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.]