For What it's Worth I Left the Earth

[A Dream]

It's a beautiful day in Lower Manhattan. It's warm [must be close to summer]. The sun shines brightly across a clear blue sky. It's like a postcard, I laugh to myself. I would send this to my mom if it would reach her. But it won't. Because today is the last day of the Earth. The crowds and crowds of people wait for the mayor to explain what is going to happen. There are two nuclear bombs under our city, right under our feet. There's nothing we can do. There's another one apparently on the West Coast somewhere, but that's not really my concern right now. The mayor explains that they will only be able to save maybe a few hundred people, in some bunker that governments secretly prepare for people in cases like these. I'm sure he goes on to explain who or how people will go to these bunkers. But I stop listening. Truth is, I don't want to survive the end of the world. The post-apocalyptic grunge and grey and mutated plants and animals and the scorched Earth. How this Thing will happen and what I am looking at will be no more.

I look to Him. He looks at me and says, "What do you want to do?"

"I think we should just enjoy the beautiful day."

He reaches up to caress my face. It's those hands again. My soulmate. I want to know these hands--these big, strong, reassuring hands. I want to know them. Do I know them? Are they already in my waking life and I just can't see? In the lucidity of my dream, my dream self tells my mind that I'll never know.

He pulls me close and kisses me. It is warm, like the sunshine on my face. This is the second time he has been with me in an environment of danger, and I am not scared. I am not worried at all. I am warm and I am happy. I feel like I'm melting into him, disregarding the fact that our skin will literally melt off our bones soon. I wonder if it will feel like this.

The location switches a bit. He is no longer with me. But I'm still not scared. There is a beach all of a sudden, right in the middle of lower Manhattan. The tall buildings loom like cliffs around this perfect stretch of beach. The sand is bright white, almost blinding and I am on it, my pale skin communing with the sun. She is with me. I don't know who she is, someone I've met, someone I may meet, someone I've seen on TV. But she is a comforting presence, and we lie together on the sand with no towels. The sand moves through my fingers. It's a sensation I normally hate, but I imagine knowing any sensation is your last, it is a relief.

Our fingertips are touching as we talk. It's not in a sexual way, more in a sisterly way, as if we could have been braiding each other's hair. Our talk is lazy, subdued, almost drugged in its serenity, given the circumstances. She laughs, "You're so pale!"

I roll onto my side.

"All these years I've been afraid of skin cancer. Should've known."

I look out at the ocean. It is clear and calm and the sand is so white. I wonder if the explosion will be this light. And then I think a horrible thought, What if we aren't close enough to the blast zone? Even worse than dying, What if I survive? And my flesh is charred and I cough pieces of myself onto the pavement?

I look to her, a bit more concerned this time.

"Do you think it will hurt?"

She smiles at me and in a non-patronizing way says, "I don't know. I've never died before."

"I think I have. Just never like this."

Not like this. Will we just vanish? One moment in existence, the next not. And whatever lies beyond, I cannot even predict. If anything at all. And I am consciously deciding that this is where I end. Where I cash in my ticket. I am a bit concerned of the after, but my alternative of after is more well-known and cannot be better than what I have chosen.

"I'm going to move closer to it, I think."

She grasps my hand and says, "Alright."

I move up to the buildings. I am standing right over the bomb. The sunlight reflects off the buildings almost blinding me. Then I realize it's not the sun. This is It. This is the end. That's not sunlight, it is the start of the explosion. It moves closer to me, what seems an eternity but what can only be a fraction of a second. It comes to consume me and He grabs my hand.

I wake up gasping. I do not sleep well the rest of the night.

And if I'm Asleep, Make Sure My Blanket Covers Me

[Warning to Reader: Incredibly Boring Entry Contained]

To say that it's fucking freezing outside is the understatement of the Century.

Like, Holy. Crap.

Honestly, I think that I would take the Texas heat over this any day. Maybe not. Ask me again in summer. All the same, only my love for Sharon could possibly get me out of the house last night to see her burlesque debut. And yes, it was as hot as it sounds. Not just because I know she'll read this, but she was by far the best of all of them. I think it's because she's an actress, and I also happened to notice a few of our bellydancing moves thrown in there as well. Made a difference, it did. And Homegirl deep-throated a banana. That, by the by, they don't teach us in bellydancing.

Other than that, a fairly quiet weekend. It's too cold to frolick in my opinion. I have to call my Texan blood on those who give me shit about not going out. I hung out with Spring Friday night, finally up to testing out the pool table I got them. Through my discussion with Spring, it sort of amazed me at how much she reminds me of my sister Amy. It's like they have had a similiar experience with their lives, but drastically different endpoints. That's not to say either one is better than the other, but I do find it interesting. I'm intrigued to get them in the same room together--which will happen sooner than you would think, seeing as how Amy arrives in our fair city at the end of the month. I'm pretty sure they're either going to absolutely love each other or want to claw each other's eyes out by the end. You can never tell with similiar people if that's either going to be a good or a bad thing when you put them in a room together.

Boys confuse me. I give up. I'd get 8,000 cats, but the three at Chris and Spring's left me without the use of my nostrils for the rest of the weekend. I feel like my plague has come back a bit, but not to a horrifying degree or anything. Just now it's the right nostril plaguing my existence.

But yeah. Stupid boys. I don't get them. Or actually, I feel like I get them, I just don't know why they don't get me. Or want me. Or think I'm anything worth value. So maybe I can't get cats, but I could do something cool with my spinster-hood, like snakes. Like, be the Crazy Snake Lady of 4th Avenue. Except, I don't think I'd be good at feeding mice to my snakes. That would make me sad. Maybe I'll have an army of goldfish. But fish kind of creep me out. So do birds. And too many dogs gets a bit messy. Hamsters stink. And they bite and that scares me.

Shit. I'm just going to have to buy a lot of heroin or something. But there are already plenty of Crazy Drug Ladies of 4th Avenue. I was hoping for something original.

