You say Goodbye, I say Hello...

I should be working. I just don't feel like it so much.

See? Wouldn't you want to hire me?

It's a beautiful spring day. This holds promise. I take it as a good omen of the show opening tonight.

Butterflies in tummy.

I don't get nervous, I just get really fucking excited to be on stage. My part allows for grand entrances and I couldn't be happier about that. My makeup for the show is insane, I love that too.

I remember a million years ago when Daniel first sent me the script. I was embroiled in UT Theatre drama, I'm sure, and it laid unattended in my inbox for several months. I think I was doing Art of War then or something--probably freaking out about the barely there nature of my costume for that show. It was this white sheath that when I first tried on in the dressing room, looked fine. I came out into the stage lights and looked down.

"Umm, Gwen? Devon?"

"Yeah, Carrie?"

"Umm...This is my costume. And this [points] is my vagina."

"We should do something about that."

"You think?"

I think I ended up wearing nude briefs under a white leotard and two pairs of tights.

That wasn't the story I was originally planning to share. Oh, me and my A.D.D.

What I was going to share was when I finally got around to printing out Daniel's play, many months later (I can't read scripts on the computer--I like the feeling of having a hard copy in my hands), I printed out at the Theater Lab and was walking home to my apartment, just thinking I'd skim it and see if I liked it as much as I liked Fuck it and Get Out. After the first page, there was no more skimming. Full on reading while walking into squirrels and sorority girls. I almost got hit by 2 cars trying to cross MLK without looking. That's how much I loved his script. I came home and Dustin had crawled into my apartment through the window I kept unlocked and was sitting on my couch, watching TV. I made him turn it off (imagine me, opting NOT to watch TV) and read it. We squealed like little children, and it was the first time I got really excited at the prospect of moving to New York and trying to Live the Life.

And now here I am. And we're doing the play. And I'm happy with that. I look around my rehearsal at all these people that I love dearly and I can't believe we actually somehow managed to do what we said we would.

I'm itching to get into the space. I want to serve up the play on a silver platter.

But once again, in conflict.

Haley's gone.

She left a note. I didn't want to open it by myself.

It's very sad. Funny enough, Haley, of all people, was my thread to sanity for a little while there.

We said our goodbyes last night. I gave her all that I could in that hug. I told her I loved her very much, and meant it. She's an amazing lady. I wish she would stay, but I understand why she's leaving. She has a big heart and big eyes and a big voice, and if she feels stifled here. So go home, lady. There's nothing worse than a Repressed Haley. She must be allowed to do what she does, which is insanity and loveliness.

So there is much energy zooming around in my brain, my body is exhausted, the amount of stuff that needs to get done is astounding, my schedule is packed and spring has arrived. This is when I'm at my best. This is when it really gets cookin'.

Sit back. Relax. Enjoy the ride.

Let's talk about Spaceships...

I was sitting in my interview for the Stock Exchange, and realized I had been nodding and smiling and not paying attention to a damn word she was saying. She was telling me about the benefits, I think.

Oh my god, I'm still drunk .

Perhaps it's not good to go out drinking when you think your dad is going to die. But it was our fond farewell to Haley, though she was mostly hanging out with her work peeps. But sometimes the multiple reasons why I hate myself are hard to juggle, and last night I displayed as many as I apparently could. And I did it all with a smile on my face and a whiskey in my hand. God, I'm horrendous.

Dad's not going to die though. At least not today.

Still don't know how I feel about that.

It's just so weird how Freda and Dad kept mentioning how his almost-death might get in the way of their planned trip to Paris. You think? People think that it's just them being facetious. It's not. That's how they are. Sometimes I think they're pod people. Like when Abby shared with Freda all the Gruesome History of Old Dad, to which she replied, "So what? My first husband used to hit me, too."

Pod People. I swear.

And yet Amy is going to see him at the hospital today. Amy who swore she'd never speak to any of the parents again. Amy who says that Dad molested her (don't know how I feel about that one, either). Amy who still hasn't spoken to Mom, and I think it's killing her (Mom).

Our family is trench warfare in WWI.

I'm doing pretty well for still feeling kind of drunk at noon. Maybe something else is wrong. I feel all woozy. The interview went well, at least I'm good at faking attention (thank you theatre). I get paid today. That's good. I'm down to my high school weight. That's fun, too.

I am returning to Death Cab for Cutie now and then I am going to rehearsal and then I am going home and I am never leaving the house again. I'm going to be like the mom in What's Eating Gilbert Grape?--hopefully we won't need the crane.

Finding a Sickness I Like...

I found the perfect listening station for while I'm at work. I go to the Indie Rock Station, and I'm flooded with goodies like Interpol, Franz Ferdinand, Modest Mouse, all sorts of joy.

This is playing--from Spoon:

We go out in stormy weather
We rarely practice discern
We make love to some with sin
We seek out the taciturn

And that's the way we get by to
Way we get by
Aw that's the way we get by to
Way we get by

We found a new kinda dance in a magazine
Try it on, it's like nothin' you've ever seen
You sweet talk like a cop, an' you know it
You bought a new bag of pot
So let's make a new start
And that's the way to my heart to
Way to my heart

And that's the way we get by to
Way we get by
And that's the way we get by to

We get high in backseats of cars
We put faith in our concerns
Fall in love to down the streak
We believe in the sum of ourselves

I feel it's an accurate description of my odd little world.

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

I get an email from Dad this morning. He's having an immediate angioplasty. Right about now, actually. Apparently there's some blockage. It will, of course, prevent him from going to Paris as originally planned. The level of irony regarding my dad having heart troubles is astounding.

Obviously, despite all the history and all the bullshit, I am concerned. I am a ball of conflicting opinions. Mixed in there with my own panic attacks thinking about surgery and being cut open. Once again, I can turn something that has nothing to do with me right back around.

See? Here's the world. And if you look now, it actually is revolving around me.

Actually, I think having a panic attack about surgery is more palatable than sorting out all these feelings in regard to the current circumstance.

I called Freda.

"He's going to be fine."

I don't even know how I feel about that.

I suppose I'm a bad person. I suppose I'm just Worn Out from it all. This is why I'm not big on dwelling on the past. It just makes my stomach crawl around in my torso and I feel faint. I don't know which father went into surgery--Old Dad or New Dad. Either way, I don't know how I feel about Dead Dad. I suppose I'm a bad person.

Sometimes it's just too much to think about.

Sometimes you just need the water to be placid.

Sometimes your heart doesn't listen to your head.

Sometimes internal conflict expresses itself physically.

Sometimes people die.

Sometime you will die and so will I.

Sometime. Now time?

It's no longer a question of staying healthy. It's a question of finding a sickness you like.
--Jackie Mason (1934 - )

I'm open to Falling from Grace...

It is a nasty Monday, indeed.

Apparently, we're in slow season at the Exchange. Not much for any of us to do today. This bothers me not. There's much I would like to play around with today. Mainly I'm researching makeup for my part.

Haley's Departure--T-minus 4 days. Very Sad, indeed.

My first New York show--T-minus 4 days. Very Interesting, indeed.

Sorry I didn't call you back yesterday, Ashlee. I was pooped out from a day of doing absolutely nothing.

I thought it was weird when Mom called me and acted pissed that I hadn't called to wish her a Happy Easter sooner. That's so weird. We've never been a religous family, but still Mom acts like it's somehow blasphemous to not acknowledge Easter. I think it's just another Sunday. Be pissed that I haven't called recently, don't be pissed because I didn't call on Easter. For real, woman. I think the deaths and resurrections of the Taylor women have the Holy Family beat. And we do it with cramps once a month. Take that, Jesus. [ed note: with the exception of Mama, who is missing her crampy parts]

We are entering Spring, finally [the season, not the girl]. Maybe that's why the loins have been a-burnin'. At least that's what I tell myself.

Spring [the girl, not the season] mentioned something about how I'm viewed as the Innocent of the Degenerates. Which is one of many reasons why my behavior is so amusing. Ah well. I'm just making up for lost time. I had been saying I wanted to go through a Slutty Period, since I spent 22 years being a Pretty Good Girl. Well, I guess this is it.

I will fuck you. And then I will fuck your friends.

Ooops. But I have curly hair and I'm pretty so it's easily forgiven.

But enough of that. My life has reached Epic Comic Proportions, and I have resigned myself to the fact that I am the girl you come to when you want to hear about crazy drunken behavior. Oh, I got stories...

Chloe on Saturday: "Your life is so crazy. It's like a novel."

Funny how Sleazy always says his life is like a novel. His chapter on me I guess would have to be a novel within a novel. The Chapter of Us would be like Anna Karenina of Sexual Politics. I just wonder who's going to throw themselves in front of the train first. My money's on Sleazy.

It's easy to blame the booze. It's harder to blame a lustful constitution. Genetic predisposition to Extreme Horniness.

