For me, It's Something I Just Do...

Sitting out on the porch with Gary, he gives me a little look.

"Is that a hickey?"

Awww, fuck. Busted.

I find hickeys to be unacceptable. I'm 23, for God's sake.

"That could be an old one."

"Could be?"

"It's best not to ask too many questions."

Done. And done. Let him wonder if I acquired it in New York, or here.

But we all know it was here.

To put it in Ashlee's terms, it was something to do. Someone, something, whatever.

He's an Argentinean friend of Mom and Gary's, who they play shuffleboard with. I joked with Mom with all the flirting he had been doing with me in the past couple of days that I could "totally tap that" if I wanted. I don't think she knew I meant to. To be fair, I don't think I meant to, either.

Perhaps I just needed to see that I could fuck someone that wasn't in Ghost Runner. And I certainly applied the theory that you just shouldn't care about these things. And certainly not care about the person.

And he was just like I imagine a Latin Lover should be. Sweet nothings and the whole bit. He said something to the effect of how he wished I would move back to Texas. I started laughing--

"What? So we can spend the rest of our lives together? We're in the back seat of your car, for God's sake."

I don't know if he took offense to that. But I didn't care if he did. It's funny.

I also learned that you cannot fuck away your feelings for someone else. Too bad. Not that I was thinking of this person while I was with my Latin Lover, just afterwards, I kinda wished it had been him. My head needs to regain control over that whole thing anyway, I just sought to do that with my loins, which is an idiotic way.

But I am nothing if not a fool.

It was fun. It was something to do. Just accept it and move on, I suppose.

I feel the reason
As it's leaving me
No, not again
It's quite deceiving
As I'm feeding the flesh
Make me Bad.

Yeah, that's Korn. I really do feel I'm back in high school. Nostalgia and Nakedness: A Southern Girl's Journey into the Real World. My memoir.

It's gonna be a doozie.

Homeward Bound...

I'm going to take my second nap of the day. I forgot how quiet the suburbs are. It's weird to me to sleep without sirens, snores, or screams. It's kinda disturbing and refreshing all the same time.

I had a ridiculous amount of fun on Friday. It started with me acquiring party favors for me and Dru. It was Dru's last day at his temp job, and the completion of my first week of my "real" job, and so there was much to celebrate.

We watched the sun go down from the roof and had a lovely conversation until I became paranoid that feeding Sleazy's cat sparkling water might kill it. Now that really would be a reason to banish my ass. Not to mention, killing a cat can't be good for the karma.

We head to a bar afterwards and order this massive beer bong that he, Junebug, and I got many moon ago. But then we realized no one had attempted to finish said beer bong with only two people. This has the potential to be really dangerous, but we do it anyway. We are swaying at the table, we are swaying in the street...

Dru has to help some idiot girl at the theatre he works at part-time and so we decide to walk to Lincoln Center.

"It'll sober us up."

It only barely did.

Lincoln Center at night is lovely. We hung out at the "reflecting pool" and lamented on how a joint would have completed the package. But, we can't get too greedy and it was waiting for us when we got back to Flatplex.

Ashlee joins us at around 11:30. Immediate infusion of energy and love. We go back to the roof. 1:00 brings Junebug home, who apparently has fallen in love with skateboarding home from work, an activity I find hilarious and adorable. Dru passes out. We stay up. Conor joins at 2:30, and for me, it's a revolving door of love.

Things are fine with Junebug. Maybe because we kept our clothes on. If I didn't have to make a flight, who knows how it would've turned out, but I'm sure everything there will work itself out the way that it needs to. If we do have sex again, there definitely need to be some ground rules about following day procedure. But in the meantime, I was just happy being his friend again.

Wasted beyond belief, we take a cab home at 3:30 so I can pack and get those kids settled into bed (with specific instructions NOT to have sex in our apartment--something that better have been strictly adhered to) and I throw shit into a bag (god knows what) and take a cab to the airport.

I was so messed up and so tired from staying up, it alleviated all my fears of flying. So this may have to be some kind of flying ritual. I sat down in my seat, and when I woke up, I was in Houston.

The animals remembered me. Cooper came up and nuzzled my nose while Chloe whined and licked my hand. Can O'Beans just sat perched above it all, not giving a shit. Wow, he really is Amy's cat.

I take a fabulous bath. Mom gives me a massage. I pass out for a few hours with Bean curled around me. See, he really does care. But only if you are unconscious.

I'm really relaxed and very happy. I love being home, and I love the idea of going back to my life in New York. Things make sense again.

More to come, but for Now...

I'm so happy to be home. And my cat is the purtiest cat that ever wurz.

This body holding me...

Dude, Tool rocks. I've been listening to them more than usual. I think I like it so much because the music feels like it needs to be out there so badly that the entire band might implode if they don't release it. And the release of energy from fusion is a whole lot more powerful than fission.

Tool is cold fusion. Makes me all tingly.

