All those ballet lessons, so many bruises...

This weekend was filled with weird sexual tension. It could be the Lent thing, but there was some serious mojo flying off all the walls. I examined it closely, and have decided that if the opportunity presents, I will devour this new secret crush and burp him up afterwards. But it's not something I will seek, only something that I kind of hope I find.

I had another tragic fall down some very steep stairs at this bar in Brooklyn. I hadn't had a sip of alcohol, just some slippery stairs, but my ass hurts like a bitch and there's a monster of a bruise all along my right cheek in the shape of the stair that claimed it.

Funny quote from that night:

[this guy walks over to Chloe, a very gorgeous girl, who even in a pony tail, baseball cap, jeans, and a shirt, is quite something]

"This drink is for you [Chloe doesn't drink]. My friend bought it for you and he wanted you to know that even though your hat is camoflaged, his feelings are not."

Worst. Pickup Line. EVER.

I took a cab back from Brooklyn that my castmate Awkward Man paid for (seeing as I have no access to cash until my new ATM card arrives)and since we danced together earlier to Moondance, I thought it was weird that when we parted ways, he wanted to shake my hand.

"That's silly. Give me a hug."

He goes in for the hug, but then tries to kiss me as well. And it was that awful, awkward-type kiss where they were going for your cheek, but you were caught unaware and so they end up kissing your ear.

I giggled all the way home. Even when we're drunk, me and this guy are so uncomfortable around each other. It'd be a great romantic comedy if I was attracted to this kid at all. But I'm not. So it's just weird.

Saturday I played it low-key. I had to set my alarm early in the morning to catch the bank before it closed, seeing as I used up all my cash the night before. It was a great winter morning. Classic New York. Walking home from the bank, little pufflets of snow plopped on my head, like albino cherry blossoms. And the wind wasn't bad, so it was just really pleasant. Though my ass was sore from my impersonation of a tumble-weed, it was nice to walk on a Saturday morning and just watch the snow fall.

And then I overheard something funny as well. Maybe I'll turn it into here.


[Park Avenue Bitch on her cell]:

"And then he takes me to this party and there's all these topless girls and shit, and I'm like, COME ON! Haven't I stroked your ego enough?"

Oh lord. Where is this party? I want to go.

No I don't. New York is weird.

I watched movies all day, smoked all day, Conor came over and we watched more movies and TV, and I realized that other than the bank excursion, I did not leave the house. Devon and I seem to be trying to keep all the delivery services on the Upper East Side in business. Crazy. I thought I was bad ordering food in Austin. Here it's just a way of life.

Sunday held rehearsal. We got a rehearsal space that's this abandoned food court in Times Square. It's way cool and looks like it would be the perfect set-up for a horror movie.

And then I chatted with Julie, who is very wisely bailing the fuck outta the country. I didn't know she read this [hi Jules], and I think it's hi-larious that she scored as Larry.

Who's who of my exes:
Kristen-Mahdi
Abby-Sleazy
Ashlee-Sleazy
Daniel-Sleazy
Devon-Larry
Julie-Larry
Conor-Eric (who would've called that one? Not I, that's fo' sho')

No one has scored as Will. Once again, he's barely a blip on the radar. Poor Will. But what's up with all the Sleazys? Do all you people want to live in a cave or what?

And then...Oscars.

Here was our drinking game (Conor joining us again--Conor only loves girls with cable):
-reference to God/mom-1 drink
-Chris Rock stepping over the line/the "I'm so surprised" or "I didn't prepare a speech" line-5 drinks
-political references/social change ("I'm so glad that black people are in the movies now!") 10 drinks

I pooped out after The Aviator was sweeping all the technical stuff. Just fell asleep. I don't know when Conor left or anything. So I hope that if he was planning to have sex with Devon, he took care of business while I was passed out.

I feel very conflicted. I feel out of control and cautious. My heart is saying one thing, my loins another, and my mind something else entirely. My body is in civil war and it all has to do with love and lust. It's made me very moody, depending on what part has taken over. And there's a violent coup about every hour. Right now, my heart is feeling in control and so I'm sad. But I know it won't last. The one thing that has become certain is that since my adoption of the 40 Days of Reckoning, my loins don't go too long before starting to call the shots. So I'll try to relax into my melancholy. Of course, I'm at work, so my head should be calling all the shots, but my head rarely does anyway. So check back with me in an hour and we'll see where we stand then.

I want love. I want to be alone. I want sex. I want to feel comfortable. I want my space. I want someone to lose control with, and yet still manage to hold onto myself. I want. I want. I want. Such self-gratification. Such hopelessness. Such loss of direction. I want to feel the breath of someone on the back of my neck. I want to sleep alone. I want someone to get me and love me and be gentle with me and I want to rip apart someone till I can feast on their soul for brunch. I want someone to caress my lower back as I exit a room. I want to be consumed. I want to hole myself up in my room and never leave. I want to get out.

I want a drink. I think I will do Happy Hour Monday today. I don't want to see my apartment.

El fin.

Prying open my Third Eye...

What I'm currently listening to. It is the first time I really paid attention to the lyrics. They're awesome.

Wednesday I went out to Happy Hour with Dru, and Junebug met up with us. A few beers, a few laughs, back to Flatplex for a bowl or two. I was extremely proud of myself for managing to make Happy Hour only last until about 10pm. And I remember the whole evening. So two steps forward on that one. Junebug confirmed that I didn't make too much of an ass out of myself at their show, but that it was clear I was uber-wasted. Well, I knew that. I'm getting kind of used to living in the Shame Spiral. I think I may put in a loft bed in it and just make it official that it's where I live.

Last night, Conor came over for the Thursday ritual of watching the OC and smoking and he had wine and I had beer. We joked about how horny we both are. He suggested a threesome with Devon, since Devon's hurting as well.

"But Conor, I can't do that. Lent."

"Well then, I hope you don't mind the sound of two pairs of balls smacking."

Jesus. Christ. Ew.

It only lowered my libido a half-step, though [the suggestion, not the actual event, which did not take place, thank God].

I have a feeling this thing is going be like how it is to quit smoking. The first two weeks are Hell on Earth, and then it gets easier, a fleeting thought.

Of course, when I want a cigarette, my thighs don't vibrate. An urge to smoke a cigarette is very different from these other...urges.

I feel 13 again.

"Why does my body feel this way? How do I fix it?"

Only I'm not 13, I know how to fix it, I just promised I wouldn't. I'm really not sure if I can go the whole 40 days, a very sad realization. I think that I can, but Easter just seems so far away, and my body is not doing a very good job at letting me forget it and focus myself elsewhere. Conor told me that Jude Law came into his restaurant and was just as gorgeous as I imgained he is, and my ovaries released all their eggs at once. DAMN, he's hot.

I'm starting yoga again next week. With Chloe. A GIRL! I need a girl friend. Once again, glancing over this entry, there's a lot of "he" in here.

I had a funny dream, or a funny bit of a dream. Let's see how it translates to the page, shall we?

[in the context of a larger dream]

There's this picture laying around at Flatplex of Katie, Junebug's ex. And it's just a normal picture, and Katie's wearing a blue sweater. And she looks good, but it's just a picture. Except all the boys are freaking out about it. And Conor and Junebug run off into the next room with it, with the implication that they may be gratifying themselves. And when they come back into the room, Junebug has to hide himself in the corner because he has a boner.

[end scene]

I think it's funny that out of the entire dream, that's the only snippet I can remember. I told Conor and Devon last night about it, and Devon just stares at me for literally 20 seconds (Stoner Delay Time--our favorite time zone) very gravely, and then just laughs his ass off for a couple minutes.

Yup. I'm a weirdo. A card-carrying weirdo. Or I would be card-carrying, if I hadn't gotten wasted and lost my wallet.

I'm a mess. For real, yo.

I've asked the gods for an omen of some sort. I don't know what I need an answer to, I just know that I have far too many questions about what happens next. So I'm trying to allow myself to be available to suggestions that present themselves organically.

[twiddles thumbs, waits for anvil to drop from the sky]

Here I am. Let me know.

Everyone needs to do this!

