike most shows, when she hurts people you actually sympathize with her reasoning. Sometimes the strongest women do weak and stupid things and it doesn't make us weak or stupid. To be fairly cliche, it just makes us human.

I read some quote about how you spend the first half of your life looking at the right side of an embroidery and the second half looking at the bottom side. The first side is the pretty outcome, all the good things and the back is the mess. But you gain insight from looking at the back because you see how all that mess of threads works together to form the bigger picture.

I think I'm beginning to see how all the threads work together. I am, however, having trouble seeing the final outcome, what it all makes. Let's just hope it doesn't spell "#1 Mom."

This morning it was pouring. I don't have an umbrella. So instead of being grumpy about it, I remembered that yesterday I was sad that I hadn't played in the rain. Now, I had work to go to, so I couldn't really play, but it was warm enough rain that I took my time on my walk and let the water drench my hands and my face and rubbed it together to where I could still get that pleasant feeling of squishing the rain. I was the only one not hauling ass to stay dry. Fuck it. Why fight it? Of course, now if I get pneumonia, I'll be kicking myself, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. So that's what I done did.

Now I'm a little damp and cold at work, but I'll make myself some tea and try to enjoy that as well.

Baby I know you have to go
You've gone before
We are fighting on two different fronts
Of the same war
But no matter what else
I will do, baby
I will wait
For you.

That was in my head when I woke up. Who knows? Certainly not I.

So much to say, so much to say...

Actually, not much to say.

My job here at DataEntryWorld will be ending sooner than expected. Which makes me panic a little bit, since the pay was good and I still couldn't make ends meet and the next assignment will probably pay less and be just as crappy.

There was subway drama today trying to get to work. I felt trapped in Office Space. Luckily, I left early this morning on a lark and didn't end up being late at all. In fact, I was the third person in the office. But most of the office is away on some trip to California (which is hilarious because they were all like, "We're escaping New York and going to beautiful California!" and then it's apparently like the apocalypse out there). And here it's about 58 degrees. Pretty warm for a NYC January. We haven't even really had a real snowstorm yet. I have a sneaking feeling that I have a tendency to bring warm weather with me.

The cough won't go away. Devon got pissed because I had a coughing fit at like 3 that was loud and extensive. I felt guilty. Normally I wouldn't, but since this whole plague was brought on by sleeping with my ex, I feel bad that Devon is paying for my sins.

I'm waiting to feel normal again. In every possible sense of the word.

I miss the girl that I was. I know that I'm not her because eventually you have to grow up and stress about bills and get a "real" job, but I exited the subway thinking "I'm really just dead and climbing the stairs into SoHo. This should be exciting. But it's not. I could be in Kingwood, or Austin, or anywhere. New York has not touched me in anyway. Just another subway in another city going to a job that leads to nowhere."

Then I wanted to bitch-slap myself because life isn't really all that bad and I should be thankful for all the things that I have and I want to become positive again.

But I can't remember the last time I said "Fuck it" and went out and played in the rain.

Or sat, drunk and having really intense conversations.

Or getting high and listening to Ani and driving around to nowhere in particular. And getting lost and not caring because the company was so amazing. The journey, not the destination.

Or kissed someone, with absolutely nothing attached to it, other than it's fun to make two lips meet. And it not lead anywhere, both physically and in an emotional sense. Spin the bottle for 20-somethings.

Not feeling guilty. Not feeling like I'm wasting the precious time before the apocalypse. Not feeling like I'm turning into not a very good person.

Desiderata:
Go placidly amid the noise and haste
and remember what peace there can be in silence...
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
No less than the trees and stars
You have a right to be here
And whether or not it is clear to you,
No doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Best advice. New mantra. Must believe.

A woman's work is never done...

Threw up again at work. If I didn't know better, I'd think I was bulimic. Still kinda nervous about the whole pregnant thing. But I'm pretty sure I'm not taking good enough care of my body to sustain life. I'm barely sustaining my own. My clothes are literally hanging off my body. Hope baby likes booze and pretzels, because that's what it's getting. And hot dogs. I eat a lot of those.

