Warm comfort, Cold comfort, Southern Comfort...

This launchcast.com thing is getting out of hand. I have already decided that my first big "adult" purchase with the new job is going to be a laptop where I can download these songs and make the BEST MIX CD'S EVER!!!!

Yup. Not--Now I can donate to charity.

Not--Now I can pay all my bills on time.

Not--Now I am financially secure enough to start saving.

Hell, no. Blow it all on a fancy toy that will give me endless hours of lovely lovely music. At least it's not an iPod. Though that's probably gonna come up soon enough.

Oh, yeah, my whole point. Check these lyrics out--

There's blood in my mouth 'cause I've been biting my tongue all week
I keep on talkin' trash but I never say anything
And the talkin' leads to touchin'
and the touchin' leads to sex
and then there is no mystery left

And it's bad news
Baby I'm bad news
I'm just bad news, bad news, bad news

I know I'm alone if I'm with or without you
but just bein' around you offers me another form of relief
When the lonliness leads to bad dreams
and the bad dreams lead me to callin' you
and I call you and say "C'MERE!"

'Cause you're just damage control
for a walking corpse like me - like you

'Cause we'll all be
Portions for foxes
Yeah we'll all be
Portions for foxes

There's a pretty young thing in front of you
and she's real pretty and she's real into you
and then she's sleepin' inside of you
and the talkin' leads to touchin'
and the touchin' leads to sex
and then there is no mystery left

And it's bad news
I don't blame you
I do the same thing
I get lonely too

You're bad news
Baby you're bad news
and you're bad news
Baby you're bad news
and you're bad news
I don't care I like you
and you're bad news
I don't care I like you
I like you

--Rilo Kiley "Portions for Foxes"

Kickass. For real. And I just ordered the Postal Service CD. But just one. I can't spend my money before I make it. I take my drug test on Thursday to make it all official. I'm drinking cranberry juice right now.

So that's the happy job stuff. The supply guy was really happy for me, "They couldn't have made a better choice!" and got really excited about making my name plate and even have my phone say my name as well with all the contact info. One of the good things about looking as young as I do is that people in the office will adopt you, "Atta, girl!" They asked if I wanted to move to a different cubicle, but I'm happy here, I have a good lookout for all the comings and goings in the office (more importantly, knowing when everyone leaves so I can leave, too).

I ran into Lindsey Orman on the subway again this morning. I got the same reaction to the "I work on Wall Street" line. Yup, it's a little odd.

Walking home from work yesterday, thinking about the craziness that has been my life for the past couple of months (and this past month being kinda a doozie), I have decided it's all New York's fault. Nothing you do is crazier than anything else anyone else is doing and so it relieves all pressure for protocol or decorum from your shoulders. So, you got drunk and threw up in a street? That guy just shit himself. He wins. So you slept with an entire band? That guy doesn't like to tell his "johns" he's a guy until it's time to pay up. He's serviced the entire West Side of Manhattan. He wins.

The pace does it to you, too. Constantly on the street or sidewalk there is something buzzing past you at 30mph. I'm convinced the city itself is actually moving 30 mph to Europe or something. Maybe we'll go to Iceland. We'll be there in 20 years. But the buzzing past you knocks you off your feet sometimes, until you notice that with every step you take, your own gait is becoming sharper and faster. With all the directional changes and all the speed, life in New York becomes this insane tilt-a-whirl ride and when it slows down enough to get your bearings, you find you're gripping the sides, trying not to vomit all over the place.

But that has never stopped anyone from getting on the tilt-a-whirl.

And then Mr. Saturday Night called. On Monday Night. Hmmm...I didn't give him my number. It confirmed my suspicions from the other night.

Uh oh. This guy is a Nice Guy.

Not that I'm opposed to Nice Guys. I just don't know what to do with them. All the men in my life, though I love them dearly and treasure them as people, are assholes, at least when it comes to this kind of stuff. I was incredibly taken aback that someone had seen me naked and actually called a day or so later to "check in." I don't know what to do with that. You're supposed to avoid me until you're horny again or until our paths inexplicably cross again where we can chalk it all up to the booze and you can hit on my friend.

I'm not saying I prefer this more. I'm just saying that is a familiar experience that I can deal with. I immediately go on the defensive (which, in case everyone hasn't been completely convinced, is my sarcasm).

"Did you get home okay?"

"No, I'm still on the subway."

It came out a little bitchier than I intended. I just don't know how to be nice to a Nice Guy. It's easy to be nice to the Assholes, it creates balance. But chances are if you're sweet to me, I'm coming back at you with my rapier wit and I won't stop until I emasculate you.

But this time around, I'm recognizing these little things. Perhaps I can let this one lie. Perhaps I can avoid my usual behavior with the usual suspects and actually try to be nice.

Chances are I'm going 'round again, and hopefully I can grip tight and not vomit all over the place.