Any ideas? You'll have to excuse me while I try to clear out my nasal cavity of the icky goodness that has become part of my existence lately. We'll add that to the melancholy and rejection, simmer on the stove for 20 minutes, then throw it in the oven with a dash of hopelessness sprinkled with fabulous hair and bake at 350 for 45 minutes.

Serves one. Indefinitely.

Held to the Past, Too Aware of the Pending

Before I go on, it should be noted that I am terribly compulsive. I almost had a panic attack just now because I couldn't find my favorite pen. Like, for reals. My heart went all rapid-fire and everything. I'm so lame. But it's a really great pen, just so we all know. And sometimes, it's the little things that are worth fighting for.

Also, I've had this dull headache for two days that I can't shake. I'm beginning to become concerned that my brain might actually be ready to explode. Nothing seems to shake it--pressure points, drugs, decapitation...it's getting really obnoxious.

That's all. I'm a crazy, crazy person.

Those things aside, I'm feeling a bit better about life now. I've been icky sick all week, and pretty emotional, waiting for sharper pains of the heart to dull--it can only be wounded pride at this point. Everything else was a figment of my overactive imagination. But that doesn't stop the tears when something triggers it. I think I've cried more in the past three months or so than I have in my past 23 years combined. Maybe I'm getting better about showing my sensitivity more, or maybe I'm a LiveJournal entry away from the Looney Bin. All the same, the emotional dust of this week is settling, the phlegm is actually clearing, and three songs in particular have helped move me to a happier place, though none of the songs are particularly "happy" ones [another sidenote--in one of those MySpace surveys, my sister filled out one about me and it asked what kind of music the person likes and she said, "for some strange reason, she loves songs that bring up bad memories and heartbreak"--so unbelievably true. I had never thought of it that way myself. I view it more as I appreciate songs that can explain how I feel in a beautiful way--it just so happens I'm sad and heartbreaky a lot.]

So without further A.D.D. breaks in continuity, here are my three Carrie Goes to Her Happy Place with Sad Songs songs:

1) Shadowland from the Lion King Soundtrack

Now, I'm not one for musical theatre in most cases. In fact, with a few rare exceptions, I hate it. Yes, all you theatre freaks out there reading this, even Rent. Actually, especially Rent. This is my blog, my confessional, and here it is: I HATE RENT. I THINK IT SUCKS. I'D RATHER GOUGE OUT MY OWN EYES THAN GO SEE IT. [Sorry, Dru] I was in a group at UT where we tried to make pop music and musical theatre music more revelant by combining it with elements of performance art set around a general theme. We used this song in a show that we called Art of War, our first venture into the idea, and probably our worst, just because we hadn't learned how to cut the show down. WAAAAY too long. But a girl wrote a piece about being a refugee and then we sang this song. It may not sound like much, but her piece was actually one of my favorites (I, by the by, played Peace--my first time playing a concept noun, and I got to choreograph my own dance to John Lennon's "Imagine"--I throw that in there to interest Miss Sharon). Anyway, the voice it takes to sing this song, even slightly hokey as it is, has to be off-the-charts fantastic. And our girl who sang it nailed it. LIke, nailed it to the wall and fucked its mother. That good. Sometimes I'd get chills right there on stage under the hot lights because it was so beautiful. This song came on while waiting for the subway this morning and not only did I get chills, I got a little misty. It's a really pretty song and that show had a lot of happy memories for me.

And where the journey may lead me
Let your prayers be my guide
I cannot stay here, my family
But I'll remember my pride

A song about leaving home and forging into scary, unfamiliar territory. I got goosebumps just Copying and Pasting that. Sheesh.

2) Both Hands by Ani Difranco

Now, I know, there's like, ALWAYS an Ani song on here that's relevant for me. I can't help it. She's just that awesome. But this one made me happy because upon close reflection, there aren't that many chord changes and the ones there are, don't sound too tough. I'll have to look up the music sheet online, but we may have found the first Ani song I might possibly be able to play on the guitar. And that makes me redonkulously happy. It's more a question of crescendo and, uh, descendo? Whatever the opposite of that is. If you know the answer to that one, feel free to share. Because of illness and being a phlegm-filled mess, I only got to practice my guitar on Monday, but hopefully I'll find some time this weekend. What I really want is a week of nothing but guitar. Just practice and practice and practice. No work, no social engagements, no drugs, no booze, no outside world. But I guess they call that rehab. Whatevs.

So now use both hands
Please use both hands
Oh, no don't close your eyes
I am writing graffiti on your body
I am drawing the story of how hard we tried

It also just happens to be one of her loveliest, softest songs. If I can manage to play it, I just might be able to die happy.

3) The Past and the Pending by The Shins

This one is more of a Carrie Theme Song choice than the other two. And a very sad song, but something about it...I was working until about 10:30 last night, on top of the emotional and physical upheaval and you would think that a song like this one might just put me over the balcony on the 18th floor. But something about it is so pretty, so evocative that I was sitting at my desk working and it made me smile. And it lifted my mood about 100 points. I don't know what point scale I'm working on, but add 100 and that seems like a pretty good raise. I finished my work quickly and cheerfully and had this song on repeat and repeat and repeat all the way home. Something about it was like a warm blanket and I just wrapped myself up in it and felt like a little girl, curled up with her mom on a winter's night and a fire going...and I'm taking this simile way too far so I'm going to derail now, but you catch my drift.

Your name on my cast and my notes on your stay
Offer me little but doting on a crime.
We've turned every stone and for all our inventions
In matters of love loss, we've no recourse at all

No recourse at all. And yet, something oddly refreshing about that.

That's about it. I don't have anything particularly insane on tap for the weekend, which is good because I don't want to tempt the Fates any more than I already have since finally starting to feel human again. There could be a little something of interest, but we'll have to wait till Monday to report, should that be the case. I'll let you know. The Decemberists are leading me out into the weekend--nothing like drunken sailor music to help you on your way.

It's a Long Way Home

Holy crap. It's not even 2 yet.



My new desktop background.

Dear Lord, I don't think today is ever going to end.