I think this cold is on its last legs. I'm pretty positive I cracked a rib though. I'm in constant pain, though the cold itself is fading. It's putting up a pretty good fight, but I will echinacea it into oblivion. Sorry I got you sick, Abby. At least I didn't get you pregnant.

I was raging pissed yesterday. I'm in the "good riddance" phase finally. The "no-I-don't-want-to-be-friends-because-you're-not-good-enough-for-that" phase. I am a far more lenient girlfriend than friend, and he just doesn't make the cut. And I miss the sex, but just because I miss having regular sex, not really with him in particular.

And who had my back? My gays. Devon had a stressful day at work, so I met up with him at Shag for happy hour. Happy two hours. And he let me rant and rave and commiserated with me and supported me and it was really sweet and completely empowering. When we got home, I had a message from Dustin. Apparently, he is having a little boy trouble as well. When he finished, I told him all that was happening in the passive-agressive nightmare I've entered, to which he replied in typical Dustin fashion--

"You win!"

I always win. Even when I'm being a total loser.

I've been sleeping like a baby. And he has not entered a single one of my dreams of late, and this morning, I didn't wake up hoping he had text-messaged me like he used to.

I did have a hilarious dream, though. I dreamt Abby was in town (and I guess I was still in college) and we bullshit all our time away, and apparently I had a solo-performance piece to do for Amparo (my prof). And I managed to bullshit my way out of it, since Amparo was the easiest teacher to do such things with, and I was watching everyone else go as I tried to create something out of the nothing I did.

What did I choose to do? While talking about the gruesome details of serial murders, I made my mom's famous meatballs. For extra gross effect, when I was talking about blood loss I would pour the tomato sauce into the pot from up high. Apparently, my solo performance was all about making everyone really nauseous.

The clock kept reading 11:25. It's the only thing in that dream that I think could mean anything other than I shouldn't drink so much tequila before bed. But I don't know what that could be.

I think I had forgotten how much better I sleep when I sleep alone. Me and Fluffy. How it always should be.

Now I'm at work and the prospect of doing the same shit all day all over again is very...draining. But I think I'm done with this assignment soon and I couldn't be happier about that.

I'm not going to write in LiveJournal anymore. Here was the last thing I posted:

the end of nights we tried to die...

a white flag answered in silence.
which i guess is just a waste of fabric.
ah well.
this is how these things go
and we wander aimlessly on
coughing up our history
onto strangers on the train.
they did not stop to think they died instead
until happy hour called them out again.
rise and meet your day to day-
the snow falling on the window pane,
and settles and rests upon your face
and melts like a tear upon your cheek
i do not think they'll cry for me.
exit as gracefully as you can
not showing that your dress has
ripped down the back.
i end it how i started-
a white flag answered in silence
and a poem without a comment.

I like it. I need to start writing more poetry again. And it's the note I would like to end my LiveJournal experience on. So I hope you, my dear friends, got this website and want to keep up with me this way. Lord knows, a very interesting journey is right around the corner.

Hilariously tragic. Horrendously funny.

This is the way the world begins.

so this is how I left it...

I'm done with passive aggression. I emailed him. This is what I said:

just wanted to clarify--

i wasn't writing about you. the dream was one i had about you, but i was just writing to write and you weren't actually the topic. i thought i'd have a little fun since secret livejournals are the new black this season. and you can choose to believe that or not.

and i'm not going to read your new journal anymore. it just makes me not like you very much and i don't like that, either. so go to. and you can choose to believe that or not.

just wanted to make my case so that our silence wasn't too bitter or cold.

--c

Yeah, the story was kind of about him, but not really. So yeah. Don't talk to him. I know. But I don't like ending things on weird notes, and this way I at least feel better about it. Now I can hate him in peace.

Was it wise? Nothing I do seems to be, but we'll see.

and I've gone and done it again...

Well, I've managed to screw it all up again.

No, I didn't sleep with him.

But I did create a new LiveJournal account so I could post a passive aggressive comment and short story about him on it. He, of course, figured out it was me and sent an equally passive aggressive comment back. And his own passive agressive entry to boot.