Which of Carrie's exes are you?
created with QuizFarm.com

I stole this from my LiveJournal...

but I liked it, so I'm putting it here. Word for word. To be fair to me, it was a lengthy endeavor and exactly what's on my mind so it's seems silly to restate it just because I'm a blog junkie. Just fill in all appropriate capitalizations, and there you have it. And Abby, you only have to read one journal today.

So as you were:

i offer this entry, laying it out like freshly cut flowers on the grave of livejournal.

before i go a-rambling, i would like to mention that i'm going to happy hour today. call me if you feel like joining.

alright. you can tune out now.

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

before i moved to new york, i started listening to this song a lot. for some reason, i just knew that it might be like my experience in new york. just kinda knew. didn't even need the cards.

maybe because it's everyone's experience when they flee the coup. i don't know. maybe because i've always felt like nell of the forest, running out of my little ballet world, speaking a completely made-up language and trying to comb my hair with a fork, these phases in life that are so common seem surreal and completely new to me. i've decided my life would be far less awkward if i could do everything to an 8-count.

i was on the phone with ashlee the other night. we were just in awe of how to figure out what to do next in our lives. we were stumped. she called julie. she's stumped, too. and jaime, and amy, and...

ok. we're all stuck. nice to know it's not just a new york thing.

"is this a generational thing?"

we decided that it had to be, because if we were going to embrace the cliche about our generation being different, we were going to do it with gusto. but does it happen to all of us entering the real world after being in school for so long? or is it something in particular about our generations' experience with college, economy, opportunity, the coming of the apocalypse...?

ashlee calls generation x "generation angst."

"that was their thing. that's what they did."

ashlee and i, both being the youngest in our families, and cool bitches to boot, were always like the little mascots of generation x. because how adorable is it to see your 10 year old little sister rocking out to nirvana?

"so what's our generation?"

hmmm....stumped.

"and why is it we're all so unsatisfied and lost to what to do next?"

perhaps it's because we grew up with too many options. [violin player enters] this never would seem like a problem, but i remember growing up and being told i could do anything, anything at all that i wanted to do. i wasn't bound by my gender or protocol or whatnot.

i look at my life now and wondered why i never went for that whole astronaut thing.

but maybe it's like when i went into this cheese store. damn, i love me some cheese. but it took me about 45 minutes to pick ONE. ONE. we're not talking about elective surgery here, it's cheese, for god's sake. the choices overwhelmed me and i ended up making no decision at all. i picked up beer instead.

this is what my life is. i don't think i've made a single decision in my entire life, maybe because there were so many choices i never felt forced to choose any. and then i pick up beer.

i'm even in a play now, playing a character called fire who nobody knows if she's a girl or a boy. it was written by someone our age, and i think it's telling he wrote a character who can't even decide what gender he/she is. more on that one to come though. my attentions are elsewhere today.

maybe this is why we're all fucked up when it comes to love. i do the cheese thing again. or maybe i don't know good cheese when i see it. maybe my friends and i, as a sample of our generation, can't commit to another human being because there are even more options today when it comes to love. i've grown up in enough tolerance that anyone i choose isn't bound by age, race, or even gender. and we don't commit because there's always another option out there, maybe something better, someone more perfect...


my mom got married in her day because she loved the guy and it seemed nice enough. and she wanted to get out of her house. she tells me i over-intellectualize love too much. i tell her silently in my head that she's on her third marriage and perhaps she should intellectualize it more. but her under-intellectualizing has given her 3 marriages, and my over-intellectualizing will probably leave me with none. i bet i get a cat.

but i have a feeling that there's a happier balance between our two perspectives on the matter. and i think that when i find it, it will feel like this
--------------------------

i think that all the options we were lead to believe that we have leave us with a weird perspective about time and the future. the present becomes something that is preparing us for something in the future. but what is that something?

i researched colleges while i was a freshman in high school. i planned out my schedule pretty close to how i ran it early on in college. and now? i'm building toward something with theatre. i think. or something. but in the meantime, what is there? what do i have now?

i have a rubber finger at work that prevents me from getting paper cuts.

do we focus so much on where we are going that we don't know where we are?

i currently have a lot of problems when it comes to this forward-thinking mentality. mainly because i was always such a planner. i had it all worked out, kids. down to the letter. i'm far more anal-retentive/ocd than i appear.

and then i almost died.

suddenly, the future became something that was not only uncertain, but un-promised as well. when you think about it, the only real inevitability is death, and the rest we just create for ourselves. we predict an outcome so well that it happens. we pretend that death is something that we can predict, or at least we do by proxy of that focus on the future. we've got it all backwards and upside-down.

but all our problems are squarely in the present. bills, rent, living somewhere in there. so what happens to a mind with all the solutions in the future and all the problems in the present? we busy ourselves so much with those immediate needs that i'm not sure how well it all fits together for that little future we've decided is ours. we live paycheck to paycheck, knowing where the cheapest food is, the nearest available fuck. so how does that help for my future plans of a satisfying career, a lasting love? there's got to be a way to reconcile the ghosts of our past, the absolute necessity of living in the present, while still keeping a mindful eye on the future that could or could not happen.

any ideas on that?

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

in the end, we maybe decided that the problem is that we are the first generation to be let out into the world after an entire childhood spent medicating. ADD/ADHD/depression/acne/anxiety all have cures. turns out there's an easy fix for everything. this, on top of the belief of so many options, and the access to higher education, has left us more institutionalized than generations before.

ashlee called us generation ritalin. i called us generation Rx.

i said that we were like those animals that live their entire lives in captivity. they make a big deal about releasing it into the wild.

[opens cage, flails arms]

"go! be free little one!"

and we just sit there. we take one step outside the cage and lay down at their feet.

when's feeding time?

ain't nobody coming to feed you, little one.

and that's our generation. a huge wide world full of excitement, and we sit, waiting to be pet and fed and convinced that it must be beautiful out there, if only someone would show it to us for us.

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

and that's all she wrote.

I am the Cat Lady's Tabby...

[furrows brow]

Where to start?

[cocks head to side]

Well...

[cracks knuckles]

Hmmm...

(I didn't actually crack my knuckles. My mom always told me that would give me "man hands." I metaphorically cracked my knuckles)

Bit of news, I suppose:
I have moved from being an assistant director to being an actor. Yup. Other Caroline (obviously the inferior of the two) didn't work out, and I guess Jason and Daniel were at a loss of what to do next.

"Let's get the girl with the booty to play an androgynous waiter. We'll just shave off her hip bones."

So that's that. It was weird, Friday I ran rehearsal with Ryan since Jason couldn't make it, and by Sunday, I was in the cast. Hmph. Now I guess no one has to listen to me anymore, which is fine, because I often tune myself out.

[cat stretch]

I've decided that I should not be allowed to listen to any sort of nostalgic music while I'm on my period. Friday was fine, after rehearsal, me and the boys (pick a boy, any boy) smoked pot and listened to They Might be Giants, which damn, took me back. Some serious back. But I was still pre- then, so it was giddy.

Saturday I was hit with cramps not to be trifled with. It kept me inside all day, just smoking pot to dull it, with the occasional shot of whiskey to wash it down. But during the course of that day alone, I cried and laughed and basically acted like the crazy spinster without the cats. Your basic bi-polar field trip.

And at some point, I busted out a CD that maybe I shouldn't have. The thing that is so great about music is it's ability to universally connect you to events that the music itself is not meant to stand for, but we contextualize it to where if the circumstances permit, you can find yourself getting misty-eyed to "ADIDAS" by Korn. I thought maybe I had given myself some time, enough time, but the wave of sadness that hit me implied otherwise.

Funny the only thing he gave me was something I took. Funny how it was the only thing worth any merit about the whole thing, and I can't listen to it. Funny how I want to listen to it again, because the music is so good, but I can't since out of emotion, I may have scratched the whole thing all to hell by not treating it with care. Funny how that sentence works for the entire encounter.

Funny. But not ha-ha funny.

But I have concluded what lead me to such melancholy feelings. So, as of now, once a month I can only listen to Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera. And not all of Christina, either (so sue me).

