It's Halloween, Gimme Some Candy!

What happened to Halloween? When I was young, Halloween was fun because of all the the candy and dressing up and having fun and being silly. Now it's about women finding the sluttiest costume they can find that is 3 sizes too small so that skin and flesh are hanging out, crying out for attention. Now it's about getting wasted and acting like an idiot. Why? Is there a reason women have to have a Little Bo Peep costume that consists of a corset and a skirt that barely covers her ass? And why does she have to wear fishnets and 5 inch clear heels? On October 31, women suddenly feel a need to dress like strippers, and they actually go out and SPEND MONEY on this crap that they will never wear again, because next year, they'll have a new stripper costume with red sequined heels. I don't understand it. I don't feel comfortable in the costume that covers my body; so this does nothing for my self-consciousness. Add to that the fact that every picture of me shows that I have a horse face, and there's Halloween. So now I'm stuck fighting off trick-or-treaters for the pile of candy in my house. So when you see me tomorrow and I look ten pounds heavier, I am. I stuffed my face with Whoppers candy and Sweetarts and Snickers and all manner of chocolate, caramel, or peanut butter. Because candy makes me feel good. It loves me no matter what, and always makes me feel good. Candy is great. Candy is wonderful. I will always say yes to candy.

Sky

Sky
Originally uploaded by ocean1000.

Weekend Wasted

Another weekend. Wasted. I'm trying to be good and do my work and not think of him, and I'm doing a terrible job. Yesterday I read through every postcard and letter and it reminded me how short our tryst actually was. It feels so much longer. And I haven't gotten my postcard this week, which makes me sad. It's about the only thing I have to look forward to.

Forward to which I can look?

Anyway, then I got dragged to someone's house for pizza and a movie, which of course had to be a romantic comedy. The whole time I kept thinking, why is that so impossible for me? Pitiful, really. And the girls talked about a friend who can't seem to let go of an obviously bad ex and I feel bad for her but I understand too.

And I woke up this morning and watched another movie about love, but it's French so it's not so sentimental and everyone isn't perfect. They love each other in spite of difficulty. So it's almost worse because I wonder why it's so impossible for someone to love me. I'm imperfect. Maybe too much. But I have feelings like everyone else even though I am constantly in the discard pile like the wretched three of clubs. If only I could have been a three of hearts, then people would want me because I'm so much brighter and the point value is higher.

And tonight I'll be dragged to a Halloween party and I don't want to go, but I can't say no because I don't want to be rude or pitiful and have people feel sorry for me because I have no friends. And I don't even have a costume, so I'll be forced to come up with something stupid that will make me feel self-conscious; as if I needed any help in that department. Last night I found myself hoping the pizza would give me food poisoning so I wouldn't have to go to this party. I will know 2 people there, and one of them I just met once. I don't like mingling. It makes me nervous. And in the back of my mind I will be wondering if he has called and cursing myself for leaving my silent cell phone at home. And I'll get home and there will be no messages, like always.

My chest hurts.

And look at all the work that I have neglected because I have been too busy feeling sorry for myself. I am not the artist that creates masterpieces from anguish and despair. Happiness is so much more inspirational. How sappy. God I'm a fucking jerk.

He says I need therapy. Maybe he's right. But I don't want to go. I don't want some self-righteous academian telling me that I'm not entitled to my feelings and put me on some dreadful medication that will push me out of my own body. And I don't want to talk about it with someone who doesn't know me or him or anything but Freud and Jung and god knows who else. They just wouldn't understand. I'm not a babe lost in the woods. I know what I want. I know how I feel. I know who I am. I don't need guidance.

I need divine intervention. God needs to fix this shit he started and give me a break. Fucker. He's like the Dubya of Fate and Kismet. He fucks up everything he touches, and the religious right defends him by saying shit like 'we can't know his plan' or 'he knows what he's doing, and we should just have faith' and 'everything happens for a reason'. Bullshit.

Another weekend wasted.

Unrealism: The Genre

Why are movie men so unrealistic? It doesn't seem to matter what kind of movie you're watching, or who's in it, the men will always be pure fiction. They don't even resemble real life. They are always perfect; they sweep this young lovely off her feet and they think he's just a regular fun schmuck she fell in love with, but oh guess what...he's a billionaire pretending to be common. How sweet. How quaint. How ridiculous.
It never turns out that Mr. Perfect has a coke habit or a gambling problem or an extra toe. The surprise is always sweet. Maybe this is why there are so many dysfunctional relationships. People don't want to believe that the person they fell in love with isn't like the movie; that they're actually exactly who they say they are instead of someone better. You start to expect it, and it never comes. Or he's perfect, but he just won't love you like he would if he were the movie. In real life, Mr. Perfect is going to leave you for a fun blonde that really gets his blood moving.
In real life, you will sob when he leaves you. In real life, things actually do suck as much as you think they do. And that guy you can't stand is not going to turn around and end up being the guy you can't stand being without. He'll always be annoying. Face it. For once, I'd like to see a movie that actually spells things out like they really are. Things aren't going to work out for you, no matter how many heartfelt speeches you make to win him back. He's not a diamond in the rough, he's just coal.
Leave the swelling music at home, forget the romance of kissing in the rain, and leave your comfy shoes on, because he's not going to kiss all your problems away, take you back because you rain through a storm, or carry you home because you twisted your ankle, stupid girl. You are on your own. Get used to it.

Experiment

I need to practice. I'm a crappy writer. I know that. But I want to get better. I want people to wonder what I've written today, and look forward to what I might write tomorrow. I want to develop a habit. I want it to seem easier. And I want to not care if anyone else cares. I know no one is reading this, and for some reason it bothers me. It is proof that no one is really interested in what I have to say. So I have to get better. Does practice make perfect? I don't know. It seems like I've practiced lots of things, but they never seem to get better. They just replay out the same as before. Argh. (If anyone has any helpful ideas, let me know)

Anyway, I'm trying to take an active step towards becoming a better writer. I'm trying this novel writing month thing to see how far I can get. The object is to write 50k words in 30 days. It sounds like a lot, but it's really only about 100 pages, which is more of a novella. But that's ok. I don't even know if I'll be able to do it. It sounds hard. But they say that nothing easy is worth doing. So I'm going to try. I'd like to bury myself in something that matters, something that no one can stop me from doing.

I'm going to try to post a link here to my novel attempt, so any support would be welcome. But don't worry too much. I know the one person reading this probably stumbled upon it by clicking the "next blog" button, so it's ok if you don't feel like reading more. I won't be offended. I just wanted to experiment a litle.

Wish me luck.

Trade In

I want to trade in my life. This one's broken. Defective. It's supposed to go somewhere, but it never does. It kind of sputters when you try to start it, and just when you think it's going to turn over and you'll be able to rev it up, it just dies and goes back to nothing. I've tried to fix it, but to no avail. It just doesn't work. It's such crap, no one will even carpool with me. Even they are too embarassed to be seen in my life. I don't blame them. I'm just as horrified as they are.

I'm alone in this. No, really. I'm not exaggerating. There's no mom or brother or buddy to help in this. This life is so far gone, any doctor would just tell you to pull the plug and trade it in for scrap. Maybe you could get a nice toaster out of it. Maybe.

I'm trying to get used to this. It's not easy. When I'm driving home through the rain or in the dark and I drive over that enormous bridge, I realize that if I simply let go of the wheel, I'd probably just sail over the railing to the parking lot below. And when (or if) I got to the hospital and they ask me who they should contact, I wouldn't be able to list anyone. (Can a laptop comfort you on your death bed?? Oh, wait, I think it already is...) There is no family I need to see before I go, and no friends I'd feel ok inconveniencing by pulling them away from their real friends. Those people might be "fond" of me, but that's not enough for deathbed confessions. People are "fond" of Swiss cheese. People are "fond" of the color blue, tulips, and nature shows. But they don't cry when those things aren't around anymore. They just find replacements.

So I need to trade in my life for one that isn't broken. One that's worth the effort, for me and everyone else. One where people bother to ask "Are you Ok?" and "How are you?" not because they're supposed to, but because they give a fuck and they notice you. I'd like a shiny new life that has some sort of meaning, direction, or fulfillment. Preferrably all three, but I'm not too picky. One that I could care about. One that's worth defending. A red one would be nice.

