Teddy Bears and Terminated Blogs...

Uncle Sam took so much of my big, big paycheck. That made me sad. Still better than any paycheck I've seen in my life, but still...

[ed note: Stop being so greedy]

I'm in a bit of a mood. I did some spring [ed note: Summer. It's almost July. It's summer now. Yeah, but we barely had a spring, so I'm sticking with that. Then you're a fool. Have I ever claimed otherwise?] cleaning and cleared out unwanted names from phones, blogs, emails and the like. Summer of change means that you actually have to change things [ed note: Oh, NOW it's summer. Shut up]. It's muggy here [Hello, Summer! Jesus, will you ever let me finish a sentence?!] and I keep leaving things behind (I left my book at the bank walked all the way back to work when I realized it, and booked it [clever] back to pick it up and became a sweaty, stinky mess).

Is that really all it takes to put me in a bad mood? I'm like the Madonna of mood swings. Constantly re-invented.

The plan is to leave the city for the weekend. Again. I'm liking this bail-out thing. I see why everyone does it. I'm far less likely to get myself into trouble this way. You could call it running away from my problems, but I like to think of it as running to my solutions.

I didn't sleep very well last night. The emotional overhaul I'm pulling has left me restless and slightly despondent. Plus, my bedframe broke and so I sleep on an angle now. It's like being on the edge of the world. I pondered for a good time, not being able to fall asleep, when it's going to be time to stop sleeping with my teddy bear. I'm 23, for God's sake. And then I thought about all my options--I didn't want to donate or give him away, if I sent him back to Kingwood the animals would destroy him, and if he's still with me I'm always going to want him with me in my bed. I can't believe I've become so codependent on an inanimate object. I think he's the reason I never sleep well when I sleep with a guy. There's something lacking with men that Fluffy's got--maybe familiarity, maybe comfort [Maybe you're just a crazy bitch. Hey...] I think I'd stick completely with Fluffy if he could kiss me. I'd even give up sex [Who are YOU kidding? I could. I did it for 22 years, bitch.]

I don't know. My thoughts are filled with longing and hope and desperation. I had a conversation about desperation being an essential part of being an artist, but I long for a small amount of stability. I think the closest I'll ever get is something rent-stabilized.

Here you go, Kristen...

From the Porn and Chocolate Book Club...

"The only thing worse than being sad is having others know you are sad."

How true.

I am not currently sad, but it is definitely a sentiment I know well.

"You hide your depression so well, Carrie."

Well, I'm an actress.

I like this book. It's called Everything is Illuminated. Give it a look-see if you can.

So much reading. When I'm not reading that, I'm reading very boring medical testimony and trying to summarize it. It's like me trying to summarize The Dead Sea Scrolls. I bet I fuck up the whole case just because I got some terms mixed up or misinterpreted what the fuck it is they're saying.

And then I'll get fired. And then I'll rinse and repeat this whole job-search thing.

Rinse. Repeat. The name of my first album.

Now I just have to learn how to play something. Other than the fool.

Look here and Tell Me I'm not Fabulous

It's Better than What you Are...

Ah, weekend. Actually having one was nice, having the perfect one even better.

No drama, no stress, no [may I repeat?] NO WORK.

Beach. Beer. Bowls. Boys [of the safer variety].

I had absolutely nothing to offer. Daniel and Ian cooked dinner, Devon cooked breakfast. I just sat and drank. I was official Stoned Girl on the Couch in a Bikini.

I'm burned badly in a few places, but not so bad overall. Basically, I didn't do a good job around the edges of my swimsuit so the outline of my bikini is etched into my skin like I'm branded with it. Which hurts because it's where you where your undergarments as well. And I know the day I go without underwear to work something utterly ridiculous and humiliating is bound to occur, so it's best not to tempt Fate at such times.

The price we pay, I suppose.

The beach always reminds me of my mom. She raised us to be absolutely drawn into all things liquid. The beach always has a wistful quality about it, the ability to mope and moan go well with the ebb and flow of its nature. I actually made a conscious effort not to fall into that. While the boys discussed the finer points of some strange theory Ian presented, I just laid back and tried to erase every thought that popped into it.