So I worked an 11 hour day today. And maybe because it was my first one (at least at one job--many times I worked a full day and then went to babysit), I didn't find it at all exhausting. I had a great time with my co-workers. Ask me again though in a few months.

So, very interesting points were made on what to do with my silly little heart and my overactive loins and this neverending stream of overanalysis.

Ashlee makes a very valid point. So does Kristen. And Abby, too.

So I've determined, after deciding that they are all right, though from many different perspectives that I should not care about the person that I care about fucking and respect who doesn't respect me so that I don't get treated like shit and not control their actions but can control mine and since I like fucking I should not care that I care and that they may not and that leaves me...

Well, absolutely nowhere.

But, as per usual, I'm horny again. So I need to decipher it soon.

The apartment is empty. I'm trying to stop my evil hand from dialing. Funny thing, my good hand is the one holding the beer. I think my left foot is the only part of me that's truly innocent, but I see the right foot eyeing it funny like it's got something in mind.

"Don't listen, left foot! The right one only wants to lead you astray!"

Ashlee comes in tomorrow. Maybe I'll just fuck her. You game, Ashlee? Of course you are.

*********
addendum
*********

Tonight I talked to Daniel, Devon, Dru, and Conor. As much as I bitch about men here, those fellas are my favorite. I truly love them and trust them. And, as I just noticed, all at the beginning of the alphabet. Maybe that's the key. Beginning of the alphabet, good. And when I examine closer, the middle of the alphabet is the worst. This emotional fuck up is brought to you by the letters J and M. And there's an L that I just don't know where to place.

Now I know my ABC's, next time please don't fuck with me...

She hopes this Lasts Forever...

I think it's funny Brazos reads this. I actually am never aware anyone does until they comment in it. So welcome, try the veal.

Yesterday was insane, and I left my phone behind. And it was a sober move, which is funny since my phone is the only thing I haven't lost while drunk. I was always so morally opposed to having a cell phone, and now without it, I feel like I'm missing a limb or something. What a difference a year makes, eh?

Devon left for Texas today. I was like, "Woo Hoo! I can masturbate ALL THE TIME!"

Then Devon told me Magical Mystery Roommate has a friend coming in today and so she'll actually be there. With a friend. I'm trying to be good, Lord, and not fuck guys who hate me, but you're gonna take away my masturbation rights, too?

You say, "Well, they'll be in the other room."

Yeah, but my vibrator's been on the fritz lately, and now when I turn it on, it sounds like a jackhammer (just how I like it--not really). I practically have to make sure the entire apartment building is cleared out before I can turn it on. With the exception of the upstairs neighbors, who fuck very loudly and very often. Devon and I actually mute the TV and listen to it like it's Cinemax. So I don't care if they hear me. You know, karma and all.

Eep. Just got the word--time for the tedious stuff, which will keep me away from my computer all day. Have a pleasant one, kids.

Human Nature, I guess...

This stupid, stupid heart of mine.

There's this monologue from Daniel's play that I find particularly relevant:

"The dream of love propels us. It's not lessened because it's only a dream. There's no only about it...There is no dream of feeling versus real feeling. Emotion itself is a fiction. Powerful and false...So what if everything you say is intellectually calculated to give the impression of depth of emotion? You can decide to be in love. You can decide to be happy. You must be able to or what's the point of being a person? Why not just be a dog or a bowl of pudding?"

Which means, you can decide not to feel a certain way.

All men are violent. It's what they do. If they're not literally beating you up, they're kicking your heart around like it's Free Friday in gym class.

I prefer the actual bruises, to be honest. I can pinpoint them and I can treat them. But maybe that's just because of the way I was raised.

I wish that when we have had sex, he would just punch me during, as opposed to not giving a shit after.

It's not the sex I regret. Sex is a biological function. Like violence. We are all trapped by fight or flight or fuck. You just can't allow yourself to care.

I ruined a friendship because of it all. Friendship means you care, and you should never care about someone you're fucking. That's where it all goes awry.

But if you can allow yourself to care, it should be reversible, right? Powerful and false all this is.

[sidenote: the reading went well, in my opinion]

In conclusion, if you can't make your mind think otherwise, you have to numb it. I'm done being honest. And I'm done being sober.

Bottoms up.

Yes, but I'm an ACTRESS...

My eye is acting up again. Damnit. It's really all the fault of Flatplex. It all started there. Of course, if I didn't allow myself to sleep in my contacts while there, it wouldn't be a problem, but personal responsibility is for people who can't come up with something better.

We have our reading tonight for the producers. Send some positive chi my way, would ya?

I was told I have nothing to do today. I can't really do any real work until I get my computer training, which shouldn't happen until Thursday. So I have written in my 10439072305723 blogs and am corresponding via the internal network with Marina, who has already moved on to D.C.

I have to keep looking up all the medical terminology for this case. I love you, Dictionary.com. I swear, if I ever get to the end of this summary, I think I get an honorary medical degree.

"Help! This man is choking! Is there a doctor in the house?"