Eclipses

Tonight I was lucky enough to see the moon for a short time. Given that it's been raining cats and dogs most of the day, it is even luckier. An eclipse. Awesome. It was there, with a shiny side and a dark side, and it's brightness equalled more lumens than I could have ever imagined. I almost seemed to turn up the glow to make up for what was dim. And I stood there and stared at it while standing in a puddle of water and marvelled. That shadow is me. I am standing on this enourmous rock that is blotting out the sun and casting shadow on the face of the moon. I imagined my silhouette resting on the Sea of Tranquility. I waved. How small I felt. And yet, I felt like I was part of something so big, so important, and so profound that for a while the universe included me in its plans.

Heavenly bodies moved through space tonight and got in each other's way. Their effect on one another was visible, if not tangible.

And the Red Sox finally did it. Yeah. Two amazing things in one night. But I guess the real question is, which event eclipses the other more?

One Week, One Weak

The past seven days I have had my eyes opened. Now I know. Somewhere along the way, my relationship turned an abrupt corner, and I just now realized it. I've learned that I am alone. For real this time. There is no longer someone in my corner; someone rooting for me. I no longer get the benefit of the doubt. I am no longer defended. I am no longer innocent until proven guilty.

There is no room for leeway anymore. In order to maintain some semblance of stability, I have to pretend I like being put in predicaments that are uncomfortable. I have to eat shit with a smile on my face, or else. Or else it's the stake or the rack or whatever else they do for crucifixions and witchhunts.

I see now that there are sides that I didn't know existed, and no one is on mine. I am stuck at the top of the teeter-totter, waiting for everyone to jump off and slam me to the ground. And then laugh at me. At my ridiculousness. At my insanity. At my irrationality. And talk about me when I'm not there. And wonder how I got so fucked up.

It's like being back in second grade. Back when I was the third or fifth or seventh wheel. When no matter how many people were present, I was always the extra. When people got picked for teams, I was last. When people came to sit at the lunch table, I was asked to scoot down so the interesting fun people could sit down. When I talked, no one heard me. The only attention I got came from my uncool clothes and the egg salad sandwiches in my lunch bag. The egg salad tauntings left me so traumatized, I cannot eat it to this day. I used to like it. The only people that liked me were teachers, because I could always provide an enthusiastic answer when everyone else was comatose. Which of course brought even more grief to my corner.

I always seemed to fit in with the teachers better. Even when I was an angst ridden rebellious teen. My, how things change. Now the teachers even look at me a bit sideways. Because that's where I am. On the side. Like parsley.

Someone more deserving, engaging, sensitive, observant, fun, witty, or possessing a je ne sais quoi (which I, of course, don't) is catapulted to the limelight of even a teacher's attention. So I'm again (or still) the outcast, and not with a K. And I'm now acutely aware of the fact that I am my only defense. No one else will do it. Interesting week. Or is it weak?

Whiskey

Horse Head
Originally uploaded by ocean1000.

Geekery

I found out last night that I'm a geek. Well, I didn't exactly find out. I just got some validation in the matter. I took this geek test. The result: I'm 22.87% geek. That's almost a whole quarter of geekiness oozing from every pore. No wonder I can't get laid. Of course, my score goes way up because I was forced to take classes like calculus and physics and once had a dog named Einstein. Plus my brothers are geeks, and their geekdom inevitably rubbed off. I would never have gotten involved in (gasp)role playing games if I'd had friends to play with. But I didn't, so I had to hang with my brothers and their ilk. So it's not entirely my fault. And my whole family is good at math. We're all geeks. It's kind of sad, really. But there's not much I can do about it at this point. I'm resigned to being uncool for the rest of my life. Not understanding why people join fraternities and sororities, not being part of a bowling league, not wanting to cook out on the Fourth of July, not aspiring to ever actually get out of school. I'll never be cool. It's ok. I'm used to it.

It's My Fault

Today I found out that everything is my fault. Everything. My fault.

He says he shouldn't touch me like that. He says I'm not helping him stop. It's my fault he's doing something he doesn't think he should do.

He says she won't sit with us because of me. I let off a bad 'vibe'. In the opinion of the self-absorbed quirky blonde who barely has time to ask me how I am, I wasn't happy to see her. I didn't even see her at all until her back was turned away from me. But it is, of course, my fault.

I'm "checking up" on him. He said, I'll talk to you tonight. I call an hour after class. No answer. No call. It's raining. Another hour passes. It's now two hours after class. Tonight is now tomorrow. It's still raining. We don't get rain. I call again. Hope everything is ok. Call me if you feel like it, or I'll see you tomorrow. It's now one am. Ring ring. What's up? Are you checking up on me? It's my fault he thinks this. Because he told me we would talk tonight, and I'm a bit concerned that he isn't home 3 hours after class AND he has always told me to call whenever I feel like it. But obviously his definition of "whenever" is different from mine. So this misunderstanding is also my fault.

My film is dragging out. I fucked up. We had to re-shoot. I can only concentrate on a limited number of things at once. So a couple get overlooked. So we're behind. My fault.

So if you're looking for someone to blame, look no further. If the Red Sox tank, leave me a nasty message. If the Cards blow it, do the same. Losing the football pool? I did it. Late again? My doing. Having trouble in school, with a lover, a parent, a roommate, boss, or pet? Me, me, me, me, me, me.

Thought you'd all like to know.

Top 100 Movies

According to IMDB, these are the top 100 movies in order. I disagree with many of them, but there's a star next to the ones I've seen. Some of them I'm not very proud of, just so you know.

Godfather, The (1972)
**Shawshank Redemption, The (1994)
Godfather: Part II, The (1974)
Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, The (2003)
**Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, The (2002)
Schindler's List (1993)
Shichinin no samurai (1954)
**Casablanca (1942)
**Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, The (2001)
**Star Wars (1977)
**Citizen Kane (1941)
**One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (1975)
**Dr. Strangelove (1964)
**Star Wars: Episode V - The Empire Strikes Back (1980)
**Rear Window (1954)
**Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981)
**Pulp Fiction (1994)
**Usual Suspects, The (1995)
**Memento (2000)
**North by Northwest (1959)
12 Angry Men (1957)
Buono, il brutto, il cattivo, Il (1966)
Lawrence of Arabia (1962)
Psycho (1960)
Fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain, Le (2001)
**Silence of the Lambs, The (1991)
It's a Wonderful Life (1946)
**Goodfellas (1990)
**American Beauty (1999)
**Sunset Blvd. (1950)
**Vertigo (1958)
**Matrix, The (1999)
Cidade de Deus (2002)
To Kill a Mockingbird (1962)
C'era una volta il West (1968)
**Apocalypse Now (1979)
**Pianist, The (2002)
**Third Man, The (1949)
Paths of Glory (1957)
**Taxi Driver (1976)
**Fight Club (1999)
Sen to Chihiro no kamikakushi (2001)
**Some Like It Hot (1959)
Double Indemnity (1944)
Boot, Das (1981)
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004)
**Singin' in the Rain (1952)
Chinatown (1974)
**L.A. Confidential (1997)
**Maltese Falcon, The (1941)
Requiem for a Dream (2000)
All About Eve (1950)
**M (1931)
**Bridge on the River Kwai, The (1957)
**Se7en (1995)
**Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975)
Saving Private Ryan (1998)
Rashômon (1950)
Raging Bull (1980)
**Wizard of Oz, The (1939)
**Alien (1979)
American History X (1998)
Sting, The (1973)
Léon (1994)
Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939)
**Manchurian Candidate, The (1962)
Vita è bella, La (1997)
Touch of Evil (1958)
Treasure of the Sierra Madre, The (1948)
Finding Nemo (2003)
2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Reservoir Dogs (1992)
**Great Escape, The (1963)
Modern Times (1936)
**Clockwork Orange, A (1971)
**Amadeus (1984)
On the Waterfront (1954)
**Ran (1985)
**Kill Bill: Vol. 1 (2003)
**Annie Hall (1977)
Wo hu cang long (2000)
Jaws (1975)
**Apartment, The (1960)
**Braveheart (1995)
High Noon (1952)
Aliens (1986)
**Fargo (1996)
Strangers on a Train (1951)
**Shining, The (1980)
**Metropolis (1927)
Blade Runner (1982)
**Sixth Sense, The (1999)
City Lights (1931)
**Donnie Darko (2001)
Duck Soup (1933)
Great Dictator, The (1940)
General, The (1927)
Sjunde inseglet, Det (1957)
**Princess Bride, The (1987)
Dogville (2003)

Weekend

Sometimes I don't really like the weekends. They don't offer up much in the way of fun. For one, I have to work weekends. That's a pretty obvious downer. And the longer I work there, the less I like it. Working sucks in general, but more on weekends.

