Love in the Time of Cholera

So the verdict came in yesterday:

--No, we didn't go to trial again. At least not yet.

--No, I haven't heard about my credit card application (I keep getting turned down because I've never had a credit card before--how do you expect me to build good credit if you won't give me any?)

--No, I'm not pregnant (not that I was worried, in fact, this hasn't been a topic of conversation in my life for a while, I just thought I'd throw that in there to throw you off. And then tell you about it. Which then defeats any purpose in trying to throw you off in the first place. But that's just how I roll).

Lee has MONO.

Ouch.

So I'll be covering for her for at least another week. It's okay. I could use the overtime.

Except for the fact that I've had daily contact with the girl for a while, and I'm pretty sure we've shared cigarettes and maybe a soda or two.

I can't decide whether or not I want to come down with it. A disease that just makes you want to sleep? While on paid disability? With HBO on Demand? With air-conditioning?

That sounds like the best disease, since...well, since...oh nevermind. I think this might be the ONE.

I have been exhausted (and for proof, look no further than every entry I've written in the past two weeks), and my throat feels a little weird (but I smoked like a chimney on Saturday). Today I felt a little feverish. And I'm 99% sure that it is the hypochondriac in me and the girl who secretly wants a vacation (by vacation, I mean coma). I bought a thermometer over lunch, so I can be sure.

I took it:

97.7

Well, that's kind of normal. Seems a little low, but obviously not a fever.

I wait a little while. I had just eaten.

I take it again:

97.3

ACK! My body temperature is rapidly decreasing. Which only goes to prove my theory that I'm slowly dying inside. Instead of my heart melting, it's freezing up.

I've seen better days
I've been the star of many plays
I've seen better days
And the bottom drops out

Bring it, mono. My health insurance kicked in Monday and I'm paying my cable bill tonight. So just bring it.

Haiku for a Grumpy Tuesday

Her eyes spoke of flame
But none knew where the source was
Of her inferno


And since I have nothing to occupy the time-wasters with, I recommend this to fill the void.

Have a fine Tuesday, folks.

Sanctuary for a Lowly Orphan

Don't really have time to write too much in detail, so I'll give my Weekend Spoiler:

1--Watched far too much Six Feet Under on HBO On Demand

2--Went home early on Friday; missed a run-in with Ass-Wipe

3--That same Friday, in a different location, at a different party, All-American and Crazy were caught making out

4--I had the Unbearable Sadness of Being. I am more sad than I can say. Maybe this is because I felt I was playing happy for so long. Deflection, Diversion, and Delusion can only work so long, but turnaround's a bitch. I don't want to talk about it--it just is what it is.

5--I cut and colored my hair. Brief scene:

"Why are you getting a cut today? What are you looking for?"

"I have a broken heart. Change me. Go to."

6--I finally turned the corner on the exhaustion thing. This morning was the first that I woke up and was not more tired than when I had gone to sleep.

Perchance I can expound on any of these topics at greater length later on. In the meantime--HAPPY DAY AFTER YOUR BIRTHDAY, ABBY!!!

phew. Being me is hard work [though, not really]

Never Betray the Way You've Always Known it Is

Wearing new pretty items 1 and 2.

New undies. It's shameful to admit that this is actually because I need to do laundry and I'm sick of going without underwear.

Tomorrow. I swear.

Who am I kidding? Knowing me, I'm going to try to see how long I can go buying new underwear and not washing the old until my room looks like my underwear became bunnies during spring and haven't stopped humping since.



Like that. Only they all have labels on them that say "Victoria's Secret."

Victoria's Secret, by the by, is gonorrhea. Shhhhh...don't tell. She's waiting for the right time to tell her boyfriend.

Had a little chat at work with Abby. Hoozah for finding a place to live! Yay, no homeless! She, of course, is stressing about everything a million years in advance. Knowing her and a few of the Future Lawyers Posing As Paralegals at our Law Firm, I've decided you can only become a lawyer if:

1--You worry about things 10328947093 steps ahead of the game
2--You like premature ulcers
3--You live in a constant state of "Overwhelmed"-deness

You match? Well, then yay, go panic about the LSAT/Bar/Future Employment Options. Don't worry about us. We're trying to kill our brains with drugs and sex.

Not to speak for everyone else or anything. I'm using myself as a microcosm.

Then I had a little email exchange with Marina. She's going through a rough time (don't worry, darlin', this is MY diary, not yours). I tell her attachment is what makes us human. And hers is well placed at least. It could be worse, dear. You've given your heart to a most worthy applicant. I throw my heart around like it's a game of Dodgeball.

"You, there!!! You're going DOWN!!!"