Like a Pizza Pie of Misery

I don't think it takes a literary scholar or a dectective to determine that I'm sick again. I'm trying desperately to stave it off with Airborne and tea and soup and all that jazz. I think I drank almost a bottle of Nyquil to put me down last night. Honestly, for a small girl, I have quite the tolerance and I think often what I need most is a tranquilizer gun. For when I'm not sick, too. I'm sure it would be much easier to reign Whiskey Carrie in with one of those bad boys.

Throw on top of that some menses and I'm just about as unpleasant to be around right now as you can imagine.

Someone needs to remind my body that it's the Year of the Fabulous. Not the Year of the Bloated, Emotional, Phlegm-Filled Ickiness.

At least I'm not this grumpy. Sheesh. I'm also very glad I don't have neighbors. People are crazy, in case you haven't noticed. And I am their Queen.

Wow. Neighbors suck.

I'm going to go gorge myself on Turkey Chili day here at the office and continue drinking more liquids than my body can possibly tolerate.

Blargh. Argh.

One Wound-up Punch of Intuition

I don't think it's too much to ask for
That while I'm crying
and melting
And wishing that the world would waste away
You could be a little miserable too
I'm selfish
I want to spit in your cup to make you sick
like me
There are all these masses that I'm coughing
Into a napkin
Green and red
Blood and Glass
It's just another fucking virus
That's all love is too
And I got infected by the kind that
Can't be given to others
You just have to wait this one out
Let it run its course
But I'm selfish
I want to drag you down with me
This doesn't feel better and so you shouldn't
Karma really is a bitch
Because she's raining down on me
And you have nothing but blue skies
And it's not fair
Even if the pebble in your shoe
Is your own fault for not pulling it out
Sooner
This is shit
It was always shit
And even if every single thing I have felt
And experienced
Was all a creation of my scattered little brain
The Placebo Effect is a powerful thing
So it makes sense to me as this ravages my body
Just another fucking virus on top of another
I can spit in your cup and I can't make you feel
What I feel
But maybe I can make you feel like shit
And that's good enough for me

Just Pretend Happy End

It's a nice thing to realize you have fabulous hair.

It's a much harder thing to realize that you're still just a pathetic girl with fabulous hair.

Well, it's cold and it's quiet, and cobblestone cold in here
Fucking for fear of not wanting to fear again
Lonely is all we are
Lovely so far, but my heart's still a marble in an empty jelly jar
Someday suppose that my curious nervousness stills into prescience, clairvoyant consciousness
I will be calmer than cream, making maps out of your dreams.
--TV on the Radio

Suicide Blonde was the Color of Her Hair

Indeed it is.

I imagine Strawberry Blonde is more Suicide Blonde because the bit of red is so much more dramatic.

But yeah, I did it. I woke up very early on Sunday, excited like a kid on Christmas. I absolutely adore fucking with my hair. I got to my appointment way early and plopped down in the chair.

"So what do you want to do?"

"I'm getting over a bad situation and even worse boys and I need a change because it is the Year of the Fabulous. I want blonde and I don't care about length as long as it's not shaved or a mohawk, we're good. I wouldn't even mind the mohawk if I didn't work at a law firm, but I don't think they'd like it very much."

"I can do whatever I want? Cut whatever?"

"Cut whatever the hell you want. Cut the shit out of it. Have fun. I'm not picky."

She gets on it. It takes hours and hours. We couldn't get all the red out, so we had to make it a little strawberry. I go back in a few weeks and we're gonna put platinum streaks throughout this whole bitch. I told her how I need to look fabulous for Chris and Spring's wedding, keeping scant on the horrific particulars of that nightmare, but she caught the drift. Dear Lord, I love my friends and am so happy they're getting married, but if I could go FOREVER without having to see the groomsmen, I would be a happy girl, indeed.

"We'll do this in stages. And you're going to look like Marilyn Monroe and they're just gonna look like schmucks."

Perfectly stated, if I do say so myself for a lady who didn't know all the sordid details. While I was sitting there, feeling the bleach burn my scalp a bit, cleaning out the old and bringing on the fabulous, this song came on my iPod Billie and I have to say, it might be the perfect break-up song. It may have to go on my mix CD, but I already have another Heather Nova song that absolutely must stay on there, so I don't know. We'll see. But I heard that, and I would say, that and this song are amazing break up songs. Enjoy, all you little heartsick folk.

I met up with Sharon after for our bellydancing private class. She saw my hair and just burst out laughing (that sounds bad, but it was in an affirmative way--both of us had dyed our hair and we giggle like children at stuff like this--we had forgotten it had been a while since our last class, and our teacher barely recognized us--hee).

Sharon thinks it and therefore, I, look like Fay Wray. Here she is:



Give me a big gorilla and the Chrysler Building, and I should be all set.

In other news, Crush totally has me in the Friend Zone, but I guess it's fine. Probably best not to pursue anyway for a variety of different reasons. There's always Cute Bartender I can work on. But something needs to happen in my love life soon because I need to take my New Hair for a test drive. And I'm getting pretty bored with myself.

Also, I bought Chris and Spring their pool table as my wedding present. Don't worry. It was really cheap, about the amount I would spend getting them something from Bed, Bath, and BEYOND!!! [I always feel the need to emphasize the BEYOND part, like past the linens, they sell spaceships or something] It wasn't as hard to get up the stairs of their place as we had originally anticipated (or I had feared). But I was rocking some mean cramps on top of Tequila-After Brain and had to hobble home without enjoying it too much to lay down and take pills for the pain. Not to mention I had to head over to Neighbors to watch 24. Who loved the hair, by the by. Neighbor 2 literally said, "Holy shit, you look fabulous." Which is always nice to get.