I tried to see if I could block the whole thing from my computer, but I don't know how to do that. So instead, I switched the language to Russian.

The good news is, it's made me really pissed off at him. Which is better than pining, I say.

The bad news? Well, I don't think we'll be friends. But is this really so bad? I wonder now.

He thinks I need him to be Sleazy because I fell in love with Justin and I need to blame something for the failure. But that's not true. I realized something in all the passive aggressive online banter. He's neither. He's not Sleazy and he's definitely not the Justin I created either.

He's a Lost Boy. Looking for a Wendy to come and fix everything for him. The problem with that is, Lost Boys don't ever want to grow up, never want to leave NeverNeverLand, and the Wendys will come and go, but they will always go because Wendy wants to live a real life. She gets tired of playing games all the time and only living in the made-up reality of the present. His new meta-girlfriend will realize that soon enough, too. You can fix everything around them, but a Lost Boy is just that. A Lost Cause. They are only concerned for the fantasy world that they've created and getting their immediate needs met. That's just how children are.

He wants to bitch about being poor. Then don't work at a tiny bar in Long Island City, when you had a job that paid well in Times Square.

He wants to bitch about being lonely. Then stop thinking only about yourself and make an effort to make someone else happy for a change.

He wants to stop feeling like shit. Then stop doing coke. Stop drinking so much. Try eating a vegatable once in awhile and stop going to bed at 7 in the morning every night. Or morning. Whatever.

He wants to bitch about how his art is underappreciated. Then stop writing all the more and actually try to get your shit published. He wants to be a rock star? Then try promoting yourself, rather than the only people at your shows are girlfriends, ex-girlfriends, their friends, and the people you went to college with.

But he must not really want all that. Because the answers are so simple and so within reach. He just can't be bothered. He wants his NeverNeverLand.

I wish him luck with that.

Time for this Wendy to return to the real world and actually live a real life, sans bedtime stories and fairy tales.

On a side note, I wonder who Captain Hook is in this metaphor. I'll have to ponder that one.

and now for something completely different...

Jesus was way cool. To quote Beck.

I had a long discussion on Saturday with Liz about religion and how current Christians give Christianity a bad name. Like the sentence "Jesus hates..." followed by anything should really clue you in to the fact that this person is not, in fact, a Christian.

Jesus was cool. Even if he thought homosexuality was a sin, you know he'd be hanging out at Boyz Cellar. He'd be Dustin's wing-man.

He turned water into wine. Way cool. And a neat trick to bring to a party.

I bet he turned plants into other stuff as well. Hey man, it wasn't illegal back then.

He was a liberal Jew. He was a rebel. He was the first punk RAWKer.

Anyway, I get annoyed when I see people who yell at me with stuff like "Follow Jesus or be Damned!"

Because really, Jesus wasn't the "blindly follow" type guy. If you wanted to join him, that's coo, but do it on your own valition. Fear is a stupid reason to do anything. Like, I don't know, invade a country or something.

All the same, I'm not even a Christian, but I'll stick up for Jesus. He was a cool dude and people are totally misunderstanding him.

Relax. Breathe. Try to be a decent human being. And for the love of Christ (ha ha), stop yelling at people! Especially me. I'm trying to wallow here.

There's the asshole who did this to me....

I'm glad I got to see Kristen and Amy before they left. My life is so poorly timed, and if the gods were kind, I would have been healthier and we could have hung out a lot more. But, seperate from the gods, it was my own poor decisions that made me ill and kept me from them.

I have huge regret for the life I've been living the past month. I have not respected myself. I have not been a good friend. I've been a worse sister and a worse daughter. I have let this boy infect me with god-knows-what and it has brought my happiness to a grinding halt.

I need to get out of New York. I need to get my shit together. I need money. I need, I need...something other than this.

I need to feel human again. How does one go about that?

the dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had...

oh my god. This is the plague. And I have an eye infection which makes it hard to stare at the computer. How am I gonna make it through today?

There is a plague on all my houses. I must have really pissed Mercutio off.

I love the little lunchtime epiphanies...