[throws ball. lands on target. everyone cries]

Dodgeball hurts.

Somehow I have to rally for tonight. Damn, man. It's a good thing I'm wearing new panties, that's all I'm sayin'.

The Road Leads Where it's Led

I've been feeling fairly useless lately. Just seems to be one brain fart after another. Which is fine, you go through periods where you feel smart and sharp and witty and then...

ummmmmmmmmm........durrrrrrrrrr...

Somebody should get me a helmet and a drool bib. Then I'm all set.

Lee's been out sick so I have to cover her part of the job while she's gone, which means later nights than I was anticipating.

[Carrie's unpacked boxes cry out to her: "Why have you forsaken us!?"]

Shut up boxes. Once you're unpacked, then I'm just going to break you down and then what good are you?

After some much needed wheelin' and dealin', I managed to make it to bellydancing with Sharon. It was by far the most awake I've felt in the past two months. It was amazing. And funny enough, the second class was much easier than the first and I have to say, we were rockin' the booty-shakin' a bit. Not quite to the level I want to be, but holy hell, it's only been two classes.

I had the hardest time doing hip rolls when I was on my toes.

In ballet, if you rise up on releve [insert fancy French accent mark over that last "e"], you have to keep your torso and hips firm. Since, generally, it means you're going into a turn or some other fancy trick. My body has been trained NOT to be loosey-goosie when I'm on my toes and I internalized the fight with my hips that refused to roll and my booty that would not bounce and my chest that would not budge.

"LOOK BITCH, YOU'RE NOT IN BALLET ANYMORE [thank God] !!! GET WITH IT!!!"

By the end, I had trained it pretty well. Still a long way to go, but I'm always pleasantly surprised and excited about new goals for myself.

I'm not stopping until the sheiks of Arabia ask me to do the dance of the Seven Veils [ps--this totally reminds me of Skinny Legs and All--read the book, people, read the book. You won't be sorry.]

And like we did before, we went to Hooters for beer and girl talk. Appropriate, eh? I spill my guts to her about CARRIE'S NEVER ENDING REIGN OF ROMANTIC BULLSHIT. It's okay. It's safe in her hands, and I imagine the rumors around me are ten times more interesting than the truth--

"I heard you sacrificed a goat to the God of War, in exchange for sleeping with Junebug while his mother cried, battling cancer of the elbow!"

Yup. Don't you forget it, either.

And I told her about this blog. So if you're reading this, welcome Sharon. Keep all arms and legs inside the blog. We wouldn't want you to short-circuit or anything.

There's work to be done, but not just yet. Sadly, I have to sit around and wait for the temp attorneys to do their thing until I can do my thing. And there's work to be done upstairs (though, obviously NOT on floor 14, which doesn't exist, those of you following along at home)but I have to be down here with them. So I'm here instead.

I totally did Retail Therapy over lunch today. So much of my money was wrapped up in the move, I did what any sensible girl does in such times: bought myself pretty underwear, a new nightie, a redonkulously expensive skirt (well worth it) and a nice top for work. Sometimes I think shopping is better than sex. Sometimes. Well, really only when I'm feeling cynical about the whole endeavor.

Here's cynical:













Here's how far PAST it I am:





Yeah, it's like that. I think I'm gonna get like 10 new vibrators and a goldfish.

Well, that's like Hypnotizing Chickens

This is on repeat right now.

Bobbing my head at my cubicle, trying to get work done so I can go to bellydancing tonight. Needs to happen. So this will be an slow process of getting this posted.

I know, I know. I really do need sleep. At least if I was on heroin, I'd have an excuse for looking this tired.




That's me! Only minus the, you know, track marks and actual heroin addiction. Small distinction. That's how I feel, though.

I'm looking around my desk and it matches the utter chaos that is my room right now. Not enough hours in the day, I tell you. Not enough.

I was chatting with Lee (coworker and resident bad-ass) and she is forcing me to take a hiatus from the Boys of Doom. I, for once actually, completely agree. If I had a single drink around any of them, I'd wind up setting one of them on fire. And knowing my bad aim when I'm drunk, I'd set one of them on fire that didn't deserve to be set on fire.

And then no one wins.

And it's time I asked for what I was due.

Joking with Robert, he says to me:

"Oh, you're such a jovial whore."

"Well, if I am, it's time I collected back payment."

And yet, guess who's playing now on my playlist?

Oh well. You'll never guess. Let's just say it's slightly ironic as I write those words.