And Dustin was in town. Hooray, Dustin! He had his grad audition for Columbia's directing program. He looks great, as always. We were silly, as always. And even he, the King of Non-Committing, managed to snag himself a hunky boyfriend. Damn it, everyone's hooking up like the Flood's coming but me. But at least he got to see New Hair. And I forget how much you can miss a character like Dustin. I want him to get in and come to New York. Mucho mucho. We'd tear this town apart at the seams. So I'm keeping my fingers crossed. Though of course, in true Dustin style, he corrected the grammar of Anne Bogart, the head of the grad program of Columbia. Of course he would. There's nothing Dustin and I love more than correcting grammar. We're nerds. Fabulous, fabulous nerds.

I think that's all the news that's fit to print. A very exciting weekend, indeed. I think the Year of the Fabulous is finally getting into its swing. Let's take it and ride, shall we?

The Finish and the Start and I Burn

I am nothing if not perpetually awed and confused by everything.

There's a crush I have. And it is very quickly increasing in size and scope. And there are hints of reciprocation and then not. I understand that we are in a position where caution is necessary, but there are moments when we are alone that feels very much like something. And he keeps asking me to things, just me, but then he'll throw in later that we could invite a ton of people and make it a big group thing. Which would indicate that he doesn't want me thinking it's a date. But then he'll buy me a drink, leave when I do, take the train home with me (granted for the most part, we're on the same train).

I don't get it. Chances are I'm imagining the attraction because it's on my side, but I'm generally not one to assume someone's attracted to me and I get the feeling he is sometimes. And then he'll say something very buddy-buddy to me and it's gone again.

I am a girl who winds up very quickly in what my sister Amy and I refer to as "The Friend Zone." It's the point of no-return in an interaction where said object of perhaps-affection ceases to see you as something of sexual interest. For the most part, it's a trusted theory. Then again, a few months ago I slept with a friend who I had been in the Friend Zone with for 5 years, and he was in my Friend Zone. So I don't know. I'm a girl who likes to swear, drink beer, I enjoy watching sports in small doses (I honestly can't understand how Derek can spend ALL Saturday watching game after game of college basketball), I am not squeamish about sex topics or bodily functions, and I am pretty good at poker.

So you'd think I'd be a Perfect Girlfriend. Instead, I always wind up as the Perfect Girl Friend. And that's a very sharp distinction and one that makes me stock up on AA batteries.

I can't read him. And with most people, I'm pretty good at this stuff. Sleazy was as easy as a children's book. Junebug a bit harder, though that was more due to the fact that I didn't WANT to read what was there. What was there was unpleasant mess. And I'm pretty sure in German.

The last guy who threw me for a loop like this was Conor back in high school. In fact, this guy reminds me a bit of Conor. Not in any sort of physical way, but that in that guy's guy way of always fucking with people. And it was a habit I made Conor break, at least for me, because it drives me nuts. It's why I gave him the nickname Playful Bullshitter. When I was out with Crush the other night, he was giving me more shit about one of my things (he likes to tease me that I mention being a dancer quite a bit; to be fair, he brought me to a bar to meet some of his friends who I didn't know and dance came up...)

I start slapping him on the arm--

"I hate when you fuck with me!!!"

"I can't help it. I guess I only fuck with people because people fucked with me so much when I was younger."

"Yeah, well, men who are abused tend to grow up to be wife-beaters and that still doesn't make it OK. So fuckin' change that, at least with me, or I'm going to keep hitting you!"

"I'm shaking in my boots."

[enough of this shit. I grab his wrist and use the pressure point--that Conor taught me, no less--to render him useless]

"OK!!! OK!!!"

"I'm small, but I'll kick your ass."

"I've never quite met a girl like you."

"Why, thank you."

I don't know if this puts me in the Friend Zone, I don't know if he wants me elsewhere other than the Friend Zone, but when I feel that deep ache in my heart from all the past hurt, it's nice to take a moment to fully believe that the heart is more resilient than I give it credit for. This was the first Valentine's Day I walked home with a big grin on my face, and not because anything romantic happened, or even that anything romantic MIGHT happen. It was just a reminder that there is a big world out there. We mourn the losses, the pain, the hurt, the wounded pride; but there is something to be said for the hope of something new, even if all it turns out to be is Hope.

[RANDOM SIDENOTE: Sometimes I forget how awesome the Toadies are. And that is a low-down, dirty shame]

RANDOM PICTURE: I'm doing a handstand.

Epilogue

I am going to miss Dru so much.

Love you. And you're right. You ARE the good one. Even when you're bad.

Until later, then.

More White Stuff in NYC then when Courtney Love's in Town...

I spent too much time in Liechtenstein today, so I don't have much time or energy to do more, so I steal from Chris (aw, hell, after I post this I'm just gonna start linking his journal here) from our Adventures-in-Blizzard '06.



Us scooting around in the snow.



Sharon and her fabulous jacket in the snow. She made the poor decision to wear boots with a heel. She is nothing if not fearless.



You are staring at the hottest bridal party IN. THE. WORLD. Yeah. Take a moment if you need to.



The happy couple. And yes, they carry a pool cue with them everywhere.



My snow angel. I wasn't kidding about getting down with it. Times like these you gotta make yourself a mother-fucking snow angel.

Good times, great oldies. The Slush-Fest has now begun, but this was it in its purity.

Pussy Control

I wanted this entry to have absolutely nothing to do with Valentine's Day. But Jesus Holy Hell, the office building I work in even hired a string quartet to serenade us to remind us of the day. I hadn't remembered, and the email that gets sent out every morning asking us for our attendance was all lovey, too. Man, lay off already! I got it! Some dude married people in secret and got clubbed to death and then decapitated for it. How freakin' romantic. Thank God Hallmark could carry the torch.

I'm really not bitter about Valentine's Day (really, I'm not). But I don't see the big deal and having it thrown in my face every which way, I'm forced to at least acknowledge its existence. So here, for you lovebirds on this, the holiest of Hallmark Holidays, a love poem courtesy of my hero, Ms. Parker:

Theory
Into love and out again,
Thus I went and thus I go.
Spare your voice, and hold your pen:
Well and bitterly I know
All the songs were ever sung,
All the words were ever said;
Could it be, when I was young,
Someone dropped me on my head?
--Dorothy Parker

So enough of that. From the lovely Sharon, she had posted this picture of recent events that makes me snarkle until I can't snarkle no 'mo:



Absolutely brilliant. And Kudos to the Daily Show for a kick ass episode that made fun of our Vice President mercilessly and excessively. It was a sight to behold.