So, recently, well, for a while, I've been heading to Urban Outfitters and reading the little books that they have there. But normally, I'd look at the dear-god-how-will-I-live-without-him-girl-power-he's-a-Cancer-bastard type books. And then yesterday, I was all mopey and maudlin and about to pick up another one when lo and behold, I see this one called Get Happy, Damn it! A Cynic's Guide to Spiritual Happiness. And this seems right up my alley, and dear god, I need to stop licking my wounds.

It's a great book, for a coffeetable book. If I ever have two cents to rub together, I'm just going to buy it. It's hard to describe because it's all about little quips that carry great meaning. I like the comment they made about love that said something to the effect of "don't confuse the bottle with the juice." The packaging may boost your ego, but without the juice, it's never going to really satisfy you. A short bad relationship is better than a long bad one.

It was like being released from prison. And it doesn't mean that I'm all better now, but there is a chance for sunshine in the future and I'm going to believe in that. Positive energy attracts positive things.

I'm also going to start meditating again. That was good for me.

And I went back today and read it again. And I'm going to do it again tomorrow. And I'm going to keep going back there and reading it until I have the whole thing memorized or at least believe it all enough to relax back into my natural state of peaceful goofiness.

And a song lyric from the Garden State soundtrack keeps going over and over in my head. Like my new mantra:

So let go
let go
'cause there's beauty
in
the
Breakdown

There is beauty in the breakdown. All pain leads to growth. And I'm ready to stop wallowing.

I'm serious. It's time. I wish I could have done it sooner for the benefit of my sister, but we come to these realizations in our own time and that can't be forced, however badly we want them to fit into our schedules.

I have the audition for Daniel's show tonight. Send me some positive chi. But I'm going to try to bring my own.

If you're gonna spew, spew into this...

I threw up this morning at work again.

This is an interesting morning-sickness thing. It makes me scared that I'm pregnant. I know that's a little paranoid, but not too much after the events of New Years, which happened right after my period. I await the next one with baited breath. Dear Lord, please don't have me carrying Sleazy, Jr. It's just too awful of a thought. If Sleazy does procreate, though, it won't be by the Lord's hand, that's for sure.

-----------------

Last night was Abby's last night in NYC. And like champs, she, Devon, and I braved the icky weather because damnit, we need to go out. I feel bad that Abby probably feels her time was wasted here.

She got to meet Daniel, who I knew she'd love. Of course, she was predisposed to love him, since Sleazy doesn't, and that means obviously he has merit. And Ryan joined us and we didn't know where they were hiding all the bars and Devon and I peed in the street (and activity that I just find the most amusing thing in the world--I can always hold it, I just choose not to. One of these days, I'm gonna get busted. And that day will be hilarious).

My favorite quote of the night:

Daniel: I don't like when you cut me down like that in front of my friends and your sister. It makes me feel less than.

Me: Does that mean I won't be peeing on you later?

Daniel: Oh, there WILL be peeing. I'm talking about self-respect, though.

This all sprung from the fact that the first place we went to have a drink called a Golden Shower. We clung to that idea all night and it was hilarious. To us, at least.

I told him I'd give him a golden shower if he cast me in the show. We called it the Casting Toilet.

I laughed sincerely for the first time in what seems like forever. I like to think that this means I'm turning a corner on the whole thing, but I'm still checking the New Journal. I know it's bad, but I keep hoping me reading all this stuff that pisses me off will let it sink in that he's not the great guy I imagined he was. And I imagine a lot of that has to do with my own pride on giving up on it.

If you want to check the New Journal (it has a very interesting version of our break-up), the name is houseofmeta on LiveJournal. But you probably shouldn't. I know I shouldn't. But like so many of my other habits, it's all pretty self-destructive.

"Yeah, I'll walk the plank
I'll jump with a smile
If I'm gonna go down
I'm gonna do it with style"

----------------------

Travel well, Abby. Kick ass on your job interview. May flocks of angels carry you to San Diego.

and here it is, your moment of Zen...

I could vomit.

I'm never doing this again. I know that sounds all dramatic and stuff, but seriously, what's the point? Someone ends up the bad guy, the other is hurt, and it ruins your appetite.