I also don't like weekends because it's the prime time that I get ignored by pretty much everyone. My phone doesn't ring, there's no mail, no visitors. People leave town, come back, and go visit other people. I come home to an empty house and have no one to call. No one to share what's going on in my life with.

This seems like silliness and self-indulgence. Or pathetic. I don't like going two days without talking to the few people I care about. Or that are at least fun to talk to. And I also don't like the idea of not being missed by anyone. Not being thought about. I don't like that there's no one that can't wait to talk to me. They can wait till they run into me and that's good enough for them. I'm more of an afterthought or coincidental happening than anything else. Do I even have friends? Have I been deluded all this time? It would seem so. I'm sitting here, trying to think of just one person that I could call right now that is also at home alone on a Saturday night and wants to talk to me, and I'm coming up with nothing.

And this happens every weekend. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday ok. Friday through Monday pretty much suck. But sometimes Tuesday does too. So Wednesday and Thursday, but not always Wednesday. Oh my god, I've whittled down to one good day a week. Is that possible? One day out of seven is ok. The other six I feel completely cut off from everyone I think I know or thought I was friends with. That's less than 20% of the time. No beuno.

I can't wait for this weekend to end.

Flowers

I was at Home Depot today buying ant killer for the ants that were invading my house. They need to hire more people for checkout lines.

But that's not what I was going to say. They had tulip bulbs on sale. And I thought, how cool would it be to have tulips filling my backyard? It would be fun, and I could cut them and make little arrangements with them and give them to my best friend who loves tulips.

And it might be a nice distraction from all the other crap in my life to have something else to care about and occupy my time with. It would be like a hobby.

But then I remembered. I can't keep things alive. Especially plants. They don't meow when they're hungry like those pesky cats did. I have to remember to take care of them. I don't know the first thing about taking care of tulips. And it seems like my mom, the one with a thumb so green she can bring plants back from the dead, said once that tulips are kind of a lot of work. You can't just plant them and make them grow. You have to plant them and dig them up and plant them again every year, or something like that.

But it still seems like it would be fun. It would be rewarding to be able to keep something alive.

Road Crew

Road Crew, originally uploaded by ocean1000.

Clingy

I was sitting in the usual spot. The spot where we'd been meeting and talking and laughing and getting to know each other for over two months. Our meetings were really the only reason I ever went there. It definitely wasn't for the coffee.

But today I got there first. I occupied myself with some work I had been putting off. Work that could easily be further put off when he arrived. He sauntered in and got into the coffee line. I decided to contiue working until he came to the table. I didn't want to look like I had been waiting there just for him, even if I had.

It was like sitting on needles. Trying to look like I'm not staring at him, but trying to stare anyway. Trying to time the perfect moment to look up and smile as if I'd just seen him. Keeping track of where he was in line; how long it was taking to make his coffee. Looking busy, but not too busy.

The tables were full. He walked along them, and was about to take a seat in one of those uncomfortable stools next to the window, when he looked at me and smiled. It was the smile that I was here for. The smile I'd been waiting for. I smiled back at him as I leaned back in my chair. He walked toward me. Past the chair sitting across from me. Past me. And I was stuck looking at the spot where he was supposed to have stopped.

I was suddenly that girl that thinks you're waving at her. Silly girl. People don't wave to you. They wave to the hot chicks behind you. Even if they are your boyfriend. You aren't someone that would be picked out of a crowd. You blend in. He wouldn't look for you in the spot where you usually are. Why should he?

I guess I won't be putting my work away after all. He takes a seat opposite them. Opposite me. I can look to my left and see his left side. See him looking at them. See him not seeing me. Trying to figure out who these girls were behind me. Trying to figure out how he picked them out of the crowd and not me.

Then I heard the name of his ex. It sent shivers down my spine. Now I was forced to eavesdrop. Fuck.
"No, we broke up five or six months ago"
"That's too bad"
"Well, things happen, but I actually met someone"
"Really, that sounds great. How's it going"
I missed the next line. But I knew it was about me.
"That sucks. Relationships are hard sometimes."

What?!! Something had been said about me. Something that wasn't good. Something that caused total strangers to think being in a relationship with me was hard. How could it be? I'm practically invisible. I couldn't hear anything after that. My heart was thumping in my ears. God why does this always happen? I felt so stupid. I had laid my heart on the sacrificial altar for someone who could tell veritable strangers things he couldn't tell me. The man I loved was talking about me behind my back. Literally.

What does one do in such a situation? Well, being the inatimate lump of self-loathing that I am, nothing. I just sit there. Sick to my stomach. Staring at the work in front of me and wondering how this just happened. Do I say something? Do I leave? Do I sit here and hope he doesn't notice me 12 inches from his face? Or hope he does notice?

They get up. I get a good look as they leave. Of course, they are the beautiful Southern California girls I have come to know and distrust. These are the people who know something about me that I didn't even know. They know a piece of this man that he refuses to show to me. I hate them for it. I hope to forget their faces before they are burned into my memory. He is still sitting. I glance over. He is staring straight ahead. He looks pensive. I can't help but stare.

I can't talk. So I write. Penny for your thoughts.
The answer: I hate myself. I say things I don't mean when I really mean that I love you.

This is the first time that I realize how important this relationship is to me. I feel my face get hot and I don't know what to do. I want to be mad. I want to cry. I want to say I caught you saying bad things about me. You're just like all the others.

But I can't. Because I want this person. Enough to let his apology be his apology. Enough to forgive. Enough to believe that what he says is really what he means this time. Enough to believe that this is a bridge we must cross to get to a stronger relationship. Enough to believe that this is not a sign of the disaster that will befall me later.

But not enough to forget. I will always remember the day I discovered I was "Clingy".

Secrets

I hate secrets. I hate keeping them, I hate telling them, I hate knowing they're out there thumbing their noses at me. I hate knowing that there are things people don't want me to know. Even if it's not important. Even if it's none of my business. Even if it has absolutely nothing to do with me. Even if it does.

I also hate asking questions. I hate having to extract information from people when I shouldn't have to. I hate hitting that wall where you know someone doesn't want to tell you something, but it is obviously there. They might as well taunt you with the old "I know something that you don't" chant. Give you a Christmas present in July and say but don't open it until December 25th. Say "Don't look".

You don't know what it is they don't want to tell you, but there's this catch in his breath like he stopped himself from slipping and he changes the subject. So if you ask any more questions, you're prying. And he'll say "it's none of your business". Or he'll be forced to answer in half-truths or lies. It's better not to back him into that corner.

His hand may as well reach through the phone and slap you across the face. Wake up. He doesn't trust you. Or he doesn't trust himself. So he changes direction and steers you away. There's something there he doesn't want you to see or know.

A secret.

What ever happened to being open, honest, and forthcoming? Am I so untrustworthy? What exactly is my business? Where is that line drawn between us? It seems to me that only telling people things that are their 'business' would keep people pretty far apart. So obviously it doesn't happen. Business is just another word for a secret. It's not your business if I don't want to tell you. Even if it's not important. Even if it has nothing to do with you. Even if it does.

Every Girl's Dream

Every Girl's Dream
Originally uploaded by ocean1000.

This is my first time trying to post a picture. I'm not sure how often I'm going to do it, or if I'll ever do it again, but here it is anyway. Hope you like it.

What is this?

I should be writing. No, really writing. This is more like wretching. I'm procrastinating of course. I should be writing the screenplay I have to use for class, but I'm not. This is shameful. Why do we do this? I'm really just killing time until the deadline is breathing down my neck and I'm forced to stay up all night to finish.

Just like I stand around talking when I really should be somewhere else that I don't really want to be. I'm an idiot. I stand around avoiding things by occupying myself with other crap. But they are usually things I'm saying or telling myself that I want but then I put them off. Do I really know what I want? Or is this some self-destructive loop that keeps playing itself out over and over and over?