But I wanted to bitch about the President. Surprise, surprise. But no, in fact, not George W. Bush. I want to bitch about President Logan on 24.

The man is an idiot and a coward. This is by no means a spoiler, I don't think, but just in case there's something that slips in there that people would be surprised about, I'll do this:

24 SPOILER ALERT!!!

I see other blogs do that, and I just wanted to join the club.

Anyhoozits, he had to make a bad call. There was a bit of nasty nerve gas that was going to be released in a mall and kill a couple hundred people, but if they let it go off, it might lead them to the larger amount of nasty nerve gas that could kill hundreds of thousands, maybe millions of people. Or they could stop this mini-attack, but possibly lose their lead to the Big Prize. So the folks have to run this by the President if they're going to knowingly let a bunch of Americans die. Sort of a tough call, but that's why we have a President.

1st response--"You guys decide."

Their response: "This has to be your call [asshole]. You're the President [asshole] and knowingly condoning the murder of Americans has to be a covert act of the President of the United States [asshole]." Clearly, I'm paraphrasing, and clearly those "asshole" comments are implied, because COME ON!!!

2nd response--turn to his aide, "What do you think?"

His response: "This has to be your call." [DUH!!! HOW MANY PEOPLE HAVE TO TELL YOU THAT YOU NEED TO GET OFF YOUR LILY WHITE ASS AND MAKE A HARD DECISION!!!]

Anyway, for about the next five minutes, he tries to pass the buck in every way imaginable. I was just about expecting him to bust out his Magic 8 Ball [and even it would say, "Don't even ask me later. You're the President, Asshole]. It is infuriating and it causes a problem for me.

Calling him a coward just isn't satisfying enough. I needed to swear at him. And here's my problem:

The term commonly accepted for such behavior is calling them a "pussy." Now, I have gone along with it because it has been the standard for swearing as someone calling them a coward. And then I think about it a bit and I go, "Wait a minute..."

I like to call my Lady Bits my pussy. So do others. Somewhere along the way being a coward is being called a pussy, which is a term for the female genitalia, and therefore, I guess implying that someone's being a woman about something. And therefore, a coward. Even setting aside the fact that it's a long-about way of calling someone a woman, and that's ridiculous to imply cowardice, the actual body part itself needs to be addressed. I'm bogged down in semantics, not feminism (though I wave my feminist flag proudly, this is not what I'm trying to get at with this rant).

A pussy.

Hmmm...a vagina.

Now, in terms of bravery, I guess I can't speak for all pussies. I know mine certainly hasn't run off and slayed dragons any time recently. That I'm aware of, at least. Sometimes I sleep pretty hard. But the essence of this anatomy is actually anything BUT cowardly.

We're talking about a part of the body that has more muscles than that of a penis. Which means, I imagine that if my pussy DID want to slay a dragon, it'd have a better shot at it than a dick. Also, it has twice the nerve endings, making it incredibly sensitive. Maybe this is where cowardice comes from, sensitivity? Well, I think that's an archaic theory (very pre-Oprah and the metrosexualization of America), but even if we go with that, HA HA STUPIDHEADS, IT ALSO MEANS WE HAVE BETTER ORGASMS. So I think that pretty much shuts down that one, in my opinion.

But most importantly, and my biggest argument against calling a coward a pussy is that this is a very delicate, very petite organ that can, when it needs to, PUSH A BABY OUT OF IT--ANYWHERE FROM 5-11 POUNDS OF BABY!!!!!

Your penis just cried at the thought. Cried and ran home to it's mommy and talked about its big, bad kidney stone.

Yeah, kidney stones hurt. TRY A FUCKING BABY AND THEN TELL ME IT DOESN'T TAKE SOME FUCKING BALLS TO BE A PUSSY!!!

And my pussy bleeds once a month and doesn't think one thing about it. Your penis bleeds and chances are you've been sticking it where you shouldn't. And then you still cry.

Now, I'm not anti-man (most of the time, anyway), so I don't think making a penis reference is a viable alternative to pussy. Something else needs to be created when you are so angry and someone is being a wimpy little weasel. But I had decided to stop referring to cowards as "pussies" and here, President Logan was being just the worst example of whatever.

I was sitting with Neighbors watching it and couldn't contain myself:

"OH MY GOD THIS MAN IS A...[can't. won't. think of something else]...A...A BLEEDING HERPES SORE OF A HUMAN BEING!!!!!"

Neighbors lost it. Neighbor 2: "What goes on in that brain of yours, Carrie?"

I don't know. But it's the 10 Million Dollar Question.

But I think it works. Herpes sucks. It's uncomfortably awful. And it all sneaks away but it's never really gone and only flares up when it wants to cause problems for you. And to think of it oozing and bleeding is just as unpalatable as the President of the United States being such a wuss-ball that he can't make the big decisions that he's supposed to because he's the President of The Fucking United States. And a Bleeding Herpes Sore of a Human Being.

I crawled into bed that night and my pussy thanked me for defending its honor.

Just Remember that Powerful is the Woman in You...

...And stay true, now.

For a moment I felt so blissful. The snow had just started falling heavier than before, to where the sky was dotted in all directions with it. The thing I love to think about with snow is that every single snowflake is unique. The ones destroying themselves on my skull cap have never been seen before and will never be again. And they swirl around your head in every which way--the odd thing as a Southerner who is used to freaky rain is that at least while it's flying in every direction laterally is that at least it's all headed downward. The funny thing about snow is that once it becomes snow, it is not governed by the same laws of gravity that rain is. Those first flurries are beholden to no one and they will go any which way they feel they want to. You honestly feel you are walking in a snow-globe. The novelty of it makes me happy.