The end result was me dozing in and out of consciousness. Close to meditation, but not quite.

And back to the city and it all doesn't hurt quite as bad and to be able to see the forest for the trees and the beach for the ocean and a certain amount of perspective comes from leaving it all behind to just relax and not think so much and I think this is the longest run-on sentence I've ever written.

[ed note: It is]

I'm waiting to get some work in this morning. I'm starting a new task today and I don't know what to do in the meantime (Angelo isn't in yet to train me). I'm hoping since I'm switching that I won't be here as late today, but Lord knows, whenever I have high hopes of such, they all get dashed to pieces.

I feel like I'm walking around with a secret. But even I don't know what it is. Which is good, since I'm terrible about keeping them.

I know this Love is Passing Time, Passing through like Liquid

I had a very telling dream last night.

I was standing apart from these two men [names witheld]. They are on the other side of the room. I drop and break a glass. I am overwhelmed with shame and afraid to move because I am wearing no shoes. There is a bouncer watching the whole thing and the men move to go inside and I realize I am alone.

I bend down to pick up the pieces of broken glass and I start to cry.

One of the men senses my emotion and I smell him coming up behind me (senses work in different ways in your dreams). I know he is going to hold me, but I don't want him to. I just want to pick up the glass by myself. Or at least not with him.

He grabs me and pulls me in. I fall helplessly into his arms and look pleadingly at the other man. He looks like he wants to say something, something comforting, but he does not. I feel trapped in this one's arms and it must look so bad to everyone around. Me and the other man hold each other's gaze, not being able to say anything while the other one is there. We look down.

There's more, but it doesn't make much sense from there. The thing that stands out is the distance between us.

I'm going to the beach this weekend. I will look at the expanse of the sea and send my thoughts out to it. I will breathe easy and relax and drink beer and laugh with friends.

And then we'll go from there.

Attack of the 35 Ton Popsicle...

Belly-dancing was awesome. It's like sex without that cumbersome penis. It's awkward at first, but then by the end, you're all about it.

It made me estactic.

I've got to work out a way to do this all the time. I need to talk to my boss to at least go once a week or maybe every other week.

And Sharon (my friend who I went with) and I went to Hooters for beer and food after (because where else would you go?) and girl talked. Because where other than Hooters would you girl talk?

It was nice. She's a really cool girl and you know how strapped I am for cool girls in the city.

I missed a call from my stepdad. His Father's Day card that I sent him (late) finally arrived and he sounded very emotional but thankful for it. I started getting misty eyed and was about to cry when it moved on to the next message.

It's from Amy (who I haven't spoken to in a while):

"I heard New York got attacked by a giant popsicle. So I was calling to see if you got attacked by the giant popsicle."

If you don't know what she's talking about, here you go. It's for real.

And it made me laugh my ass off.

I'm happy. Let's see how long this lasts.

Creative Differences, You Understand.

So...

New Guy was nice. I figure a date will suss out whether or not there's any chemistry there (he's not really my type, but apparently my type is any guy who will crush my will to live so perhaps it's time to think outside the box), but it was nice to go out and see a band that I haven't seen naked and have a few drinks and be as charming as I could.

Is it weird that I thought the drummer was cute?

[ed note: Yes, it's fucking weird. We've talked about this, you are sooooo predictable. Hey, I'm trying new things...Yeah, trying new things by being out with one guy, getting set up with a bassist and thinking the drummer is cute. But these guys are nice. No, they're not. You don't even know them. More musicians, Carrie? Have you learned NOTHING? I'm learning. I didn't fuck anybody. And you want what for that? A prize? A pony would be nice. I'm not giving you a freaking pony. I'm locking up your vagina and throwing away the key. Hey, you're MY editor, remember? Yes, and I'm taking over from now on. I'm editing out your vagina from any equation.]

I don't like musicians. They are self-involved and snobby and will use what they can get from you and leave you on the side of the road like discarded McDonalds.

Hey, I didn't write that. Not all musicians are horrible.

I am fabulous and deserve to be treated like a pretty princess: with opening of doors, dinner dates, and the possibility of a kiss at the end of the night.