[meows, does a back-flip]

Sunday I was feeling closer to human and less of harpie, and so I took the time to go see "The Gates." I walked around the park by myself, taking in all the orange in amoungst the grey and the dead that is winter in New York. UT would have been proud. Chances are it probably was. I was amazed by how many people were walking around Central Park on a Sunday in February, talking about, of all things, art. Most of it was pretentious bullshit, but I saw a father trying to explain to his little girl why it was art.

Dad: "You see, sweetie, it stands for [fill in some crap line about art]"

Little Girl: "I just like the orange."

Me, too.

I imagine the real definition of art lies somewhere between the pretentious bullshit and a child's response.

For the first time, I felt like New York was home. I've been here for 6 months, and have felt like some secret tourist. And now here I am, alone in the city, and enjoying a day in the park where something I could never see in Texas was being displayed. I felt a pang of loneliness when I saw how many couples were holding hands and walking around, but then again, I don't want to share this city with anyone. Not for now, anyway. Since moving to the city, I had been embroiled in some man-drama. Eric, then Sleazy, and now...

And now...

Just me and the pretty orange.

Lonely, maybe. But not alone. Or maybe even alone, but calmly resigned to it.

RANDOM UPBEAT SIDENOTE TO END THIS ONE ON:
The 40 Days of Reckoning are starting to wear on me. Loins buzzing like a bee, I try to silence them with pot. And then Ashlee reminded me I'm on, like, week 2.

This could get a lot worse before it gets better.

[heads to the litter box, thinks better of it, pisses in your shoes]

I knew it...

You're Exotic Dancer Barbie. You have some moves,
and will do anything for a few bucks. Take it
off girl, but keep it PG-13 please.


If You Were A Barbie, Which Messed Up Version Would You Be?
brought to you by Quizilla

The Color Wheel...

I dreamt in Technicolor
and woke up and washed myself in alabaster
and stepped outside to the grey
I fight back the pinks and the reds
that swell up in me
These color masters have served me most ill
Born of fire and ash I was
and an empty pack of cigarettes
black brown tar
and laying there like a bottle of Jack Daniels
beside the bed
I try to dismiss the rising green
It mixes poorly with the blueness of my mood
but washes down more smoothly than the whiskey
Born of fire
washed with the icy blue of the wind in the morning
Grey steam from all my pores
Osmosis of my passion into...
into what?
I live my life like a Hello, Kitty notepad
and dream like a Scorcese film

The coronation of the Locust Queen...

Miss me?

Did the world end because I didn't post yesterday? I'm pretty sure blogging is referred to in the Book of Revelations.

I was hungover. I took the day off to revel in the glory and the pain.

Once, just once, I'd like to remember the end of a Ghost Runner show. People will ask me, "What did they play?" and I can never seem to remember anything past the playing of the "March of the Degenerates." I should just start making shit up:

"Oh, yeah, they did a cover of Sweet Home Alabama before mixing in a TLC medley. It was AWESOME."

I apparently was acting fine and happy and then cut to me slapping Conor. Thrice. Sorry Conor. I took a shot of whiskey with Spring, and that's all I remember. I woke up with the following questions:

-where am I? (home)
-how did I get here? (have no clue)
-why did I keep my bobby pins in my hair? (my head is killing me)
-why do I smell a bit like vomit? (hmmm...I wonder)
-why is my nightgown on backwards?
-WHERE IS MY WALLET?

Yup. I got drunk and lost my wallet. To be fair, I am the last one to do so in my apartment. At some point, all my fellow roommates have gotten wasted and lost their wallets. It was my turn.

How am I going to rent videos now?

I cancelled my card, there was no cash in my wallet (though apparently I tried to pay the cabbie with 5 pounds--which to be fair, 5 pounds is almost $10, so what if he didn't want to convert pounds to dollars?)

I'm not proud of any of this. I am proud, that in my wasted state, I still avoided Sleazy like the plague. Maybe not as much as the plague, more like a virulent flu. I just didn't have anything to say to him. But I don't know what I said to other people and what that would entail. I think I'm safe, though, since I think Conor was the Whiskey Carrie Wrangler. Poor boy had to deal with the ugliest parts of me when I'm drunk. I should've eaten. I feel bad.

Wait. Conor once used mine and Ashlee's blanket to wipe his cum off when Claire gave him a hand job on our couch.

I don't feel quite as bad. He's still got some karma to work off.

So yeah, I took a personal day. It was quite necessary. I couldn't make it until President's Day. I needed it NOW.

In honor of Ashlee, I have decided that this weekend is going to be Let Me Have Ashlee Make My Decisions for Me. So you are forewarned, my dear. And it's a three-day weekend. Lots of chances to fuck up royally.

The new Jerusalem will NOT be located on the A/C train...

Not much to report from yesterday.

Oh wait, there was the boxing class. Here's how that went:

The class was fun. I tried to stretch for a million years so I wouldn't be that sore today, and was largely successful except for that part where your arm meets your torso (what I affectionately refer to as my "armpit muscle"). That feels like hell and sadly enough, is apparently connected to all movement in the body.

The instructor was one of those beefy guys that likes to give everyone a nickname. Whatever. That's his thing. But half the class I'd be working out and he'd ask, "What nickname am I gonna give you?" I don't know, but if you call me Kibbles, I'll kick you in the balls.

I'm not a violent person. I don't think in the course of my life, I've ever hit another human being. Even Abby. There was this one time that I slapped someone, but it was in a different, kinkier context...

I wished that I was angrier so that the session was therapeutic. But, all things considered (brought to you by NPR), life is pretty good for me right now. I'm not 100% happy, but I figure that's just getting greedy anyway. If I had taken this class shortly after the mugging, however, I think I would have just destroyed the punching bags. I did notice, however, that I enjoyed doing upper-cut punches to the bag and pretending I was punching some guy in the nuts.

But not in a rage way. In a far-too-amused-by-my-own-wandering-thoughts way. In fact, I'd smile, if not laugh, everytime I hit it. And when I was sparring with the instructor, he'd say stuff like, "You've got a great right-hook. But you gotta stop giggling. Hit me like you mean it!"

It's kind of like acting. I laugh some more.

He gets my nickname. The Giggler.

Next,
"Stop jumping when you punch! You look like a rabid squirrel! Are you a dancer? Dancers always do that."

No. Apparently, I'm a rabid squirrel.

"You've got pretty good form. Have you had a boxing class before?"

No. But I did date a boxer. So don't even think about it, buddy (not that he was).

Good sweat, good class, sore armpits.

I won't do an epic recounting of more A?C? drama trying to get to rehearsal. Needless to say, I'm beginning to resent ever having to go to Becca's because that subway is out to get me. Seriously, kids.

And rehearsal is boring. I know I should observe more, but Jason (director) has a very different style from my directing style, and one I've seen in action before (and I'd like to make a point that any way you go about it is a good thing, but it doesn't work for me) and it's hard to stay focused. Liz (stage manager) and I played Hangman for an hour. I fight the urge to text-message everyone I know. I settle for texting Abby to congratulate her on her first jury trial.

I come, walking a long way to the subway by myself, and the night is lovely. I let the wind tickle my face and I call Ashlee and let her tickle my...I don't know. Something friends tickle. My brain? When I'm out of the subway, I'm walking toward my apartment and I interrupt a couple having an intense discussion on the street.

I chuckle to myself. Sleazy and I had this couple beat. Suckers. Because they just got a cute, curly-headed girl interrupting them, but Sleazy and I got distracted by a prostitute that cut between us. That situation was sad and bad and whatnot, but that moment of having the yup-we're-gonna-break-up-because-you-don't-want-to-give-me-anything discussion and getting interrupted by a prostitute is one that I will treasure. I imagine moments like that won't happen too often in my life. I have a fantasy that the prostitute overheard the discussion and just turns and says,

"All or nothing? Baby, I give you all fo' 5 dollars!"

In the fantasy, I have yet to decide who she directs the comment to. In my opinion, it's hilarious either way.

And then I get home and Devon has pulled a MacGyver and has constructed a bubbler out of an empty pen, foil, and a vitamin water bottle. It was an impressive piece of improvised art and we enjoyed it out on the balcony.

Though this is another one of my more amusing entries, I feel like I should take this moment to say that a wave of sadness just washed over me. I hope everyone is alright. Maybe I'm just PMS-ing or something. But my mood seriously just went from pretty pleased-as-punch to aching melancholy in 2.5 seconds.