Is this what keeps me average?
Is this what keeps me in crappy jobs?
Is this what keeps me boring?
Is this what keeps me single?

Lifetime Movies

There's nothing quite like a Lifetime Movie. They are addictive and dangerous. And there are millions of people who watch them. And I am one. I can't help it. It is a bizarre guilty pleasure. A convulsive beauty. They dig up some star of yesteryear like Tracey Gold or Judith Light or Meredith Baxter Berney or Tori Spelling and put them in some position that they think is of some importance to women. (it's actually kind of insulting, that they think all women want to watch are movies about eating disorders and jealous suicidal or homicidal lovers)

A drifter who stole a woman's identity.

A girl trying to fit in kills the most popular girl in school.

A girl trying to make it through college takes a job as a call girl.

Yep, these are themes in the forefront of every woman's mind. These movies suck beyond belief, but they are incredibly watchable. I've been sucked into a Lifetime Movie Marathon before.

Sometimes they show movies that actually had box office release. But then they do ridiculous things like dub over the naughty words like 'ass' and 'damn' with words like 'gollie' and 'man'.

Ahh, ya gotta love it.

Voodoo Addiction

I must be even stranger than I thought. My brain chooses to dwell even when I am unconscious. At least two or three times a week, I have a dream involving the man that shattered my heart into a million pieces. And they are almost always dreams that he is going to leave me for good. Either because he doesn't want to be around me or because of the quirky blonde that is able to hold his rapt attention. It's strange. Needless to say, it doesn't make me wake up feeling warm and fuzzy.

I took one of those Cosmo type quizzes with the stupid title: Are you over your ex? Well, I guess we all know the answer to that one. I didn't need to take a quiz to figure it out. Anyway, I had just enough points to not need psychological help. I got points docked for wishing that the next man to ask me out would be my ex. Bummer.

But of course, my fear of being abandoned by him is real. I know there will come a time when he won't need me anymore or want me anymore. It is inevitable. Someone will emerge as the light of his life and cast me into shadow. He says with such certainty and finality that he will never want to be with me again. It seems as if my fate is more cemented every time he says it. It is like sinking in quicksand, and I'm up to my neck. I try not to panic, so my dreams do it for me. He tells me to move on, to 'get on with my life', like a brave hostage giving himself up for the greater good. Problem is, it doesn't really seem like a life without him. It seems more like a sentence.

And why should I give up? There's no one else that could fill the gap. This man provides things so valuable and intangible that it seems like voodoo magic. Sometimes I think he is part psychic. Like he is reading my thoughts and mending things I didn't even know were broken. Giving the kind of support that only can be given by someone who truly understands me. Making me feel worthy without pandering. Are these things that one could just let go of? Is there really life without them? There may have been before, but how do you go back to doing without once you have become addicted?

I'm Up for Adoption

I have the most communication impaired family ever. They suck, in fact. They didn't bother to call or send a card on my birthday. I finally buckled today because I wanted to make sure my mother is registered to vote. She lives in a swing state, so it's really important to me. And the current administration sent her youngest son to war, which is reason enough to take action, without all the other bullshit on top of that.

And I got all the news that's happened since LABOR DAY.

My sister moved. MOVED! Which means she had to sell the house and pack up the kid, the husband, the 2 dogs and 2 horses. It's no small task, and no small decision. And not one person I'm related to bothered to let me know. And it happened a whole month ago.

It gets worse.

My grandmother is sick. Very sick. And who knows when they found that out. And no one bothered to let me know. My mother mentioned it in a 'by the way' kind of manner, which really pisses me off. Am I even part of this family? It seems not.

And this isn't the first time this has happened. I used to get e-mails that informed me of deaths, military deployments to the latest violence ridden area of the world, trips to the hospital, and various surgeries. Now they don't even bother. What the fuck???

This makes me want to talk to them even less. But it seems like it's up to me to talk to them, because they're not going to talk to me. Or maybe I should find a new family. Is there anyone out there who would like to adopt a black sheep into their family? I promise I won't take up much space.

Just promise me you'll call me and tell me when things happen to members of the family. That's all I ask.

Good Answers

Today is the last day to register to vote. If anyone happens across this, I'm begging you to vote.

Sometimes I wish I was a quicker thinker. I never come up with the good answers when I need to. I just say the first thing that comes into my head and then later I think of the real answer that I wish I would have said. I need to structure my conversations like the debates and get the questions ahead of time. Because I never really know what I'm talking about right off the bat. I hate that. I wish I were wittier and knew what I was talking about. Especially when my answers make a difference. Because people don't like it when you change your mind.

They call you a flip flopper and wishy washy when you really just reconsidered the problem and came up with a different conclusion. So anyone who asks me a question should really give me a day or two and ask it again. I may have a new and improved answer. And I may want to take some things back. Because I probably told you too much anyway. Because I can't keep my mouth shut.

My thoughts really should stay up in my head. Or at least the impulsive ones.

Haves

Naturally, the things I have done.

I have walked on the beach at midnight. I have been on a runaway horse. I have driven across the country. I have moved far away by myself to a place where I knew no one. I have changed my major. I have flunked a test. I have ruined the curve. I have been diagnosed with a psychological disorder. I have been on tv. I have been in the circus. I have flown on a trapeze. I have done back flips. I have been in a serious car accident. I have witnessed a fatal car accident. I have auditioned for a reality show. I have been offered money for sex. I have driven a Porsche. I have been hit on by a married man. I have pretended to be a lesbian to make someone jealous. I have concocted a ridiculous story about myself to thwart a man who was trying to pick me up in a bar. And I involved a friend. I have dated a man for his brains. (His big, huge, brains...) I have sung the national anthem at a professional sporting event. I have changed clothes while driving. I have ridden an elephant. I have fed a giraffe. I have been to Mount Rushmore. I have voted. I have pretended to have an accent to total strangers on a dare. I have pretended not to speak a foreign language when other people were talking about me in it. I have had sexual fantasies about a professor. I have been completely debt free. I have worn shorts in the middle of a Colorado winter. I have experienced sub-zero temperatures and blizzards creating 5 foot drifts. I have been without electricity for 10 days. I have been friends with victims of violent crime. I have been in the back of a police car. I have been pulled over. I have been fired from a job. I have been the singer for a band. I have written my own music. I have eaten duck liver. I have made my own clothes. I have made a quilt. I have drunk water from a stream. I have seen wild bald eagles. I have seen wild dolphins. I have been cheated on by boyfriends. I have gone out on a date with someone I met in a bar. I have snuck into a bar before I was 21. I have been backstage at a big music concert. I have been to a rodeo. I have been to the Olympics. I have met a past Olympian, and a future Olympian. I have milked a cow by hand. I have been mistaken for a boy. I have made a pie from scratch. I have used illicit substances. I have been drug tested. I have gone without eating for five days. I have been suspected of being anorexic. I have been homeless. I have house-sat for people I never met. I have cheated on a test. I have taken a pregnancy test. I have been on anti-depressants. I have met a professional athlete. I have called a call-in radio show. I have won a drawing. I have called in sick to work when I wasn't sick. I have gambled in a casino. I have bet on horses and dogs. I have bet on a presidential race. I have been insanely jealous of another woman. I have driven a long distance in the middle of the night for sex. I have had someone drive a long distance in the cold to see me. I have had food poisoning. I have co-signed a loan, and then been forced to pay it back. I have been a victim of identity theft. I have been in love.

Well, that's it for now. Maybe now my life feels more full.

Have Nots

I was thinking yesterday about all the things I haven't done in my life. Here is the list, but I'm sure I'll have to adend it later.