"Right here."

"Well, help him, for God's sake!"

"Umm...I can only help him if he is having a Gastrointestinal Incident based on his consumption of over 50mg of a COX-2 NSAIDS, which shouldn't be likely because EVERYONE knows that NSAIDS have a lower incidence of GI events and are actually cardioprotective."

[man dies]

But I sound really smart, don't I?

Of course, I really have no idea what any of that means. There's only so much that Dictionary.com can do for me.

I do it 'Cause I Learned it from You...

Lots of info to take in. There's a 5000 page information guide to the case I'm working. My boss:

"Just try to familiarize yourself with the case."

Medical and legal jargon are swirling around in my head like alphabet soup.

My brain feels fried. But everyone seems really nice so far.

They put me at Marina's desk, which is odd. I've already called her for help. I have a feeling this is going to happen a lot.

But happy still. This part of my life seems to be settling down. As for other parts, just business as usual. Crazy, crazy business, but business nonetheless.

My heart needs to make a decision, my brain needs to chill out, and my bank account needs to be fed. All these needs. I have to let go of the wants.

Do you Like Pina Coladas?

And dancing in the rain?

'Cause I've earned both, methinks.

Kristen, check out Blogpod.

1 hour, 15 minutes.

I need a cigarette.

My freedom is so close I can almost taste it.

Hmm...

Tastes a lot like coffee on further inspection.

You can Check Out Any Time You Like...

Last day at Crap Temp Job.

There are many reasons why I'm on Cloud Nine. But that one's the biggest one today.

I took my lunch break and listened to my Dirty Thursday mix (which is all pop music that if under interrogation, I would deny ever possessing such things). Today is grey and colder and rainy, which normally would not put me in a pleasant mood, but today I just can't be sad. Too much possibility on the horizon. And because of all the nasty weather, Central Park was pretty deserted. The one perk of this job is that it's right on the southern tip of the park, and I always spend my entire lunch hour walking around. Central Park is the best gift the city has ever given its residents. And I even like it when it's grey like it is today. Makes the park look haunted. And you know how I love me some haunted stuff. The lost Bronte sister am I.

Today was not a walk around day. I literally skipped, pausing only to smoke a cigarette or yes indeedy, to take a dance break. A woman walking her dog saw me and chuckled to herself. Yes, I bet I look crazy, but you're the one holding a bag of shit in your hand. Who's crazy now, huh?

The nice thing about temping is that you meet a lot of different people. Today was this one temp's first day (she's taking over the floors I used to work) and it turns out she's a dance teacher and has a studio. She herself teaches Cunningham Modern. $10 a class. I'm there like a crack whore is in Bronx for her first fix of the day. Yay, affordable dance classes! And they have Pilates there, too.

Very giddy. If I didn't know better, I would think I was on drugs. Good ones, too.

Dirty Thursday was great. You know it's a good Dirty Thursday when you pass out before your friends leave.

[an imaginary conversation]

"Why, she just must be plumb-tuckered out from all that OC goodness. What a little angel. Let's just let her be."

end scene.

I'm sure they just stuck my hand in warm water, hoping I wet the bed. Silly kids, didn't you notice my rubber sheets? I always wet the bed.

That was a joke. I don't wet the bed. I swear.

[looks down in shame, curses her vagina]

See how giddy I am?

[wets cubicle]

I told you I don't wet the bed. Cubicles are a different matter entirely.

Four o'clock will roll around eventually and then I'm sooooo outta here. I don't even care if it rains on me, I'm toying with the idea of walking home. From 59th Street. Through the park. With my Dirty Thursday mix. Sounds good. Sentence fragments bad.

Me Carrie. Me Employed. Need Fire.

It seems so out of Context...

Perhaps I'm just used to viewing the world in a half-asleep way. Strung out from not enough sleep, sometimes the buildings sway and the pavement becomes the sky.

Today the world is right-side-up. My hands are not shaking. And my eye is no longer infected.

Quite possibly all these reasons contribute to the extremely good mood I found myself in this morning.

Devon and I really have become an old married couple. He's worse, though. I was exhausted yesterday since I was still on my insomnia kick, but the two of us went to bed at 9:30. He hasn't stayed up past 10 since our epic, debaucherous Saturday night.

And you know what? Fuck off, it was fabulous.

And today the weather is lovely. Today is Dirty Thursday and Conor finally doesn't work, so it can be done up proper. Of course, it will be sad without Keleen, but I suppose that leaves more booze and pot for us (not that Keleen would take too much of the pot-she's a one-hit wonder when it comes to that stuff--one hit and you wonder how she's managing to stand up straight).

We also had a Laura Drill last night. But what is a Laura drill, you ask? Well, in accordance with her 95 passive-aggressive Theses, Devon will remove all his hair products from her bathroom when she calls to say she's staying at the apartment (apparently, it disturbs her to see another person's products in "her" bathroom). So, before bed, Devon gathers up all his shit and moves it into our side.