I'm still reading Love in the Time of Cholera. Some of the passages about longing and love and desperation hit me so close to home, it's actually taking me ten times longer to finish this book than any other. And I've read Anna Karenina. I had to put the book down for two days after reading this:

"Little by little, listening to her sleep, he pieced together the navigation chart of her dreams and sailed among the countless islands of her secret life. In this way he learned that she did not want to marry him, but did feel joined to his life because of her immense gratitude to him for having corrupted her. She often said to him:

'I adore you because you made me a whore.'"

Ouch. And yet, it's liberating and sad all at the same time. I have to put it down and then process it, and then I come back. That, and I've been so tired, sometimes by the end of the day, I try to read and my eyes cross and I must look like a very silly human being again.

AND THE WORST PART IS I NEVER LEARNED TO READ

Is that true?

Yes. Well, everything except for the reading part.

I think I'm just going to read porn books from now on. I'd like to see how that'd influence my writing style. Like, suddenly, I can't write about anything without mentioning something "moist" or "turgid." Oh, who are we kidding? If it's a real porn book, I'll be helpless not to refer to "snatch" or "cock." Cock, by the by, being one of the words that I can never say in any sort of serious context. If a guy ever asked me to call it that, he'd better be willing to accept that I'm going to do it, giggling all the way.

This has been a pretty jumbled A.D.D. entry. I apologize. It's all the leftovers in my brain. If you heat them at 350 degrees for 15 minutes, they should be pretty edible.

This is on now. The best thing those boys ever gave me was when I took their music and kept it as my own.

I guess some of the best gifts are the ones you take.

I Wish the World was Flat like The Old Days

ok--You get some interesting stuff if you ask for "weird pictures"

like this:





I don't know what to make of that.



And then there's the trippy stuff:



But I have to say this was my favorite:



Yeah, I don't know why I felt like sharing that. But this is what I do to take breaks from work.

But if I could control what the search for "weird" would be, my office building would be included in that.

OK--so we all know I work for a law firm. A big one. On many floors. We have floors 11-18 straight, and space on 7 as well.

Nothing weird about that, right?

Wrong.

Why?

Why are you asking me so many damn questions??! I'm getting there...

There's no floor 14.

For reals.

Now I've seen many a building that didn't have a floor 13--it's considered bad luck and all, but we have a 13. Just not a 14. Why? What's with this? Is it like Sideways Stories from Wayside School? Does it just not exist? Or it doesn't exist with non-existent partners and non-existent paralegals that perform non-existent tasks on non-existent cases?

OR

Is 14 where bad paralegals go? The room of legal punishments? You go in there and get depositioned to death? Redacted? I don't know. I ponder floor 14 every day in all my travels throughout the firm and outside and everything. It's like our own Chamber of Secrets.

Hmm.

Everything Ends; Everyone's Waiting.

I boozed away my brain.

I woke up on Sunday thinking somebody must have taken a hatchet to my skull.

Oh well. Devon's birthday. End of the show. Mom and Gary in town. Ashlee as well. Saw Aron for the first time in a year.

Stimulation overload. No wonder my brain was throbbing inside my skull.

I was telling Ashlee about my This Month's Infinite Sadness Report and how I hated being me and my stupid feelings. She summed up why we love each other so much.

"Carrie, I swear, if you ever stop wearing your heart on your sleeve I'm coming here and kicking your ass myself."

"But...Ashlee...This is bad. Why can't I be like you?"

"I don't have the guts to be you. And you don't have the balls to be me."

And that's why we love each other. We admire the extreme in each other. Obviously, not everything is extreme in our personalities, but Ashlee is Pure Intellect and I am Raw Emotion. And we both wish we could be a little bit more like the other.

My soul mate lives in DC. Her name is Ashlee. She is the best person on the planet. If only her set of balls were real ones and she had a dick to boot and was named something cool like Orlando. I could settle down right now.

Who wants to guess whether Ass-Wipe made it to the show?

Nobody needs to guess. We all know the answer to that one.

I wish I could say I was pissed. I'm more sad that I'm not surprised.

It's been violent upheaval the past few months. Alright, the whole year. But I haven't cried since I got fired from the Exchange. I watched the series finale of Six Feet Under and realized so much came to an end this weekend and I sobbed like I haven't. I sobbed like I needed to but never did. All that simmering on the stove and it took a fictional show to put me to a boil.

But release is necessary. It clears the way for the things to come.

I'm still sleeping for like a year. But Sharon and I are going to go to bellydancing on Wednesday. That'll be good. And then I'm hibernating.

Breathe me

Help, I have done it again
I have been here many times before
Hurt myself again today
And, the worst part is there's no-one else to blame

Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold me
I am small
I'm needy
Warm me up
And breathe me

Ouch I have lost myself again
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found,
Yeah I think that I might break
I've lost myself again and I feel unsafe

Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold me
I am small
I'm needy
Warm me up
And breathe me

Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold me
I am small
I'm needy
Warm me up
And breathe me

-Sia

Your Faith Means Everything...

