On a Short Hiatus...

...so i haven't had time to write much. I'm on vacation in the great white north. I'll have lots more to say when I get back, but for now, I leave you with a photo. This sums up these two nicely. Now, if only I were in the corner, weeping, it'd be a very telling family photo.


Happy early '09, y'all.

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.

Calling All Writers...

Hey Nekkid Readers,

I am starting a new literary journal with some friends called Fat and Happy. I know there are a lot of you writers out here - please submit your stories - and pass along to writer friends!

Here's the deal:

Fat and Happy is a fresh, new literary journal launching in Spring 2009. We are seeking to publish new voices and established writers. If you wrote a story, we want to read it.

We are currently looking for submissions for the first and second issues of Fat and Happy in the categories of literary fiction (up to 7000 words), narrative non-fiction (personal essay, 1500-2000 words), short fiction (3000 words or less) and art (must be black and white). We are not accepting any other types of non-fiction at this time.

Chosen entries will be published in Fat and Happy. There is no payment for publication, but authors will receive copies of the publication with their story in it.

Deadline for submissions is January 30th.

Submissions must be original works. Please email submissions to: fatandhappysubmissions@gmail.com.

Thanks. We can't wait to start reading.

Not x365...The Love Edition

#9 You are another person I almost lived with, once. I had to tell you no, and that was terrible. It was my fault. You didn't deserve it. I was a little scared of how, when I was with you, I didn't really care about things that I usually care about. The only thing I cared about was us. We could get lost in day/week-long benders together, and I'd be lying if I said it wasn't boatloads of fun and drugs and sex and laughing and hiding from everyone in your room. I loved you, and what we had together, and it was exactly the life I had to separate myself from, because I could get way too caught up in it. I hope we speak again. This is the hardest one of these that I have had to do, because I have to be vague and I don't want to. I have so much to say. Gotta nickel? I need a fifth of liquor and a Snickers bar.

#10 I loved you from afar for oh so much of my teen life! You used to tease me with brief moments of friendship and flirting, and I saved these little snippets deep in my brain matter and got giddy with happiness when I'd replay them in my head. Even as youngfolk, I think we would have been hot as a couple, but probably too intense, and broken up and never spoken to each other again. So it's fun that I can still delude myself into thinking that you were besotted with me, too. Ahhhhh.

#11/#12 Did you ever have a crush on someone for so long, and could feel mutual flirtation between you that almost made you dizzy? And did you ever think how great it would be to finally have your way with that person? Did you ever actually get your way with that person? Sometimes, it's not so great.

#13 Sometimes it is.

On the Six

Ok, so this story doesn't actually take place on the 6 train, but that's the title of a J-Lo album, and therefore it's funny, because everything that has to do with J-Lo is funny. Even her freak multiples. This was a different train, but that's not that important.

It was a crowded, rush-hour train. We commented on its crowded-ness when we got on.

I hate couples that stare into one another's eyes, mooning all over each other like a pair of lovesick fools (though "lovesick" is one of my favorite words). I immensely dislike these people and think them not only puke-inducing, but rude (I'm not sure why).

This day on the train, I couldn't stop looking at you, right smack in the eyes. I was so gross, but so were you. Staring at each other like a pair of idiots. But I love you and couldn't help it.

We stood with the pole between us; that fucking pole was so in the way! I felt that the skinny little pole took up so much room. We hugged, then, tightly, with that pole in the middle of our hug. I hated that pole.

I kissed you quickly, on the lips, about four hundred times.

You whispered in my ear.

It was the best train ride of my life, and the purpose of this blog is to apologize to the people who had to witness our sickfest. But once I looked up at you, I didn't notice them at all.

Not as Scary as You'd Think

The other day I was walking to my subway stop in Brooklyn, on the phone with my best bud. I was having a normal conversation with that tramp, and didn't feel the need to interrupt him when something very odd happened. The second he was done yapping about some shit or another, though I had to ask him:

Me: Did you hear what just happened to me when you were talking, just then?
Him: No, what?
Me: Some dude in a hat walked up to me, pointed in my chest, and said "on this night, I will kill one lady."
Him: Are you serious? Just now? How did I miss that?
Me: I have no idea. Maybe you're just really self absorbed.
Him: "On this night, I will kill one lady?"
Me: Yep. In his defense, though, I don't think he meant that I was the one lady.
Him: Oh, that's good.