I've never ridden in a limo. I've never been outside the US. I've never been to Hawai'i or Alaska. I've never visited Chicago. I've never surfed. I have never been pregnant, married, widowed, or divorced. I have never eaten escargot or grits. I've never flown on a private plane. I've never been in a tornado or hurricane. I've never seen California's redwoods or been to Napa. I've never called 911. I've never been admitted to a hospital. I've never had a major medical procedure, including an MRI or CAT scan. I've never been to and NFL, NHL, or NBA game. I've never bought real estate. I have never stolen cable. I have never shoplifted. I've never been in jail or fingerprinted. I've never been issued a traffic ticket. I've never purchased drugs illegally. I have never driven over 100 mph. I have never run a marathon. I have never broken a major bone. I have never collapsed or passed out. I have never been cool. I have never been a smoker. I have never hired a lawyer. I have never been in court. I have never been elected to anything. I have never met a president before, during, or after his term in office. I have never met a politician above mayor. I have never met a tv personality. I have never been waxed anywhere on my body. I have never gotten a tattoo. I have never tried a fad diet. I have never been in a fist fight. I have never broken up a fight. I have never skydived, bungee jumped, or parasailed. I've never been on a cruise. I've never been on a boat other than a speedboat or a ferry. I have never seen a dead body of a human. I have never been hunting. I have never skinny dipped. I have never had sex in a hot tub. I have never used a sex toy, alone or with someone. I have never had a three-way. I have never paid money for sex. I have never been paid money for sex. I have never been on salary or driven a company car. I have never had a disposable income. I have never had a job more than 3 years. I have never been out of school for more than 2 years. I have never owned my own business. I have never hitch-hiked. I have never ridden a bus or a train as a method of long distance travelling. I have never had a step-sibling or step-parent, or any other step-relative.

I'm sure there are many many more, but this is a good list to start with. Hope it was educational.

Involuntary Invisibility

It is always depressing to learn how unnecessary you are. And for some reason, it's always a shock.

You get to work, and you find that not only are you not needed, but you don't know what's going on there anyway. They do everything without telling you. You don't even get a schedule anymore. You have to ask for it.

You get home and all the lights are off. Everyone is asleep. No one waits up. No one asks you how your day was.

You call your friend, the one that insists he has no life. He's out. Where could he possibly be? Out with the quirky blonde? Asleep? In the shower? Out of town? Whatever it is, he's too busy to take your call, you loser. He doesn't want to hear about your boring day anyway.

Your classmates don't really need your input on your project. They could probably do it without you without much difficulty. You're really just taking up space.

Your family hasn't called in almost two months, and you even had a birthday in there somewhere. Not that they would remember. Or care.

Even your bedroom doesn't look like you've been there. It looks like storage.

Your phone isn't ringing, you have no mail, and your e-mail inbox is empty too. Except for that mass e-mail that Victoria's Secret sent you to remind you that you don't need sexy bras, even if they are 20% off.

Unnecessary. Dispensable. Unwanted. Unneeded. A memory. An afterthought. What ever happened to that weird girl with the glasses? She was almost pretty. If only her boobs were bigger. She was so strange. Is she even still alive?

Yes, she's there. She's the ghost that comes in an out and no one notices or cares. She might be standing right in front of you and you wouldn't even know it. She would scream and you wouldn't hear it. It's amazing invisibility. There is no cure. People will never see you. They see past you. Or worse, through you.

Candy

I love candy. I would eat it all the time if I could. I love chocolates and fruit candy and caramel and everything in between. I even love those little circus peanut things and sugar coated gummy orange things. They get stuck in my teeth and I love it. I'm willing to eat it until I get sick to my stomach and I gain thirty pounds. It's about the only thing that makes me feel good every time I eat it. (Well, almost)

Or at least my mouth feels good. Most people think I'm some sort of glutton, but that's really not it. Or maybe it is, who knows? I just like instant gratification. People don't give it. Work doesn't give it. School doesn't give it. Life doesn't give it. So I'll get it from candy.

I could spend what I normally spend on my cell phone bill on candy and be loads happier. Candy doesn't remind me what kind of life I don't have. My silent phone does. And my open social calendar does too. Even my empty head reminds me. I am bereft of ideas. Bereft of signs of life between my ears. How does this happen? It's not that I'm lonely. I'm just alone all the time. I'd prefer to have someone around to talk to about stuff that happens every day. The only problem is that there is no one that would ever be willing to listen to anything I have to say. And the things I say are becoming more and more banal and unbearable to listen to.

Argh. (I'm part pirate, too)

So I guess this might just be a lesson in supply and demand. There is no demand for the contents of my brain, hence, the supply production has dropped sharply. I'm becoming the boring person everyone thinks I am. Or the depressing person everyone is tired of.

So it's candy for me. Bring on the sugar. My cavities and extra pounds will keep me company.

Bedridden again

Yesterday I was feeling better. Today I feel worse. This disease is not giving up. And I don't have time for this. I have work to do. Work to go to. And brooding to do. Sickness just doesn't fit into my schedule.

I have no life. I'm whining about being sick because it prevents me from working and feeling sorry for myself. It doesn't prevent me from going out with friends and having a good time because I don't really do much of that. How pathetic. But everyone I know has other engagements. One of them is out of town, and the other is out with another friend. So I'm laying here in bed at 1 in the afternoon, sniffling and coughing, watching more crappy tv, and avoiding the work I need to do before I go to work. Debating if I should eat today. Debating calling my mother and arguing with her for an hour to try to get her to register to vote.

This is not exactly how I envisioned my life. It usually looks much different in my head.

Kiddies and Kitties

Tonight I went to work. One of the women I work with has a four month old child that she is completely enamored with. It's all she talks about. She couldn't wait to get home to see him, and she was excited about spending all day tomorrow with him. I think that's cool.

It kind of makes me wonder about having kids. If I would ever have any. Usually you think you'll want them when the right person comes along, but until then, you're ok without. I've always felt that way. But I actually think I'm doomed. Doomed to spinsterhood and being that old woman living alone in some house with forty cats that no one knows but they all agree she's pretty weird.

I'm a silly girl. I fell in love with someone that I would love to have kids with, and I blew it. I already miss those kids I would've had. They would have had the most loving father and the most loving mother, who loved each other and would take care of each other. And the rest of their families would be weird and strange as always, but they would still be the best families a kid could ever want. This kid would never be neglected or starved for attention. She would be able to actually have conversations with her mom and dad and feel like they care about what she has to say.

It's a beautiful picture. But that's it. It's just a picture. It's kind of depressing when you think about it. I like, no love, that picture. But the reality is something so different. So I have to figure out something else. So I went into film. Maybe so I can fantasize about what life could have been like if I'd been able to change things.

See you when I'm fifty. And I love my cats. They keep me company.

Moments & Memory

This disease is hanging around like a door-to-door seventh day adventist. It just won't go away. And it showed up at a terrible time. Not that there's ever a good time. I think I've got it on the run, though.

I've felt foggy all week. I can't think. Cold medicine only gets partial credit. The rest is my own fault. I don't get over stuff. I dwell. For some reason, I've been swamped with memory, and that makes it hard to concentrate on what is going on. And there's this weird feeling following me around that is reminding me of what I was doing a year ago. Or what I was about to do. I was about to be someone I didn't think I would ever be. I was about to fall in love. Maybe for the last time. With someone who helps me be the kind of me I want to be. I was about to find and lose control at the same time.

My phone finally rang last night. It was a good thing. It was 'just because'. That's better than having a reason. Now it's ringing because my producer is flaking out and making decisions without the rest of us. Which of course doesn't work for the rest of us. The blonde psycho in me wants to freak out and declare the project a disaster, but I can't do that. I have to buck up and have faith in the people I'm working with. With whom I'm working. Please god, let this work out. Without everyone killing everyone else. That's all I ask. And I want an awesome film. (Is that asking too much?)

I saw my best friend today, pretty much for the first time since Monday. I was feeling bad about that. I missed him a lot. Maybe he missed me too. Maybe not. But he knew I was lonely this week. You'd think he'd say something. No.

Better.

He looked at me and put his hand on my shoulder. And then on my other shoulder. So did I. We walked that way for a while. I would have liked to know what he was thinking, but in a way, it really doesn't matter. What matters is that I felt better. Better than anything he could have said. For a hundred feet, I didn't feel so lonely anymore. It was a nice moment. I like those best.

Good, Bad, Ugly

Still nothing. No one is reading. No one is calling. My phone has not rung in over 48 hours. Not once. Not even a wrong number. And my pathetic ass is still checking it to make sure it's on. I feel like I have the plague. Even if someone did make contact, would I even have anything to say? Well...

I broke a wine glass today. With my bare hands. I was washing it and it just broke. Amazing I didn't slice my hand open.
I got a surprise paycheck from when I used to be a librarian. That was in May. Definitely takes a bit of the crunch off.
I got a grad fellowship, which entitles me to some money. Not a lot, but I'm not complaining. If I got 19 more, I could go to school and not have to work. Cool, eh?
I finished my first project in Sound. I'm satisfied with it.
I got to see my name in the credits of a couple films that aren't mine. One was a 'special thanks' that I didn't know I would see. That was nice.
My big bro might come to visit in December and see a football game with me. I've never been to an NFL game in person before.
I finished my first short screenplay last night. It might suck, but at least it's finished.