That's us Taylor women. Death and Resurrection and Extreme Horniness and the Mayors of the Land of Bad Ideas. We'll give you a key to the city--it's actually a condom.

The more simple pleasures of the weekend:

--haircut--oh, how I love when they shampoo your hair. It's like a brain massage.
--pot and pizza--just as good as pizza and beer
--sunshine--though when I stepped outside, it had been so long since I had seen the sun, I forgot what it would be like. Vampira feels a little discombobulated.
--my bed. Alone in it [with the exception of Thursday]
--sleeping 12 hours. And I could do it again.
--laughing with Daniel about the absurdity of seeing a child inside a grocery cart and wheeling himself around like he was in a wheelchair. Kindred Spirits make for good sight-seeing.
--a hot shower on a lazy Sunday. Good for the soul, I say.

The next two weeks should be pretty insane. Please keep all hands and feet inside. It's all fun and games until someone loses a limb.

Why can't we not be sober?
I just want to start this over.
Why can't we drink forever?
I just want to start this over.

I am just a worthless liar.
I am just an imbecile.
I will only complicate you.
Trust in me and fall as well.

--Tool

Now I have to go take a spelling test. Wish me lukk.

When Ghostrunner Attacks!

Somtimes my life is so weird I can hardly see straight.

Maybe it's because I slept in my contacts for the past two nights. I never do that. Usually, no matter how fucked up I am, I remember to do that.

Not that I was more fucked up than usual, because last Friday kind of wins, but I have no idea why I didn't do that.

This message is brought to you by Sunday, a very rare occurence of Porn and Chocolate.

Don't worry. I didn't sleep with another Roommate.

Devon just said he wanted to have sex with a wereleopard.

Sometimes my life is so weird I can hardly see straight.

Roll a joint? Smoke a bowl? Roll a joint?...you get the picture.

Happy Easter, kids. Speaking of rising from the dead, I just shared with Abby the proof of my own resurrection and subsequent findings on the theory I had freshman year of college:

Carrie's Thesis? You can totally party a cold away.

Take that, bi-otch. [to be read in Dave Chappelle's voice]

Indeed I did. I have to say that it is pretty impressive; I knew I'd wake up Saturday, sprawled out at Flatplex, feeling as if God himself had come down to punish me for defiling Good Friday they way I did and curse my children and my children's children with this thing. I wake up though...[internal monologue approaching twelve o'clock] ewww my contacts are still in, ugh, I slept here again, ooo here comes a cough--

[coughs up alien ball of phlegm]

end scene. Now I'm better. I found the correct blend of booze, pot, and cigarettes to nip this thing in the bud. Well done, I say, 'ole girl.

Sometimes my life is so weird I can hardly see straight.

I slow-danced with Spring on Friday [to some punk music--of course] and she told me she misses hanging out [a sentiment I echoed as well] and asked me how my life was. I told her things seemed to have gotten a little weird for me lately.

"Why? Because you fucked Junebug?"

Well, that answers that question.

We chat about this for some while, still dancing all the while. She tells me that Sleazy wasn't pissed about Junebug, but apparently got really drunk one night and got pissed at Spring, and yelled, "You fucked my girlfriend!" To which Spring replied, "She's a lovely girl and you broke up with her. So we did it, maybe we'll do it again, we'll see." Which, in case you were wondering, is the correct answer.

That girl warms my heart like whiskey on a cold day.

She wanted to know how Junebug was, see, she's done two out of three of Ghostrunner. But I hold the glorious distinction of going three for three and a chick. There's only so much I can do, and debating the sexual prowess of the members of Ghostrunner even makes me cringe a little. I don't tell her much, this situation had gotten extremely surreal, and then a fake mosh pit breaks out. I believe I was held upside-down at some point. Perhaps I just felt that everything had been turned upside-down and my perspective adapted to that.

There's still just too much to go into. Like a bug to a bug zapper I am, and I try to get it all out before I fry myself.

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.

But, for now, there is a pressing question between a bowl or a joint, and food to be ordered. And all the while, needing to leave time for a divine resurrection and the forgiveness of sins. Oh, and I rented Bridget Jones.

Menyeah Nravitstya Gary Potter...

I have absolutely nothing to report.

Today is Thursday, but it really is Friday. Thanks, Jesus, for giving me the day off.

I'm re-reading Harry Potter because I read it when I was all doped-up and hospitalized in Russia. In Russian, there's no real "H" sound, so in Russia it's "Gary Potter." Neat, huh?

I have to take a spelling test for the job here at the Exchange. Hi-larious. Y Kan't they just trust mi? I is smarrt.

The weekend has the possibility of being utterly debaucherous. Which means it won't. When I'm expecting it, nothing happens. When I'm just going about my biz-nass, then the shit really gets going. But I definitely need to find out where things stand in regards to a certain situation. And I think we all know what I'm referring to.

So, yeah, that's all I got today, kids. Tip your waitresses, I'll be here all week.

Bored. So Sue Me.

Yeah, I'm gonna do one of these to entertain myself.

1. First name: Carrie

2. Were you named after anyone? I don't think so, but I like to tell people I'm named after the Stephen King movie.

3. Do you wish on stars? sadly, yes. All the time.

4. When did you last cry? I started crying I was laughing so hard at hearing "All Cried Out" at the dollar store.

5. Do you like your handwriting? no, but I like my signature.

6. What is your favorite lunch meal? Who gives a crap about lunch? This is a stupid question. Breakfast is by far the better meal and we all know it.

7. If you were another person, would YOU be friends with you? Hell yeah, I put out.

8. (where is 8? Lauren BLAMEs POLE!)

9. Have you ever told a secret you swore not to tell? yeah. I'm not known for being secretive. I have kept many a serious one to myself, but I don't consider who you slept with last weekend to count.

10. Do looks matter? Not if you're blind. Beyond that, whether you help it or not, your brain processes the human face in an appealing/not appealing way. I tell myself that to convince myself I'm not shallow.

11. How do you release anger? I'm not good at it. I clench my jaw. I have been known to burn things as well and on occasion throw shit across the room.

12. Where is your second home? NTI. The Eugene O'Neill Theatre Center makes me weak in the knees.

13. Do you trust others easily? I think so. Why? Do you know something I don't?

14. What was your favorite toy as a child? I don't know if it's a toy, but we had a pool and that was pretty kick-ass.

15. What class in school do you think was totally useless? Jesus. Texas History was pretty lame. My Economics class was a joke. And don't even get me started on Health. That was an experiment in time-suckage.

16. Do you have a journal? hmm...I have 3 blogs and a personal journal. I apparently cannot get enough of writing about myself.

17. Do you use sarcasm a lot? I was raised on love and sarcasm. Mostly sarcasm, though.

18. Favorite movie(s)? Ugh. Boring question. I'll go with Monty Python and the Holy Grail. It has stood the test of time to make me almost piss my pants laughing.

19. What are your nicknames? Technically, Carrie's my nickname, since my name is Caroline. I have also been called Care Bear, Carebs, Carb, Currrr [don't ask], The Short One

20. Would you bungee jump? I threw up just thinking about it.

21. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off? Not if I can help it.

22. Do you think that you are strong? Metaphorically, yes. Physically, I can crush a man with my thighs but can't do a "real" push-up. So obviously, I need some balance with that.

23. What's your favourite ice cream flavour? Cold Stone's Sweet Cream. Oh my god, my mouth is actually watering thinking about it. This one weekend I swear to God it was all I ate.

24. What is your least favorite thing about yourself? I talk way too fuckin' much. I wish I could be more alluring.

25. Who do you miss most? I miss the time where I didn't think about what I missed.

26. Do you want everyone you send this to send it back? Whatever. Do it if you're as bored as I am.

27. What color pants are you wearing? Black. At work.

28. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? blood red

29. Last person you talked to on the phone? Jesus. I just looked in my phone to see, and not only did I not talk on the phone with a single person yesterday, but the last call in my phone was to Taco Today for delivery. So yeah, I talked to Taco Today.

30. The first thing you notice about the opposite sex? eyes.

31. Do you like the person who sent this to you? I just found this. I don't know the person.

32. How are you today? I'm hungry and cold. Boo.

33. Favorite drink? I'm really getting attached to Jack and Cokes.

34. Favorite sport? hockey and soccer

35. Hair Color? red

36. Do you wear contacts? yes

37. Favorite food? I'm a simple girl. You do something with chicken, I'll probably like it.

38. Last movie you watched? Oh God, the shame. G.I. Jane. But I would like to say that Devon had the remote on that one.

39. Favorite day of the year? Halloween bitches!!

40. Scary movies or happy endings? Scary Movie, as if you had to ask

41. Summer or winter? After being here a while, I think I'll go with summer.

42. Hugs or kisses? hugs.

43. What is your favorite dessert? pound cake is pretty awesome.

44. Who is most likely to respond? I dont know, who has time to kill at their job today?

45. Who is least likely to respond? everyone

46. Living arrangements? 3 roommates in a tiny ass Manhattan apartment.

47. What's on your mouse pad? my mouse, dumbass.

48. What did you watch last night on TV? House, The Daily Show

49. Favorite smell? dryer sheets.

50. Rolling Stones or Beatles? Depends on the album. But in general, I tend to lean toward the Beatles.

51. Do you believe in evolution or creationism? You're gonna make me think on the last question? I believe it doesn't really matter in the end. I'm here. You're here. I'm cool with that. And if I come back in my next life and we've evolved past needing hair and shit, then I'll know it's evolution. And if I die and I'm burning in Hell, chances are the Baptists were right.