I don't know what that is.

I guess I'll get some work done.

But, in the meantime, this helps.

Death, Destruction, Porn and Chocolate...

So yesterday was Valentine's Day. Here's the guy who got stuck with the title. Or is given credit for it.
And here's a great little moment that also marks the day.

What I take from that is apparently the essence of Valentine's Day has to do with massacres and beheadings.

I'm not cynical about the day, I'm more bemused by how it seems to hold such importance, and the reality is far bloodier and so much less to do with love than any other holiday I can think of. I've never been with someone on the day (unless you count the very awkward date I had with Larry after I got back from NTI--cured by the fact that we each drank a bottle of wine throughout the night and had the most fumbling messing around session. In all my frisky nature, that was the only time a guy was doing something to me and I was staring out the window, bored out of my mind), and so maybe it would be a lonelier day if I had ever been with someone. But it's just another day. A day where everyone wears a red sweater. Yup, I wore a red sweater. But that's just because I wear a lot of red.

And truth be told, this Valentine's Day was very nice. Calls came in and went out from all over the country, and I felt loved. And that's what the day is about, right? So who cares if I didn't have someone calling me "sweetheart" or going out to some fancy restaurant to prove our love? I don't. It was rainy and gross yesterday. And so the only difference for me is that if I was with someone, I would have sex with them. But, knowing me, no matter what day it is, if I'm with you, I'm probably going to have sex with you. But I'm in Lent right now, and such things couldn't occur, so I really didn't feel I was missing much, if anything at all. I have a feeling I'd be the girlfriend that would take her boyfriend to a strip club on Valentine's Day. In fact, I can't wait until the next one (boyfriend? Valentine's Day?) so I can do it.

Not to mention, the next boy will treat me like a queen so much, that every day will feel like Valentine's Day. I settled too much, and I deserved much more previously.

I watched the Westminister Dog Show, and flipped between the West Wing marathon and a special on the Valentine's Day Massacre on the History Channel.

And I smoked a lot. But what else is new?

And I hung out with a girl, if only for a brief period that she was buying pot off of me.

But I am in love. It just happens to be with a book. It's much easier for me to find a man than it is for me to find a book that I will enjoy. I'm much pickier with my books. I roll around in its pages, and its words dance across and tease my frontal lobe, and we all know the brain is the largest sexual organ we have. I love it so much it's on the verge of breaking my 40 Days of Reckoning, mentally at least.

If you haven't, go read Skinny Legs and All. Call in sick and go do it now. Tom Robbins uses the English language like a children's playground, and I can't imagine that he's not having the best time in the world doing it. He also describes sex and love in the way that I see it, blending the sacred with the ridiculous. The only way I see my life--sacred and ridiculous.

Currently what I'm listening to:

"So Have I For You"

That's Nikka Costa. It's worth a looksie as well. I'm toying with the idea that it might be a good theme song.

I'm really procrastinating.

I have a boxing class today, which means I won't be able to move tomorrow. But I figure I'd switch my sexual energy into kinetic energy, and that way, I'll get healthier and by the time I do start having sex again, I'll look better naked. That mentality is probably slightly inappropriate to my Quest, but it's true so if it gets me to the gym, I'll take it.

Ok, I really need to stop now. My love to all.

The irrefutable link between pussy and Pleiades...

A very quiet weekend, all things considered. Not quiet in the way that I didn't do anything, but quiet in that there was no turmoil, no great meeting of the minds, and very scant on epiphany.

All those boys I listed in my last entry? That's who I hung out with this weekend. All of them. There wasn't a girl in the bunch. I realized this last night and immediately called Marina to go out to dinner sometime this week. Seriously, I need a little estrogen back in my life. I'm gonna start growing chest hair otherwise.

Friday, I didn't feel like drinking beer so I treated Devon and myself to a bottle of Black Label and Coke. We were antsy and didn't want to stay in the apartment, but we realized we have few friends around. And who would be up for Friday night drunken debauchery?

A)The Pope
B)Alexander Pope
C)Alexander the Not-so-Great
D)FlatPlex
E)Yo' mama

[if you answered FlatPlex, give yourself a pat on the back. You are correct. After patting yourself on the back, take two shots of whiskey and call me in the morning. 'Cuz we'll still be drinking even then.]

It was nice. It was the first time I've seen Junebug since New Years. And that's sad. Because I adore that boy. Truly a good guy. So many Fridays it would be me and him chatting until Sleazy got off of work. I was cautious about Bug at first, but time and booze give you a chance to see what a person is really like.

There's a very sad double-edged sword here [and by a sad double-edged sword, I suppose I mean it was cleaned by the maker with the tears of his own creation--or something]. I love the boys at FlatPlex, I really do, even Caleb, who has a remarkable ability to make me feel inadequate and insecure (I know that he can only truly crush people he likes). And sometimes I wish I had never gotten involved with Sleazy because it gets in the way of continuing these friendships. But these friendships wouldn't be if not for the fact that because I was in a relationship with their roommate, I was around enough to appreciate those boys as I do. Damned if you do, Damned if you don't. The sword makes a funny squishing sound as it pierces me. Double-squish for a double-edge.

Saturday I had a production meeting, which after a night/morning at FlatPlex, will always leave you weak in the knees. But the girl Amelia wants to replace her will work out just fine if she doesn't get into this other show she auditioned for. And her name is Caroline. I said to Daniel,
"That's weird."
"Why?"
"Because my name is Caroline."
"No it's not."
[I cock my head to the side]
"Why would I lie about something like that?"
"Huh. Weird."
And Saturday night, I hung out with Conor at his place. We watched Lord of the Rings: Return of the King (a movie NOT about Christ's Second Coming) and he played video games while I watched The Bourne Identity until we crashed at 3 am.

It's hard to sleep with Conor. His legs LOOK skinny, but they're like lead and when he lays them on me, as he does, I feel like there's been an earthquake and I'm trapped under the rubble. I also don't like it when feet touch. I've got too many issues to count. But I didn't sleep well (or, I sometimes think, when looking back on my Emotional Hangover, that I slept so much then that my body is like, "Enough already. For real, girl. You're not a bear. Stop it!")

I had rehearsal on Sunday. You want epic subway drama? Here it is (this will make no sense to anyone not in New York, which is everyone who reads this blog, but fuck it, it was insane).

[clears throat, stands at podium for the huddled congregation of readers]

I took the M86 crosstown bus to the 86th street station at Central Park West, where I can meet up with the C train to take to Becca's (where rehearsal is). I have to be in the first car of the subway to come out where I need to when I get to in Brooklyn. I wait for 25 minutes. I get on the train. It is so packed I can't see anything around me, but I sure can smell a lot. Around 42nd street, I finally hear what the conductor is saying and he is saying "There is no C train today." Then what the fuck train am I on? I'm on the A. I have no idea if the A and the C go to the same place. So I freaked out, got off at 14th Street to switch to the L to take it to 6th Ave where I can catch the 2/3 to Atlantic Ave (which isn't particularly close to Becca, but it's better than getting lost God-knows-where in Brooklyn). Because the 2/3 is not as crowded as the A, I can look at a subway map. Shit. The stop I need does run on the A, or at least, it's an A train making C stops.

Take a moment. If an A train is making C stops, doesn't that make it a C train? And if an A train and a C train leave Manhattan at 3 pm, at what time will they reach the gates of Hell?

Fuck. I take the 2/3 to Fulton Street, where it meets back up with the A?/C? and run (I'm already a half an hour late--some assistant director, humph) and jump onto the train right as it closes. I'm in the back car. I need the first car. I walk up through the train (First time I've ever done that--I had a brief flash of what it would be like to throw myself onto the tracks). I finally reach the top car. And then I look at what stop we make.

Canal Street.

Wait a minute.

That's the wrong fucking direction--by, like, 4 stops.

Holy. Mother. of. Crap.

I have to get off, go to the other side, wait for another goddamn train, and take my ass into Brooklyn, where I get lost and end up having to call everyone in the midst of rehearsal to help guide my ass to Becca's.