And, scene.

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.

I Actually Don't Mind the Term "Manic" (and Things You Can Say on The Simpsons).

Well, look at you! Still reading my blog. Aww.

So I guess a person could technically call me "depressed." Am I sad? No. Have I learned how to monitor this depression so that I can live a totally normal life? Yes. Do I hate when people ask yes or no questions and answer them themselves? Yes.

Anyway, I'm pretty much fine now. I go through the occasional "bummed out, unsure about stuff" phases, but who doesn't? Because of my history, though, I forget that this shit is not exclusive to me. It's funny...being totally self-absorbed, when I used to go through these rough patches, I would forget that they would eventually pass. The scariest thing was that I always thought they'd last forever.

On the other hand, one thing I never really minded was the post-rough patch period. The high high high that follows the depressed low: the mania. That used to be fun.

What the fuck does this have to do with anything?

Well, I'm going through a small period of optimism, starting today, that came on so suddenly that I feel a little manic.

To address the second part of my posting title: apparently you can say "shite" on The Simpsons. Groundskeeper Willy said it on an episode the other night. Put an accent on it and it's cute, I suppose.

I'll Start With a Little Rambling, End With a Not x365

Hi folks,

After last week's festivities, (the election, the situation with my hockey league, Boy having Irish friends in town, the election, and drinking every night in celebration of all of these things, like the election), I haven't felt much like blogging. I already fucked up on NaBloPoMo, and though I can do it again next month, I can't win the fancy prizes donated by friends of mine like Uncouth Heathen. But it was more about the discipline than the prizes. I mean Uncouth Heathen had some sort of surgery, and she was still able to do it.

BUT. Next month. I have faith.

Also: I don't know what this means in my life, but I've been having gross dreams about brain damaged test monkeys and dead pigeons.

I went to hot yoga this morning, which felt great, but after a few too many days of not doing it...that shit is hard.

Anyway, here's another one.

#8: I drove to Ozzfest with you, in a car with you and #4, and one other girl. At one point of the long long car trip, a bug fell out of your dreads. I always thought you were cute, but my friend thought you were a stupid little boy (you're only five years younger than me). You were also a little dirty, hence the bug. We drank a lot of red bulls in that car, and the concert itself was the drunkest I've ever been in my entire life. Did I want to go to Ozzfest? Probably. Tommy Lee was probably there. But I couldn't tell you one thing that happened that day, except for this: there was a guy there who would pay people to kick a soccer ball at his head really hard. You kicked that ball. You missed his head by a long shot.

Stupid Clocks

So today, technically, I didn't blog (11/6). But I did. It's only late for me right now, and I didn't suppose (stupidly), this would count for Friday.

But.

I am not upset. I love this week, and don't for a second regret all the wonderful victories I've won.

XOXO

Wow.

Wow.

Thanks, everyone. I have nothing to say. Will I not be able to be cynical anymore?
This is incredible.

Needing Some Distraction (Not x365)

To get my mind off of the election right now, I'm going to do a little meaningless posting.

Here's a little Not x365

#7: Once we were supposed to live together, and I'm sorry we didn't. Wait. Shit. I've just come to the embarrassing realization that there are two people that I could say that to. So: I've known you since the womb. Once we were supposed to live together, and I'm sorry we didn't. That was my fault, but I was a dumbass back then. You are one of the funniest people I know, and my life is a lot better for knowing you and your family. Well, most of your family. Here's to you:

I miss us when we were younger, sometimes.

Several Posts Today

I will post a real post later, but on the off chance that you need this to remind you:
GO VOTE.

Yesterday, Tomorrow, Wednesday

"Take your pants off, and make it happen."*

Yesterday: ice hockey was actually really great. Yes, I sucked. Yes, I sulked. Yes, I felt like a jackass for a while. But after a while, I realized that I was using more energy pretending I was annoyed than playing hockey, and I really got into it.

I'm sore as a mofo today, though. The back of my love handles hurt.

Tomorrow: Yikes. Hope all goes well. Very nervous. Obviously, go vote. Very nervous.

Wednesday: I have a meeting regarding an unpleasant issue in my hockey league. Also yikes, and if things don't go my way on Tuesday, I'll be way more pissed if things don't go my way on Wednesday.