If only Summer Rain would Fall...

Jack Shit to do today. Boo, boring work day.

I'm currently obsessed with the Decemberists. They're coming in May and I think I've invited everyone I possibly know to join me at the concert. Ani's coming to NJ also in April and I'm so down for that. Funny note on the Decemberists, though. Or maybe not funny. I'm just so bored so I'm going to write it.

So last Friday was pretty fuzzy as far as Fridays go, but I remember this conversation quite well. Remember that CD that I stole from Flatplex? Well, of course...

You know what? That story is totally uninteresting. It was Junebug's mix. End of story. I apologized to him for virtually destroying it with my break-up abuse of it. But I was falling asleep just thinking about it.

Damnit. Why can't anything be epic for me today? I have oodles of time on my hands here, kids. And I could ask if there's anything more for me to do, but I know there is and I can't decide if doing boring work is better than just being bored. Maybe I'll catch up on some emails. Maybe I'll take a three hour lunch. Maybe I'll solve the world hunger issue.

I am going to go smoke a cigarette now. Maybe two.

Be back in a sec.

Ugh.

It's so gross out today. Yesterday was lovely and cool, and today it is cold and raining. Not just raining, though. Snow mixed in there too. Lyle calls it "snain," which I find amusing. Snain is the worst weather phenomenon ever. It's just too much. I can handle snow. I can handle rain. Snain makes me want to kill myself. It's the type of day that if I had paid vacation, I'd just stay home with a beer (or two, or three...) a joint, and many movies and just not leave my womb-bed. Also, since in this fantasy I have paid vacation, there'd be a cute boyfriend who would stay in bed with me and rub my lower back. But, alas. I'm at a computer.

This is amusing though, speaking of my womb-bed and activities that occur (or don't) there...

In the middle of the night a few nights ago, Devon calls out, "Stop what you're doing." He had told me earlier he wakes up if I go out for a cigarette in the middle of the night and asked me not to do it. So I thought he was referring to that. I responded that I wasn't doing anything. No response from him, so I chalked it up to him talking in his sleep. The next night, he says the same thing, and I say, "What are you talking about?" He says, "It sounds like you're masturbating." WHAT?

I got paranoid. I've been having a lot of sex dreams lately. When Ashlee and I lived together, we would joke about when you have those dreams where you have an orgasm and we worried that maybe when we had those dreams the other would hear. I checked where my hands were--wrapped around Fluffy, as usual. Not in any dangerous location. So I replied to Devon, "I don't do that when you're here and I'm sleeping, for God's sake." He replies, "Maybe it was a dream."

My roommate is dreaming about me masturbating. Awesome. Me in Devon's subconscious seems to be doing alright for herself. Go Dream Carrie.

That story is also not very interesting. Damn, I'm boring. I should get drunk and do something stupid just so I have something to write about.

Just kidding. Although I'm sure that will happen soon enough.

I'm pretty tapped out of things to talk/write about.

Oh, I did have another laughing fit yesterday, apart from the whole bird-shitting-on-me thing. I got to rehearsal way too early so I went into this dollar store next door. I'm just perusing for something pretty, and then I notice what song is playing. It's "All Cried Out." I have no idea why this was so hilarious to me, but I pictured some heartbroken girl coming into the dollar store to make herself feel better and then crying because that song came on. And then I started laughing like a hyena. It was a beautiful image, and I'm sure the image to others of some curly-haired chick in hysterics was also probably pretty good.

As far as rehearsal, I hate what I'm doing with my part. What the hell is wrong with me? Eek.

And that's all she wrote.

Eh, Shit Happens...

Notice the RADIO EDIT on the last entry? I decided that everyone who would has read it and now I feel like some damage control is necessary. Perhaps I'm supposed to be more cryptic in my entries, but I strive for brutal honesty about all these types of things. All the same, having that little quiz out there and someone finding it has spooked me that the Internet is not as anonymous as we would like to be sometimes. Well, duh. Too bad, though. I liked my writing on yesterday. Ah well. I'll have to express my skanky ass elsewhere, I suppose.

This morning the world was out to get me. The 4/5 has been a little bitch to me. Some problem with a smoke detector somewhere and I have to re-route way out of my way to get to work. Lucky for me almost every subway line comes close to Wall Street.

It is a beautiful day today. I came out of the subway and smiled, and tried to rinse the subway drama off of me with the sunshine.

And then a bird shit on me.

I swear to God. A bird shit on me.

And then I busted out laughing. Of course. OF COURSE.

When I told Lyle and Vanessa about that, they were like "Great! That's supposed to be good luck."

Really? Bird Shit? Lucky? Has anyone else heard that feces from anything is a sign of good things to come?

Hold on. Let me see if I can research this thing.

This person experience the same thing. Apparently some Chinese woman told him/her it was good luck. And here talks about it as well. Apparently, I'm the only one who thinks a bird shitting on me is not something to be overjoyed about.

I think I'm getting sick. Perhaps a little too much time on the Flatplex roof? I bought some Airborne and hopefully I can nip this in the bud before too soon. I have a show opening next week. That's just crazy. I'm still really frustrated about my part. I can't shake my girliness. So I think I'm going to play the character like a gay man--that way I can keep the feminity while still remaining gender-ambiguous. Like Boy-George crazy drag queen or something. I don't know. I have a week. Jesus. Some divine intervention would be swell right about now.

[looks up to sky]

Help? Anyone there?

[bird shits on my head]

Perfect. Thanks.

At night, alone, I marry the bed...

Well, lordy lordy.

I think the best way to sum up Friday night are these lyrics from the Killers.

I'm coming out of my cage
And I’ve been doing just fine
Gotta gotta gotta be down
Because I want it all
It started out with a kiss
How did it end up like this
It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss

It was only a kiss. And then it was much much more.

But don't fret. It wasn't Sleazy.

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


RADIO EDIT


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

I'm not quite sure what happens now.

"Is this too weird for you?"

Well, we'll just have to see.

"You know he's going to find out about this."

Well, we'll just have to see.

Well, well.

Well done.

The boys and girls are one tonight.
They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies.
They take off shoes. They turn off the light.
The glimmering creatures are full of lies.
They are eating each other. They are overfed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

--Anne Sexton

Luck 'O the Irish...

So yesterday was St. Patrick's Day. Here's the guy we have to thank for it. I'm sure he's pleased as punch that he drove all those snakes from Ireland and brought Jesus and Christianity to it and we thank him by gathering up all the frat boys in the world, putting them in one crowded ass bar until they puke green.

If there's any holiday that I'm more ambivalent toward than Valentine's Day, it would be St. Patrick's Day. Don't know why. I just have never cared. So I'm not wearing green? Pinch me. Fuck it. None of my green clothes were clean, what do you want from me? And I for one, and I know most people in my accquaintance, have never needed a reason or a "holiday" to get shit-housed. Hell, in my world, we just call it Thursday.

I like to be drunk with a small group of friends. An entire city of wasted people in ridiculous hats does not appeal to me in the least. I have never seen the Upper East Side so hoppin'. The parade apparently was right outside my subway stop. I came up and there were all these police barricades and cops and green hats and leering men, and I just had to check the "nyet" box. I passed by these boys playing with their parents in green hats, and this little boy started singing that Ashlee Simpson song. He was kicking a ball and just started going, "You make me wanna La La..." I almost threw up green and I was sober. If there ever was a worse lyricist than Ashlee Simpson, I'd like to see that person arrested for crimes against humanity. And obviously "La La" is a stand-in for sex, but being the good little daughter of a preacher/stagedad prevents her from saying outright, "You make me wanna fuck doggie-style." Even better to hear it from a four year old boy playing soccer.

There I go digressing again.

I picked up enough beer for me, Devon, and Conor for our Thursday ritual, and everyone else can just vomit on each other. And probably did. I did enjoy watching some of the carnage spilling out from our corner bar from the safe distance of my balcony.