I've been to Becca's before. I have a photographic memory. Why couldn't I find my way? Because every building in Clinton-Hill looks exactly alike. I was close, though. I was standing very confused next door to Becca's. So not too bad.

I was over an hour late. I left at 2:45 for a 4:00 rehearsal, and I got there a little past 5:00.

That sucked.

Then I got home and watched Blade II with Devon. Ashlee calls me and asks me which boy she should make out with. Which, by the way, is Reason #23,409,238,509 why I love that girl.

And now it's time to play catch-up at work.

[post-script: The title of this entry has nothing to do with its contents. I tried to think of how to describe it in one catchy phrase, but nothing came to mind. So I opened Skinny Legs and All (what I'm reading) and pointed, trusting that Tom Robbins would give me something good. And he did.]

Grape Nuts and a Knife does NOT make you a Serial Killer...

...But it makes for a dangerous breakfast option.

This guy was caught in New London, CT--where NTI is. Creepy. There was one night where one of the girls saw a man peeping into their window. I think this guy had already been caught, but I remember thinking, "Who would come here to kill people? There's 30 theatre students, woo woo." Although now that I think about it, there have been many times where killing 30 theatre students seemed like a palatable idea. I bet I could think of 30 right now.

Now they're debating whether or not to put him to death.

He wants to die. I think he should be kept alive as long as possible, knitting sweaters for old people on Medicare. Or made to do data entry at M*A*C.

"Your crimes are too horrendous to count. There shall be no mercy. You must enter this employee survey thousands and thousands of times over until you can distinguish between all the 2,903,890 types of lip glosses we have here."

That'll kill him soon enough. Or turn his brain to mush where he can't hurt anyone anymore. He'll just be in a corner, rocking back and forth, muttering "zoom lash mascara...russian red lipstick...prrrr lip glass..."

[ed note: Those are, in fact, real M*A*C cosmetics]

***********************************

So I'm the only one in my little section here today. Lots of responsibility I have today, so what do I do? I research this new serial killer. But because the chick who is supposed to help me is out sick today, they don't expect me to get everything done, so I'm going to do what I can while still preserving my sanity.

Mmmmm...there's nothing like the smell of misappropriation of funds to get me going in the morning. I now think fraud is the best part of waking up.

***********************************

Last night I came to realization that I don't hang out with girls too often in New York. Yesterday, I was gazing upon Journal Entries Past [sigh...Porn and Chocolate and her little broken heart--somebody, give that girl a Zoloft--quick], and I realized that I now always hang out with guys. I've always had a lot of guy friends, but this is the first time I noticed anytime I do something it is with:
-Conor
-Daniel
-Devon
-Ryan
-The FlatPlex boys
What's with that? Perhaps because my girls are so fabulous and amazing, I don't feel the need to replace them. And, aside from Conor, the men in my life have always been replacable, if not disposable. Last night I hung out with the top three and a gay guy that Conor had brought for Devon (too flame-tastic for Devon's taste) and we watched the OC (Conor's guilty pleasure) and smoked a helluva lot of pot. Daniel and I had to discuss play drama earlier. Amelia had to back out, and with the first rehearsal on Sunday, Daniel and I were trying to figure out what to do next. If it comes down to it, I'm going to step in, but Amelia had made a suggestion for a girl she thought would replace her well. So we'll see.

Wait. I went backwards in the evening.

Seriously. I'm so OCD/ADD it's hilarious.

A parody of myself--

"Today the most important thing in the world happened to me. It was like a gift from the heavens. I stepped outside my apartment into the cold and----OOOOO....shiny object!"

My parody of my OCD/ADD got me off track.

Which was spurred on by the fact that I digressed earlier.

How did I ever do so well in school? I'll pontificate on that one later.

To finish off the evening in the correct order, we must take a pause to....

***********************************

Check in with Porn and Chocolate's 40 Days of Reckoning:

Day 3. OK, so as Conor and Cory (Mr. Flame-thrower) left our place, Conor crawls onto my bed to give me my requisite hug and kiss upon departure. He kisses me and pulls back, with the most devilish grin on his face.

"What?"

"I know how to make this really hard for you. It'll be good for me because I need to do it and more importantly, it will break you."

The boy is on top of me. SHIT. This is the problem with having someone know you as well as Conor knows me, down to the very graphic details. It'd probably even make Sleazy blush to know how much Conor knew about our sex life. [ed note: This is another digression. Editor apologizes for the haphazard entry that apparently has been started without a clear destination in mind and too much coffee in the bloodstream. Editor will put the Author back in her cage now]

He's going to kiss my neck. It's my Achilles' neck. [Editor also apologizes for the pathetic attempt at a pun or some pun-related literary device. Editor will take the cattle prod to the Author, now that Author is securely in her cage.]

This is not fair on a number of different levels:
-2 weeks since I've had sex
-3 days since I've masturbated (I think a week is the longest I've gone)
-most importantly, I'm high--which if there ever was a "ON" switch to my sex drive, kissing my neck while I smoke a joint would quite possibly be the perfect way to bend my will.

Bastard. I threaten to kick him in the balls. I fight back.

"OK OK OK. I won't." [He goes in to kiss my cheek]
"NO! I don't trust you."
[He gives a pouty face]
"No."
"Let me just kiss your forehead."
"Get the hell away from me."

So I've realized my biggest battle in all of this is going to be Conor. He's determined to torture me. Boo, Conor.

But it almost worked. Even the thought of having my neck kissed made me uncomfortable. I had to keep my hands where I could see them (to be fair, I was really high and there was a really hot make out scene on TV--I'm not totally in heat or anything).

This may be a little harder than I thought.

Hmph. I'm going to eat pizza now.

I'm so AWESOME...

Ok. At least I figured out the link situation. Of course, like most things, it turned out to be a much more simple endeavor than I was making it.

So here. I like this.

And what about this little miracle?

This is going to get bad.

It's like getting a pony.

Techno-sextard...

So by the end of the day, I'm determined to figure out how to link shit on here. It's been driving me nuts. I can make it appear as a title, but then it doesn't link. Why am I so techno-retarded? I want to have a fun blog, that has links to research and pictures of ponies. I had to abandon the picture thing, because for some reason the "Hello" thing will never log me on and I sit there waiting for it and it never signs me on and I don't know how to make the pictures I have smaller and....ARGGH!

That was my techno rant. I'll stop now. Maybe if I just force myself to read the HELP section over and over, somehow I'll be able to translate it into making this a cool blog.

grr...argh...[see how the anger is fading?]

gr...

g...

...

Ah. Better. And my homage to form poetry. :)

*******************************************

Check in with Porn and Chocolate's 40 Days of Reckoning:

So yeah. Day 2. Not hard. I did have the apartment to myself for a bit last night when I got home from work and of course, since this rarely happens, my immediate reaction is "Do drugs! Get naked! Masturbate! Dance like a freak!"

I only did the drugs. It was so nice yesterday (in the 50's) and I didn't even need my jacket to go smoke a bowl on my balcony. It was nice. And now, the next cold front is moving in and it will be gross and cold all weekend. But that's about weather, not sex. Although, now that I think about it, I'm sure there are parallels between sex and weather:

-If it's bad, it can ruin your day
-You can predict it all you want, but chances are it will hit when you are least expecting it and least prepared for it
-rubber boots and just rubbers--You wouldn't go out in the rain without your raincoat...
-Warm fronts, Cold fronts...eh. You're always moving from one phase to the other. But the warm fronts require less clothing.
-If either is intense, you'll probably cry out to God

Feel free to add.

I did notice that as soon as I made this decision, I started noticing cute guys. I suppose this is my own self-destructive nature. When I was starving myself, I enjoyed the control of going to Denny's with the girls and not getting anything. Playing with Fire, I always am. A Jedi I must become.

That last paragraph was brought to you by the offspring of Reviving Ophelia: Saving the Selves of Teenage Girls and Star Wars: Return of the Jedi. I bet you never even knew they hooked up. I bet you didn't even know books could hook up with movies, but they can, and that last paragraph is the result.

So maybe it'd be best if they had worn their "raincoats."

OK. That metaphor just got way out of hand. My brain feels like it's a rave today. "Oooo...glow sticks! Somebody pet me! I'm a magical faery!"