I'm going to try to decompress tonight.

*I once knew someone who thought this was a line in the song "Flashdance."

Why Do I Do These Things?

I'm about to leave to play ice hockey in Central Park for the very first time. I've never played before, and I have to admit, I'm being a bit whiny about it. It starts late, and it's done even later. But the real reason I'm being a brat is that I'll probably suck at it. If I was about to go embark on a project that I knew I'd be at least competent at, it'd be a little less daunting.

So as of now, I'm whining to Boy. I'll post more when I get back, but it may be after 12 midnight and therefore I won't get it in by November 2nd, and I'd be disqualified from NaBloPoMo on day two.

Later, more.

Pasturized, Homoginized, Liquified, Carmelized

This is my first day of National Blog Posting Month. Go me.

So last night I went out for Halloween. This used to be my favorite holiday, but for some reason I just couldn't get into it this year. It may be because my partner in Halloween was out of town...she's a big Phillies fan (Phan?) so she was back home for the festivities...I guess they won some baseball game or something. Maybe it's because I didn't get my shit together fast enough to pull together the perfect costume. It's NOT because I'm getting too old, so don't even say it.

After thinking about it, though, I decided to go to a party that was very close to my apartment. I refuse to go to a Halloween party without costume, though, so I pulled something together. (The reason I could do this is because I keep a list, all throughout the year, of things that would make good costumes. I also do this with karaoke songs.)

I was this:



Can you guess who it is? It's not the greatest photo, and the costume itself was really hit or miss. People either instantly recognized it, or they stared at me, mouths slack and agape with "what the fuck is she doing"-ness. I won a prize for "most intellectual costume," though. Not really what one strives for on Halloween, but I suppose it confirmed my nerd status. NB: I don't look so great in that photo. I'm hotter than that in real life.

I saw two people dressed as the Golden Girls last night. Well, not all the Golden Girls, just Dorothy Zbornak and Sophia Petrillo. I adore the Golden Girls, and have won awards for my knowledge of GG trivia (no kidding). Fake Dorothy and "Ma," were terrific and I hope that when I meet the surviving Girls, I'll have as quick kinship with them as I did with their replicas.

Oh! I just thought of something that I forgot to tell even these girls last night: a few years ago I went to go see an awful Broadway musical with my family, my ex (not Double Ex, a different one), and his family. During the intermission, I went to get a drink, and I spotted Rue McClanahan at the bar. I instantly started choking up. I adore her. I generally have a "leave them alone" policy when it comes to celebrities, but I could NOT leave Blanche Devereaux alone. I would never have forgiven myself.

Anyway, I pulled myself together as best I could, walked over to her, and said "I'm so sorry to bother you, Ms. McClanahan, but I need you to know that I am a giant fan of yours." (I could say "giant" because I was considerably thinner, then.) She just turned to me, grasped my shoulder (!!), and said, in an accent dripping with Southern goodness (I hope it wasn't just put on for my sake) "Oh, honey. It's never a bother."

I love her.

Halloween also makes me think of someone I miss very much. So, if you read this (sometimes you do), I miss you. And yes, I know we never spent Halloween together, but I've seen MoFoFed many times on Halloween, and they always make me think of you.

Every Day, EmEffers.

So I decided to sign up for National Blog Posting Month, which starts in two days.

This means that if I do this correctly, I'm going to post every day during November.

Y'all are some lucky motherfuckers.

That's the Fucking Way!

Did you ever see the movie Dodgeball?

Yesterday was the last day of the season for my hockey league. We watched the game from the "stands," though we play at a very rough-around-the-edges park, so there are not actually stands. It's basically a little railing that we stand behind, and we call it the Heckle Wall.

Anyway. Dodgeball. The team that did not win, happily, was a team that reminds me of team GloboGym from Dodgeball, except without the hilarity. They are way better than anyone else in our little league, but not because they've played together forever and persevered. They are the best because they recruit from real hockey teams and college ice teams. This is weird, as we play at a park where homeless dudes pee in the corners and there's dogshit around and we play on sneakers and we drink about 7x more than we play, anyway. This is the type of league it is. It's the sort of league that someone like me, someone who's not totally athletic, can join. This is the sort of league it is NOT: a league where captains recruit players from craigslist with ads in French and Czech to assure the best, scariest, most serious hockey players that grace this earth. They live in Crazytown.