So we did our own version of celebrating the Christianization of Ireland by watching that horrible actress on the OC try to fool us into thinking that blank face of hers means she's thinking. That show is like crack though. So there we are, on a "holiday" staying in and watching the tube. And I had a great time, and I didn't vomit green, and you know the conversation is good when out of silence, Conor looks to you and says,

"Did I ever tell you about the time Candice peed on me?"

No. And please don't.

Can I get a Hooray for Friday?!?

My Ode to Wakingindifference....

But first, an Ode to Porn and Chocolate [wink].

How does this not describe the true motivations of the male species?

God, that's good stuff.

So I wanted to pay homage to Ashlee and her style on her blog. It's common knowledge that Ashlee is the far superior writer. She uses language like a Ginsu knife, definitely being able to slice, dice, and make potato wedges. She would never use the phrase "like a Ginsu knife." But here I will try to go all Hemingway-esque and try to cut to the matter.

I'm afraid of men. Always have been. I could wonder whose fault it is, most would claim my mother. They're probably right. The others would claim my father. They're right as well. I was more scared of Ted Bundy than the Boogeyman. As well I should be. I was more scared of my father's keys in the door than snakes. Nobody is afraid a sorority girl is lurking in the shadows. Men hunt. They will hunt you. So you'd better be packing heat when you run into one, because let me tell you, the good ones look the same as the bad and my mantra is "Better Safe than Sorry."

I used all my activities to protect myself from them, choosing instead to worship from afar. Choosing the unavailable asshole because the available one would be able to see through me. It is not an honest effort if you know they can never love you. And if you know this from the beginning, you can hold back pieces of yourself. This is what I do. The real ones would be able to see what a fraud I am.

I wrapped myself up in ballet because it was an acceptable way to abuse myself. My sisters chose drugs and rebellion to express theirs, and got in a lot of trouble for it. They were the "bad girls" [a phrase so utterly absurd that I can't help giggle when I hear it said]. But my rebellion was a more insidious type, one that isn't recognizable in the way "bad behavior" is. I wanted to die. I didn't skip class, I didn't do drugs. I went to theatre rehearsal, Beta Club meeting, ballet rehearsal, came home, didn't eat, and then slept with a knife under my pillow, waiting to use it on myself or the masked stranger who would be coming into my room at any moment.
You want to know why I still keep Fluffy? Why I started sleeping with him in the first place? When I was four I was terrified that robbers would come into the house and stab me in the heart. I felt that having a teddy bear that would cover my body would give me a fighting chance. I shit you not. I still have a hard time leaving my heart exposed when I sleep. When I'm in yoga class, I have anxiety when asked to focus on my "heart chakra." I'm afraid focusing on it will leave me exposed and a knife will come through the air and get me, just like in House of Flying Daggers.

Who's more fucked up? Well, I guess we all are.

In essence, I'm discussing all this because Chloe pointed out during a discussion last night that probably the reason I cling to men the way I do, the reason why it took me so long to get over guys like Mahdi, Sleazy, or even Conor (for a brief period in high school) is that classic reason that because of my background with the other half of the race is based on a series of abuse and rejection and yet, I still want to be loved by them. So when I get rejected, it fucks with my entire essence as a person. And when I exited ballet, it became my new way of torturing myself. Chase the ones who will push you away and then you will have good reason to hate yourself.

I'm lucky to have a friend in Chloe. She tells me that I shouldn't be so hard on myself because at least I seek to recognize these things and work toward changing them. She says, "You cannot do anything better than what you are doing right now. You cannot live in any other time." And when she says it, it doesn't sound like bullshit. It sounds wise. Because it is. She wants me to leave the Shame Spiral behind, because it's trapped in the past and you cannot live your life there.

Hmm...I don't think that was like Ashlee at all. Alas, as is always my problem, I cannot be enough like Ashlee.

Love you lady. Love all my ladies.

From the ranks of the Freaks...

Melancholy always seems to set in on Wednesdays. I guess it's a good thing that I've decided to do yoga on Wednesdays. I look forward to it desperately.

I babysat last night for Mommy Dearest. The funny thing is, I actually really like the woman. It's only in regards to her son that she becomes this somewhat unbearable creature. It's very odd. And I like the kid too--he's well behaved and follows instructions well. It's just the crib thing and the obsessive attachment to his mother that frightens me.

I like babysitting. I'm good at it. I think because I was always such and old woman when I was younger, working at St. Francis School unleashed my inner child, and there's been no looking back ever since. Kids like me because I treat them as my equal, only pulling the "adult" card in necessary situations, like bathing or bedtime. The rest of the time we play and dance and laugh like whirling dervishes.

Bedtime is my favorite part of my job. I love reading stories to the kids (go figure--actress), but more importantly, I like lying with the kid while they drift off to sleep. I love how when you were a kid, you knew that Mom or Dad or Babysitter wouldn't be there when you woke up, but it was vital and necessary that they be there when you fall asleep. I love how kids fight bedtime, too.

"I'm never going to sleep! I can't sleep!"

But sure enough, give them ten minutes of silence and they're out like little angels. I love no matter how big the fight, the sheer exertion of being a child will wear them out all the same. All our exertions as adults keep us up at nights. It does with me. I'll roll over on my bed and look at my Kurt Cobain poster, or try to decipher meaning from my Rothko, and the sheer exertion of being an adult wires me in its exhaustion.

Being a kid is easier. Well, duh. But I like to be in bed with them and be a witness to the fact that there was indeed a time where it was just a matter of reading a bedtime story and the physical presence of someone bigger than you that let you know it was alright to leave the conscious world for a bit. And that, when you woke up, it would still be there. And Babysitter would be replaced with Mommy, and the world was set right again.

Yesterday was a long day. Leaving at 8 in the morning, and not arriving home till close to 10 at night. 2 jobs. I drag myself quietly and ghostlike down 86th Street and once again am faced with my "neighborhood." I like the Upper East Side. At night, it's the perfect balance of city and suburb. It lacks the glaring harshness of Midtown, the drunken, insidious darkness of Hell's Kitchen (though that could be peppered by own experiences there), the wild frenzy of the Lower East Side and Greenwich Village. At 10pm, it's not too loud, but it's not dead quiet, either, something I find very disconcerting in Brooklyn. Brooklyn is too quiet. Serial Killer lurking in the shadows quiet. But the Upper East Side just has the hiss of bus doors opening, the low grumbles of the taxis with the intermittent honks when someone veers out of their "lane." [though, to be fair, no one in New York acknowledges any such concept--if there is space and road there--and sometimes no need for road--you are clear to drive it]. It's like the fan you turn on even when it's cold out because you need the White Noise.

I like it. But it's just where I live. I don't feel it's home. Yet.

Sun salutations, here I come.

Reading Rainbow (reading RAINbow)

I bought the book Smashed: Story of a Drunken Girlhood, and already can't put it down. She mentions a poem about how...oh well. Here's the poem. And here's the passage about it. Both are lovely.

I could recite that poem in my sleep, and yet I recognize that I have never been that girl...Nine years after I took my first drink, I am missing so much of the equipment that adults should have, like the ability to sustain eye contact without flinching or letting my gaze roll slantwise to the floor. At this point in time, I should be able to hear my own unwavering voice rise in public without feeling my heart flutter like it's trying to take flight. I should be able to locate a point of conversation with the people I deeply long to know as my friends...I should be able to stop self-censoring and smile when I feel like it. I should recognize happiness when I feel it expand in my gut.

I feel like that a lot. And she has connected it with her drinking.

I feel reading this book is going to hurt. But that's why I bought it.

What a way to make a Livin'...

I really don't have much to say today. Or lately now that I think about it.

Wow. I was just sitting here, typing away, and Lyle walks over to my desk.

"Look around. Notice anything?"

We are all alone. Seriously. There's no one in the entire Enforcement Division except for myself and Lyle. I have to say it's fucking creepy. Maybe there's a fire that no one decided to tell us about. You'd have to have inter-office email for that and we're not high enough on the totem pole to have such perks. So Lyle and I could become extra crispy. We'll just have to wait and see on that one.

I did Happy Hour yesterday with a bunch of LiveJournal kids (Dru, Devon, Julie, Karen, Leigh, and Coleen--look at all those girls). I drank an entire pitcher of Miller Lite to myself, and was quite impressed with myself. But Happy Hour never lasts just one and which of course, ended up at Flatplex smoking weed. I love how when we were leaving the bar to pick up beer for home, Dru and I go into the liquor store.

"Booze or Wine? Booze or Wine?"

It was like Sophie's choice. He wanted to get two bottles of wine. I told him I thought that was a bad idea. He was, "You're right. That's too much. How 'bout we just get one bottle of wine and then a six-pack?"

'Cause that's a good idea. God, we're such drunks.

But it was. I got drunk and high and laughed a lot and Devon and I grabbed a cab home at about 1, devoured his Taco Today leftovers, and I passed out soundly, dreaming I was back in the Winship building at UT.

Holy Crap.