Ashlee, Mom, and Gary are coming into town this weekend for the show.

I wish I had the slightest bit of energy. Oh well. Somehow I'll find it. I always do.

I'm taking a half-day so I'm not rushed for the show. I also desperately need to clean the apartment again if I'm going to be showing it to the 'rents and finding space for Ms. Christian.

Who I need to call. I need to tell her where I live. I'm just either at work, at the show, or asleep.

Boo. Boring.

Yesterday, I was uncontrollably sad. It seemed like everything was wrong, even if it wasn't. I suppose it's the exhuastion, but you know when you're in that place where the slightest thing will throw you down into the Pit of Despair? Like, my pen falls off the desk--

"Well, there's just no reason for me to live anymore, is there?"

And things really aren't that bad. But try telling yourself that when you think that they are.

But then I took the car service home. I made the genius choice to buy my beer before I got home, so I enjoyed a beer in the car. I love New York. I love not driving in New York. And the moon was huge and beautiful in the sky and the driver was nice and we chatted. Life isn't so bad. It's hard right now. It's been a hard year here in the city. But I'm still standing. There's some money in my bank account, I'm doing a show that I love. People I love are coming to see it (jury's still out on Ass-wipe, but we'll see), I enjoy the people that I work with, and when I got home, bliss occurred:

We got cable.

Hells, yeah. Not much can be too bad when you've got HBO on Demand. It's all over now, kids. You'll never hear from me again.

You are so Fragile and Thin; Standing Trial for Your Sins

I'm constantly exhausted these days.

I just have to make it until Saturday and then I can sleep and sleep and maybe wake up only to eat and masturbate and then I'm gonna sleep some more!

Watch me.

Oh, wait. On the masturbation thing, don't watch me. That's awkward. And you should buy me dinner first.

I have yet to see any of the Boys of Doom at the show. Chris and Spring are coming Saturday. So are Mom and Gary. If I do not see a particular fella who gave me his word, well, I don't know.

I'm setting their place on fire. Or something. Maybe a bag of flaming poop will do the trick.

In the land of deal-breakers, this one is king. It lords over the rest and says "I have asked and you have promised, and if it shall not come to pass, then off with your head!"

Sadly, my own kingdom only consists of the little cubicle I exist in. It's okay. I like to order the stapler around just to feel important.

"Staple, goddamn you!!!"

The show went well last night. I thought I might see said fella, but he was conspicuously absent. All-American and Crazy showed up. Together. Crazy apologized profusely in the bathroom of a bar for her behavior. Why? Because I done hit the nail on the head, baby. She claims that there has been no hooking-up, but I can't tell you if I believe that or not. They seemed quite cozy. But whatever. More power to them. And I was happy they came to the show at all.

I felt off, though. But maybe that's just me. It's always weird when everyone else is all, "That was awesome! We kicked ass!" And I'm like, "Well, I sucked." It just ruins the energy. So I kept my self-criticism to myself and smiled and hugged and "hoozah!"ed with all and stayed out a little later than I should.

I was supposed to be on-call, but it got cancelled. So I think I may have to make this a somewhat early day and get my little exhausted ass to bed at like 8:30. And if you think I'm kidding, well then laddie, you don't know me at all.

I'm the girl yelling at her stapler in the cubicle in the middle.

Stealing this from my LiveJournal...

I steal this because it has been what occupied my thoughts for today--


my interview with sharon...
1. Finish this sentence: My greatest feature is...

well, if we're going with physical features, i'm a big fan of my eyes (hence my icon). or quite possibly my clavicle. i'm a big fan of clavicle. mine is nice and pointy.

if we're going with more emotional features, i think my ability to laugh in the face of extreme circumstances is pretty impressive. i'll mope and dwell and be a mess most of the time, and then i'll think of a sarcastic comment to accompany it. keeps me honest, methinks.

2. Do you have recurring nightmares? About what? (You don't need to get too detailed if you don't want to)

i used to have nightmares a lot about russia. i don't know if those count because they were more flashbacks than dreams, but i'd often be back in the moment right before i went under for surgery, not quite sure why they were opening me up and i was strapped down and all i can do is turn my head and look at the clock. it was 9:57pm. often, when i get to that point, i'll wake up and bolt up in bed. or it will continue and i wake up wrapped in the bloody sheet and that same sickening realization that it was all my blood.

OR

i've recently had a dream that just disturbs me where i keep breaking glasses and nobody will help me pick them up. i can't believe i keep doing it. there are two guys [names witheld] and one of them tries to comfort me but i don't want him to and i look helplessly at the other one, who just stays silent. but it creeps me out that even in my dreams i keep breaking shit.

and i think it all takes place at a school dance or something. there's a bouncer who shakes his head at me.