Well, I'll agree to that. But kiss? I haven't had sex in a while. I'm dying.

It's been two weeks, woman.

Hey, aren't you supposed to be writing as me? That's what I would say.

I'm taking over. I told you this. You are not allowed to make any more decisions, especially in regards to sex.

So now what am I supposed to do?

Get your shit together. Go to bellydancing. Go to yoga. Go on dates. Start respecting yourself.

But that's so much work...[whines]

[bitch slap]Wake up, none of that other shit made you happy, you dumb, dumb woman.

Owww...You really are a tough editor.

I'm here to make you better.

By slapping me?

Has anything else worked?

I see your point.

[offers up other cheek]

Here I am, Once Again...

New boy tonight.

I was going to run out and buy myself something cute and I was on the phone with Daniel while I was doing it--

"Well, that'll work out nice if the date goes well and you have to wear something in to work tomorrow."

"No, Daniel, remember, I'm trying to date now."

"Let me know how that works out for you."

I don't know if I got upset because that was the joke made, or because that was the joke made and it has been far too consistent with my behavior.

Summer of Change. Focus on that. The past year of my life never happened. They're all dead. New, new new...

Freeze Time, Free Time, and Times Square...

I had this moment over the weekend.

I'm going to meet Blythe an hour earlier than the party called for. The plan was for us to catch up before social obligation called me elsewhere. Blythe tells me she's running late.

I decide to leave at the appointed time anyway. What the hell, I'll walk around a bit.

Somehow I thought it would be a good idea to walk around Times Square. This is a problem on multiple levels.

1--Even when it's cold, Times Square is fucking crowded.

2--It was a beautiful day.

3--It was a weekend.

It reminded me of the worst traffic jams that would happen at Kingwood High. Usually because some idiot couple was busy making out and held up all the works.

Times Square itself is that annoying couple that holds up the works. It is busy seducing everyone who sees it for the first time.

It got me the first time I saw it. I'll admit to it, yeah. There's something impressive about something so overwhelmingly...bright. That's really the only way to describe it. Bright light not from anything natural or visceral, the light that comes from the driving force of technology and commercialism. It is a huge gust of wind and it will knock you flat on your ass if you let it, but like all things in nature or un-nature, there's a certain amount of respect to be paid to it.

I'm not in a rush. There's no reason I should let the standard New York reaction to the tourists bug me. I've got an hour to kill. Time to slow the pace down a bit.

People are yelling. They are trying to hand me things: this restaurant, this other club, strip club, free cell phones. I shake my head. I don't want any of it.

It is chaos, chaos, chaos. People are beat-boxing for change. Men in Hawaiian shirts stop to stare at pretty women as their wives smack their arms for even the hint of letting this place seduce them into something different from where they came from and who they were there.

For a brief moment, the noise subsides and I hear a band playing Simon and Garfunkel's "Scarborough Fair."

It reminds me of my mom. They always do.

And to hear something so peaceful and haunting in the midst of everything that could be considered the opposite of it brought a sense of calm to me. Someone could have blown a building up in front of me and I would have cocked my head to the side and looked at the grisly scene as if someone had just placed an exotic entree in front of me that I had never tried.

It was the easiest I had felt in my own company in a long time.

I am Glaring at the Radio, Swearing, Saying That's what I was Afraid Of...

The first song I paid attention to (while coming into work an hour and a half early because I worked until I passed out last night):

I don’t have no grand plan
For you and me
Just nothing is impossible
Nothing is unlikely
I’m just riding the tide
Nothing more
And it’s bound to take me out some
Before it brings me back to shore

When you look in the mirror
Do you see visions of your past
I ain’t got time for halfway
I ain’t got time for halfassed
When I look in the mirror
I see my days to come
And my face is just a trace
Of where I’m coming from

I haven't found out why exactly I feel so connected to these lyrics, but as the day wears on, clarity has a tendency to follow. Maybe I had a dream that tried to tell me something.

He told me he had a dream about me. Well, well. Or maybe that was a dream. When my nose wasn't buried in a deposition, I spent the rest of the time in a pot-induced haze. And when you get like that, the lines between reality and everything else become very blurry. It's like living your life in a Monet, without the lily pads.