We sleep like little angels. Laura never shows.

Devon was a little grumpy about it. I told him it was just practice for whenever she did decide to show up. Hence, a Laura Drill.

That's all I got today. I was talking to Keleen last Friday about music, and a guy leaned over and said, "If you like all that, you should have one of my CDs." And proceeds to hand me the CD. I just put it in here at work. They're call Hopewell and The Birds of Appetite. I have to say, for just being handed a random CD on the subway, it's really good.

I apparently am becoming an Indie Rock Princess. But there are worse things. I could be the Anal Queen.

I'm out.

[flashes peace sign, blesses the water]

Go forth, little ones.

Worked Hard all my Lifetime...

Ugh.

Another not-quite-so-restful night. I'm struggling to stay awake.

I didn't do anything crazy last night. Just rehearsal and TV watching.

Cliff and I walked from Chloe's place to the subway. We haven't hung out in a while, and I always seem to forget how much fun we have together.

We are sooooo A.D.D. it's ridiculous. I don't think we can ever finish one topic of discussion.

Last night, it was a matter of us talking about serious type matters and then one of us who had lost the attention of the other would break out into "Oh, Lord, wontcha buy me a Mercedes Benz..."

And then we're dancing in the street while singing it.

Wait a minute. Weren't we just talking about something important?

Yes. But now we can't recall such things. Cliff, because he's moved on to other paranoid thoughts and me, because that was a lot of pot ago.

Love that kid. Indeed, I do.

I wrote this two minutes ago to entertain myself. I just want to see how it looks. I'm sure I'll end up deleting it because I hate my poetry, but whatever.

[clears throat]

I exhaled into your skin
Watched my breath curl around your neck
And wondered if it strangled you.
The trail slid across your collarbone
I lay there, enraptured by both occurences
Fascinated by the ebb and flow of your breath
And the invisible trajectory of mine
I wondered if it strangled you.
I almost wished that it did.
It would make the next day easier
To leave no witnesses
To the lowering of my guard.
No one would know I let our breath mingle and dance
To the beat of their own intoxication
As your chest moves in
And moves out
And I exhale into your skin.
I wonder if it strangles you.

El fin. That was inspired by a Charmed rerun that I like. Yay, Charmed!

I'd say pinch me because I'm dreaming, but I'm not asleep. For that, I can only hope.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind...

Keleen has parted this fair city. Makes me a little sad, since I don't think I have giggled this much with someone in a two month period since moving to New York. The only other person who has the effect of making me extremely girly is April, who I will be seeing soon enough when I head back to Texas, and when she comes up to New York in early June.

Nice to hold on to your roots. Keleen was comfort food for my New York weary soul.

I have decided, after careful consideration (this consideration takes place because last night I could not sleep to save my life--Conor was crashing with me and I was all wiggly so I took my insomniac ass into the other room to ponder life) to erase the past 8 months from my memory bank. Yup. None of it happened.

All the past entries have been entire works of fiction. I've been teaching myself to build the perfect model airplane this whole time.

I almost have it down.

Next, I'm going to start in on the knitting. I hope to have at least two scarves and a couple fuzzy hats by next winter.

All the weird bruises were just by-products of me trying to feing shui the apartment, certainly not from drunken carousing, human wounds, or broken glass. And a mysterious scratch that has scarred my upper thigh, which has to have come from a cat-sitting accident or by dropping a medical tool at my candy-striping gig.

See? People underestimate denial. I haven't felt this good in months. Well, 8 months to be exact.

This junk in my Trunk Ain't Made for Chumps...

Thanks, Lil' Kim. You're so right. Slutty and empowering all in one go.

There's that Bright Eyes song with the lyrics--

I should feel cheap
But I just feel free

Friday Keleen and I drank our way down Manhattan, to Brooklyn where we played Kings with Ryan and Daniel (I scolded Jason for not staying). We headed back to Queens to crash out at her place (depressingly fabulous, but of course, it is in Queens--this is always the trade-off on property in New York). She tried to trick the car service into charging us less, relying on the charms of the two inhabitants to get us a deal, but she was trying too hard. We still got quite a deal. I've paid the same for going from Harlem to the Lower East Side, and here we were going from the bottom of Brooklyn out into Woodside, Queens. So yeah. Not interesting.

Keleen got free tickets to the Comedy Club for her birthday, and we wrangled up 10 people to join us. Keleen wanted all the boys to come, and I bet her $5 that Sleazy wouldn't show, and that if any of them did, it would be Dru. But she was bankrolling me all night, so I don't feel right collecting it from her.

She wanted to hang on the Flatplex roof one more time before she went (Danger! Danger!) and so we head back. God, I love that roof. We all stay up there all night, well past when the light starts to come up, and somewhere along the way the boys' friend Robin and Grady as well as Junebug join the festivities (Robin I decided is my new BFF-very cool chick, that one is).

As per usual, the last two standing were me and Junebug. If you know where this is going, give yourself a slap on the back. And then a slap on the ass for good measure.

