Anecdotes and Non-Sequiturs

The first:

I was sitting in the coffee shop, listening to two people next to me having a conversation.

Him: Have you seen Monica?
Her: Yeah, she's not doing so well. But it's hard to sympathize, 'cuz she's so annoying.

I do not know these people. They were obviously speaking of a different Monica. But I immediately felt defensive and hurt.

The second:

Boy and I went to a wedding in Madrid a few weeks ago. All was beautiful, and we had a great time. However, if Jesus went to a wedding in Madrid instead of Cana, he would have had to turn the wine into water. I have never been thirstier in my life than I was in Madrid. This seemed like a general consensus amongst the folks I was with. No one had a real reason why.

The third:

I haven't slept in three days. I'm jittery and tired. This week's been bad.

The fourth:

I haven't been even getting pleasure out of hockey these days. Though my team rocks, as usual.

The fifth:

I'm sitting in the coffee shop right now, again, and feeling sorry for myself. This was immediately alleviated, however, when I just heard the opening beats of "That's Not My Name," by the Ting Tings. I defy you to be in a bad mood when you hear this song. Also, two of my favorite people in the world love this song, and they both happen to be under the age of four.

The sixth:

I have re-found a prior love for Jonathan Ames. When me and Boy re-discover our delight in each other, we say we are having a renaissance. I'm having an Amesessance (I AM ALLOWED TO BE A DORK. I HAVE NOTHING ELSE GOING FOR ME RIGHT NOW).

Boo Effing Hoo

So because today is rainy and disgusting and kind of cold, and because I have a slight hangover, and because why the fuck not, I'm feeling a little sorry for myself today.

Good lord, there's little I hate more than self-pity. But there you have it, anyway. I guess my current prevailing emotion (like you care...oooh, look! There it is...nice fresh self-pity...) is "put-upon-ness."

So I don't suppose there's any specific cause for this feeling, more like a lot of things, but the one thing I keep coming back to is this: the world would be a much better place (well, scratch that. I'm talking about MY world and I know it. So I'll rephrase. My world would be a much better place) if people thought about the things they say and do, and whether or not those things they say and do will hurt anyone else (namely, me).

I once had an ex who told me that his friend was the hottest girl he knew in person (the friend was not me). Now, granted, we weren't dating at the time, but we were certainly fooling around. And while I do strive to be the funniest person in the lives of everyone I know, I know way better than to presume I'd be the best looking person in anyone's life. I'm realistic about this. But it smarts a little harder when it comes from the mouth of someone you're currently doing it with. This dude wasn't a bad guy, so I assume he didn't think this would wound as badly as it did when he said it. If he had just thought, "hmmm, I wonder how M would receive this piece of information," I doubt I would have had to hear it.

Just think, people.

Because I don't often feel it, I forget that pain of the non-physical variety blows.

The Weird Dream Thing

So re: my last post...

It turns out that the weird feeling I was getting (not knowing if I was dreaming, etc.), was a reaction to this medication I was taking. The antibiotic SUCKED. It really fucked with me. I don't want to get into the details but suffice it to say the next night was way worse.

This week was a strange one...I was either superhigh or really bad. I had a great day on Wednesday, my friend wants to make me a rockin' logo for the new business I'm starting, and my night last night was fun (those were some of the good things), but on the other hand, I had that terrible night, a bad day today, and my friend got into an accident yesterday (he's fine).

Enough.

I'm going to watch Seinfeld. Sad days make me want to watch TV.

Statuses I've Thought About Using When Updating My FaceBook Page

Feel free to weigh in!

Monica...

• never knows how much to tip the pedicure lady.
• never knows what will make her happy.
• wishes she did.
• thinks The Dark Knight could have been a lot shorter.
• thoroughly enjoyed Heath Ledger's performance in said movie.
• is publicly sorry that she waited until the last minute to say she couldn't go to your party with you.
• means that sincerely.
• misses NOLA every day.
• has to deal with the fact that there's someone out there that she wants to speak to that won't speak to her.
• has not dealt well with that so far.
• has done wrong by RA.
• feels alternately wronged and loved by RG.
• would much rather be a cannibal than be Amish.
• is terrified by the fact that she has never experienced writers block to this degree.
• would like to reiterate that: really terrified.
• can feel alternately very close to or estranged from her friends, the same friends, all in one day.
• hates that.
• doesn't care if people say it's disappointing--she will never tire of wanting to meet Tommy Lee.
• also feels that way about Nikki Sixx, but has never heard that it was disappointing.
• is thrilled to pieces about the arrival of her new friend Little T, who gets more freakin' great all the time.
• thinks that if she has kids, she definitely wants them to play hockey.
• thinks that hockey cures (most of) what ails you.
• has learned that there are other things except...ahem...substances that can make her feel alive.
• would be lying if she said they didn't (used to) help.
• thinks that nothing feels better than laughing until it really hurts. Pains.
• has fallen a little more in love with FG this year.
• wants next year to fall into place a little more.
• is wondering why she needs to hide behind fake FB status postings to be "naked."
• needs recommendations for the next good book to read.
• really enjoyed Slow Man.
• wants you to submit to Fat & Happy!
• wishes she could decide.
• thanks you for reading.