Mommy Dearest booked me to babysit, like, two weeks ago for today. And then she called a week ago to confirm. That's all any normal person would have to do. Book, confirm, and then assume all is set.

Not Mommy Dearest.

I looked down at my phone, and in the span of an hour, the woman had called me twice, one of them with URGENT attached to it. And the message was all "I hope you haven't made any other plans because I had you down for tonight." And then she proceeds to give me her address for the 8 millionth time (I've babysat there a lot--what kind of sitters is she used to?) and her name. She always says, "This is Cheri (pronounced sherry) Brandon, Jordan's mother. You've babysat for us." Like I don't have her in my phone. Like I would know anyone else who identifies themselves in regards to what their spawn is. Obviously. And how can I forget this family? The 6 year old still sleeps in his crib, for Christ's sake. That tends to leave a lasting impression. A lasting impression of insanity.

Ugh. This is going to be a looooooooonnnnnnnnnggggggggg day.

Don't go in there!

I seem to be getting into the habit of having a very ruckus Friday night, followed by not moving from the apartment Saturday and Sunday (with the exception of rehearsal).

I've gotten busted. Remember my funny little quiz? Well, someone found it. You can comment on the quiz and I got two notices in my mailbox that said your a bitch. Which, though grammatically incorrect, I suppose is right on the money. I was bitchy with that. But more importantly, I meant it to be funny. Ah well. The only people I would need to worry about would be ones that I might run into in the city, which is Mahdi and Sleazy. It couldn't be Sleazy, he would never misspell anything, particularly if he was trying to be mean. And that leaves Mahdi, who I never see and don't particularly care one way or the other what he thinks about me.

It does hurt to be called a bitch. I hope it wasn't Eric (though I was pretty nice to him on the quiz). All the same, I deleted the quiz.

So that was that.

Friday I hung out with the boys (Daniel, Ryan, Cliff, and Cliff's Michael Howard friend Pablo--who I gave a lap dance to on his 21st birthday). We got stupid drunk, purchased a jug of wine that we proceeded to chug on the L train out to Pablo's to smoke pot. We cleverly called the jug of wine our "thesis paper" so that passing this thing back and forth wasn't anything illegal, you know, like drinking in public. I'm sure we had everyone on the train fooled. Yup. Chugging red wine on the L.

[Danger! Danger! Oh, why can we never see the signs?]

I was fine because I stopped drinking once I started smoking. Ryan and Daniel were not so lucky. Daniel threw up. Then Ryan threw up with such intensity, his retching shook the foundation of the house. I tried to stay as far away from that as possible, preferring to smoke myself silly. Ryan was occupying the bathroom, so I ran out into a Brooklyn street to pee.

[Smart. Very smart.]

I pass out on a very uncomfortable couch, trying to block out the sounds of Ryan. Seriously. I've never heard such sounds in my life, it was like The Exorcist. He wasn't just sick, he was fighting for his soul.

We wake up early on Saturday, Ryan still wasted and all of us not knowing where the fuck in Brooklyn we are. I love waking up confused and in Brooklyn. We hobble around the city, which was actually quite lovely that early in the morning and not that cold. We stop by their place to smoke pot and drop off our stuff and proceed to the nearest diner.

Daniel and I are stoned and not too hungover; we eat like it's going out of style. Ryan looked green. Daniel and I would look over at him with sympathy, but not enough to let him leave while we ate our feast.

I leave them and head back to my apartment, where I pass out for a few hours. Devon leaves to go hang out with our friend Allison, and I am left in my stupor with the place to myself. I watch the 100 Scariest Moments in Film on Bravo, followed by A Nightmare on Elm Street (the original being my favorite) and The Omen. I stay up until 5 am doing this. Funny how the night I got wasted I passed out at like 1 or 2 and on my quiet night, I'm up until 5. Ah well. This is my life.

Sunday was rehearsal. That was fine. Liz had this bag of Starburst that she and I wolfed down, so much that I felt very twitchy and sugar-high. That's why I generally avoid sweets like that. When they're little and bite-sized, I will not stop until I make myself sick. Luckily, we ran out of Starburst before I could do some serious insulin damage to myself.

Another weekend. Blurry in places and being called a bitch by the end of it. Yup. Par for the course.

Bobbing along on the Bottom of the Beautiful, Briny Sea...

There's nothing to do at work today. Seriously. I finished everything I needed to do by 10:30. Vanessa and I took a two hour lunch break, where I accompanied her on a shopping expedition, buying myself a sweater and a black tank in the process (much like socks, I can never seem to hang on to all my black tanks--I imagine there all bunched up in the back room of some frathouse in Austin).

I put in my resume to the NYSE, and I interview for the permanent position next week. Let's keep our fingers crossed, shall we? Mama wants paid vacation. I have to take a drug test, which is worrisome, but I've been given recommendations on the way I go about solving that one.

All that sweet stuff Mom wrote me the other day, and then she sends me this link. Way to be positive, Mom.

I wish I had more to report since I have all the time in the world to write this. I guess I could comment on the current state of political affairs or something, but that isn't as self-involved as this blog is.

I did smoke last night with Daniel, Conor, and Devon out of the creepiest hookah I've ever seen. It was an evil clown/joker face. I was afraid it would give me nightmares, which it did. I woke up at 4:40 in a cold sweat, and couldn't settle back down, so at about 5 I went out onto the balcony to chainsmoke until I felt a bit more sane. Devon grumbled something, either in his sleep, or about the noise I made trying to get outside.

And that's my life. Carrie and her Lost Boys, smoking, working (or the appearance of it), creepy clowns, beer and Slim Fast, and awkwardness.

And, of course, porn and chocolate.

But Downward-facing Dog still makes me giggle...

Yoga was amazing.

My body felt wonderfully used and it was like an entire body orgasm. You're in so much pain, your body is just shaking and then, wonderful release. Amazing.

Winter here is harsh, and you naturally start to slump your shoulders in effort to somehow warm yourself. We did all these shoulder releases that hurt like a bitch because I've been wound tighter than...what's tightly wound? Dick Cheney's sphincter? I walked out of there and felt about a foot taller.

I, of course, am not. But a girl can dream.

During the meditation practice, I had a hard time clearing my thoughts, so I used guided meditation. I imagined I was back in Portugal, standing on that cliff that I fell in love with, looking out at the expanse of sea and sky and every breath that I took was making the sun brighter and the water bluer. On that cliff was the first time I felt what eternity was, and hope, and cycles. I could have stayed there forever.

And it was the happiest I've been since moving to New York. Seriously. I must have looked like someone who just had amazing sex: hair tousled, cheeks flushed, a slow, easy walk and a lazy smile on my face. And the cold burned my cheeks and my ears, but I still walked very slowly, focusing very intently on my breath. I barely even noticed if it was okay for me to cross the street. I just had a feeling that the cars would part for me, like the Moses of the Upper East Side.

I tried not to let myself think too much. I can think myself into any mood, and this was a good one, and so I wanted to hold onto as much as I could. Unpleasant thoughts would drift in, but I said hello to them and then let them pass on their way. I chose instead to listen to the cars on the road, and see how far I could follow the sound of just one car and see if I could listen to it all the way to its destination.

I thought about what the people I love were doing right at that moment. Abby with her head in a very large and boring law book; Ashlee either watching a movie on her computer or staring at its blank screen, looking for inspiration; Somehow I just imagined Kristen eating falafel or playing with Jake; Julie drinking tequila in Mexico; Amy relishing her victory against Taco Bell; Daniel out in Long Island, serving margaritas in freezing weather, probably wishing he could be in Mexico right now; Junebug and Dru at work; Chris and Spring doing something destructively romantic; Dustin getting high and taking on his 10,000th project of the semester; April yelling at Marley because he peed on the carpet again...

I was happy. Very, very happy. I'm sure it's just another one of these mood swings, and since this was such an intense one, the down-swing promises to be just as much. But I couldn't have cared less in those moments. I can't stress about when the melancholy, guilt, or anxiety will return. Because it will. These things do. But I had to just enjoy that moment of the world seeming the way that it should, if only for a moment. It was the most present I've been.

I still feel good today. And I'm not nearly as sore as I thought I should be.

Here it is: The first really good decision I've made for myself since moving to the city.

I swallow it like a Carnival Freak swallows Fire...

Tonight, come Hell or High Water, I'm getting to bed by 10. It seems so far away from here (being noon in the Big City).

Yesterday it was 62 in the morning, and by the time Haley and I took a cab home from karaoke, it was 7. 7 Fucking Degrees. What the fuck? I started the day sweating, and ended it debating setting myself on fire just for warmth. And the snow quickly turned to ice and Manhattan became a giant ice cube and all of us are slipping and sliding around, just praying we can stay upright. My bruise is only just beginning to really fade, I'd hate to get a new one.