3. Love is...

i think love is the feeling that something or someone is with you even when they're not. it's how i can be as far away from my family as i am and not be as lonely as i feel i should be.

or, to steal a line from that song i mentioned earlier today:

"you are the smell before rain."

i think that may be it. the beautiful anticipation of something familiar.

4. If you could pick anyone, living or dead, paint your portrait, who would it be and why?

said it before, and i'll say it again. spring. when the show and trial ends, i'm buying her supplies and we're going to it. i just have a feeling she knows.

or rothko. because he never did portraits. i'd be curious to see what color he'd pick for me.


5. If you could do over one day of your life, what day would it be?

i don't really believe in regret, so i wouldn't do over a day that i felt i made a mistake. though maybe i would've told myself to cut off from the drinking...

so i'll pick a good one just to relive.

i was 17 and in portugal. portugal's great because the beaches are mixed with these huge cliffs that overlook the ocean. we drove out to one of these secluded beaches that was surrounded on both sides by towering cliffs. i broke off from everyone and climbed up to the top.

the water was a clear and deep blue. it was the first time i had a sense of what forever might feel like. i was looking as expanse of sea and all these formations and things that could only be achieved and realized at that very point in time. they had been formed by time and would be molded by it as well. and that moment of what seemed like a fixed postcard was, in fact, changing right as i saw it. and would be a different place a thousand years from now and i would have turned to dust by that point and become part of what would make the next cliff, the next coral reef, the next current in the ocean.

and i exhaled.

----------------------

those were tough, lady.

Horrible realization when you think about how it stands

I have been fucking him longer than I dated the other.

And I'm still on Square One.

She's precocious and She Knows Just What it Takes to make a Pro Blush

This is me and Sharon on Saturday. Sharon's the girl I went to bellydancing with. She's awesome. And hopefully, once the show ends, I can return and shake my little groove thing.

The guy in back of us? Derek's friend. Derek's friend that was determined to hook up with me. Seriously. I have slobber marks. To no avail. To be working that hard and still get turned down? That's bad, man. And I'm easy to boot. But I cannot stand when a guy's agenda is tattooed on his forehead.

I love like a blitzkrieg. And I expect others to do the same.

But the show went well. For an opening night with not too much time in the theatre, only a few bumps and bruises. I am so proud of this show I can hardly stand it. I kept grabbing for Daniel because my love of him knows no bounds. And that was even before he helped us move. I have to say, I devoured that stage. I'm lucky enough to have a character that has to walk out onstage and just own it. It was fun. It is fun. It will be fun.

I can't wait. It's gonna be AWESOME.

Dad bought me an air conditioner. I think it's because I've lost some weight. Don't ask me to make the connection, but my dad's generosity and my dress size are inexplicably linked. But I am grateful for it. And I showed them my office, and Dad made me take pictures of me sitting at my desk. My desk that has the bunnies driving in the background. Seriously, Kristen. Sending me that picture changed my life. I shut down my computer every day and just giggle. I'm a total crazy person in the office. Ah, well. That's just how I roll.

I also rolled until about 8 or 9 in the morning on Sunday. I woke up, went to brunch with Devon, Spring, Chris, and a brief cameo with Sleazy, and then we joined Dru and Junebug back at Flatplex. We watched Sean of the Dead (which, if you haven't seen, get it now--it's frackin' hilarious). Devon and I took a cab back. A cab that apparently been in operation since 1862. It was old, yo. And the driver was older. And crazier. He told what every building used to be, and proceeded to tell us all the dangers of living in Brooklyn. Still drunk and such, I couldn't have cared less. I was fantasizing about my bed. And if there was a murderer in the closet, I would hope he would have the courtesy of waiting until I was asleep to attack me. I had waited too long for this.

I shower. I go to bed at 6:30. I wake up at midnight. I watch a little of Center Stage before slinking back off to bed. I sleep like the dead. I dream of Harry Potter. I wake up and can't believe the life that I lead. I wake up and am still confused about the red ink stains on my hand. I wake up and only wonder a little bit why I'm sore.

I wake up and decide I need to be asleep again as soon as possible.

So Let's Do it Like They Do on The Discovery Channel...

This is how I feel the weekend is going to be:

[deleted picture of strange creatures]


Can't explain why, just a feeling.

Parents in town, show opening, need to clean my new place...

BAAAA

Is that the sound they make? What the hell kind of creature is that anyway? Too fluffy to be llamas. Right? Where's Jeff Corwin when you need him?

Sometimes I feel like a Motherless Child...