I had said I was contemplating how long it would take me to get laid, and the answer is 2 days.

But here's the problem (and we're avoiding all the obvious ones):

I don't know what it is. Junebug and I get along fabulously when we are hanging out, and when we are "hanging out" it's also really good.

Then we wake up the next day. And then it all goes to Hell.

All the other boys were gone (Sleazy apparently hadn't been heard from in days) and so it was me and Junebug. The hangover I'm experiencing is impressive, to say the least. The banter is good, but even still, he sits at the computer while I lie on the futon.

"You know, since I'm feeling generous, I could move over so you can sit down."

"I'm okay here."

Well. Whatever. I guess.

But that's not too bad, I guess. But then Caleb and Sleazy come home and we're right back to him not looking at me. Then Junebug and Caleb leave for the Food Festival (I was mid-cigarette) and he doesn't even say bye. Maybe it was the hangover, but this felt like a punch to the gut. I almost started crying.

Rule 1: Never cry at Flatplex.

Sleazy comes downstairs and thankfully doesn't look at me as well because he's heading into the shower. I call out, "I'm glad you're not dead." and run out of there as quickly as I can. I wonder if this will be the last thing I ever say to him.

I like to think that it's Junebug's guilt or Shame Spiral that makes him act this way, since I know that he is a good guy. One of the best guys I know. But in 2.5 seconds, he managed to make me feel like a non-existent whore, and that kids, is not good. It's not okay.

I come home. I sleep. I wake up and puke up my life. I go to bed at 9.

A new life starts for me soon. New job, the end of my financial woes for a while, and a trip back to Texas. I'm taking it as a rebirth, and I will come back a new woman who takes her job seriously and takes how men treat her even more seriously, and perhaps I could even toy with the idea of being a mature adult.

Right now, though, I have to leave for my final week as a crap-ass-receptionist. You know what that means. More fucking Cosmo. And the cycle continues.

No head in the oven for Me!

I was sitting at my desk, about to post a very depressed entry.

I was trying to come up with an accurately depressing title when my cell rang.

I start the 23rd. No drug test (funny enough, my dad was concerned about that, though he does not know the real reason why I got fired from the Exchange).

I suppose that's how the universe works. Seriously kids, of all the tough things I've gone through since moving to New York, the firing and following poverty and disenchantment has been the toughest.

I was suicidal in as much as I ever get suicidal. I have .98 in my checking account, and I didn't think I'd get the job. With rent looming ominously and with no way to get out of the cycle of overdrawing until my paycheck came in and then only having about $10 left until the next week.

In my state, I still keep a sense of humor. I chuckled to myself that I couldn't even afford a bottle of aspirin to kill myself with. Not that I really felt I would kill myself, but I was in a state of utter despair about it all.

You get thrown a life raft every once in a while. I find that when I am at my most hopeless, the universe reminds me to stick around a little bit more and wait it out.

Hopelessness is actually a Buddhist quality. In that you cannot really expect for anything to happen, the next moment of your life is not gauranteed, so when it comes, it is just as much of a blessing as when something truly fortuitous happens.

I had given up hope. That is a good thing. I was depressed about it, which is a bad thing.

"When could you start?"

"I could come in tomorrow if you needed me to."

"That won't be necessary, but I appreciate your enthusiasm."

Little did he know, it had little to do with enthusiasm and more to do with desperation. But I'll take a compliment when it comes.

I'm going to be working on a securities case with a very sweet Irish woman, who was one of the lawyers I met with in my interview. We got along quite famously. The other paralegal is a devastatingly gorgeous young fella named Leif. I will be working some ridiculous late nights with this guy. Can't even tell ya how excited about that one I am. A perk of the job they didn't advertise, but should. No hanky panky in the office, though. I'll have to take it outside.

Breathe. Exhale. I will sleep easy tonight.

It is only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation that that which is indestructable in us be found.

HOLY CRAP HOLY CRAP

I GOT THE JOB!!!!

I'm so happy I'm crying. God, I'm a dork.

I start May 23rd.

Fuck you, temp agency that has been the bane of my existence these past few months.

After much delay...

Fuck this job. I'm writing on this anyway.

I can't read any more newspapers. I cannot read any more Cosmo. I'm tapped out.

There are many reasons why I should not read Cosmo. Pages and pages of sex talk does not help a girl with my kind of...appetite. I'm sitting at work and pondering how quickly I can get myself laid. It's bad. Crawling-out-of-my-skin-bad.

More importantly, it's a shitty magazine. I'm amazed at how, month after month, they still can claim "24983472 NEW ways to please your lover!" Seriously, kids. There's got to be a limit somewhere. Pretty soon, everything will be covered and one month, the magazine will just be completely blank.

Now, I'm all for new and interesting things when it comes to sex, sure. And once in a while, I pick up something from the magazine that I actually find useful in practical application.