You want to know what a humbling experience is? Having a 10 minute discussion with your director about what to do with your ASS. Yup. Humbling [tries to crawl into her own pocket]. I play an androgynous waiter, and I don't know if you've seen me, but I don't think there's any way in the world I would ever get mistaken for a boy. I tried not to let this freak me out, I know it's for the part and my ass gets many a compliment and is always a hit with the fellas, but it's hard to discuss how to hide my more "womanly attributes". Also known as ghetto-booty. Ugh.

Being an actor is surreal.

I went to Haley's restaurant after making the very stupid decision to walk from rehearsal to there. I think it took an hour for full feeling to return to my face. But I was running lines in my head, and it's always easier for me to do that while I'm walking. Jason caught me doing it, muttering to myself the monologues I have. Nothing can make you feel weirder than getting caught talking to yourself. He knew I was running lines, but I finally was conscious that I do this all the time and people must think I'm fucking nuts. Of course, I am, but I should get better at hiding it.

Junebug met up with us. Ah, Bug. I still wish he and Haley would just get married already. But alas, her heart belongs to another, and I'm not quite sure where Junebug's is. But I did notice that every time she got up to sing, he was utterly focused on her. He's at least enraptured with her. As am I. Maybe everyone is. And he's bored with his life. As am I. Maybe everyone is.

Much laughter and my bad singing (which, although I live in the Shame Spiral, Abby, that text-message was me being embarrassed by being off-key and off-rhythm) and booze and booze and I stay far longer than I originally anticipated but kinda knew how it would turn out and made the conscious decision to overdraw on my bank account so Haley and I could take a cab home and order some food when we arrived there. Whew. [In my head, I did that last sentence all in one breath]

I made the genius decision to order the food from the cab so we didn't have to wait too long when we got home (we're coming up on 3am, if anyone is interested in a time-check) and Haley and I have a little heart-to-heart. Once again, this girl has been a god-send in my emotionally fragile nature. I tell her things I don't even put in here (which isn't much, to be fair), but I know I can do that with her because she gets it.

I am really going to miss her.

We're not best friends or anything (BFF 4-eva), but she understands me in a way no one else does because we are so similiar. Awkward, non-sensical, naive--in the good and bad ways. And she talks to me with more compassion than I have for myself, I've been pretty brutal to myself lately, but she understands why. I feel like a fool. I always have, but this is the first time I feel it imposed on me as opposed to me making a conscious effort to be the fool.

The Fool in the Tarot is the beginning of the journey. It's the first card in the deck. I'm an Aries. That's the first sign in the zodiac. The beginning of the stars. The Beginning.

But for right now, this is The End.

Prozac Nation...

I found this burned CD from so many moon ago.

And I forgot how much I think this song describes my life. Or something. I don't know. It just took me waaaaaaaaaayyyy back.

Although, I don't really like dancing with men.

Hmph.

I'm feeling a wee bit nutty today. I was up all night (starting from about 2:30) with some mysterious ailment that let me get to know my bathroom intimately. The works. It was awful.

OH SHIT.

Pause.

This song's on here, too. Now that actually is my theme song. God, I'm a clever girl. This is good one.

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

Hmmm...ADD girl...where was I?

Ah, yes, vomiting in my bathroom.

So that was fun.

I seem to recall last time I went on the A.D.s that this happened the first few nights before my body got used to it. I'm supposed to eat a big meal or something. I forgot this little factoid. If I had remembered, I would have at least started taking them on the weekend so I'd be all pukey and tired then. So my tummy still feels a little weird, I'm exhausted from no sleep (I also forgot that I usually took them in the morning because for most people, zoloft makes you sleepy--I am not most people, it kind of wires me). And I've got a full schedule today.

I thought about calling in sick, but I need the money and I took that hangover day a couple weeks ago.

Ah, karma. I could've really used it now.

This is what you get for drinking too much on a weekday. You call in sick, and then when you need, you drag your nauseous ass to work because you have no other option.

I hope I'm feeling better by tonight. I've got rehearsal and then we're meeting up with Haley for Karoake Tuesday at her restaurant. We never see her (as this has been stated before) but seeing as this is her last month in the city, I feel like I should make the effort to see her as much as I can.

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

So an amusing point of note:

Seeing as from that hangover day I lost all my shit, this included my health insurance cards and I sure as shit wasn't about to pay $104 for the price of the meds (that's really something to get depressed about) I had to sit and wait while they were on the phone with the insurance company. There was all sorts of crazy we-just-got-out-of-work people in need of their meds and so it was pretty busy and I had to wait awhile. The guy kept coming over to me and apologizing profusely and asking if I'd like to sit down.

I think he took a look at what the prescription was for and wanted to handle me with kid gloves.

I toyed with the idea of fucking with him.

"I NEED THE MEDS NOW!!! IF I CAN'T GET MY ZOLOFT RIGHT NOW, I'M GOING TO TRY TO KILL MYSELF RIGHT HERE IN THE STORE!!!" [and then I would grab a bottle of Saint John's Wort and threateningly open the bottle--there are so many vitamins up there]

or

"Why can't anything go right in my life?!" [try to hang myself with the orthopedic socks]

"No, lady, there's so much to live for!"

"What, my co-pay of $30? No, I'm done!" [try to suffocate myself with a magnum condom--unlubed, of course]

But I'm never one to cause a scene. Unless, of course, I started mixing Zoloft with Whiskey. I bet that would be an interesting combo.

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

So I don't end with all my anti-depressant stuff, I'll share an amusing little phone call I shared with Ashlee last night.

She calls me as she is laughing her ass off

"What is it?"

"I just got molested by a 14 year-old boy."

"Awesome."

Apparently this scrawny little kid broke away from his friend and was macking on Ms. Christian and then decided that the time was ripe to grab her boob.

Knowing Ashlee, this makes this situation very amusing.

After a second or so, apparently Ashlee decides to fix the situation. So does she

A)Punch him
B)Kick him in the balls
C)Look down at him and say, "Are you done yet? Because I have somewhere to be."
D)Ask him out

If you picked C), you now know what reason #282,390,579,023 why I love this girl is.

From my mom...

Ah, Kingwood and Momisms...

Amber Liebsch (I am in a "holistic healing" network group with her mom--crazy Jan, remember her?) is married and just built a house in San Antonio--it feels so WEIRD that these kindergarteners and Willow Creek elementary FPSrs are getting (or already ARE) married. If they're happy, I guess that's good.

I'm very proud of you three for not being the types to rush into something long-term--out of loneliness or because everyone else is "doing it". I only want YOU ALL to be happy with your lives, personal development and career choices. Love and marriage seem to distract young, pre/post college age women from their professional goals,if those goals have not already been reached. However, I do STILL BELIEVE that romantic and innocent-at-heart-YOU have somebody unique and quite wonderful (like YOU) waiting in the wings of your future-...maybe when you've come to terms with yourself, some of your issues and certainly when you least expect it--that's when it will happen (just like with Memory and John--they're still quite blissfully happy together BTW).

I'm VERY GLAD to hear you're back on A.D.'s! I've been wearing your depression like a heavy metal jacket--just from the tone of your emails--yet I always feel like I'm under some sort of restraining order-- muzzled by you and Abby from expressing my feelings, opinions and mother's right to care and be concerned about you all.

Yes! You did mention you have a role in the play. Congratulations! Now maybe it will be more fun and challenging than repetitive dealings with the self-obsessed drearoid you mentioned earlier.

What is with the sexual identity of every role you ever have? Either you're a quasi-dominatix, lesbian, slut, and now, sexual ambivalent. Hey--maybe its just the material, I don't know and it doesn't make any difference--just kind of strange to me given your prior virginal longevity.

Must gather Bean for another $8 million vet visit.

She's right. What's with all the sexuality in all my roles? Apparently, even in my artistic world, I'm ruled by libido and all the trappings of that.

And damn, Amber married? Jesus. She was such an odd girl, I wonder what the guy is like.

Mom generally stresses me out, but I thought that was a nice little email. So I'll think very fondly of it for the time being, until she does something else that makes me want to tear out my hair in frustration.

I think "self-obsessed drearoid" is right on the money. Mom can be excellent at calling 'em like they are (other examples are Conor's stepmom Beef Jerky and...and...Oh, I don't know. Momisms are hard to keep track of).

I really should do some work now.

Flashpoints and Fundraisers

Time for the Monday round-up.

So we has the fundraiser on Friday. We didn't make as much money as we wanted to (isn't that always the case with the arts?) but overall, the party was a success and we did make some cash, so yeah.

I started drinking at 6pm, and once again, didn't stop until 6am. My liver was crying. I told it to stop being such a pussy.