*************************************

I'm just warning all 3 of you that read this, I'll probably write a lot today. The NASD is being a fucking idiot and not sending us the firings. Brings it all to a grinding halt. Which would be nice, except for the fact that when they are finally able to distinguish their heads from their asses, we'll be overloaded with 2 days of work that never made it to us. Which will make Friday suck some serious monkey balls. For real.

But right now, I'm going to go smoke a cigarette.

Will you speak for me?

So I also decided to give up LiveJournal again for Lent, as well. Thought I'd just thow that one on there--I'm only going to check Abby's. Word. So that leaves me with a whole lot of time that now I need to fill. And apparently, that has taken the form of looking at quotations.

I tried to make them topical.

It is with our passions, as it is with fire and water, they are good servants but bad masters.
-Aesop

Each individual woman's body demands to be accepted on its own terms.
-Gloria Steinem (that one's a bit for me and a bit for Kristen)

Chastity is a virtue in some, but in many it is almost a vice. To be sure, they abstain, but the bitch “sensuality” glances enviously out of everything they do.
-Friedrich Nietzsche

Chastity does not mean abstention from sexual wrong; it means something flaming, like Joan of Arc.
-Gilbert Keith Chesterton

To decide, to be at the level of choice, is to take responsibility for your life and to be in control of your life.
- Abbie M. Dale

It has been my experience that folks who have no vices have very few virtues.
- Abraham Lincoln

What we anticipate seldom occurs: but what we least expect generally happens.
- Benjamin Disraeli

We'll see how long I'm fascinated by The Quotations Archive

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down...

Day 1 of Lent.

Last night I dyed my hair. It turned out not-so-great (think my mom bright--which, to be fair, I suppose is fine for a 22 year-old, as opposed to a 55 year-old--I'm still wearing a hat all day until I can shampoo the hell out of it and make it fade a bit). So I physically changed my appearance. I made the mental connection that this is what Elizabeth I did to be reborn The Virgin Queen. As am I, for the next 40 days and 40 nights (and probably longer, since unless I meet someone in the meantime, I'll be entering a dry spell anyway).

I took a extremely hot shower. This is the cleansing of the flesh. It turned into a whole ritual for me. I'm big on ritual currently. Ritual and Quotes. My Memoir: The Quotable Ritual. That, and the shower felt amazing.

Conor's reaction to my decision:
"You've been doing that for 22 years!"

No, just because I wasn't having sex sex, doesn't mean that I wasn't sexually active for all that time, in some form or fashion. In many forms and fashions, in fact.

I try to explain my theory of being able to appreciate other forms of sensuality that don't involve nakedness and whatnot. To see what happens when all that sexual energy I possess can't be channeled in the way I'm used to. Lord knows I expend so much time and energy on such pursuits, I'll probably be able to move objects with my mind by the end of this.

He comes around to my side of things.

But with a laugh,
"I bet you'll be dry humping my leg by the end of the week."

Devon's reaction:
"That's silly."

I try to explain it to him, but I think I did a better job with Conor. Devon thought the drinking idea was better. I try to explain how it encompasses both. And then I made a mental note to do the drinking one next year, and smoking the next. If I'm going to do it, I gotta make it hurt.

Whenever a new company joins the Stock Exchange, they bring free stuff. This morning they brought roses. I have three beautiful yellow roses at my desk right now and I feel like Miss America. Or a stripper. I haven't decided.

But I digress from my point (something I realize I do quite frequently when writing these entries).

And then Vanessa, my supervisor, asked if I wanted to go get ashed (I don't know if that's the proper term, it probably isn't). At first I said no, and then I thought, why not? I'm doing Lent, a Catholic tradition, and while not being Catholic, I imagine it fit into my whole idea of ritual. Not to mention, it's something I've never done before. I haven't been in a church for religious purposes for 6 or 7 years, but I've never done anything Catholic.

So I said yes.

"What are you giving up?" Vanessa asked.

"Men." (the simplest answer I could muster-I didn't feel like explaining-the groping and the kissing and the toys and on the rare occasion, women as well)

She laughs.

Trinity Church is lovely. It's a beautiful cathedral right smack in the middle of the Financial District. I wonder if it's sacrilege to do this when I'm not really Catholic, nor Christian, but I'm embracing Lent with a believer's heart, so I imagine I'm alright. Plus, if God's being judgy today, he's got a lot more to choose from of stuff to be pissed at me about.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do as I go up to the priest. Is there a prayer I'm supposed to say? Do I answer them somehow? I walk up nervously and remove my hat.

A smile. Apparently, my nerves are obvious.

A kindly figure leans over, puts the cross on my forehead and says in a peaceful voice,

"Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

I like that.

I mutter "Amen" under my breath and slowly walk out of the church, trying to take in the sites and sounds and prayers that are swirling around this space.

I went into the bathroom to look at myself in the mirror, with this mark that lies on the top of my forehead. It's sealed. I look odd. I'm marked. Especially odd because I'm marked as something that I am not actually, but it has put me in the company of a group of people experiencing something sacred. That's alright with me, I suppose.

Maybe I'm not ruled enough by the flesh for this to be a really cleansing experience, but I have a feeling I might learn a thing or two in the process.

We'll see.

On Lent and Lingering Doubt...

If I wrapped you in swaddling clothes
Would you be so quick to run off to matyrdom?
Semi-charmed-
Somewhat charming-
And warmed by the history of the trials that came before
Most call it a curse
I can't cry out of course
Since your curse is my curse
and the curse of the world-
Of course-
On course
But to what end do we wander?
The mind is full when the stomach is empty
Rumi said that
Or Hafiz
Or someone who understands the world far better
than I
I have flashes in the pan of something greater
and brighter
But I can't seem to make it stay-
Make it last-
I roll over in my bed and it's gone again
I blinked and it's run away-
Run a way
That diverges from me
(Sorrier that I could not travel all)
I would be that Poem
Except my feet are tired and deformed
And I cannot long for what I do not know.
so No
I don't care that I'm lost
I know I left a map somewhere
In amongst my mangled feet
Swirled in around with leaves and dirt
and the history of my Path before-
Perhaps the Cheshire Cat
can help me find it.

Pardon my hairy palms...

From the book I'm reading, The Illustrated Alchemist:

"'Because I don't live in either my past or my future. I'm interested only in the present. If you can concentrate always on the present, you'll be a happy man. You'll see that there is life in the desert, that there are stars in the heavens, and that tribesmen fight because they are part of the human race. Life will be a party for you, a grand festival, because life is the moment we're living right now.'"

The books a fable to follow your dreams. It's all pretty obvious as you read it, but it's sweet and simple and expouses Buddhist beliefs, which I'm always attracted to.

Everything is a little out of balance for me right now, but the universe keeps throwing things to me to help fix it. This book, while not the Grand Awakening, is a little reminder for me to get my philosophy back; Blythe is sending me the name and number of an acupuncturist that apparently works miracles (she helped her through the anorexia relapse); My overlord boss told me they've put me into Human Resources for the job (it'd be so nice to not stress about money). So after a month or two that the world was breaking me down, I think it heard me cry "Uncle!" and is finally cutting me some slack.

I've been thinking about doing Lent this year. Obviously, this has nothing to do with religion, but I always work best when I'm with a group. I've been thinking either drinking (which would be the obvious choice) or pleasures of the Flesh (an homage to Kristen and me for going to see 40 Days and 40 Nights).

The drinking one would probably be the healthiest thing for me to do, but I wonder what I'd be like if I went 40 days without even masturbating. I like to think it would mean I'd have tantric orgasms when the wind blows. Something about appreciating the sensuality of every moment, as opposed to the ones that we think we need. Which is very Buddhist, just so you know. Plus, in order for me to stick to it, I'd have to cut down on the drinking so my will power stays intact.

I've got a day to think about it. Which means I should get drunk and get laid tonight.

Quote for the day...

I'm on a big quote kick, have you noticed?

Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities have crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day. You shall begin it serenly and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.
--Emerson

And I hate Emerson. But I like that quote.

We don't need no water, let the Motherfucka Burn...