They lost yesterday, and they lost to a team that is fantastic. When I say fantastic, however, I mean that they are good hockey players, freally great people, and personify the friendly/collaborative spirit that our league is all about. The title of this post is their cheer (my team's cheer, incidentally, is "Let's Do This Bitch").

It was such a happy moment. Good won over evil. The entire league was cheering the happy team, and booing GloboGym. It was like a cheesy sports movie, but in real life.

That's all. Congrats Kills.

Not x365, Part II

#4 We had Bon Jovi concerts in the kitchen of the restaurant...the one we ran in NOLA. The concerts consisted of this: waiting until the restaurant closed, turning up the Bon Jovi casette very loudly, drinking splits of crap champagne, dancing around the kitchen, and scream-singing into plastic spatulas. We also had a version of these concerts that we would give at your house, except we usually drank wine, then, instead of champagne. When "Tiny Dancer" came on, we would cry. Your ex-husband would get annoyed when we did this. We lied to him constantly about how much we drank. You housed me when I was homeless, you employed me when I was unemployed. You lent me scratch when I had none. You let me stay in your apartment when you weren't there. I recently lost touch with you and suspect this is my fault. I miss you.

#5 YOU ARE INCREDIBLE!


#6 I recently learned of a mental condition from Law and Order, SVU. Those with this condition think that they are in a romantic relationship, while their supposed "partner" is left completely unaware. I think you have that. Remember when I was your girlfriend? I know you do, but I don't. Remember when you got really mad at that guy I fooled around with, and threw an ashtray at him in the middle of my bar shift? Remember when you told him "stay away from my girlfriend?" I honestly had no idea you were talking about me. Do you know how crazy that is? You're married now, and I must admit, this shocks me. You've proposed to a lot of people. Congrats, though, you seem to be happy.

Prison Rodeos and the Three Strikes Rule

Last night I was flipping through channels with Boy, and we came across some sort of fluff news show (or maybe it was one of the seven hundred ESPN channels) about the Angola Prison Rodeo.

Angola is the Louisiana State Penitentiary. Angola is where they put you when, as Double Ex used to say, "you need to go UNDER the jail." They also call it "The Farm," though I don't know why. Maybe it used to be a farm...it's far enough in the middle of nowhere for it to have been a farm.

ANYWAY. Every year, Angola hosts this event. It's basically a mini festival within the pen walls, complete with food, fun, and rodeo, the rodeo, obviously, being the main event. The rodeo participants are the prisoners, and the whole thing gets pretty brutal. It's possible that all rodeos are this brutal, but I have not been to any other rodeo. So I can only comment on this one. It's crazy.

This is the event called "Convict Poker."


Prisoners are on a huge waiting list to participate in this yearly event (only the best-behaved prisoners can participate). I've heard it likened to a Romans/lions/coliseum sort of situation, but as the warden of Angola says (and I have to agree), these prisoners are not only willing participants, but they are basically clamoring to take part. He mentioned that 80% of these dudes don't get any visitors. Like, ever. Meaning the only people they EVER see are the people that work at the prison and their fellow inmates. If these dudes find it fun to get roughed up a little by a bull, I say, go for it. And besides, there's lots of other ways to participate: all the food stands, art stands, and bandstands are run by prisoners as well.

ANYWAY. There was a prisoner talking about how much he enjoyed the rodeo, and the media dude asked him what he was in for. He told the guy (in the SE Louisiana accent that I just lurve), that he got picked up for dealing coke. Or holding enough to deal or some shit. Why is he in Angola for life? Because Louisiana is one of the "three strikes" states. My man got picked up for something twice, and the cokie offense was his third strike.

As Boy pointed out last night, this is the dumbest law ever. Here's why: someone like this dude gets picked up once, gets a public defender who doesn't give two fucks, gets convicted as a felon, does his time, it happens again, happens one more time, then boom. He's in jail for life next to mother rapers. Father stabbers. Father rapers! Right there on the bench! On the other hand, someone like Robert Downey Jr. (who I do adore, and don't want to see go to jail, but just let me have my point here) gets picked up for the same thing (California is also a three strikes state), gets his charge knocked down to a misdemeanor by a fancypants gazillion dollar lawyer, does some service, it happens again, he does a teeny bit of time (again, a misdemeanor), it happens again, he does time, but the difference is, he gets out and makes Iron Man.