But I think just to have something new to say, it's getting more and more ridiculous. Now it seems you can't have sex without a mini-fridge, a toolbox, and at least 10 electrical and battery operated devices. And while you can mix it up, I think sex is pretty great by itself. So enough with the goats, already.

This month they talked about how when a guy gives it to you, missionary-like, for him to scissor your legs in and out with each thrust. Not only does that sound ridiculous to me (though to be fair, most sex stuff is silly sounding when written or spoken about--best just to do). But the guy would have to have some serious multi-tasking skills to be able to pull this off without pulling your legs off. And maybe I'm sleeping with the wrong guys [insert joke here] but during sex is not the best time to demand too much of the man. If it's good, they can't recall their name, much less juggling your legs around while trying to get business done.

And that's what I have to say about that.

Oh yeah, couldn't do Alvin Ailey. Too broke and couldn't take off work.

I called to check in about the interview.

"He just stepped out. Can I get your number so he can call you back?"

No call back yet.

It's looking grim.

Hey Kristen, could your mom or you or someone recommend another firm I might send my resume to? I need a permanent job. BAD.

But for now, I'm going to learn how to use a brillo pad as a sexual device.

God, I hate my life sometimes.

I'm the Fairy Godmother of Hooking Up...

"Carrie, you're a bad influence on me."

"Is that a problem?"

"No, it's fabulous!"

"Well, then I'm not making you into anything you didn't already want."

"I have so much fun with you. I love your friends."

"I love them too. Now go make out with Dru."

Done. And done.

Hooking up two very sweet people is a very difficult task. Because they don't view the world as phermonally as the rest of us. Devon and I practically had to order them to hang out alone so they could make out. They wanted to, they just didn't know how to go about it.

So we did what we could. Cute kids, those two.

As for me?

"Here we find ourselves again."

"Yup."

"That's weird."

"Weirder things have happened."

"I know."

I realize that I use that phrase "weirder things have happened" extremely frequently. It's New York's effect on me. Nothing I do is weird because there is far freakier shit going on. And so I end up where I end up.

And yet, I'm happy. No Shame Spiral. Maybe that's the freakiest part of all.

My favorite part on a guys body is in between their shoulder blades. I settle in there and sleep. I wake up and the world is too bright and my head is killing me. I kiss his cheek and make my way home, fighting desperately to stay awake on the train so I don't wind up in the Bronx. I wind up back home and curl up into the fetal position with my teddy bear, the only unconditional love in my life right now, and sleep like the dead.

And now, with $10 to my name, I have to go to a birthday party at a club. I can't get into too much trouble because I don't have the money to. Poverty as a means of morality.

And yet, I've never met a sin I didn't like.

So we'll see.

Oy Vey...

Yup. I'm gonna use it.

Here it is.

Yesterday was...

Wait for it...

Wait for it...

epic.

I should mention that at this crap job I'm at now they won't let me use the internet. For anything. I got yelled at for checking my email. Fuckers. I so need a real job.

But on that note, my interview with the law firm is on Monday. So let's keep our fingers crossed, shall we?

As you recall, I was supposed to tag team between the poetry slam and Ghost Runner show. Turned out, poetry slam doesn't happen on the first Wednesday of the month, so it was all Ghost Runner all the time. I hung out with Boy Dejour beforehand, and after, I asked Conor,

"Do you think he's still interested? Maybe he had forgotten what I looked like. He seemed quiet."

"Oh, he's smitten. He's usually very boisterous and talkative. He saw you and I've never seen him turn so shy."

Well, I was rocking a new pretty thing that can silence a man from 40 paces.

But giggle. Crushes are fun. One step at a time.

Keleen and I danced like freaks all throughout the show. Spring joined along. Somewhere along the way, Spring convinces me to come with her and Chris back out to Brooklyn to hang out, consume more substances, and help clean her place for her parent's arrival (guess which activity fell by the wayside--if you guessed cosuming more substances, then you don't know me at all).

We stayed up all night talking--threesome-free this time. Seriously. We went on a booze run at 5:30 in the morning. I was chugging the rest of my drink as I headed out the door to run home, change and go back to work.

God, I needed girl talk. And especially with someone like Spring. I told her, she is the type of person who inspires honesty in others. Nothing shocks her. I tell her everything. I tell her bad shit. She doesn't blink an eye. I talk about my pain, and she does not feel pity. Thank god. She just listens, offers her stories and her perspective and it was an emotional vomit-fest that cleansed my soul. I truly love that girl. A total surprise, she is. I love people who surprise you. I love having a new girl friend who I feel extremely comfortable around. Which is funny, since we've fucked, but hey, weirder stuff has happened on this crazy Earth.

I have no idea how I made it through work today.

I tell Daniel about my night.

"Like a rockstar should."

I am a rockstar. Hopefully a rockstar-paralegal soon. God I hope I get that job. Please, everyone, summon your positive chi for me on Monday. It's a double whammy. Alvin Ailey and permanent, adult-type job that would pay rent and cure my financial woes.