Fuck love. Fuck sex. Fuck the whole deal. I'm done.

I was fine by myself. Was I complete? No. But I wasn't a wreck, either. I think I'm too much of a control freak to ever really enjoy this kind of stuff.

I'll stick to theatre.

it's these things go through your head...

i've been trying to shake it off all day, but it hasn't worked.

i've been trying to focus on this very interesting book, but i can't.

i went to bed last night with all sorts of tap dancing thoughts about nostalgia and the idea of home and odysseus and no one asking him what 20 years was to him, only telling him of the ithaca that was no longer his in his absence. and ideas of epic love and the perspective time can have on things and how two people can view the same situation that should be objective in totally opposite ways. to one, a momentous event; to the other, a fleeting incident. it was the most active my mind has felt in a while, and i adore books that keep me from sleep. and i had lavender under my pillow, which has been helping with my dreams, and i drifted off peacefully into slumber.

i woke up at 6 am, choking in terror.

i had a dream about being gang-raped. it was quite possibly the worst dream i've ever had, and this is coming from a girl who developed a long-standing battle with insomnia to avoid horrible dreams. it was so real. i'm not a girl with a whole lot of sexual experience, so i was digusted by the fact that i could feel each man and the differences in them. and their breath, and their weight, and their moisture. and i couldn't get out.

but i don't think it was me in the dream, if that makes sense. it happens to me sometimes. i think i feel other people's experiences to the point of actually living them. it's the only way i can explain feeling some of the things that i've felt. my mom says i'm cursed with an overabundance of empathy for people and situations not related to me.

i was sickened at the thought of some girl actually living this.

and then i was just sick.
i cried until i choked, and choked until all the phelgm came up from my body.

maybe the dream was a fever. maybe it was a premonition. maybe it was a channel. maybe it was just a nightmare. maybe it's all of the above.

but it's hard to spend all day trying to forget it, sitting at my computer, sick physically, and sick to my stomach at the thought of such awful things in the world.

and i feel violated by my own subconscious, but more importantly, i just feel violated.

my heart bleeds for anyone who actually has felt this feeling in their reality. it breaks for you.

i'm hoping posting this will purge me of it a little so i can get some work done. and in the meantime, my lungs are purging themselves of something altogether different.

so sorry if that depressed anyone.

on phelgm and time...

I'm sick. I felt it coming on yesterday and drank orange juice like it was going out of style. But alas, finally all my debauchery had caught up with me and I feel like shit. Which sucks, because I have to go out tonight. Abby will never forgive me otherwise.

I posted a passage about time and the relevance of lifespan on LiveJournal. I'm not going to repeat it here, this journal serves a different purpose, but time is all around me.

My oldest sister left for England to live with my uncle for a while. He married my aunt when they were young and were only married about a year before she died of luekemia. He never married again. He's barely even dated. And I wonder if he knew there were 100 extra years to live (longer lifespan) if he would be so reluctant to take that risk of loss. I would like to think that he would not, but if there is only one fault in my uncle, it would be cowardice. At least in these sorts of matters.

It makes me think of what we cling to from our past, and how faulty that memory can be. What is monumentally important to us is just a passing moment to someone else. Whose memory is right? Well, they both are, and yet the same moment can mean vastly different things depending on the perspective you are coming from. And how does that affect our present and our future?

And if we cast off all those things that we cling to, is that not just as bad as holding on too tightly? Where is the balance between what has passed and what will be? We balance on the pinhead of the present and are constantly in danger of falling off too far into the past or the future.

But this could all just be the ramblings of a fevered mind.

let us go then, you and I...

This is a lost LiveJournal entry that never got posted about a dream that I've had about 3 times.


we were on a wooden raft, drifting at sea. it's very, very bright. and the water is terribly calm and clear and turquoise. it's very bright as well. and though in dreams you know there was a context that the dream doesn't inform you of, it's strange because obviously something bad had to have happened for you two to be drifting on a raft.

but we are very peaceful. almost happy, even. behind him is an island and he is looking towards the expanse of the sea.

he takes my hand.

"can you see the shore?"