I did the Britney dance. Twice. But to fair, once was by request, so hey, give the people what they want. They paid 10 bucks for it. I wonder if ever I'm not going to want to dance like a ho when that song comes on. Jason (the director) and his lady interest were sitting behind me. They're both in their thirties. I bet they were sitting there like, "Oh my God, these people are so young. It's like high school." Yup. I'm the girl that gets drunk and dances like a ho. That's me. Like I'm 16. Though, to be fair, apparently I still look 16, so I'm just acting like that.

And Ashlee showed up at around 12:30 and here's where the party gets hopping.

Yea, Ashlee. We decide to force everyone to do a Power Half-Hour at, like, 4:30 in the morning (which is always a good idea). Devon had appeared at some point too, and much frolicking and rolling around on the floor laughing was had.

I met Chloe's brother. Who, by the way, is knock-you-on-your-ass-gorgeous. But he showed up with his posse, and so I felt uncomfortable approaching him. Chloe told me on Sunday that he thought I was cute. OK. I'll settle for that. I'm getting resigned to the fact that I will always be described as cute. If I were a few inches taller and my hair a bit straighter, I think I could get pretty, but this was the lot I was dealt. It could be worse, I could be "nice personality" girl. So if cute it is, cute I am. I told Chloe that she should set us up the next time he's in town and I'll make out with him. Ah, Chloe. I don't think she knows how serious I am on that one.

I love how much my time with Ashlee replenishes me, as much as drinking with her until 6am wipes me out.

But not too much time was spent with her, since on Saturday she wandered out to Brooklyn to hang with her brother. I was supposed to meet up with them, but the L wasn't running and the thought of being trapped somewhere in Brooklyn was most unpalatable to me, so we had our night and she had her other night with her bro. I owe her like 10 trips to D.C. once the show is done.

Saturday, I had the place to myself then. Time to ponder.

I like being alone. I don't know why I let being part of something affect me so much. I've always been alone. The time I spent in Austin in my apartment was actually really great for me. Of course, it's where I developed a lot of weird habits since I had no one else to answer to. I would never sleep for more than three hours at a time. I'd wake up, watch weird late night TV, get drunk or high or usually both, maybe pop a pill, write, dance around my apartment. Basically, answer to no one or nothing in regards to my schedule. Sure, it's weird, but hey, I'm a weird girl. Maybe it's because I have three roommates now. Maybe because I had a boyfriend. But suddenly, my life became about answering to other people and I think that's part of the reason I was in such funky spirits for a good while of this year.

This, of course, is a long-winded way of saying I broke on Lent and masturbated.

Fuck it. I'm not Catholic. God's got so much other dirt on me that this one's just a blip on the radar.

And it was awesome. Like, insanely awesome.

And I think that was the epiphany I was searching for in regards to this little experiment I tried, and hey, I lasted 27 days. Go me. Sheer force of will can take you so far, but a really great orgasm (or 5) can take you farther.

Conor came over since he couldn't make it back out to his place in Brooklyn (damn those subways) and we discussed serial killers at length while drinking bottles of wine. He asked me what I thought it was that was so fascinating about them, why people are so drawn to studying them. I told him that I thought it had something to with ritual (ah, me and ritual--The Quotable Ritual). Ritual, and the practice of it, is something sacred and revered. The serial killer takes something that is should be sacred and uses it in the exact opposite of its intention. And it's a mentality that is foreign and frightening to the rest of us. So we watch it looking to the way where their ideas on ritual got so defiled.

Conor thinks it's because he wants to be one. Awesome. I'm so glad you're sleeping over tonight.

So my bed was occupied all weekend. Ashlee Friday, Conor Saturday. Apparently, if your birthday is January 30, you have free access to my bed. Which, just so you know, adds Justin Timberlake to the list. Very do-able.

I've also decided to back on my meds. If it had been a couple months ago, I would be skeptical because it would seem so reactionary, but this journal is a good way of tracking my emotional state over a longer period of time. And these mood swings are getting intense when I'm at a point in my life where everything is stable. This implies something more than just having "a case of the Mondays." I go from feeling really content and on top of things, to utter self-hatred and a desire to exit the planet. These are thoughts that spurred me on before to seek help, and I can recognize it again.

It's not weak, like I had previously thought. It's a nice mix of genetics and temperament. And I need the meds like sticking your feet in the sand to slow the momentum of the swing. Ain't no shame in that, kids, ain't no shame.

But I'm feeling good today. I feel quiet (though the length of this entry might indicate otherwise). I like the people at my office, and the only obnoxious one is out today, so it's blissfully a non-nasal work environment. Tomorrow's a different story, but for now, all is quiet on the Cubicle Front.

An ending note:
Have you ever drank water while you were peeing? Doesn't it feel like a waste somehow?

Pretty Pretty Princess of the Weekend...

Porn and Chocolate got a face-lift. Te gusta? Me gusta. I'm still tweaking the html--if you click on the google link, it takes you to overheardinnewyork.com. I don't know why--techno-retarded, remember? member? member that?

I also don't know why, but I'm ten times more sore today than I was yesterday. Humph. I'm hobbling around the office like Quasimodo.

[indistinguishable grunts]

I will take you to the tower, my lovely Esmerelda.

I'm listening to Lauren Hill. This song describes every man I've ever fallen for. Except take out the God references--I find my epiphanies on my own like a good little existentialist. Man. For real. And listening to it reminds me fondly of Kristen. You're everywhere, girl (Belle and Sebastian, our Lauren Hill adventure).

Conor came over for the OC (I'm slowly entering my single girl schedule) and I was on my bed, shaking out my hair which had been up all day. He gives me a weird look.

"What?"

"You look so pretty today. Did you masturbate? You're glowing."

Ha ha. Though I'm really starting to fade on this 40 days thing. I'm kinda set on getting laid this weekend (which means, of course, I won't, but all the same...).

"No."

"I walked in and thought, 'Why are you so pretty today?'"

I think I answered it had to be the yoga. More likely, though, it's because Conor hasn't had sex in a month. Even I'm starting to look good to him [ed note: This is not a self-hatred no-one-could-ever-love-the-Fat-Hump-Backed-Troll sentence. Editor would like to mention that Conor often refers to the Author as his sister, and so the thought of coitus/attration with/to her must mean that he is suffering from Extreme Horniness].

Extreme Horniness. A new sport that we're apparently starting up. I think it involves who can prove they are hurting more for some lovins. It's been a month for Conor, slightly over a month for me, and Devon just looks at us with hatred since it's been since Christmas for him.

He wins!

Extreme Horniness is the game that no one wants to win, though.

I get second place, not just because of the timing, but because I stopped masturbating as well. I'm a powder keg of hormones/phermones/needing moans.

But I have my girl coming in this weekend. The happy surprise of Ashlee having a shitty day and saying "Fuck it" and getting out.

Come, child. We'll burn the motherfucka down.

Quality Girl Time. A time-zone I am unfamiliar with.

I've also decided to buy myself something pretty during lunch. My new friend Lyle (testosterone alert!) is self-indulgent in that way (being uber-gay--so not like a red level testosterone alert--definitely pink) and I have a feeling he could be a bad influence on the saving-money thing. But I haven't bought myself an article of clothing since December 17. I know because I can go on LiveJournal and find it. Sad, yes? I've used LiveJournal to figure how long I worked at Core for my resume, the last time I had sex vs. when my periods are. That part of my life, chronicled on LiveJournal, is like my Palm Pilot. Or, I guess, my journal [Editor would like to take the time to welcome everyone to State-The-Super-Obvious-Land. Try the veal.]

There's a party that's being used to raise funds for our show tonight. And then the weekend holds endless possibility. I look to it with cautious optimism.

Which means, probably I'll get drunk and fall down somewhere.

Excellent. Right on par.

Lifetime: Television for Women...

Ummm... so gazing upon just the last few entries, I have to say I put the...uh...la la la in bi-polar. Which I guess means that I suffer from bi-polalalar disorder. I'm up, I'm down, I'm all around.

Today I feel better. Mainly because I couldn't have felt worse yesterday.

But I don't like to let myself wallow too long.

I went to yoga with Chloe.

It was great. I haven't stretched really well in so long, and it was so nice just to try to clear my mind and focus on everything going on physically within me (unless I'm high I can't really clear my mind). But during the guided meditation while in downward-facing-dog (which is still a term that makes me giggle--it's up there with steaming manhole and yum-yum Bangkok--I am such a 13 year old boy), I honestly felt a lot of that tension release out of my body.

The key to yoga is to work within your own body, and not push it beyond its limitations. This was always hardest for me, since dance is such a competitive world that I could never stand it if someone else was doing the pose (in a yoga class) better than I was. But yoga isn't about competition. In fact, it's the antithesis of it. Enough yoga and slight changes in my mentality made it easier. I have learned to be more forgiving of my body. I need to learn to be a bit more forgiving of my mind (re: yesterday's hatred-of-self).