I was surrounded by men this weekend (with brief breaks in it, courtesy of Blythe and Chloe). Blythe thinks my problem is a rational understanding of my own worth, but the stupid heart doesn't buy it. She's right, I guess. Otherwise I don't know why I set myself like I do. Personally, I'd like my heart to shrivel up and become the cold, detached, Communist we all know it can be.

But in spite of all the discomfort of feeling, I had a fabulous weekend. I had a ridiculous amount of fun and I even enjoyed a milkshake.

And the dress was popular.

And I have hope for the future.

And I have an insane amount of overtime to work this week. But that's nothing new, I suppose.

It ain't love
But it ain't bad.

Return of the Self-Indulgent Entry...

I'm supposed to be working from home, but I felt like blah and didn't do any work. I either need to focus my ass off tomorrow or actually go into the office, which sounds pretty blah, too.

But why do I get to work from home?

Because at the height of all my stress on Friday my coworker chose to tell me after our boss promised me a weekend that I needed to come in. My boss didn't tell me, but had it passed along. I swore very loudly and stomped my foot and threw the phone down.

So basically, I had a tantrum.

And it worked. I did about an hour of work today and then took a nap.

Goddamnit, I decided to take the day off.

Devon and I went over to Flatplex and we hung out with Dru on the roof. I had replaced the pipe that I broke, but that doesn't mean that things weren't broken. I broke something, Dru broke something, and Devon promised not to tell anyone. I didn't see the big deal. That place is like a broken lava lamp. Caleb joined us and that was nice, since he doesn't seem to hang out too much. But it was a lovely night.

I had to come to terms with the fact that things are pretty weird now with the Other. Turns out they're right (the proverbial "they"): sex really does ruin friendships. But you never know until you try, I suppose. Learned my lesson, I did.

You get upset in the cab. Not crying or anything, just wasted and looking out the window and getting hurt that New York just indifferently blinks back at you. But the driver lets you smoke, and that's something rare and awesome. You remember Dustin's advice: Never cry over someone who isn't prettier than you. Lord knows if it's true, but everytime you think of it, you laugh and feel better and pined for when it was just you, him, the History Channel, and an eigth of an ounce of pot. Oddly fulfilling, it was.

So I'm going out with Blythe tonight. She's setting me up with a boy, and I've decided the new rule is to dress twice as fabulous as you feel. The crappier you feel, the better you make yourself look. I can't wait to try that one out on my deathbed.

"She's going into cardiac arrest. Quick! Someone get the TIARA!!"

'Cause if I'm gonna go down, I'm gonna do it with style.

I'm feeling peaceful. When you can see clearly, you can appreciate the finer details more.

And I'm looking utterly to die for. If I do say so myself. Heaven help the man who meets a Taylor woman.*

*On loan, courtesy of Abby Taylor and her infinite wisdom that Reality is not the best option.

All work and no Weekend Makes Carrie...

a href="http://www.liquidgeneration.com" target="_blank">

When Optimism Meets Air Conditioning...

Phone's back on. Oh, it's on now, bitches.

And I'm feeling a bit more like a boss. The lawyers ask me if it's okay that they do this, can I leave then, blah blah blah.

I had gotten so used to being at the lowest possible point on the totem pole that I forgot what it was like to have authority. I hope I don't misuse my power and turn into a Napoleon with curly hair.

Or perhaps that's exactly what I want to do.

I'm going to start taking belly dancing lessons.

I'm eating oatmeal every morning.

And I'm buying myself something pretty from BCBG.

One of my lawyers is setting me up on a date. I suppose we'll find out what she really thinks about me based on who she sets me up with. I just hope he doesn't have a Long Island accent like hers. I don't think I could take that.

Summer of Change, folks. Summer of Change. It was the Winter of Doom, followed by the Spring of Sexual Confusion, leading into the Summer of Change and then hopefully the Autumn of Fabulousness.

I feel prettier already.

And every time a bell rings...

The week of action?

Last night my action was to get wasted at another Ghost Runner show and lose my workout bag. Bye bye swimsuit. I hope you find a nice home somewhere.