"yes. and it's beautiful."

"i wish i could see it."

"well, turn around. it's there."

"i can't. i'm blind in one eye."

"but your other one still works."

"it doesn't work that way."

we lapse into tranquil silence again.

"tell me what it looks like."

"i can't do that. you have to see it for yourself."

"what does it feel like?"

"it feels like safety."

and then i'm on the shore. i don't know where he's gone. but i know that i need to shelter myself from the sun. i remember thinking i wore the wrong thing and if i were brave enough i'd just take off all my clothes and get a proper tan.

there are other people there and they are building something. in the dream i know what they're building but in reality, i have no idea what that thing was. i realize i can help. i remember i buried something here. something that will work.

That's it. It always changes from there, but that's how it always starts. I think it says a lot. He needs to turn around and see the beauty, otherwise he'll always be adrift.

I wish in the world that the sea was tranquil in my dreams, not causing such pain and loss.

I know I'm not much fun to my ladies (including my sister) while they're in town, but their sheer presence is such a comfort. One of these days, I'm going to get off my ass and actually do stuff with them. Or maybe that will be next visit. Who knows?

But for now, I need to return to work.

all quiet on the Eastern front...

yeah, I called him. He called me back an hour and a half later. Did he not see it? Possibly. Or he could have waited until he felt it was safe because he knows how much I hate the late night subway.

Either way, I went to bed alone and that was probably a good thing.

Does our month start now?

I pulled the two of cups on my reading this morning. Does that mean I should wait? Or is it just me feeling we are the two of cups? This is why reading for yourself is a bad thing.

"And my little pink heart
Is on it's little brown raft
Floating at sea?

I'm supposed to go dancing tonight. I don't want to.

What do I want to do? Go back to sleep. I slept for 12 hours, and it's just not enough. I think I'm having a very long emotional hangover.

What fixes that?

so this is the new year/ and I don't feel any different...

wow. The amount of bite marks on my tits are astounding.The scratch marks are amusing as well. I wear my rowdy sex like a badge

.Should I have done it? Probably not. It was good, though. We are incredible at having beautiful closure talks and then fucking like bunnies, which defeats the purpose of the closure talk.

Sadly, in the post-breakup world, our relationship is far more communicative now. We're more open and honest with each other now, I guess since there's nothing to lose. We've already lost.

And after tonight, which I'm not sure will happen or not, we're not going to see each other for a month. We decided that would be best.

I still don't get why we broke up. We're comfortable with each other, we make each other laugh, and we're hopelessly attracted to each other. But instead of going, hmm...maybe this shouldn't end, we're taking a month away from each other. My guess is so we can meet back up when he has a new girlfriend. That would definately put an end to our sex life.

What is wrong here? Everything, methinks.

I started 2005 fucking my ex-boyfriend. That can't be a good sign for the year. Unless you go by the sex, which was fabulous. There. I'll take that spin on it.

He still doesn't know the night we broke up I had a threesome with his best friend and his girlfriend.

"At least you had Chris and Spring to take care of you..."

Indeed, my dear. Indeed.

"I've never had a girl violate me like that before."

Well, glad I could be of service.I've gotten bold in my old age.

"I want to fuck you till you scream."

Then I'm calling you tonight.

And we did all the coke, so that hopefully won't get in the way like it did last night.

How odd. Talking to Junebug about him and Katie, and the boy is making me fondle him under the covers. Not that I'm opposed to such misbehavior, but Junebug looked like he needed to talk about it. Could have been the coke that made him so chatty.

It'll be okay, bug.

And I'll call tonight and maybe we'll do it some more and then he will disappear like the fog. Maybe it's best. But I'm pretty sure I know more than he does, and he's wrong about it all.

Kristen just cried out. She accidentally deleted all her pictures.

"Were there any pictures of people you can't get?"

"No, just pictures of myself that I really like."

She's pissed. It's hilarious. I cried when that happened to me, she's just gotten righteously indignant about the whole deal.

Amy quote of the night:
"My stomach needs some ass."

That sounds gross, Amy.

Well, we're all hanging our heads in shame on this, the first day of the new year.