I walk in and see Sharon and give her a quick kiss and go to the restroom. I look in the mirror and snowflakes have caught on my eyelashes. I think that with them this might be the prettiest I have ever looked. I smile at myself and go back to meet Sharon and Jeremy. I think the bartender is cute and I met him the week before when I did this with Chris and Spring and Blythe. Being charming is something that is sometimes draining but it's something I know I'm good at. Maybe it's starting over that's draining. But I am happy and giddy and feeling somewhat whimsical about the evening.

Spring joins us. She's wearing one of those coats I wish I could pull off, but because of my height and naivete I know that if I ever found one, I'd wear it and look like a girl dressing up in Mommy's good clothes.

We talk. We laugh. Chris shows up. We head upstairs to play pool. I play terribly (again). This much would be certain. I played pretty well last time when I went out with Sharon and Jeremy, so it was time for me to fuck it all up. But I'm having more fun just being with them.

Dru leaves soon. It makes me sad because we just worked things out, but he's going about pursuing his goals and this tour is a step in the right direction for him and for that, I'm happy. Tonight is his going away party. I've already told him that I won't come. I can't. A friend had told me, while I was debating whether or not I should go, that it was an admirable trait that I would put my love for others beyond my own comfort, but when was I going to stop putting myself into potentially self-destructive situations? I had needed to believe that it was our situation that got in the way of anything real developing between me and He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named (wait, I fell for Voldemort? Of course that was going to end badly), but obviously that wasn't the problem at all. He just didn't want to be with me, and that's a hard pill for any girl to swallow.

I told Spring, "If I go, I'll end up windmilling you and running away, and there's going to be a blizzard tonight." Not the best circumstance to do so. She laughs, "Well, at least you realize that about yourself." Yeah, I do. I'm ridiculous and when that fact becomes blaringly obvious in a way I'm not in control of, then I just want to run away. As fast and as far as possible. It's tiring--not the running so much, as the explanations of why the next day, the reassurances that I will be okay. I never know how much of that is truth or lie. I have a feeling it's a bit of both. I'm doing better and worse than people know. But I am an expert of being one way while feeling another, and I don't really know how to stop it.

We play some more pool. It's time for us to go. They plan on heading over to Dru's party. This is where the joy starts to crumble around me. The snowflakes don't feel so free as invasive across my face, and I hate myself completely once again because my behavior has led to me having to part ways with my friends just so they won't have to take care of me, holding my hair back, tackling me in the street for the rest of the evening. I'm not going to Dru's more for their benefit than my own. And it sounds as shitty as it does self-involved.

I want to die. I want to melt. I hate what I have done to my life, the mess I've created with it. It sounds dramatic and I really only mean it in a narrow sense because at least I know at this point in my life in New York, I have real friends I know I can trust with real issues and it is a softer place to land. But I wished I hadn't been so haphazard to feel this icky feeling of separation now, parting ways with them because I was too stupid to know better, too impulsive. Should have just kept my legs closed. But I imagine there are many women in a far worse situation than me who have felt the same thing. All the same, I want to crawl into bed and hide. For a thousand years. Until I can wake up as someone different, or at least a freakin' butterfly.

We are walking and I am so goddamn sick of myself that I chuckle. I throw my purse to Sharon,

"Hold this."

"OK."

[I wonder if they were thinking, "Oh, shit, is she gonna throw herself in front of traffic?"]

I hope no matter how weird my life gets, how sad I get, or just any form of self-involved, that I can remember to do what I did then. The snow had, at this time, collected quite nicely on the ground. Fuck this mopey bullshit, I thought. Time to make a motherfucking snow angel. That's what it's there for. In all my gear, sans purse, I throw myself to the ground and leave my mark on the fresh snow. Ha. This sparks an interlude of snow-play that slaps me back into a more appreciative frame of mind. My ridiculous friends appreciate ridiculous me and we can be ridiculous together, scooting paths and swirls in the snow while it is still a novelty. In a few days, all this will turn to slush and ice, and we'll all almost die because we'll slip on it's slickness, but right now, it's our new toy. And you have to enjoy that moment while it lasts. With real friends, if you can.

I kiss everyone goodbye. Sharon tells me I can call her. I smile because I know that I can. I'm not going to, but I know I can. I come up from the subway and Billie decides to play Beth Hart's "Mama." I do a silly little dance to it that I've referenced before, but I treat it reverently on the way home. I am making my way home, the snow is viruently making its presence known to the world, and this woman's soul bleeds out through my headphones and I look around and smile.

I know my face
seems crazed and wild
but I got her eyes
a mama's child am I
And she comes to me
when there's nothing
I believe and holds me so high
yes I am free
saying why hold the anger
it won't let you fly
just remember
I'll remember
and I'll get by
Confused by my own illusions
she said that it's only my pride
And even the simplest solutions
still won't heal my mind
So I'll remember
I'll remember
And I'll get by

I come home and start this entry.

I spend the rest of my evening in my apartment alone, practicing guitar, playing music as loud as I can and creating the ULTIMATE MIX CD that I can't wait to finish and once I get the perfect title for it, I am giving it to all my girls. The CD even has a plot-line. God, I'm such a music nerd.

And oh yeah, here's what New York looks like, if you're wondering:



...The cars were just lumps in the snow...

Pools of Sorrow, Waves of Joy

I dreamt
We were dancing in the middle of a great hall
He was holding me so tightly
But I couldn't feel him
I was numb
But not cold
He's holding me so tight his knuckles are white
Or is it my dress?
Either way the harder he grips the less I feel
If that is even possible
But anything is possible in this world we made
We are spinning so quickly I can't tell
Where I end and he begins
Have I even ended?
Though I've never known where I start
As we dance the whirling dervish
I think if I can only bury myself deeply enough
Into him
I'm bound to feel him at some point
But nothing comes
And nothing stays
Maybe it could if we could only stand still
But just this dance...
And I can't quite determine
if I'm at my wedding or my funeral
They both mark the end and the start
Of something endless and without birth
We're spinning so quickly I can't tell if my dress
Is white or black
Can you see white without black?
Are they extensions of the same thing?
As his arms are an extension of my need
And the numbness the companion to my confusion
If we could slow down
I could tell if our friends watching us
Are crying or laughing for me
Instead they melt into a nebulous mixture
Of grief and celebration
I pleadingly look up
And Heaven glares down and tells me
I need to figure this one out on my own.