Success, I guess.

Haven't had time to go to the bank and deposit my wee large check. So still broke and no phone. I am now finding the no phone thing quite refreshing. I remember why I never liked the idea of getting one in the first place.

My ride home from the car service every night (yes, when I work late, they safely deposit me at my front door) is the best part of my night. Not because I'm going home (though that's definitely a plus), but because the FDR is a very nice ride. You see the Brooklyn Bridge, you see Manhattan, and New York looks like a twinkling steel Christmas tree.

It really is quite lovely. 'Course, I'm usually delirious with exhaustion by that point, but sometimes I find myself quite giddy.

Hey Abby--I was bragging about you today. Go get 'em, girl.

Don't call Us, We'll call You...

Um, yeah. Big paycheck tomorrow. No money today. My phone got turned off yesterday since I haven't paid the bill in a while.

So if you call, that's what happened.

April was here. That was nice. Too bad I didn't really see her since I live at work now.

There are worse things. I could be a 12 year old boy having a sleepover in Neverland.

That would definitely be worse.

And truth be told, I kinda like that I have responsibilities that keep me occupied 14 out of my 24 hours a day. In my whole theory of action this week (and not of pitiable moaning about my feelings and boys who don't call and blah blah blah I'm annoyed with myself...), it's nice.

And I've started working out.

And I dyed my hair again. If you have to ask what color, you don't know me at all (though I was briefly toying with the idea of black).

And I'm wearing a skirt today. I even shaved my legs.

So I'm already beginning to morph into a beautiful, solitary butterfly.

As it should be.

To the Person Posing as Daniel...

Stop it. You're confusing me.

1)Daniel doesn't fuck ponies. Everyone knows he's a stallion man.

2)Daniel would never ask to pee on me. He just does.

3)Who are you?

I figure writing on my blog (though taking a respite)is allowed as long as I'm not letting myself dwell on stupid shit.

And it took almost a year, but I finally made it to the Met. I want to go forever.

But when I am back to the self-indulgent bullshit, oh Lord, do I have stories to share.

Not With a Bang, but a Whimper...

Sarah's right. I'm taking a little break. I'll be back on here eventually, but it's time to sort things out.

See you laterzzzzzzzzz.

What's YOUR sign?

Kristen raises an interesting point. And I've had a good time with some Cancers, I have.

But it's unfair to label them the best.

Let me see...I've hooked up with a range of signs...

Not enough for statistical data. I was going to describe maybe how each was in regard to their sign, but I kept thinking, "Well, they were kinda freaky--next sign--Well, they were kinda freaky." Then it got to the point where I had to realize maybe it wasn't them that was freaky.

Oops. Aries trumps all.

And while I should be able to create some sort of comparison between them all, I can't really. Though I will say, the ones where I have hooked up with more than one within the sign (which would be Cancer and Leo), there are actually some similarities between them. Not between Cancer and Leo, I mean. Within themselves. ACK. My brain hurts.

Hmmm...I need to get on completing the stars so I can write a book or something. Oh, wait, all those books have already been written. Nevermind. We'll just call it a personal experiment.

Or we'll just call this whole thing the I-don't-want-to-be-working-right-now-cuz-I-want-to-think-about-hooking-up. It's like an optical illusion of an oasis in the desert kind of thing.

But that's a lot of hyphens.

My brain hurts. And my feet still hurt. And I'm disregarding my stupid heart from here on out.

The Hapless Romantic...

Ouch. Just burned my tongue on some coffee.

I'm still a little bummed, a little tired, a little stressed...but I've been worse.

Am I over the getting feelings for the guy who doesn't care? I thought I was over that. I hoped I was. But what else could it be? Maybe I thrive on the daydream. Mom always said I did. Years go by in my day and I feel I've had ten relationships by then. But what actually happened? I'm not quite sure.

And I realize it's going to take a little time to feel settled and competent at work. I just need to have a little more patience (an attribute I have never been known for). I hope it doesn't take long.

I'm wearing very wobbly heels today. I hope I don't die.

I hope it's not another long day. I could really use a Happy Hour. Or 10.