And if I died today
I'll be the happy phantom
And I’ll go chasin’ the nuns out in the yard
And I’ll run naked through the streets without my mask on
And I will never need umbrellas in the rain
I’ll wake up in strawberry fields everday
And the atrocities of school I can forgive
The happy phantom has no right to bitch

Damn, Tori takes me back. Me in my room in the corner with my journal, feeling just as angsty as Ms. Amos and not being able to truly understand the lyrics in any sort of realistic way, because I'm pretty sure they don't even make much sense to her, but you get it anyway. You identify with the mood of it, and she hits is dead-on. Some sort of longing tragedy, a girl driven mad by too much empathy and too much intellectualization. You should listen to Tori on a dreary, drizzly day on a hill somewhere with plants that are overgrown and wild with the wind whipping at your hair and your skirts and the ocean in the distance. And the pining swirls around you as much as the wind and you stand there like a pagan goddess, wanting and waiting for something you're pretty sure isn't really visceral at all.

The lost Bronte sister, I am.

I am constantly occupying myself. The BlackBerry the firm got me has pretty much made it acceptable for me to never really have to look up ever again. If I'm not on that, I'm reading a book. My current selection (after finishing with the kings' mistresses, but don't worry, royal mistresses are used to being used and then tossed aside--nature of the beast, I guess) is Love in the Time of Cholera. Or I listen to music.

I went down for a cigarette a minute ago. I reached for the BlackBerry and then I stopped myself.

What am I distracting myself from? What thoughts am I trying to push away? What feelings or thoughts do I not want to feel or think?

So I sat there with my own mind for ten minutes.

I thought about the conversation I had last night with Jason. We were talking about the relativity of suffering. We discussed how black culture always gets absorbed by the mainstream--old slave songs, blues, even hip hop these days. We postulated that it has something to do with the suffering contained in them, and since most of the music of true tragedy (not of the Mortician kind)can always be related to. All humans suffer. And none is greater or worse because it is a particular phenomenon that does not know that there are greater tragedies happening elsewhere. A little girl who has been lucky enough not to see too much suffering has the same level of anguish when her kitten dies as someone who has seen the ravages of war. They're both valid. And yes, we can look upon it and say that seeing the horror of death and destruction are a greater pain than a kitten dying, but try telling that to the little girl. Suffering is contained within ourselves and the only scale we can ever go by is our own.

I thought about my grandmother, who I never particularly cared for and certainly didn't have much love for me, but that woman had a fairly impressive story to tell. Living in England during the time that it was getting bombed by the Germans. And her climbing through rubble to get home. Maybe that's why she was such a tough bitch. Maybe it touched her too closely. I wish that I had greater wisdom to understand her while she was alive. But who knows? Maybe she was just mean. I don't know.

These things I think about.

I think about my silly heart and how easily it sways to and fro from boy to boy and each time seemingly optimistic about truly horrendous circumstances. Why do I feel pulled toward romantic catastrophes? I hate admitting defeat. And yet, I have nothing but a series of bad ideas in a endless promenade of pining. Maybe it's safer to get your heart broken when you can anticipate the arrival of that pain. Maybe it's the good ideas that then have to end, as all things do, that I avoid because I don't like to be blindsighted. To quote a fabulous character, Inez, from No Exit:

"Well, I won't stand for that, I prefer to choose my hell; I prefer to look you in the eyes and fight it out face to face."

Face your suffering like a tiger, I say. Or have said. Or act as. And if you choose it, maybe you control it.

But we all know that's not true. But I have a feeling in the simmering stew of my restless emotions and unrequited love, that maybe is what has driven me to do it. I don't really know how to change that, though. When do you start choosing the right things for yourself? You can intellectualize all you want and know the path that you should choose, but we all know that hearts have absolutely no sense of direction. And they never stop to ask. And by its sheer brute strength, won't let you squash it.

So it's kinda like a man.

Hmmm...

These are the things that I think about.

Now it's time to Google stuff.

OK People, You asked for it...

In if your in New York, no excuses.

SAT 8/13 @ 10:45-11:55 p.m.
TUES 8/16 @ 5:15-6:25 p.m.
WED 8/17 @ 9:15-10:25 p.m.
FRI 8/19 @ 5:15-6:25 p.m.
SAT 8/20 @ 7:30-8:40 p.m.

Now I can Finally Practice Kissing on my Pillow

The incomparable Aron Taylor sent me that. He's such an oddball. I love him.

Last night I finally unpacked my room. It was hard to really feel like it was really my new place when I had to leap and hurdle over boxes and boxes and clothes everywhere. It wasn't a room, it was an obstacle course.