You can Choose the Rain, But I Choose the Sun

It has been a rough week. Not really in particular to myself, minus the fact that I have less than no money until next payday. It's going to be an interesting adventure in budgeting, that much I know.

I'm used to my own wild rollercoaster of emotions, but I hate that a bunch of people I love are going through emotional/physical/financial/blahblahblah stuff. That's the rough stuff because you want to be of help and end up feeling more useless than useful.

But good things:
--Downloaded a bunch of new music on my iPod. I love you, Billie
--Went to my first REAL concert in a long time (I don't count bands that I've seen naked). SIGUR ROS. Sweet. I don't think Iceland can produce anything normal
--One sister is resting and taking care of herself (or at least, SHE'D BETTER BE)
--One sister is working and on the road to New York in March (if only temporarily)
--One friend is here this weekend and I will do my best to cheer her up
--One friend will be here next weekend and I will do my best to cheer her up
--Two friends have a wedding coming up
--Kittens. I don't have any, but kittens are always welcome.



So goodbye, this week. I will not miss you.

A blizzard moves in tomorrow. Let's hope the fresh snow brings a fresh start, shall we?

I am a woman with a mission and a past to outdo
I don't need a gun I've got a microphone and a melody or two
Just like the earth has spent a thousand years making up for what we do
So have I for you

You can choose the rain but I choose the sun
That's all I need to free myself

This bird's gonna fly so high
Watch my sky come undone
Mama you can choose the rain
But I choose the sun

--Nikka Costa

I Wasted Far Too Much Time Doing This

I'm just not happy if I don't have 10342975492375492834 blogs.

So I started a new livejournal. But, this one is going to be written entirely in the persona I created for it.

Needless to say, I spent too much time researching enough things to be accurate. But something about a milkmaid paralegal in Liechtenstein just warms my heart. I like her a lot.

So I don't really have time to write in here today.

Enjoy.

I Know You're Laughing From the Inside Out

Such boundless pleasure
We've no time for later now

So, let go
Jump in
Oh well, what you waiting for?
It's alright
'Cause there's beauty in the breakdown
So, let go
Just get in
Oh, it's so amazing here
It's all right
'Cause there's beauty in the breakdown

We're sending a whole lotta positive chi out into the world today. It doesn't stand a chance.

Nothing but love. Absolutely nothing.



Kitty pictures courtesy of Kristen will be for tomorrow. Right now it's all about the bright white healing light.

Wrapped in Nostalgia, Sprinkled with Time

I had a very fun weekend. Still feeling it this Monday. No meltdowns or anything. I'm starting to believe this exorcism just may have stuck. Let's hope. Because a heavy heart makes my ass look big. Or something.

But something else highly amusing happened upon checking my email from this weekend (my laptop has gone wonky and I can't get internet for some reason).

I have known my friends Kristen and Amy since the beginning of time. The beginning of time, of course, being 2nd grade. And while time and geography have separated us, these girls are defacto sisters of mine and always will be. And though they be my defacto sisters, I have real sisters and they do, too. The funny thing when we were kids was that Kristen and Amy were the same age, and they had younger sisters that were the same age and close friends: Lauren and Laura, respectively.

We used to hole ourselves up in Amy's room and play. We'd be all sorts of ridiculous. The two teachers we treated mercilessly were Mrs. Leiker, the counselor, and Coach Stuessel, the uh, coach. Mrs. Leiker was easy, "Leiker?!?! We hate her!" Not to mention, children are quite possibly the most astute bullshit-caller-outers in the world; somehow we sensed the hypocrisy of her telling us not to smoke, but her office reeking of the shit. We liked creating shows. Somewhere there are entire cassettes of us doing our "Radio Show." One section had gossip, where we made up ridiculous stories about our classmates, another section where we had a "call in" and pesky kindergartners would call in trying to be our friends. And we're all, "We're in 5th grade! We're awesome! And you're not!"

That section was based on Amy's little sister. Laura, in retrospect, reminds me a bit of myself. The baby of the family, all she wanted was to join in with the big girls. I used to beg my older sisters just to let me sit in their rooms while they played.

"I won't even say anything! I just want to watch!"

My sister Amy (my real one) would indulge me often because I was an adorable child with the acerbic wit of a 30 year old. Plus, it's nice to be adored. And me being the baby, I looked up to my older sisters and wanted to be just like them. [Sidenote--all coolness of both sisters, and myself as well, is null and void upon puberty--fend for yourselves, ladies--we have entered the Angst Zone where no one is welcome]. Abby, being much closer to me in age was much more territorial of her friends. But I'd beg all the same.

And so would little Laura. And in the Great Sister Chain of Being, we would lock the door and be all, "NO! We're too cool!" [or something like that]

So Laura had to resort to other methods of hanging with us, since asking wasn't getting her anywhere. Yes, small little thing she was resorted to trickery and deceit to attain her goals. Good girl. Valuable Life Lesson #1. And while she will always win points for creativity, she needed more reasonable scenarios.

Her favorite was the old, "I have your laundry" trick.

And this was my favorite example of it:

[soft knock at the door]

"Yeah?"

"It's Mom. I have your laundry. I need to give it to you."

[us feeling like geniuses because clearly this was Laura and not Amy's mom]

"Just leave it at the door, Mom."

"But I need to put it away."

"You don't have to Mom."

"Yes, I DO."

"Just leave it."

[little pitter patters away from the door. We celebrate our vanquish of the 5 year old.]

10 minutes or so pass.

[soft little knock at the door. Our eyes roll in coolness]

"Yeah?"

"Amy, it's Coach Stuessel. I have your underwear and I need to give it to you."