So I'm at the Super Bowl party (lame Super Bowl, I must say--I felt I was watching KHS go at it like the Powder Puff game--I'd rather watch Lindsey Enselmo) and Cliff and various Dartmouth-ers are there (more on the boy in a moment) and they're gossiping about people they know. Just to set up the scene:

Cliff: I hear she has...[near whisper] anal sex.

I bust out laughing.

This is what I love about that statement (well, ONE of the things). I love when people are so uncomfortable saying a phrase like "anal sex," "vibrator," or "I love you," that they say it quietly. Except, for the fact, that you are telling a story and you say it loud enough so everyone hears it anyway. So you might as well scream it. How does saying it quietly effect anything? In fact, especially with anal sex, if you don't articulate it enough then you're left having to pantomine it. And that's even more uncomfortable.

Oh yeah, so what about my Magical Mystery Crush? Well, here's how it lays out. He's either:

-gay (which would just be too creepy with so many male closeted friends)
-WAY too into football (and when we chatted on Friday, he said he loathed both teams with a passion)
-asexual (which obviously would be a BAD match for me, given my propensity for such activities)
-into some other girl to where the attentions of both Amelia (who also has a crush on him)and I are lost on him. This is probably the most likely.

So I did what any girl in my situation does. I got massively fucked-up, hoping somehow this would make Paul McCartney singing "Live and Let Die" more interesting. It didn't. It made me wish not only to be home watching the Charmed Marathon, but also to have a James Bond marathon on the flip.

Shit. Fire drill.

Wow. Haven't done one of those since high school. Weird. And considering the fact that this office lost some of its staff (the Enforcement Division of the NYSE used to be located in the World Trade Center), I thought everyone seemed very calm and collected about it. Maybe it's just me that jumps oh-so-quickly to the Post-Tramautic flashbacks. And I just had a little surgery. God, I'm a pussy.

[ed note: Subject did not, in fact, have a panic attack during the fire drill. The statement was made due to Subject's habit of having panic attacks, but not in regards to fire. The Subject was thinking everyone else handles Trauma far better than she]

But we just practice the fire drill to get us into the hallway. So if a fire does break out, I can get myself there and that's apparently where I will be incinerated. Excellent. Good to know.

Well, it's been an hour at work and nothing to do. And now some just came in. I have no idea if anything more interesting happened this weekend, but I'm pretty sure it didn't. I suppose it's good to alternate Epic Weekends, yes?

I have so much work to do, but...

This has made me really happy so maybe I'll have to stay late, but I need to get it out.

This city is so large and you never expect to run into anyone you actually know. Especially when you're 20-something and an artist and you work in the Financial District.

But that pizza place I was mentioning the other day?

I just ran into my crush there.

Tee hee.

He's a friend of my Dartmouth-NTI contingency. He works down here for the campaign to bring the Olympics to NYC in 2012. I met him when I went to Dartmouth on my break at NTI and always have thought he way uber-cute. And at various NTI gatherings he's be there and I always thought we got along really well.

We sat and ate pizza and talked about our jobs and our mutual friends. Not a date, per se, but I'm going to think of it as such. And the fact that I was awkward and bumbly and making weird jokes goes to show how much I'm attracted to him.

Our knees touched. I am so easily turned-on it's ridiculous.

He was originally talking about how he might not make it to the Super Bowl party this weekend at Marina's, but when we were parting ways, I said,
"Well, hopefully I'll see you this weekend."

"Yes, definitely, and if not, we'll meet up for lunch since we're both here."

Not QUITE asking me out, and he could've just been being polite since our encounter was so random, but I walked away with a huge grin on my face all the same.

I'm probably reading WAY too much into this, but I'm a girl. That's what we do.

Tee hee.

Could you stop being so divine?

Yesterday, about halfway through work, I realize I have no desire to go back to my apartment. Hmmmm...need a partner in crime...

Of course. Daniel.

We decide to do Happy Hour (and by doing it on a Thursday, the chances are better that this Happy Hour won't end up like the last one I did).

But he gets called into work and gets stuck in traffic. I come over anyway and hang out with Ryan. He's an odd character, that one is. Seemingly boyish and shy, but last night I kept seeing a different side of him.

Much more sinister-ish. While still being a little angel. If that makes sense at all. Which is probably doesn't.

When Daniel arrives home, we realize the best way to treat Rush Hour is to smoke pot. And a lot of it. Ryan even joins in (I have a feeling that this just enhanced his already strange mood) and Ryan never smokes. He takes a big hit and coughs out the cherry along with the smoke.

I then proceed to get the Munchies, the likes of which haven't been seen since my early days of smoking. If there is food at all in front of me, I am eating it. It's like I temporarily became a goat. I think I even started eating my sweater, and then Daniel's and then Ryan's.

Stuff I consumed:
-2 spicy tuna rolls (the fact that I even ate fish should say something to the people who know me about how high I was)
-chips and salsa
-spaghetti with marinara sauce and a shitload of mozzarella cheese
-pita bread and hummus
-chocolate ice cream

Now that I type it, it doesn't seem like too much, except for the fact that there was food entering my mouth for a good hour straight.

And then we finally make it to the bar. Way past Happy Hour. Which is probably best in the end. Ashlee calls me on the way. [sad little whimper] I feel like there was something I needed to tell her, but I am far too gone at this point to even be able to spell my name, much less form coherent thought.

This is the funny thing about me smoking again. I used to have such a tolerance that it really is like being 17 again. I think it's hilarious. Kid in a candy store, I am.

I come home and there's a man in my bed.

Hmph. Didn't know I ordered one.

Just Conor. He drank my beer. Bad Conor.

He made it into a theatre troupe and is having problems with Amanda. Par for the course, but I'm very happy for him for the first part of that last sentence.

I show him the email that Justin sent me. His response?

"I know I'm in danger of doing it, but if I ever turn out like that please shoot me."

Funny the different perspectives on the same thing.

All that food in my tummy made me drop like a lead ball into my bed. Before doing so, Conor gives me another one of those hugs he does where he pops my back all the way down. It feels fabulous, I must say.

I'm supposed to go clubbing tonight. Time for me to climb up on a bar and dance like a ho, methinks. It's been far too long. I haven't been dancing since I've been to NYC. Odd.

Garden State Soundtrack Lyric of the Day:

Too low to find my way
Too high to wonder why

Did you notify my way
To hide a wonder why
I've touched this place before,
So we're in another time
Now I can hear the sound
The clouds drifting through the bridge
A half a million thoughts
Are flowing through my mind

There you go. I may tinker with the whole pictures thing later on today, right now I shouldn't be diong this. There's a lot of work today. But I don't know where everyone went. Maybe they went to lunch or something. I don't know. It's strange.

Ha! This is funny (and then I SWEAR I'm going to work)...

table border='0' cellpadding='5' cellspacing='0' width='600'> You scored as Posttraumatic Stress Disorder.

Posttraumatic Stress Disorder		55%
Paranoid Personality Disorder		55%
Eating Disorder		30%
Schizotypal Personality Disorder		25%
Schizophrenia		15%

What's your dysfunction?
created with QuizFarm.com

I got it to work, now...

How do I make it smaller?

Well, I'm trying something new...

Built like an Amazon...

So I seethed during the State of the Union. Some Union. Hmph.

And I seethed during American Idol. I'd rather be watching Smallville. I just can't handle the Idol-try.

Yesterday I was a giddy little girl. My supervisor is reccommending me for the permanent position here. Listen to this shit, kids:

--starts at $40,000
--there's a $25/hr increase every anniversary and christmas. 25 DOLLARS AN HOUR!!! I'm doing the math in my head... [counts on fingers, looks to the sky to calculate]...that's like...a BAZILLION dollars.
--three weeks paid vacation
--a gym membership to a very fancy shmancy gym for $15/week (which is unheard of in NYC)
--full health care (to which my supervisor was like "Seriously, girl, you don't pay for NOTHING.")
--three months paid maternity leave ["uh....I won't be needing that" "yet." (I scream in my head)]

How kick ass is that!?

Me, Haley and Devon joked about how I should use the three months paid maternity leave to do a movie or something. It would just require me faking a pregnancy for a little while--almost like character work.

Of course, if then I became a big movie star or something, all the people I work with would be like, "I know she's got a baby."

"I ain't got no baby."