So that's the new news. Not that anyone cares. Now the old news..

My mother and my sister aren't speaking. My swing state relatives are voting for a monkey for president, if they're voting at all. I feel really untalented and stupid every day at school. Not to mention incompetent. I haven't seen the ocean in almost 2 weeks. I haven't walked on the beach for over 2 months. I am forced to work more than I would like for less money than I need. I have not spoken more than 2 sentences to my best friend since Monday because he is too busy for me. I don't even think he notices things like that. It makes me feel like a sideshow. He doesn't even know what I'm talking about half the time. Which only magnifies the distance that is increasing between us, much as I try to keep it together. He doesn't laugh like he used to, and he doesn't call me 'just because' anymore. It makes me sad. And I'm sick. He doesn't know. My family doesn't know. The only people that know are the people at work. Because that's where I caught it. It's enough to make someone feel like a real winner, isn't it?

Operator Standing By

Still no calls. Check the phone. It's working. So I'll trudge off to school with no one wondering where I am or how I am.
It's not fair.
There used to be a time when he had time for me. He would call. I thought he would call yesterday to tell me about his dinner. Nope. And I lay here sick and he doesn't know because he never bothered.
He is the first and last thing I think about every day. And a lot of times in between. I bet he doesn't. If he did, he'd have called. He used to call all the time. I know he's busy, but he's always been busy. He used to make time for me. No more. It's lonely out here. Every night I go to sleep and am reminded that I'm sleeping next to a pillow. And that's it. Sniff. Rasp.
I miss him lots. I wish it were mutual.

Rasp

I don't feel good. I'm back in bed, watching crappy tv again. I've become an involuntary mouth-breather, due to the congestion in my sinuses. And to make matters worse, I'm writing an angst-ridden blah(g), and I'm way older than fourteen. At least it isn't pink.

There's nothing like illness to make you feel lonely. Not that I don't feel lonely when I'm well, but this sucks worse. I have a cell phone, but have no idea why. It never rings. Not even when I'm sick. So I pay for the reminder that no one calls.

And I'm not getting any work done. I feel so awful and I have this rasp I hear every time I exhale, which makes it hard to concentrate. But I keep remembering that I have to get to school early tomorrow so I can pick up my financial aid check and I have to work on a sound design project before class and meet with my scene study group after class and try to get home to catch some of the debate. And I have to finish my reading assignment before Thursday. Rasp. Sniff.

Check the phone. Still no calls. (Is it broken?)

The good news is the check. An extra $250 for this semester and $250 for next. Because being broke sucks.
Not that anyone cares. Not even me. Rasp.

Yucky

I hate people
They come to work when they are sick.
Then I get sick.

I went to bed early last night and ended up sleeping for a much needed 12 hours. I took Echinacea and have had OJ and lots of water. And I still feel like my head is being squeezed from the inside out. My chest feels like it's full of sandpaper. Whoever gave me this, I put a curse on you.

The worst part of being sick is being alone. No one gives a crap that I feel so yucky. No one is asking how I'm feeling. Or if I feel better. And no one is there to take care of me.

The last time I was sick, there was someone to take care of me. And of course he did. Because that's the kind of person he is. I would give anything for that. Sometimes when you can't breathe right, you just want someone to hold you while you fall asleep. Even if you are drugged up and drooling. And they'll draw you a nice hot bath so you can just go from the bed straight to the water. And they sit with you and talk to you and don't treat you like the gross sickie you feel like. And it just seems easier because you don't have to think about how to take care of yourself. Someone else is doing it for you.

Now I'm lying in bed watching crappy tv, wishing I at least had someone to go to the store for me. My ears are throbbing. I want medicine, but I don't want to get up. And I have class in 2 hours. And work after that. Because they hate me and won't ever let me rest. I just want to veg out and I can't. And I'm hungry. But the worst part is, no one even knows or cares how crappy I feel.

Ahh!

I need to get laid. Bad.

Kyrie Eleison

I am not Catholic. I am not religious at all, really. I'm pretty much your run of the mill heathen. I drink (I'm doing it now!), observe no religious holidays (although I tried to claim my birthday as one, and Christmas is even a maybe most years), and I think Sunday is for football. I believe in (and practice) pre-marital sex. However, I must admit that some really beautiful things came about because of religion. Conversely, many really ugly things have come about because of religion (i.e. war, genocide, discrimination, hate, etc.), but that's a discussion for another time. I only want to talk about the good stuff. I hate church. Or "The Church" to be more specific. Churches as a rule creep me out. However, churches have provided us with some of the most beautiful and amazing architecture in the world. They also have better acoustics than many concert halls. When I was studying voice, I always preferred to perform in churches because the sound was so amazing. Some of the most beautiful music in the history of music is sacred. However tedious and drawn out Mass may be, I have become familiar with a few of them. (We were required to learn all the parts of the Mass in Music History) My favorite has always been the Kyrie Eleison. For some reason, this one always resonated inside me. Maybe because it's one of two that is still performed in Greek rather than Latin. (I think that's pretty cool.) It's more likely that it translates as 'Cry to Heaven'. I feel like I've been doing that all my life. When my pony was shot in the head, when my high school friend was shot in the back, when I was violated by someone I barely knew, when my ex was killed in a car crash, when my heart was shattered into a million pieces, and all the times in between when I felt like I was marked for misery. Which is a lot of the time. The only trouble is, I don't think heaven is ever listening. (Which explains part of the reason I'm not religious.) I'm almost 30 years old. I have yet to have a relationship last longer than 9 months (with all but two being less than 6 weeks). I've never had a job that I cared about. I've never been on salary. No one has ever wished they could be me. No one has ever wished they could be with me. I don't own anything worth more than five hundred bucks (except the car, which doesn't count). No place feels like home. My family thinks I'm crazy. And incompetent. The man I want to spend the rest of my life with is in love with someone else. I have less than 5 friends I can talk to. The only thing I really love about this place is the ocean. I feel like a moron in every class I attend. No matter how much 'talent' I have, so many people have more. I hate my body. So I'm crying. To heaven, to christ, to anyone who will listen. Does it do any good? It seems not. I've been blackballed by the cosmos. Or whomever. But I can only keep crying. Kyrie Eleison. Kyrie Eleison.Kyrie Eleison.Kyrie Eleison.Kyrie Eleison.

Weight

This was weight. This was 50 tons of something that no one could even touch or see. It had been fastened to her chest for some time now, and it was pulling her down more and more every day. She couldn't do anything about it. It lay there, quietly, heavily. It made it hard to breathe; it made her heart beat faster. It made her work. Now she was shedding it, like a skin tight wet suit. It had to be turned inside out on its way off. It had become like a second skin. She felt weak, knowing that she was now naked before him, yet again. She looked down at her shaking hands and hoped he hadn't noticed. The quake in her voice was bad enough. She was leaning on the wall for support, and it only gave her enough to keep her upright. This was the purging of something ugly, something so big and terrible that it could not be classified. It was jealousy. It was betrayal. It was mistrust. He admonished her for keeping it with her for so long. She felt she had no choice. What if it were true? The belief that it was a lie was easier to eat. Easier to carry, however painful. She had hoped for falsehood. This moment had come about over the sheer weight of rumor. She had finally cracked. She could no longer hide her torture. It had to surface now. It came out haltingly, like a schoolgirl's stutter. Not the kind of image you want to show the professor. Every word cut her throat and added an extra tremor to her hands. Shit. Stop this. Too late now. She was unburdened. For now. The guilt would come later. She always wanted honesty. She couldn't even deliver it herself. She felt like such a hypocrite. And here he was. His usual self. Attentive, understanding, sympathetic. As if he were reading her thoughts. How did he do it? It was fucking uncanny. That was how she fell in love with him in the first place, though. He said, no apologies. She couldn't help it. She had been wrong. Way wrong. Delusional. Irrational. (Or had she?) Argh! This wasn't how she wanted to be. Who she wanted to be. She saw this woman shaking and quaking and hated her. What happened to the rational girl of yesteryear? She's terrified. She fell in love and now she's living in a hole hoping she'll make it to tomorrow. But here he was, saving her again. How many more times would he be able to save her? She felt her nine lives were almost spent. It wouldn't be long before the truth she feared was the truth. She knew it. He would eventually live without her easily. And she would be left with this weight. It would lay there quietly, heavily.