[death by laughter]

First of all, the voice is clearly a 5 year olds. Second, Coach Stuessel was a 40-something bald man with a pot belly the size of Angelina Jolie's bump. Third, why on Earth would Coach Stuessel have Amy's underwear? That clearly would have to violate some sort of school code.

I think Laura knew the gig was up. The little feet pitter patter away from the door again and do not try again for the rest of the evening.

For the entirety of my epic friendships with Miss Amy and Miss Kristen, this one story to this day gets brought up ever-so-randomly and we can all still chuckle and guffaw and chortle at the sheer chutzpah it took to fabricate such a story just to be welcomed into Amy's Room Inner Sanctum of Awesome Big Girls.

It's kind of sad now that I write it. Man, we are evil to our siblings, aren't we? She just wanted to sit with us. But I guess in the Hierarchy of Growing Up, you have to take your licks. But being the baby of the family, as was Laura and Lauren, we never got to inflict this on anyone else. Well, I guess I got to with Laura. So maybe Laura and Lauren got to with some of their friends' little siblings. I like to think it all works out karmically in the end.

This is a very long-winded way of saying that I checked my email and Laura had written on my Facebook wall. Hmm...I haven't spoken to Laura since...well, I really have no idea. I really don't. Stupid booze and drugs ruining my brain. But anyhoo, the message was this:

"Carrrrrie...This is Coach Stuessel. I have your underwear!"

I just about died laughing. I just about died from Nostalgia. I immediately write Amy and Kristen, still laughing. And still in wonder that Laura is a lovely young woman. It's so hard to imagine. Harder to imagine your own and your friends' aging. Harder than your siblings. Probably because your friends' siblings you have smaller interactions with, and so to a certain extent, they will always be frozen in the time frame that you knew them.

Laura is quite lovely these days. But I don't care how grown up she gets, how mature, married, pregnant, a mom, a grandma, the President of the United States: She will always be that little kindergartner in my head, knocking on the door pretending to be our gym coach, just wanting to play with her big sister.

[Sigh]

I was Tired of Wallowing This Week

Hence, the not-too-descriptive about the inner workings of my battered soul. Though all the politics floating around there just as aggravating, at least I'm not waiting for George W. Bush to call [he never calls me back].

So here's the game I'm going to play. I'm going to put Billie on shuffle, and we'll see if I can find lyrics that will contribute to my mood/state of being. This is an experiment. We'll go with 5 songs.

1)Chop Suey--System of a Down

Here you go create another fable
You wanted to
Grab a brush and put a little makeup
You wanted to
Hide the scars to fade away the shakeup
You wanted to

That's pretty good.

2)Something in the Way--Nirvana

And I’m living off of grass
And the drippings from the ceiling
It’s okay to eat fish
’cause they don’t have any feelings

Something in the way, mmm

Perhaps a little more melancholy than I intended, but I certainly felt that when my alarm went off this morning. Stupid alarm. I hate you alarm.

3)Galaxy of Emptiness--Beth Orton

Though I'm happiest when there's no reason for me to be

When no one's expectations do a heavy on my heart
And so much hope it sometimes tears me all apart
Won't you please knock me off my feet, for a while?

Monkey see, monkey do
I spent my whole life surrounded by people like you
With all that expectation do a heavy on your heart
But no ideas to let it tear it all apart
Won't you please knock me off my feet, for a while?

That one's probably the best one so far.

4)Nefarious--Spoon

She was smoking up all his cigarettes
and putting 'em out in his hand

She said that you think this hurts now kid,
Well just wait till later man
this is fucking torture to me, it's fucking torture

what's good?
what's not so good?
sometimes it's hard for her to tell


5)Untouchable Face--Ani Difranco (and I just started laughing)

think i'm going for a walk now
i feel a little unsteady
i don't want nobody to follow me
'cept maybe you
i could make you happy you know
if you weren't already
i could do a lot of things
and i do

so fuck you
and your untouchable face
and fuck you
for existing in the first place
and who am i
that i should be vying for your touch
and who am i
i bet you can't even tell me that much

y'know, i don't look forward
to seeing you again soon
you'll look like a photograph of yourself
taken from far far away
and i won't know what to do
and i won't know what to say

except fuck you...

And I laugh and I laugh. Seriously. Even the melancholy stuff. I love it. This was a fun game for me. I'm sure it's boring as all Hell to everyone else. But MY BLOG--MY BLOG AND I WILL HAVE FUN ON IT.

Busy weekend planned. And my legs and naughty bits are hairless, which usually precludes some drunken, debaucherous bad ideas, but bad ideas seem to be what I specialize in. As long as I stay away from one, I can handle the fallout of the others.

I think I'm gonna get some business cards:

Carrie
*Bad Idea Specialist
*General Badass

Caveman in Mohair Sweater

I'm in turmoil.

I cannot seem to decide whether I find the word "monosyllabic" annoying or beautiful in its nature. On the one hand, the goes against the nature of the word. That annoys me. On the other hand, it's kinda perfect that it would.

So I don't know.

I was incredibly sleepy because I didn't sleep well, and also because today is Turkey Chili Day at my office's cafeteria. It's very yummy and I look forward to it every week. However, despite the fact that clearly they're putting crack in it (surveying the frothing-at-the-mouth paralegals in the line ahead of me), they also must put Valium in it because it takes the full force of your willpower to keep your eyes open for the four hours after its consumption.

Then I went and got my Brazilian wax. It's still like jumping into an icy river. If that can't wake you up a bit, why then, I think you must be dead. Hate to break it to you. But I can recommend some fabulous places to haunt.

The effects of such a leap into pubic pain will only last for another hour or so and then I guess it's time to switch to coffee.

Also, I have no idea what my title means. Just popped into my head as I was in the Title Field. But I think when I think of "monosyllabic" I think of cavemen. And here's the rub again--if that's what I think of when I think of that word, do I hate that cavemen can't say it? Spell it? Understand its concept?

[Two grunts and a club to the head and I have found my new boyfriend as I am dragged back to his monochromatic Caveman Lair]

Clearly, I need a nap.