I loved Iron Man. I'm glad it was made. I just think it's horrible that Cokie Louisianian has to go away for life for the same shit.

I promise that at some point, these posts will start being well-written again. Also, thank you to Boy for the RDJ example.

No Offense Meant if Your Name is Gioconda (aka: I Haven't Had My Coffee Yet--Don't Ask Me to Have a Cohesive Thought)

The hiatus is over...I am back. I spent the last week in Florence with eight other people. Me, Boy, my family, and various others. I won't exhaust you with a comprehensive list of our day to day activities, but I will share this:

This is Alvaro. Alvaro was the chef in a cooking class that we took one day. The class was run by a really wonderful woman named Paola (these are their real names. I know I don't normally do that, but if anyone who ever knows them reads this, I'll be so happy that I've reached that far that I'll suffer any wrath they want to shoot my way). She was a hilarious woman that spoke perfect English with a beautiful accent (you can kind of see her in the back of the photo). We took the class at Paola's home--a 13th century farmhouse in Chianti, Tuscany. Freaking gorgeous in that rustic way. Check it: Welcome Tuscany

Anyway. Alvaro. This man spoke not a word of English. His way was the only way, and every other word out of his mouth was "stai calma!" This roughly translates to "chill the fuck out." He'd ask you to come help him roll out the pasta, then slap your hand away when he felt you weren't doing it correctly.

I loved this dude.

Also, Paola's daughter was an adorable six year old girl named Gioconda (like the Mona Lisa). She was funny in the way only an Italian kid can be. We all fell a little bit in love with her, especially my mom. Allow me to post a conversation that took place between my mom and Paola:

Mom: Your daughter is beautiful! What's her name?
Paola: Gioconda. We call her Gio.
Mom: I love it.
Paola: She didn't at first, but she does now.
Mom: Wow. What a name. If I had known you could name a kid Gioconda when I was pregnant, I absolutely would have named my kid Gioconda.

As her first daughter, I can earnestly say, three cheers for my mom's ignorance on this issue. Seems I dodged a bullet in utero. It's not exactly a name that would have rolled off the tongue in my town.

Now for coffee. Hope this made sense.

A Blogging Hiatus

I didn't just stop blogging again out of laziness, folks. Im away. I'll be back on Saturday. Woohoo.

My, What a Meaningless Post.

I'm feeling lazy today. For some reason, I woke up with the most annoying song in my head this morning. I don't think I was dreaming about it, because I know what I was dreaming about. I was dreaming about my arch nemesis and my upcoming hockey game.

Anyway. I hate this song. Here it is, in all of its suckdom.



Want to know what else? NO ONE will EVER need to call that number. Ever. What's with that crazy water dragon guy? And does anyone else find him really sexy?

Here's something worth listening to. I love this shit:

This is Not the x365 Project.

I read about this thing called the x365 project. Yes, it was created in '06, but I'm sort of slow on the uptake on this kind of thing. Basically, what you're supposed to do is write fifty words or less, every day, about various people in your life.

I'm not going to do that.

It's really limiting, and I have enough trouble keeping up with this blog without having rules. Also, I'm not always comfortable putting people's names, even just their first names, on this thing. What I will do, however, is do a few of these whenever I damn feel like it, with whatever names I want.

So here's three.

#1 You were an ex of mine. You were two exes ago, so I'll call you Double Ex. This name fits for you for many reasons. You were verbally abusive. Let's not mince around on tippy-toes about that, either. You were. I'm glad I am able to let it go a little bit now, and that I no longer feel I have to hit ignore on my phone when you call. And I won't lie, I sort of relish the fact that you are so sorry you "let me go;" I'm not proud of it, but I sort of like that you feel shitty about how you treated me. I'm sorry you don't know what to do about that girl you just got pregnant. I hope you find a way to be happy, but I'm pretty sure you never will. I'm sure at some point we'll see each other again; NOLA is not that big of a city, and your armada of trucks swarms around the place like roaches.