But my things are finding their way to their places and Devon gave me curtains so I can stop flashing the street every morning and I danced alone in my room while doing it.

I have to say sometimes it is a little weird that I don't share a room anymore. I generally go and sit with Devon in his room for a little while before crossing the long distance to my bedchamber. Summer camp had to end sometime, I suppose.

I woke up at 4:30, unable to sleep. I walk out to get a glass of water and lo-and-behold, there's Travis. His penis is away, thankfully. He is not on the couch, though. He's passed out on the floor. He looks like the chalk-outline guy is going to come for him soon. As far as oddballs go, he is Lord and Master.

I climb over him and take my water and go and sit in my window. Brooklyn's really quiet. At least my part. And I felt quiet, too. Which is good when you spend your life jumping head first into disaster like I do.

My love is like WHOA...

I'm apparently never going to sleep.

Sleep when dead, blah blah blah...

Dead might come earlier.

I'm in good spirits, though. Just a whole-lotta-crazy this weekend. When am I ever going to unpack???? And my dad and stepmom are coming for the show this weekend and they want to see the new place but right now, my room is AWFUL. Not quite sure when that's going to happen.

Friday? Calm in that I didn't go out. I did, however, somehow manage to stay up until like 2:30 doing God-knows-what and passing out on the couch. I wake up at 4:30 and my roommate Travis is sitting across from me. I screamed.

"What?"

"When did you get here? Where am I?"

I didn't know I had fallen asleep. Just one second, I'm on the couch, and the next, my roommate's there. It was scarier if you were there. Trust me.

Saturday was rehearsal and bar-hopping to pass out cards for the show. I was rockin' the postcards, people. For some reason, I felt I could bypass my normal social awkwardness and hopefully charmed some people to come to the show.

Then we got drunkish. Then I wasn't so ambitious.

Chris had called me and invited me to brunch on Sunday. He didn't tell me that this was because it was the fucking Ghost Runner album cover shoot. False pretenses, methinks. I. Was. Not. Happy. About. This. I sat on the sidelines like the king's mistress[sidenote: I am reading a history book on the mistresses of kings]--necessary to be there for sheer familiarity. Not supposed to utter a word, no official recognition. And yet knowing the sexual secrets of all. I. Was. Not. Happy. About. This.

Whatever. I had to get to rehearsal so I don't think I'm really in any of the shots.

Then Kendra was in town and I had to rally for a Sunday night frolick. I haven't seen her in a year but I sat and chatted with her and really felt that no time had passed at all. I am, of course, paying for it today, but sometimes we sacrifice our better judgement for the people we care about.

At least that's what I'm going to keep telling myself. Might be about that time for a Vitamin Water.

Awww, hell. Just inject the caffeine straight into my veins.

Since You've Been Gone...

Yeah, I just referenced Kelly Clarkson.

Fuck off.

She's cool. See?

I felt vaguely dissatisfied yesterday. I was a bit of a raw nerve. I did some digging and found an astrological explanation for it. Something in my stars asked for me to keep a little quiet because the little things would set me off. So I avoided all my 87234678243598 blogs and tried not to take anything too seriously that was said. But I certainly felt the drain and really had to consciously avoid the trappings of my over-sensitive nature.

So I put all of that on the stove and left it to simmer. And it worked almost all through the day. Almost.

I even got out of on-call. My wrangler for such things said that we didn't have much and that I could go. Woo hoo! See? The universe isn't so bad.

I go out with two coworkers (yes, indeedy) and we went to a bar where his brother worked and I got my drinks paid for. Woo hoo! This was actually very good, because this place reminded me of the sort of place in Daniel's show. Uber-trendy. There wasn't a drink under $11. I'm not used to any kind of bar that doesn't have a whiskey shot-and-PBR special. And clean bathrooms? Forget about it.

I walk to the subway and wind up on the wrong side of the street. First sign of trouble. It's starting to get late and that's when the subways become fairly unreliable. And knowing me and my luck, I was on the wrong side of the street listening to the subway I needed go zooming off to Brooklyn without me.

grrr. (not capital, though)

I cross the street and go down the right way to the subway. Much to my weary surprise, the subway comes immediately. Well, phhht. I'm just silly. Silly, silly girl.

I sit down and bust out my People magazine (dear Lord, apparently yesterday I was just about as girly as they come--but hey, Jude Law was on the cover. Come on, people. That was one lucky nanny. How come none of the people I babysat for were Jude Law?) I am embracing the mind-numbing nature of said magazine, when all of a sudden, someone is telling me I need to get off the train.

Wait, what did I do?

Oh wait, everyone's getting off the train.

Wait, why is everyone getting off the train?