Oh, and Kristen, the fact that you like to feed your melancholy is such a Cancer thing to do.

And I found out Sarah reads this. Hey, Sarah.

Sure I'm sober, Sure I'm sane...

I'm stressed. I actually have to be good at this job and I don't think that I am.

My brain hurts. I am not a lawyer.

My feet hurt. These are new shoes.

My Shame Spiral aches a bit. I dropped a condom in front of my boss when my purse spilled everywhere. Classy moment, I'm sure.

My heart hurts. I know I am an idiot about these things. No man will ever love me. Boo hoo. If they've caused me nothing but misery, why do I care?

They really shouldn't make them so warm, though.

Who knows? Oh wait. I'll refer back to the idiot thing. And a glutton for self-punishment. And a good girl who masquerades as a slut so will only be treated as such. And a dork. And a cynic. And a hopeless romantic. Which basically just translates to Crazy Bitch.

Maybe I'm just exhausted. In fact, I know it's exactly where this mood is coming from. Still doesn't change how right I am about it, though.

Something needs to change. Soon. I'm sending out a memo.

Why do I care? Stop caring. Of course it turns out this way, it's how it was all set up. So just stop. Work 80 hours a week, buy yourself something pretty, and smoke the rest.

I have to go to a meeting now. If I could please not drop anything humiliating this time around, it would be much appreciated. For reals.

I hate it when I'm melancholy. Here you go, kids.

Love Letter to my Excel Worksheet...

I'm still at work. Why, yes indeed, it is 8:15 pm. And I'm probably not leaving any time soon.

And back at 9:30 am tomorrow.

Holy hell.

Paycheck, think paycheck...

And this spreadsheet is out to get me and I cannot believe the transcripts that I read. Here are lawyers that bill out at $600/hr or something ridiculous like that and they're bitching about when to take a bathroom break. God, I hate Excel. [author would like to note that that last sentence was added at a later time]

Maybe they just sound stupid on paper.

This entry, though it will be short, will have taken me an hour to post. I stop to write a little something to keep my mind sane while I do this. Little break here, little work there, little break here, little work there.

And now smoke break. See? I have a system for sanity. I should write a book.

God, I hate Excel. Why do you hate me so, spreadsheet? Why do you change format on me for no good reason? Is it because I never had to learn you before? Are you paying me back for that? There wasn't too much need to do spreadsheets when I was a theatre major. It wasn't anything personal. I promise. Just work with me here, and I'll fill you in and go home and eat pizza. And then we'll meet again tomorrow and we'll do it again. I'm here for you, spreadsheet. I just need a little more from you. All I ask is that you function.

Otherwise this relationship is never gonna work.

We're over, Excel.

Don't call me.

Overstimulation is the next step in the grieving process...

The grief thing is a funny thing. I feel guilty for enjoying my weekend so much.

I was going to be quiet last night. I was. That was the idea.

I don't know who I think I'm fooling.

When people want to talk to me about it, the pain jumps on for a ride and my heart does that hurting thing that it does so often. So I appreciated that while I got concerned glances from the boys, the subject was never broached until I mentioned it off-hand to Dru.

Because there's nothing anyone can say that will make everything fit into its neat little place. It's odd and discombobulating and the best thing to do is know that you're loved.

And that requires a certain amount of enjoyment.

And to be fair to me, I didn't start it with Junebug last night. I was perfectly content to do the friend-thing because I love him too much to let things get weird. But the talking was fun and I thought all was quiet on the Western Front and then Chris and Spring looked away for a moment and Junebug pulls me in and kisses me.

Game Over. You know how I feel about him doing that.

And you think you shouldn't enjoy it. Your stepdad, whom you cherish, is on his way to Atlanta to view his dead daughter. And you are losing yourself in kisses and groans and the forward movement of time and you're lost and found at the same time and god-this-shouldn't-feel-as-good-as-it-does and if you just grasp him tightly enough, the rest of the world will just drop away and you'll be able to breathe again. You exhale into him and curl up around him and his pulse is beating time on your wrist and your pulse is thumping inside your chest and you know that this is what alive is supposed to feel like and yet you can't pinpoint what the lack of it would feel like. If none of it moved.