#2 Nutty ex boss! Granted, I've had many nutty ex bosses, and you were not even the nuttiest. Your weird relationship with your dog bothered me, though. You were a crazy rich dude and you tried to make your dog into a crazy rich lady. You said she would only eat if there were no coats on the chairs, and if the dishwasher wasn't running. When she pooped blood once, you said she was developing an ulcer because I watched her when she ate. It was strange that you canceled an interview you were supposed to do because of the blood-pooping incident, by the way. You told me she did yoga. She did not do yoga. She was lanky, so I'll admit, sometimes it looked like it. But she wasn't. Want to know how I know that? Because she was a dog. Know the only thing she was passionate about? Chasing cats. You bought her perfume once. That was crazy.

#3 I will call you Lucian. You and I were on the same trip in the summer of 1993. We were fifteen. You lived across the country. I was attracted to you, despite your weirdness (not because of it. I was too young for that at that time). Once, on a bus trip in Germany, we almost held hands. We did not, because you thought I had a boyfriend back home. The reason you thought this was because I told everyone I did. Needless to say, I did not. After you and I did not hold hands, you got up and sat with another girl. By the end of that bus trip, you and she were a couple. After returning home, you wrote me a few very strange erotic letters. I never wrote back. After a few weeks, you "broke up" with me. You said it was because of religion.

And there you go.

Missing NOLA (Shocking), Missing Adolescence (Shocking in the Non-Sarcastic Way).

It takes so little for me to get nostalgic, especially about New Orleans. I miss the fetid shadiness and the three dimensional heat. I miss the drinking and drugging without consequence and the myriad crushes I got while down there--on men, women, and little things about the city itself (like the Vespa club). I even miss evacuating. Mainly, I miss how young I felt (and was) when I was there. Just about the only thing I don't miss are the dive-bombing cockroaches. I adore my life now, but every once in a while this creeps up on me. This time, it was brought upon by someone I knew very briefly and not very well, asking to be my "friend" on Myface or Spacebook or whatever. I met him through this other person I used to know (let's call him Lex). Lex was one of the very few people in my life who I am quite certain I will never see again, and who I am quite certain I will miss forever, every day. Well, almost. Just the sight of Lex's old roommate in the teeny box contaning his picture and "friend request" was enough to choke me up before I even knew what was causing it. None of this is really shocking.

What was shocking, however, was the nostalgia I felt this weekend while cleaning out my old room in my mom's house. I only actually lived in that house for five years, from age 13 until I left for college. Sure, there were several-week intervals here and there, times of trouble and financial strife and whatnot, but mostly, I was out of the nest at 18. For this reason, I was not really that upset when my mom told me she was going to sell her house. I had the best time cleaning out my old desk, though! It was also really great to show Boy the photos and letters I had saved from high school. I incorrectly remember high school a lot of the time...I remember having a lot less friends than was really the case. Some of the best things I found were letters and mix tapes from one person in particular. We had a bizzare relationship then, and that lasted a long time. But I want to thank this person now. Thanks. I think it was because of you that I learned exactly what I want in any friend or more-than-friend I have had or will ever have in my entire life. "On your chest there are flowers, you possess unearthly powers." Boo-yah.

Stuff in the Head...

I feel a mess. I need an everything-makeover. You know what I would love? To go on What Not To Wear, but to have it not be televised. I had a boyfriend once that I tried to get on Queer Eye just so we could have the apartment makeover.

It's all a part of this taking control thing.

I told you I'd have a story today...I lied. More to come.

Thera-post. I'm back.

So there's no real reason that I stopped blogging over a year ago, other than that I lost momentum, and no real reason that I haven't started up again when I wanted to. Well, I suppose that I figured the first post "back" should be at least a little meaningful...but...meh. None of the rest of these ever were, so here we are.

I have a few projects that I'd like to be working on right now. The idea is to clear away the rest of the crap, both mental crap and actual clutter, and hopefully this is the time I'll really start. I made a crazy little list, the subject of which was that I need to be the person in charge of my own life. This seems simple enough, and like my therapist said, it's kind of like a trite life-coaching mantra, but whatever works, right? The list just had on it a few things I want to change. Nothing giant...nothing that's a huge process. Just little things, the biggest one being that I am going to start the process of re-getting my drivers license on Friday. Boy is going to do it with me, too, being that his foreign-ass has never had a US drivers license. I have to take the permit test on Friday, and then I have to take a five-hour driving test. The lesson: don't let your license expire for more than two years.

I'll be back. I'll have a story or something. Thanks for indulging.