"Is there going to be another train soon?" (coming up on midnight, folks)

"Sure, sure, soon."

The thing about New York?

It is filled with lies.

And to say the subways in summer with the humidity as it is is unbearable is like saying Requiem for a Dream was just about some people who were having a bit of a rough time. Kinda like that.

And before you comment, yes I know I'm getting link happy today. But it's like a rollercoaster. For blogs. Keep all hands and feet within the car, please. Try the veal. Just kidding on that last part, people. Veal is bad.

It is digusting down there. Everyone smells. I smell. I cannot even read my magazine to pass the time because I need to use it as a fan. I wait for what seems like FOR-FUCKING-EVER.

Grrrrrrrrrr...The stars have started giving me a wedgie.

I finally make it home. Devon has left a message about he is out with our fourth roommate Derek (not the one-eyed fifth roommate, mind you). Nice. I can have the place to myself. I can get out of these shoes that are killing me. I have a bodega right by my place where I can pick up a beer and just chill.

Go to the bodega.

"We don't have beer."

Wait a minute. Who the fuck goes to a 24 hour bodega to buy Gatorade? Like for reals.

Grr...argh...my feet hurt. I'm a greaseball. But I have deserved a beer, so I go to the other farther away bodega that I know has beer.

My neighborhood is eerily quiet. Except for groups of people drinking on their stoop (though apparently not from the nearby bodega---still trying to wrap my head around that one). They're all men. And they cat-call me in Spanish. I don't know everything they're saying, but I'm pretty sure they're not saying "You look like a classy lady. I want to take you to a nice dinner and shower you with presents."

Normally, this doesn't bug me. Today it bugs me. It makes me feel uneasy and a little unsafe.

It's fine. Whatever. I have my beer. I'm almost home.

I need to preface this that I have about a bazillion keys to get into my apartment. I have to get a key just to think about getting out a key. The second door had always been propped open when I came home. Tonight it's not. And tonight the universe decides to let me know that none of my 2903593475 keys open that goddamn second door.

Straws. Camels. Broken backs.

Poor Blythe. She had the misfortune of answering the phone when I was in my state on the other line. Sounded something like this:

"[pure rage pure rage nothing I'm talking about is any sort of real problem but I'm just fed up with this day so ROAR and HULK SMASH and pure rage pure rage]"

I don't think any of this would have bugged me this much if it weren't for an astrological pull and the heinous nature of the humidity. If the air wasn't stale, I would have sat out there with the cat-calling Latinos and had my beer and chuckled about how ridiculous it is that the management gave me a thousand keys and none of them work on the second door, but I'm pretty sure one opens the key to the Lost City of Gold. It could have even stayed humid, a simple breeze might have calmed my rageful soul.

Whatever. Thanks, Blythe, for keeping me from the brink. That girl, I swear.

I obviously had left many a desperate message for Devon. He gets back to me:

"That's not possible. It has to work."

"Darling, welcome to way beyond possible. It's actually happening and [another round of rage rage rage]"

He and Derek hop in a cab to come rescue me. I talk to Abby in the meantime. They come home.

I meet Derek. Seems nice. I tell him the story of the FIFTH roommate and he says he can never look at Travis the same way. I love doing that to people. I will tell you stories you can never take back. It's my way of changing the world.

I calm down. Nothing of this is tragic, it just felt that way. Go to sleep, Carrie 2: The Rage.

I snicker about it this morning.

Introducing the FIFTH Roommate...

I think living with all boys just may make me lose all interest in them.

The new place is cool. Having my own room? Way cooler.

I met my roommate Travis at the end of our move-in. He seems like your typical shirtless-guitar playing-smoker-drinker type. Which makes me wonder if he'll ever pay rent. Oh yeah, he's an artist, too. So basically, though I don't think he ever lived there, he's basically every guy we ever knew in Austin.

I come out to go back to work this morning, and there's Travis passed out on the couch (which isn't too odd, until we install air conditioners in our rooms, it gets a wee bit hot and the AC in the living room keeps it quite cool). There's not much weird about this situation.

Except...

He is fully clothed. Except for somehow managing to expose his penis.

Which, let me tell ya, is a frightening sight at 8:30 in the morning when you're not expecting it. I don't even know this guy's last name, and I can now pick his penis out of a line-up.

I try to make a little noise. You know, let him know that there are people around, more importantly, ME. He just shifts and "arranges" himself. And that makes him semi-erect. I have a hard time not laughing. I'm afraid that if I laugh, I might have to vomit as well. And I still need to shower and stuff.

But I still don't get how he just pulled his dick out of his pants--just sticking out through the zipper. Not even unbuttoned.

I'm pretty sure he's crazy. He seems nice, though.