"But I saw you go through your pregnancy."

"Uh, that was just water-weight."

So let us keep our fingers crossed on this one. For REAL. Because in all practicality, my theatre career is going to take a few years and so for that time, I'm sure that none of this 9-5 deal will get in the way. So I could be set for a few years until that gets going. And who knows, perhaps I'll even be able to, I don't know, afford MY OWN ROOM?

Now we're just talking crazy.

Today's Garden State Soundtrack Lyric:

"When I was sure you'd follow through,
My world was turned to blue.

When you'd hide
your songs would die,
so I'd hide yours with mine.

And all my words were bound to fall.
I know you won't fail...

see, I can tell..."

I just can't get enough of this. But where are the Shins' songs, I wonder? And the Coldplay? Amy's copy to me seems to be missing a few, but I shan't complain, as long as I got the Frou Frou song.

I'm so hungry. I should go to lunch early. But I have my lunchtime perfectly timed to where my day is nicely sliced in half. Awww, hell. But there's a really fabulous pizza place just around the corner.

It calls to me like a siren.

I need to get in touch with Blythe. She's had a anorexia relapse and she writes me all concerned about how I'm coping in a post-breakup world. Can you imagine? How on Earth should she worry about a silly thing like that?

What I told her--
"I'm fine. I'm more worried about you. We always wish that these demons would just become ghosts already."

Because I know what relapse feels like. When everything is out of control and you feel like the only way to hang on is to revel in your hunger. "You don't tell me what I need to do! I will die before I let myself feel out of control."

It's a fucked up mentality, but one I understand and one we should talk about at length.

And just like Alcoholism, you're never cured. She and I will carry these monkeys on our backs for the rest of our lives. And it's a dead weight, and we all know how anorexics feel about extra weight.

My heart goes out to her.

Wow, that was a depressing note to end on.

BUNNIES! PUPPIES! GREAT SLICES OF PIZZA!

Whew. Much better.

Coat your stomach, soothe your Soul...

Yeah, so all of those entries from the Weekend that Was were pretty epic, so I'll keep today fairly brief.

Mainly, because nothing exciting is happening. Though I still feel like something is in the works.

I fell in love with LL Cool J as a guest judge on American Idol.

I became very sad that something is messed up with our oven and I couldn't bake my potato. I don't trust microwaves and I have no skills beyond baking a potato so I had resigned myself to drinking dinner.

But then Devon took pity on me and cooked me papas y huevos (take a flashback to high school Spanish, shall we?). And I had been feeling like maybe going out or something, but then all the grease and carbs from that made me comatose. I couldn't even last all the way through Queer Eye.

Remember the Never-Ending Beer Bodega? Apparently, they went 3-to-1. Junebug shared that info last night looking for drinking buddies. I think those boys cleared them out, since Bug mentioned that the bodega is now out of beer. I can only imagine their fridge.

I wished we had gotten in on that action before the Great Beer Shortage.

Garden State Soundtrack Lyric of the day:

they will see us waving from such great
heights, "come down now," they'll say
but everything looks perfect from far away,
"come down now," but we'll stay...

I thought of that because I had a dream I was riding the London Eye. I've never actually gotten around to doing that while I'm in London. I wonder how accurate it was. I really want to go to London again. Maybe because it was Queer Eye for the British Guy. Maybe the Homeland is calling me. Maybe...Maybe...

Perspective is a funny thing.

The Final Installation...

Previously, on The Weekend that Was:

-There was a 12 hour happy hour
-My hero came into town and we giggled and wrote on boys (alright, I wrote on boys)
-I ate South African food
-I slept with my ex

Let's take a dramatic pause for the montage that just occured to some really good music. Maybe Modest Mouse. Maybe Ani. OK, done? Let's proceed.

Ashlee and I take a cab away from Hell's Kitchen. We collect up her things at my place and realize she needs to take another cab to Chinatown and we both realize that we don't know quite where in Chinatown she needs to go. What should she tell the cabbie?

"Take me to Chinatown."
"Where in Chinatown?"
"You know, where the Chinese food is."

That should make it clear.

I don't know if I've disappointed Ashlee. But seeing her made me feel as normal as I've felt in months. Including me the fuck-up. But I just feel like I can't do anything right, including her visit as well. Awww, hell.

I go get Chinese food on my own after putting her in a cab. Must eat and rest and buck up because it's Conor's birthday party tonight (Ashlee's as well--of course, she mailed in her appearance from D.C.).

I have been having these moments where drunk/crazy/homeless people have imparted great wisdom on me. I was waiting for my food so I went around the corner to the bar where it's all old people drinking their pensions away and sit on their stoop to smoke a cigarette.

The door opens. I get up.
"Sorry, excuse me."

[the following statements should be read as slurred as possible]
"OOOoooooo...I see you're lost in thought. Yup, I can see it. I know it. Pretty lady, smile...as you know it's a New Year. And you know what they say..."

I'm waiting for the great wisdom I'm about to receive. I smile.

"See? I can see your teeth. That's better. Ladies are always prettier when they smile. I'm Marvin [shakes my hand]."

"I'm Carrie."

"What are you doing on this fine day today, Miss Carrie? I work at a hotel on 79th and I am enjoying my day."

"Oh, I'm just waiting for some Chinese food."

"Around the corner? Oh, there! You know, I work at a hotel on 79th and I'm always saying...You know if I go in there they'll say, 'Hey, Marvin!'"

This goes on for a couple minutes. I realize this guy is actually too drunk to get to the pearls of wisdom that I need. Notice how he seemed to start a great epiphany and then got distracted? Imagine 7 minutes of that (how long it takes me to smoke a cigarette). I met my match in the Random Acts of Epiphanies. This is why I always try to listen to the fuck-ups when they chat to me, but this guy was too far gone.

I wonder if he ever finished the sentences he started if I'd have a whole new outlook on life.

I eat. I sleep. I try to muster the energy to head out to Brooklyn (wayyyyyyyy out in Brooklyn) on a Sunday and after much debauchery and try to be Conor's little sister.

I manage to coerce Haley and Devon to come with.

We're all fucked up from our various weekends and we stumble around the blocks and the subways like hyper high school kids. We are THOSE people on the train you hate. But we can't help it. By this point, we're actually all sober, but we're acting more fucked up than we have all weekend (with a few notable exceptions).

Conor's thing is laid-back. His roommates are too cool for us. Not in a they're-acting-too-cool-for-us sort of way, these guys just are really that cool and we feel somewhat inadequate about it all. At least I do. And probably Haley. If anyone can create an awkward situation out of nothing, it is Haley.

And when Amanda shows up, Conor attends to her. They've entered the Nebulous Grey Area that seems to be so prevelent these days. She broke up with him for being an immature asshole and then he cried in front of her, and apparently that's enough for her to think that he's changed. He, however, now doesn't know how he feels. To quote Nada Surf:

"And the signals are getting all mixed up
We're always doing damage control"

Indeed. That situation is about to get very interesting.

We are all almost asleep on the couch. I can't even wait around to smoke some pot, I'm that dead.

We're just as goofy on the train until about 42nd Street and then Devon and I fight staying awake while Haley stares off into the distance.

I crawl into bed (so many beds, so much crawling) and I sleep like the dead. I have dreams that are out of a Martin Scorcese film--very bloody and disturbing. And it's a half-lucid dream. I'm lucid enough to think to myself "This is creeping me out. Stop looking at this." And I can exit the violent scene and go onto something else but then the dream takes back over and I'm back in it.

I don't even want to know what that all means.

So that's the Epic Weekend That Was.

An amusing note on the Day that Is--I bummed a cigarette to a guy this morning for the sole reason that he had one of those combs in his Afro--you should always see that while on Wall Street. I think the marketplace would be far more interesting that way.

And Amy sent me the Garden State Soundtrack. Can you guess how many times I've listened to that Frou Frou song? You don't even want to know.

I watched Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle about a week ago and this is my favorite line from that--these stoners were watching some art-house flick just to see some actress' boobs that were apparently in it and then the lead characters meet up with them later--

"So, how was it?"

"You know the Holocaust?"

"Yeah."

"The complete opposite of that."

Yup. That's the note I want to end on.