OK, God. I know I'm being a bit of a whore right now, I do a lot of drugs and booze, I'm selfish and self-absorbed and irresponsible and I'm pretty sure the amount of times I've used your name in vain would make George Carlin blush, but I could really use a break right now. I'll work on all that other stuff, just let me keep my booze and drugs, and beyond that, I'll be Mother Theresa.

I just realized that I titled this "Oy, Vey" which I'm pretty sure Mother Theresa would never use, but I'm not starting my new career as a saint today.

It's almost 6. Almost bedtime. Wake me up when the world makes sense again.

This may be hilarious...

But now I have to rethink all my male friends...

Flame-throwers and Figments of Imagination...

I stupidly put my contacts in yesterday, thinking everything was cool, and now my right eye is all flamed up like a Gay Pride Parade. The Parade route goes right through my cornea.

I'm too impatient for my own good. And I desperately need to look cute this week. The set-up with the Boy DeJour should be happening. Possibly tonight. And I look like a rabid bunny (hey, anyone remember Bunnicula? I know you do, Abby).

I'm double-booked this evening. Conor is doing his slam poetry and I promised Keleen I'd take her to a Ghost Runner show. But, as luck would have it, the two places are right next to each other and both have free admission so I figure I can wander back and forth between my obligations.

And I'm so overdrawn it's ridiculous. The paycheck that I pick up today will all but disappear as soon as I deposit it. My cell bill will have to wait until, well, let's see how long it can wait.

I had a dream of having awkward sex with David Schwimmer. I've never found the bloke attractive, figures that the dream sex would be bad.

Don't know why I threw that in there. Probably because I hadn't mentioned sex in 2.5 seconds.

Rehearsal got cancelled last night. We're doing the reading for the producers at the theatre at the end of the month, right before I fly back to Texas. It would be nice to come home with some nice news, like--

"I'll never have to temp again. The producers think the show is so brilliant they're going to pay us a million dollars just to say, 'thanks for doing the best piece of theatre. Ever.'"

Or I'll settle for, "Here's 50 bucks. Go to, kids. Go to."

So Devon and I drank beer and watched American Idol. There was this commercial for this watch that tells you when you're fertile--"Now conceiving can be as simple as looking at your watch."

Who are they kidding? For conceiving? I want to get that shit so I know when to lock myself in the apartment.

"Come on, baby. I want you so bad."

"LOOK AT THE WATCH!" [looks at watch--reads fertile]

"I totally lost my erection."

"Me, too. Let's watch Gilmore Girls."

end scene.

I turned down the temp job. I have another one, but I figure I'm just gonna be "sick" on Monday for the audition. And hopefully by the end of next week, I'll have the job at the law firm. We'll see. Cautious optimism.

[looks up to sky]

Nothing? Phew, I'm safe.

[anvil drops]

Aww, hell.

Sure, I may not know the Girl, but Has that ever Stopped Me?

Holy crap. I still have an hour to go here at work (this job lasts until 5:30--Boo, I say. Boo!).

So I write again. My previous state of melancholy overshadowed that I actually have news to report.

But first--from Heather:

Caroline,

I have hated [oh we all know who but for the sake of my blog fears] since the early days when Abby gave me your old blog address. You guys had just broken up and I checked out his blog to read a super enchanting entry about how super awesome he was since he shagged some lame groupie of his lame-assed band.

I read it, I thought for a minute, and for the first time in my life I used the word "Prick."

I think that sums it up. Really I get all teary eyed and nostalgic just thinking about it.

This made me laugh out loud on multiple levels. Mainly because I know Heather is probably in general horrified by the things I recount in this here blog o' mine. I don't know Heather at all, only what Abby has told me about her, but the key point which makes that last bit funny is that she's Mormon and probably risked damning her soul just to curse him. Thanks Heather, not that I have any standing with God, but if he holds it against you, I got your back. Chicks before dicks. Or something. Whatever.

Oh yeah, so actual news (not borne of maudlin elevator rides):

--Daniel's play got accepted into the Fringe Festival. So it goes up this summer, and we're psyched about it (I'm gonna fight for a better costume). It will be good publicity for the company, for Daniel's play, and for us lowly players.

--We have our seated reading with a producer tonight. Hopefully I can run home from this place and shower before going out to Brooklyn to do it. Although my character could be seen as grungy, I would prefer not to be.

--The name of the boy........ooo....I'm not ready to disclose names. Like I said, I'll hold off until the anvil drops and I can report on the matter in my usual smart-ass way. But he's cute and funny and NOT in a band.

So this is what I'm saying about how I have no right to be as sad as I feel (though to be fair, researching goofy stuff and Heather's comment and whatnot have perked me up a bit).

And just so Abby doesn't think she can steal my thunder:

That would be a good thing for them to carve on my tombstone: Wherever she went, including here, it was against her better judgment.
--Dorothy Parker

Shit. 50 minutes. Holy Hell. Will this day never fuckin' end?