I wake up to come into work (yup, woo hoo) and Sleazy comes down and sits at the computer. Chris is passed out on the futon, and I'm looking at my orange juice like it has betrayed me. I glance at Sleazy and the lifetime ago that it was and look down at Chris, and still chuckle at how all that went down. And ten feet from them is Junebug, naked and wrapped inside his comforter.

My heart smiles because they all mean a lot to me. Then it just busts up laughing because I've seen them all naked. HA!

I can't stay pensive all day, now, can I? I've got work to do.

Everybody's Working on the Weekend...

Ugh. I'm at the office. The task they've given me to do I don't know how to do. I got essentially no instructions and so I'm biding my time until Kit joins me. I don't want to work for hours only to find out I have to go back and redo it anyway.

Grr...Argh...

Maybe also I'm a little hungover. Just a little. More sleepy.

Chris had offered his and Spring's services to entertain me out of my funk (though a huge weight was lifted when I knew that Gary got to Austin safe and was with Mom). They came over, the idea was to have a drink and a bowl and then go play some pool.

We did all that except leave and go play pool.

Apparently, these two are my go-to people when the bottom drops out. We laugh and talk and shoot the shit until 4 in the morning. I set them up on the air mattress in the other room--something I'm sure has been "broken in" now--they're a very...um...affectionate couple.

In a discussion of livejournal, Spring got flustered, waved her arms:

"We don't fight all the time! Why does he always write about our fights? My dad reads that, and thinks that's all we do."

That's what happens when you get involved with a writer. They crave the drama because it fuels the prose. Believe me. I know.

Thankfully, Junebug only uses livejournal to post pictures from his camera. I don't even want to know what he'd write about me. And I don't think he'd want to know what I write about him. Or any of them, for that matter. Ah, what a tangle web we weave, when first we use the web to...ah, hell. Doesn't rhyme. But I think blogging could be a central issue in the breakdown of sexual politics and functional relationships.

Chris and I talked about how being an artist requires a certain amount of desperation. It's how we pull 50 hour weeks at day jobs we don't give a shit about, and then pull 50 hours of rehearsals and performances and whatnot for no pay. For the sheer, utter need to do it.

Hey, most people pull 50 hour weeks and then stare at the wall, watching paint dry. And by watching paint dry, I mean digesting that stupid Simple Life show. I like my way better. And somewhere in there, I manage to get laid on occasion. I'll sleep when I'm...nevermind. Tasteless. I'll sleep when I sleep.

Come on Kit, get here so I can do stuff and then go drink. I don't ask for much.

Less Beauty, More Breakdown

Gary's daughter was killed yesterday. He's devastated. I hate that I cannot just run and be by his side.

I have never heard this man that I adore so much in so much pain. He's been there for all of us more times than I can count, and when he finally needs us, we are scattered to the four winds.

It's awful. My heart hurts. It's bleeding for him.

And for Nick. And for Stacey.

And for Jennifer's kids. Her youngest is six. I don't know if it's a good or bad thing that they'll probably be able to understand that she's not coming home.

Send some good thoughts their way today.

She's got an Avalanche Packed in her Snowball...

Back at work. Not too much time to write.

But here's a drinking game for you kids playing at home. It's called the Carrie's Back in Town drinking game (in town being Texas):

Take a drink every time you hear, "Oh my god you're so pale!"

Take a shot every time you hear, "Oh my god you're so thin!"

Drink whatever is in front of you for a very long time (including Draino if it's there) every time you hear, "Oh my god you're so small!"

Seriously. I've been 5'4'' for as long as I can remember. I kinda like how everyone seems to remember me taller than I actually am, but these three phrases will get you more fucked up than you can imagine. It came from everywhere. So drink up, and watch out for men from Argentina. Or go for it. That was fun.

It was what I needed. I could use a little more rest, however, but isn't that always the case? I had been blaming all the debauchery on New York, but my time in Texas just proved that it's been me all along. Little Troublemaker I've become. I should just relax into the role with abandon.

Back to the daily grind, I suppose. But I feel more settled and centered after being away from it all.