Open Letter

Dear People That Live Upstairs,

I think you are girls, and I think there are three of you. That's my best guess. Our apartment has three chambers that can reasonably be called bedrooms, so if you have the same layout as us, and if you're as young as I think you are, you probably use them all as bedrooms and split the rent.

Here's my question: how is it that you can possibly be so loud? I mean, you're always loud, but last night you really outdid yourselves. Boy and I are used to your little "conversations" that you have on the stairwell at top volume, usually one of you screaming, most likely drunk. But those are few and far between, and as they usually go on between the hours of 5pm and 9pm, they've never really bothered us. But clomping around at FOUR AM in the hallway, shouting on the stairs, and making your yappy dog wake up every time you walk in: NOT COOL. I don't care if it WAS a Saturday...I had a house-guest, bitches! A judgey one, too. A judgey houseguest that was considering moving to the area. I don't mind telling you: you ruined the borough for him, y'all.

Anyway, a version of this note is posted downstairs on my door. I should have said something to you whilest you were stomping your asses around this morning, but I was having a tumultuous night anyway and didn't have the energy to get out of bed.

Good day.

Your downstairs neighbor.

I'm Sorry In Advance For This (A Post Not For The Weak of Stomach).

I watched the Ricky Gervais HBO special on DVR last night, with Boy. That man is just freaking delightful* (I mean Ricky, not Boy, though Boy is pretty damn delightful himself). I laughed out loud several times, even though I was in the midst of a bratty argument (I picked it myself!) and even though I was lying on the sofa thinking "I will not laugh. I just won't. That will prove a point" (that there was no point to prove bothered me none). It's that good. You should all watch this special.

Midway through his routine, Ricky told a joke that jerked a memory of mine. Well, not a memory of mine necessarily, but the memory of a story an old friend once told me. A story of something that happened to him...a story that had tortured me for many days and weeks and months and years. My brain was haunted and no amount of brain-scrubbing could remove this yarn from the depths of the cranium.

But then, one day, poof! Oh happy day! It was gone. Until Ricky.

So friends, because I am sure there are so few of you, I will risk telling the story right here. Dare I? Yes, I do dare. So read below if you wish, but you have been warned. No one has ever heard this story without responding with some version of "UGGHGHGHHGHGHGH." Here goes:

Back in NOLA, I had a friend, a friend who will heretofore be known as Red. Red had received an email about an upcoming high school reunion. Red was very anxious about attending, but since his friends were such horrible people who loved to see him uncomfortable in any situation, they (we) made their (our) case for it, and finally convinced him to go.

Right before Red was to leave for the reunion (it was in Houston), he had an apartment-related emergency. The sink exploded, or there was some sort of plague, (bugs, locusts, or frogs, I forget which one). Red was unable to live in his apartment for three weeks, so since he was already going home to Houston, he figured he'd just extend his stay. I think it was around Thanksgiving, anyway, so lots of us would be either with our families (sounds unfamiliar), working hard (closer, but not quite), or too drunk (bingo) back in NOLA anyway.

So Red goes to the reunion. He gets wasted. He sees old friends. He drinks with old friends. He drinks with old girlfriends. And finally, he does the stud-muffin reunion thing that guys everywhere want to do: he begins flirting with the girl he loved from afar, who didn't know he existed in high school (ahh, John Hughes, you would be proud). Eventually, Red asks the girl to go home with him, and she accepts. He takes her back to his parents' house, and is so drunk that they never move past the sofa. Red falls asleep, drooling on the floor, because he wanted to leave the sofa for the girl (oh, the chivalry).

The next morning, Red feels so bad. He wakes up with his head on the floor, mouth open on the carpet, and embarrassed. He's sure he wasn't at all able to satisfy this girl based on how drunk he was, so he wanted to make it up to her. He reaches up to the sofa, pats her on her hand, and says "hi, sweetie, I'm so sorry. Let me make it up to you. I wanna go down on you."

Except she wasn't there. She had left in the middle of the night.

The hand he was holding (but not looking at) was his mom's.

He looked up, realized this, and ran into his room, where he stayed for the remaining 18 days (eventually one of us let him stay at our place).

That's the story of Red. Sorry if I oversold it, but to me, not many things could be worse.


*Our definitions of "delightful" may not synch up. Read the rest of the blog and judge for yourself.