Public Service Announcement

For all of you who don't know, tickling can be very dangerous. For mutliple reasons. Engage with caution. I was the unlucky victim of tickling today. In my desparate attempts to escape the onslaught, I began flailing wildly. My elbow bone collided with my hip bone, and now I have an unsightly and painful bruise on my hip. It really hurts, and it's really embarrassing that I hit it with a bone that is not supposed to be in the same proximity. Being skinny can be problematic. Don't let anyone ever tell you different. And tickling can be hazardous to your health.

Bridge

Movies don't work. Or maybe they work too well. So well that you start to think life can actually be like that. You'll actually be able to think of whatever it is that you can say that will make someone stay, make someone love you, make someone change their mind, or make someone understand you. Real life is never that fulfilling. There is nothing you can say or do to make things come out right. They only continue on the same path as before, as if you weren't standing in the middle of the road waving your arms like a lunatic. You got run down like roadkill.
He called. I answered. I was glad to talk to him. Because he reached out and found me. I'd been watching TV. Ironic, isn't it, that I was watching a show about building a massive bridge. But I already knew all about it. A bridge built by the same people who built the World Trade Center. It is definitely a feat to build something that joins people together and resists the forces that conspire to destroy it. Links. All it takes for people to link is a fiber optic cable or a mysterious tower emitting mysterious waves. Or pen and paper. But reinforcing the bridge takes more effort. More time. More care. Some days it seems almost impossible. It would be easier to shut down and leave the gap. Sad. Sadder still to be alone and isolated. For us both. The incoherency of our respective losses seems to join us irreversibly. There is no "us". There is me. There is he. And there is we.

Imperfection

Imperfection.
It looms
large.

Those ill-fitting clothes only magnify
my lack of curves
my pack of nerves
when they bunch all wrong
in all the wrong places.

Who would ever want this?
Not me
Not he

Those angle bones jut from everywhere.
Sharp enough you could cut yourself.
Touch not.

This is beyond even Cosmo's advice. They have already shrugged me off and sequestered me from real females.
Relegated me to wannabe status.
Want to improve your sex life? First you have to have one.
Six ways to make him drool? Imaginary men don't have saliva.
Dress for your figure? Mmmm...nevermind.
Want to feel great about your job, love life, family, school? Try morphine, yours sucks (all of them)

Those locks will never lay along your nape
alluringly.
That skin will never be smooth and clear.
That chest will never be, well,
B.
Those legs will always be stubbly.

All the things wrong
the walk the talk
the shoes the hair
the skin the teeth
the shirt the skirt
the butt the glasses
the hips the thighs
the wheres the whys
the split ends the sighs
and the size

Imperfection
It looms
large.

Breakfast Bliss

We sat at the breakfast table together. The light pouring in softly from the skylight.
I could not recall the last time we shared a breakfast together.

He poured the cereal and the milk,
and cut up the fruit.
His feet shuffled softly on the wood floor as he
walked to the table.

This was a moment.
The kind I always wished for.

The haze of happiness swirling around me, daring me to wake up.
But I already was.
I could smell the ocean and feel the
crispness
of the air.

I was acutely aware of him and his body; the
relaxed
shoulders
of morning.

I rested my head on my hand and looked up to him
with the cereal bowls in his hands.
He was smiling. The same content smile I remembered;
the same one I felt.

He placed the bowls on the table and sat across from me.
Every bite was
sweet with the taste of memory;
bitter with the tang of reality;
soft with the texture of familiarity
and comfort.

With every bite, we came closer to parting; closer to the conclusion.
Or to the "to be continued..."
Or not.

We spoke quietly, noting the
fragility
of now.

It's only cereal.
It's only temporary tranquility.
But it cured my hunger pains
for a while.

I fell asleep
(Or did I wake up?)
I confessed
(Or did I spill my guts?)

I ate
(But I'm still hungry)
I wept
(But it felt better)
I gave
(But had no spare)

I know
(But still feel stupid)
I listen
(But still am deaf)
I am full
(But still bereft)
I live
(But still feel dead)

Finally. I got some food. All day long I was craving Lo Mein, but had to settle for Fritos. I hate that. Finally around 10pm I went to starving mode and stopped at the grocery store on my way home. No lo mein, but I did get some Uncle Ben's Chicken Fried Rice. It was ok, but at least now I have food. The downside to this ditty is that now I have a piece of rice stuck in my throat and can't get it out. It's really annoying. Sigh.

I feel like I have hit a hard place, dear reader. I have been spouting all kinds of angst-ridden crapola for the past month or so, and now I feel like there's nothing else to talk about. I am tired of myself. It amazes me that anyone would ever want to talk to me anymore. I fear I've become boring. Not that my whining and self-loathing are all that interesting, but at least I had something to write about. I've become banal. Everyday. Ordinary. Ick.

Beware the bad baseball analogy!!

I don't think of myself as someone who gives up easily. I do give in. But I have given up lately. I wade through school like some sort of zombie, counting the minutes till I can go home. I sit at home and count the minutes till I go to school. I've given up on my appearance. It doesn't seem to matter anymore. I gave up on makeup and cool clothes and doing anything with my hair and caring about my fingernails. I don't even bother to wear a bra anymore. I don't need it anyway. And the funny thing is, no one seems no notice. Or care. And that's just fine with me. I want to fade out most of the time.

I showed my first film project in class today. I was nervous, but I didn't really think anyone would like it. And I didn't care if they liked it. Well, maybe I did a little. But they seemed to like it. It's hard to tell since people are so reluctant to tell you what they really think about anything anymore. But they were pretty nice about it. I get the feeling that none of them expected my work to be any good. Especially my professor. He kind of looks at me with these raised eyebrows and says, "Well, any comments from anyone?" They all seem mystified when my work doesn't suck like they thought it would. Or when it's actually better than theirs. Perhaps the lesson is, never underestimate the power of humility. I have never claimed to know anything about filmmaking. Not once. And apparently everyone assumed that means I don't know anything about creativity and imagination either. Whoops. One person complimented my impeccable sense of timing, which was completely unxepected. I never even gave that any thought. It's nice to be commended for something that just kind of happened.

So now that's overwith and I can fade back into the ghosthood I was getting so used to. I like it there. No one bothers with you and you can be that proverbial fly on the wall. Then when you step up to the plate and actually hit a home run (or more likely, a single, but at least I'm on base), everyone stops and gasps for a minute. Then they clap and look at their programs to figure out who the hell that was. I may get to home plate, or I may get tagged out, but rest assured that I am forgotten by the time I get back to the dugout. Which is just fine with me.

Wishes

Call me superstitious. Someone once told me that when the clock strikes 11:11 and 12:34, to make a wish. So I do. And I always wish for the same thing. Not world peace. Unfortunately, I don't make it to the clock for those four times every day. I made it today. Wishes are so wierd. No matter that they don't come true. I keep wishing. I've given up on everything else that doesn't materialize. So where does this silly hope come from? I've never been able to figure it out. Maybe it's that wishes start out as something that doesn't really exist. So you never really expect too much from them. I really believe them at the time I'm wishing. When that candle gets blown out, it feels like it's all possible.

Zen of Sadness and Halloween Costumes

I have already given up. It only took a month. I'm not writing so everyone can see how great I am. I'm not trying to get readers. I know it won't happen. That's ok. This is just to help me get in the habit of writing on a regular basis. Every day. The only trouble is, it's really just getting me in the habit of spilling my guts when I should probably keep them inside me. Oh well. If anyone stumbles across this, my apologies. I'm a sad case. Maybe even a hopeless case. It seems like everyone around me is annoying, and I don't know why. They are just the same as they always were, but now I can't stand them. Especially my family. And the live flesh that I had yesterday has faded into nothingness again. Numbness has returned to my fingers and toes, and apathy, frustration, and dissatisfaction have leapt into the forefront. I still dread the quirky blonde's appearances, am trying to figure out what makes me so unmarketable, and wonder what the hell I am doing with myself in general. So I'm sitting here on a Tuesday night alone. I would call my friends, but I really don't have any. I've lived here over a year, and it seems that my most lasting relationship in that time has been with my car. We met, we spent some time together, and now I feel more at home with it than anywhere else. And I'm not a car person. I thought I was on the right track; I met someone, fell in love, and got dumped like a bad habit. Trouble is, he became my best friend before he abandoned me, and now I feel like there's no one left to listen. Or even care. I'm alone. At least I feel that way. It seems like it's not going away like it's supposed to, either. But in a way, it's all just fine. I just have to get used to the idea of it. Feeling dead is something that I've kind of gotten used to, and when I have feelings, they aren't pleasant. Maybe it's better to not have them. They kind of suck. So I'm resigned to fading into obscurity and invisibility. I don't need to dress up for Halloween. I'm already a ghost.