[and in four sentences, Heather, I've out-cursed you. Maybe I shouldn't try to put in a good word for you with God. He could hold it against you.]

You want some candy, Little Girl?

It's sort of tragic how melancholy I am today.

So here's a dilemma and I could use some advice: I accepted a temp position that would be for two weeks, but somewhere in there (mainly next Monday) is my Alvin Ailey audition. Do I call the temp agency and tell them if they want me for that job that someone needs to cover for me, respectfully decline the position saying another conflict came up, or what? I need the money and temp agencies are nothing if not passive aggressive and if you screw them they will do their damnedest to screw you back and I need money.

What do I do?

I suppose I shouldn't care. I don't want to temp and I don't want the job they offered. I do want to dance. So why do I care? And what's the diplomatic way of approaching the situation?

Because just as rent passes, it looms again in the future. But there's the law firm position that I'm interviewing for this week and that would earn me more money than I can possibly imagine. So do I hold out for that? If it falls through, there is no end to how royally screwed I will be, but Marina says that my chances are very good. And they don't drug test--hoozah!

I don't know. I looked at myself today (another one-day boring ass reception job) and it was the first time I really thought I looked my age. I kinda found it sad that I look as old as I am. But then I went to go get cigarettes and got carded, even in my business suit, and it cheered me up a bit.

I'm still sad, though. Don't know why. I've been on a happy-binge for a couple of days and I guess this is just the come-down. For no reason at all, I started crying in the elevator up to the 29th floor.

Things aren't too bad. In fact, comparatively, things look much better than they did even a few weeks ago. There's even a decent boy prospect on the horizon. But more on that as it develops, or not. I put very little stock in boys these days. There's always a catch, always an anvil that's waiting to be dropped on your head as you turn around the bend.

Maybe I'm ovulating or something. Maybe it's the aftermath of the Incredible Jeejer Cream. Sure, intense pleasure and even more intense orgasm, but maybe it's worse than coming down from X or cocaine.

Chances are I just need to stop feeling sorry for myself. But blogs are nothing if not self-indulgent and whiny. I promise I'll try to be happy and funny tomorrow.

The verdict is in...

HOLY SHIT THIS STUFF IS INSANE!!!!

Oh my god. Oh my god.

I'm never leaving the apartment.

Sorry Kristen...

Didn't mean to keep you waiting--Friday I was babysitting and today neither temp agency has anything for me, so it's another lounge around and listen to music while bemoaning my status.

I actually should be really worried that I'm not working very steadily. But I'm not. I got an eye infection from another debaucherous sleep-in-my-contacts night and so I need today to dwell in peaceful darkness and pretend that my right eye doesn't want to just fall out.

Keleen gave me some shit for it though and I should be good to go soon enough. Saturday I just wanted to die, though. Utter death. I. hate. eye. pain. I broke my finger and cried at first, I've ruptured ear drums without a tear. Eye pain? Hurts too much to cry and I hate that.

Blah Blah Blah. Pain. Boo.

I took Murray (the 7 year old) to a birthday party on Friday at Chelsea Piers, and realized it was the first time I had been there and I only went there because I was being paid to. So I've decided if my eye doesn't fall out or rot out, I need to actually see stuff in the city. It was a gymnastics party and I watched him jump into those foam blocks and was taken waaaaaaaay back to my gymnastics days. Man, I was so not cut out for that. Nerves of steel, you must have for that. Nerves of wet noodles is what I've got.

But I got birthday cake, so I guess it all works out in the end.

Saturday was roommate bullshit. Remember my invisible roommate Laura's passive-agressive 95 Theses? (she had the note posted on our door) She called to talk about it, and it's a good thing Devon was talking to her because had I been on the phone it would have been Game.Over. I don't get mad very often, but when I do, it is not pretty. In essence, she wants us to pretend that the other side of our apartment doesn't exist and it is solely hers. Many problems with this as I'm sure you can imagine:

1)She doesn't pay half the rent. She has no rights to half the apartment.
2)She is never home. She claims she needs her space to come home to. You know what? So do we. So how selfish is it of her to demand that we can never use that space to escape because of the off-chance it might be one of the two times she comes home a month. We said we won't touch her stuff, or even sit on her goddamned bed, but to act like all that dead space isn't there is irrational and unreasonable.
3)Johnny (her boyfriend) thinks she's being a pushover with us. I don't even know what to say except she may like Johnny to "daddy" her, but don't dare pull that shit with me. You ain't my daddy, you ain't my fuck, and you don't pay rent. You have absolutely no say in the matter, Mr. High-and-Righteous-who-Taped-Himself-Having-Sex-With-Another-Girl.

And on. And on. But I'm just getting mad again. But like I said, it was a good thing it was Devon and not me, I wouldn't have been nearly as diplomatic.

My jeejer cream is in. I'm gonna go pick it up from the Post Office, and then I might just use that shit all day. Until I drop, kids. Until I drop.