I guess it's been hard because I was always the girl who made the right choices. Abby and Amy made some pretty crazy ones when they were in high school, and now they've balanced themselves out (or as much as Amy can/will ever be balanced). And seeing some of the poorer choices they made, I always was cautious and ambitious and calculating.

But it's my turn to fuck up royally. I was so very old when I was so very young, and now is my real adolescence. So yeah, I really am a 13 year-old boy. And that means I'm going to get things wrong, but it's time to find my sea legs, kids. Yes. I have made some bad choices. Well, hell, it was about time.

I always feel amazing after yoga. I was about to be mad at my body for being horny as well, but then I remember yoga has always made me horny, even pre-40 Days of Reckoning.

I'm sore as shit today and I couldn't be happier about that. I shelled out a lot of money for a yoga pass and Chloe and I are going every Wednesday. I'm so in love with that idea I can't even tell you.

And it was nice just to hang with Chloe. We went across the street to this adorable cafe and sat and wound-down and just talked. God, I miss girl talk. I was talking to Julie before she left and she sympathized with the hanging-out-with-only-guys thing. It's hard. And the phone doesn't satisfy the need either. Sometimes you need a girl sitting across from you with their listening face and when you both get it, you laugh and casually touch their leg. And the great part (as opposed to guys) is that she has her own stuff to talk about, along the same lines as me, and so I got to listen and advise her as well.

Chloe is a great girl. She suffers from the same syndrome that Roxy does--very pretty girls with angular eyebrows must equal bitch. I fell into that when I first met her. I was intimidated by her. But she was like April, and I absolutely love it when I'm totally wrong about a person. Sure, that mentality has gotten me hurt a couple of times, but more often than not, I've gained beautiful insight and beautiful friends by realizing I'm far judgier than I'd like to admit and being open to the possibility that people are kinder, smarter, funnier than their book covers would indicate.

I skipped out on going to Yvette's puppet show. The last thing I needed was puppets, and if there could be something worse, it would be meeting up with any Degenerate when I was in a mood like that. Well, I was feeling much better after yoga, but still. I didn't wanna. And I'm not going to feel bad about that.

Plus, I came home and Haley had some news for us. [ed note: notice all the girls that are being mentioned in this entry]

Haley's going back to Texas. Like, moving back to Texas. Next month.

Whoa.

It wasn't too much of a shock. I know she's been miserable here. She's so close to her family and never really did a good job of trying to break away from them and start a life here. So she had a crappy life here and a family that wants her back and it broke her and she's broke and she's in love with a boy there...

=leaving.

I think she's still going to pay rent, though. She's legally responsible for that and she knows it, but I'm not quite sure what her plan is there. And her dad is going to continue to pay our cable bill. Which, I have to say, from a strict roommate perspective, is wicked awesome.

As her friend, I'm sad that she's leaving. But, also as her friend, I want her to be happy. And the way her life was here, I barely saw her anyway. And when I did see her, she just looked so...tired.

It's sad. Camp Tejas is dissolving. I never would have made it through the break-up with Sleazy without her, and all the fun we had when we first were here and unemployed are going to be the times that I miss with her. I hope that she finds some peace of mind back in Austin.

After such an announcement, there's really not much left to do but watch the Daily Show. Jon Stewart always does a good job of helping find some sort of calm amid the storm. And then I fell asleep and slept like the dead and had a dream that I was searching for weed in Brooklyn with people I have never met before. I wonder if I will meet them someday.

So yeah, that was my action-packed Wednesday.

Smoke. Break.

Choke
Choke
Swallow
Fol de rol

When scars
Dance on
pincushions
I
balanced
you
on a
pinhead

Tipped

You
landed
in the past
I
could
not
keep
you
for
all the world
I wouldn't know
how to

Heave
Heave
Pressure
There's so much
of
it
on
my
head
To be weightless
Breathe
Breathe
Lost breath
Lost in
kisses
caresses
moans
creaks
squeaks
till...

till...

You look
like
smoke that
dances from
my
cigarette

Wheeze
Wheeze
Sob

I will choke
until
I
swallow

Fall
down
ever so
gently into
the night
that comes
upon us
like
a
mugger
I
look
in
my pockets
and the
poem
that I
keep
there

Hack
Hack
Breaking rib
You look
like
the smoke
that
trails
from
my lips

Choke
Choke
Swallow
Fol de rol

you
disappear
as
quickly

I
should
quit.

Love is nearer death/Prove that I lie

I'm sick of ghosts.

Yesterday it was Eric's turn. I get home from rehearsal and check the mail and there it was. The timing was so weird.

When he was here, we went shopping at Mexx and I helped him pick out a sweater. He got a special membership thing with his purchase of however much and gave it to me so I could get deals on the clothes and whatnot. Very sweet, right? But I never received anything from it.

Till yesterday.

There it was, staring at me.

And I go upstairs and watch TV with Devon, where in a movie The Bowery Ballroom was prominently featured. This is where I took Eric and we met up with Conor, Amanda, and a few NTI friends.

God, here was a guy who went shopping with me, was really excited to meet my friends, and all he wanted to do was be with me. He flew halfway across the country to do it. And I ditched it? For what? A guy who is violently allergic to thinking about anyone but himself? Good choice.

You screwed over a very sweet guy. You destroyed it. You are a bad person.

This is Romantic Karma. This is the Coronation of the Locust Queen. This is come-uppence. This is Exquisite Agony.

It weighed on me all night, and I sat down at my cubicle at work and my heart snapped in two. Just snapped. I felt my heart chakra swallow up my entire self.

I'm distraught. I can't think of a single good decision I've made since moving to the city. Not one. I'm stupid and selfish and I keep making all the wrong moves. I'm embarrassed to be alive. I'm embarrassed to be crying in the office, trying to keep it under control so my mascara doesn't run or so people don't notice.

But nobody cares. I'm just a temp. We are cannon-fodder.

I walked home from rehearsal last night and I looked at my neighborhood. This is apparently my home.

There's an interesting phenomenon that the city morphs to fit your mood. When it's good, the possibilities looming over you seem infinite and impressive. When you are scared, it's oppressive. And last night? I looked at all these buildings, slight variations of each other, all reaching toward the sky, all hoping that they were taller or more unique. But since there's such an exorbitant amount of them, the individuality is lost in among the sea of buildings trying to accomplish something new. Blades of steel grass. Sharp and cold. Boring. Endless.

They house people making money
Or they make money off of housing people

I'm trying to be tall and unique and reach to the sky. So is everyone else. And so we're all anonymous.

I'm in a mood. Can you tell? I'm sorry, but I can't help it. I need an out.

The Lonely Girl's Haiku

I need you inside
Because I fear inside me
I'm really hollow

I think I'm going to burn things tonight. Ash is the purest element in the world. And I'm going to turn all that is defiled and dirty and empty and useless into nothing, into purity. Into rebirth.

I want to forget who I am. I don't like her much.

So I'm starting over.

But where the crime's committed
The crime can be forgot

What are you but my reflection?

Yesterday was a fabulous day. It was probably so great because I had very low expectations of it (blizzard, computer fuck-ups at work, my sad little heart-mode).

Yeah, there was a blizzard. I still went out.

Yeah, there was a computer fuck-up at work. My boss sent us home early

Yeah, my heart was sad. But a half-day can do wonders for that.

And I finally got contacts. I am four-eyes no more. Superb.

I met up with Devon at this bar on the Lower East Side called HiFi. It was seriously the most incredible jukebox I have ever beheld. I just keep raving about it to people. There's really no way to describe how extensive of a collection they have. I think the owner is a musician and he personally constructed the jukebox himself. It's insane. Let me see if I can remember my playlists (so show the fabulous nature of the j'box):

-Decemberists-eh, I can never remember the names
-Elastica- Car Song
-Nada Surf-Blizzard of '77
-Belle and Sebastian-Judy and the Dream of Horses (this I did in honor of Kristen, and I had to fight back getting up and dancing because I was mid-conversation when it played)
-The Donnas-Take it off (no surprise on that one)

Eh. I was drinking, so I forgot a lot of what I played. But come on, how many jukeboxes have Belle and Sebastian? It was great. I fell in love with it. I spent a lot of money on it, too. I kinda want to go back by myself and just put a lot of money into that thing and just sit and listen to it. I hate it when my songs play and I have to talk to someone. "This is my song! There's a reason I parted with a dollar and it was so I could hear this song!"

Devon invited his friend Juliette so we could meet. I have a new friend. And it's a GIRL. Something I'm most excited about. This girl is a trip--funny and sarcastic. Mid-happy hour, she invited us back to her place where she cooked for us. I'm already in love with her.

I laughed a lot, I held onto my possessions, I didn't black out, I was in bed by midnight, I made a new friend, I listened to a lot of music, ate some yummy food, maybe sent out a few drunk emails (I was REALLY excited about that jukebox), and settled into my womb bed where I had pleasant dreams.

Not bad for a Monday.