Equines and Appetites

I don't know what to say. There are so many things going through my head, I can't keep them straight. Yesterday I went to a show. A show with horses. It was amazing. It was more than horses doing tricks. Its goal didn't seem to be about that. It seemed to be about showing how beautiful horses are. What's not beautiful is that jerkoff three seats down who can't shut up, or even speak quietly enough that everyone in a three row radius won't hear him. Could it be the same people who were sitting behind me at the movie theater? If only. No, these moronic chatterboxes are everywhere, pointing out what is painfully obvious to everyone else and acting like they've just told us all the cure for cancer. Despite this, I enjoyed the show immensely. It was a wonderful and thoughtful birthday gift.

The second gift was even better. I got to feel good again, and it was nice. I woke up this morning in a strange haze, but content and mellow, which hasn't happened in quite a while. All of my stress with school and work and my own emotions seemed so much smaller. It was almost awkward to feel good. I woke up with an appetite that I haven't felt in quite a while. My stomach was growling and my brain was actually listening. I don't remember the last time I ate breakfast. Today I did. I ended up eating three times today, which is some kind of record. Not that I stuffed myself all day, but eating more than once a day is rare for me. I eat when I get hungry. It kept happening today. And it tasted good. It was as if my whole body was suddenly living. I ate an entire tomato, and it was the best tomato ever. I wanted it bad enough to go to the store to get it. That's nothing short of a miracle. There is no such thing as comfort food for me. I eat when I feel good. And today I felt good. So I ate. I'm sure my body will fade back into numbness soon(probably before the week is out), but for now, I can feel all the way down to my toes. So I guess the lesson is, never underestimate the power of a kind word and gentle touch.

3 Things to Jog Memory

1. Shivering in bed till it warms up
2. Smells
3. The ocean still sounds like rain

Temper Temper

I was at work today and I noticed that a guy I work with (one of the chefs) had his hand pretty heavily bandaged. I recalled that it wasn't that way yesterday, and I shockingly asked,
"What happened to your hand??" (I have a flair for melodrama, in case you couldn't tell)
He sheepishly said he broke it.
"How? And please don't tell me you broke it because you punched a wall."
Which is of course how he broke his hand.
Why do boys do this?
I have never known a girl who broke her hand because she punched a wall, or anything else for that matter. But men always seem to break themselves this way. And then there's the ones that just show up with a nasty swollen hand because they're too macho to go to the doctor. Idiots. Is there really no other way for them to manage their stress and anger? Some guys use the excuse that at least they didn't hit a person. True. But do you really have to take all your emotions out in a physically violent manner? Is there no other option? What about going somewhere private and screaming your guts out? Your throat might be a little sore, but at least you'll have all your limbs intact. Or is that too girly?
What really bothers me about this situation is that this guy asked me out a couple of weeks ago. I was never interested, but now I'm definitely not interested. I'm even a little bit scared of him. What kind of psycho gets mad and hauls off on the nearest thing? I don't want to be around a person like that.

I once read a top ten list of occupations of wifebeaters.
Number One is cops. Big surprise.
But Number Two is chefs.
Chefs?
And to think I dated one once upon a time.
Hay Carumba.
Boys, get your shit together. Gentle men are definitely preferable.
In the words of Bertolucci, "Orgasms are much better than bombs."
Know it. Live it.

I Love Shoes

I'm being unfair. I know that. It is terribly unfair for me to point to this one person and declare that he is the reason for my happiness or lack thereof. But it's really hard not to. If someone gave you a pair of shoes to wear, and they came out of nowhere, with no price, you'd give it a try. And these shoes turn out to be the best pair of shoes you've ever had. They fit just right, and they look cool with everything you wear. They are comfortable and durable and you can wear them anywhere. They feel like they were made just for you.
They make your feet feel really good, and walking starts to be the only thing you want to do because you have this great pair of shoes that no one else gets to have. So you keep them and wear them every day and you get attached to them. You take extra care to keep them clean, but they never get dirty so it's not that hard. And you realize that you don't know how you ever lived without these shoes. How you ever wore anything else. All the old shoes pale in comparison to this perfect pair. You start imagining all the fun places you can wear these awesome shoes. You want to wear these shoes for the rest of your life. You want to wear them in your sleep.

Then one day they are gone. You search high and low for them, but they have vanished without a trace. Not even shoelaces are left. You whine about it, but everyone tells you to just get some other shoes and wear those. But they don't understand. Other shoes are not good enough. You try on an old pair and they just rub your heel till its raw and pinch your toes. They hurt to walk in. You look through all your old shoes and a bunch of new shoes and nothing even compares to the shoes you lost. They all suck. It seems so simple; all you want is this one pair of shoes. But that's the only thing you can't have. So you decide to go barefoot. You can't stand the thought of wearing some pair of shoes that you don't like, so you have to go without. Just your feet. And it is really painful because you got used to walking in those shoes and now you are burning your feet on the hot sidewalk and stepping on glass and generally tearing your feet to bits. And it only makes you miss your shoes even more than before. And you hope that your feet will eventually get tough so that you don't have to limp along anymore. But you know that your skin is so thin, and there's a good chance your feet will be messed up forever. You can remember how nice and soft your feet used to be, but now they are ugly and gross and you are embarassed for people to see them.

People look at you kind of funny and ask where your shoes went, but you have no answer because you don't even know. All you know is they are gone and you would do anything, pay any price to have them back. And every day you live with the dread that someone else will wear the shoes that were so perfect for your feet. Your feet are bleeding and throbbing and you wonder how am I going to get through a day at work like this? It seems impossible. You want to sit down but you can't. You have to keep walking. The pavement is so much harder without the shoes to cushion you.

You think it can't get worse, but it does. Your back starts to hurt and you get headaches until you can't concentrate on anything except Where did my fucking shoes go? And I hurt more than I ever thought I could, and all becasue of a pair of shoes. All I want is those shoes. Then I can feel good again. There is no substitute. People think you're crazy, but they just don't know how awesome those shoes were. And you watch them walk off in their shoes and you wonder how they can wear such crappy shoes. Idiots. They have no idea what they're missing. So how can you be happy when such a great pair of shoes is gone?

Yummy Food

I don't know what's wrong with me. I love food. And I hate it. Right now I'm sitting here wanting something to eat, but I have no idea what, and the fact that I know whatever it is I'll have to go to the store to get is keeping me from thinking too much about it. I ate fruit and a salad today. Yesterday I had a Twix. The day before I actually made pasta. That's it. I've been too lazy or apathetic or upset or stressed to bother with anything else. I don't like it. I LOVE to eat. I may have an eating disorder, but it's not the kind you're used to. I don't like to eat when things are bad. So I don't. By the time I get hungry, it's late and I'm tired and don't feel like fixing anything. I wish I had a personal chef to make me eat. I might even be happier. Food is fun. I like to eat. I realized the other day at the doctor's that I'm underweight, and it kind of bothered me. I like being thin, but I know it won't be long before someone pretends to be worried about me and offers some sort of stupid help. I'm crazy, but not in the way that people think. I don't believe in the Prozac nation. I don't believe in doctors and therapy. The only thing wrong with me is that I have feelings. Sometimes I wish I didn't. Then I wouldn't be nursing a broken heart and obsessing about some girl I barely know hanging out with my ex and feeling like she's edging me out. I wouldn't be so critical about my creative projects. I wouldn't be so irritated with my deadbeat family. I wouldn't be so lonely. I would be able to skip through life all the time without a care in the world. It sounds like such a beautiful picture.