13 months

Thirteen months. Five seasons, none of which resemble fall in the slightest. Four jobs...and unemployment. One Christmas in Florida, one road trip to Canada, seven pairs of new shoes. One cat, then two cats, then one cat. Four thousand photos taken. Two Halloweens of debauchery, several new hair colours, a ridiculous number of interviews, LOTS of fishnets. One brief foray into photoshop tutoring. Three extended vacations to Lexington. Six friends engaged. Fourteen books read. Three parking tickets. Two car repairs. One zoo membership, two haircuts, one little black dress. A new love of roller derby and cadavers adopted. Five concerts attended. Far too much caffeine and stress; not enough substance. Only one drunken mishap.




Consider yourself updated.

Define 'missing'

I'm sitting in a coffee shop in Philly. I'm the girl who doesn't match and occasionally bobs her head to inaudible music. With blue shoes, red nails, a shiny laptop and a huge vanilla latte. Now you know. My boyfriend also knows where I am. My parents know where I am. The strangers next to me know where I am. That guy in the wheelchair that almost rolled me over on the way here knows where I am. In fact, the only people who can't find me are the Philadelphia police, who believe me to currently be missing. Join me in a ehhhhhhhh? I honestly don't mind if the police can't find me. In fact, I think I prefer it that way. Call me crazy. They phoned my cell to ask where I was. Again....ehhhhhh? And then....and THEN, when I phone back to clear up the mess the only person in the entire department that is involved with my case (REALLY? Only one guy?!?!?) has left early for the day. Sooooooo, I shall remain "missing" for one more day.

And so, Detective Dodson, of the Philadelphia metro police, I am, fortunately, not missing...and I'm on to you. This is all just some elaborate porn scam, isn't it? Those always find me. I don't know how. Still, it's amusing...mildly. Therefore I will not complain. Unless it's not a porn scam and you're just a dumbass...then I shall complain, oh yes, I shall complain.

12 miles from greatness

I don't want to be doing what I'm doing. I don't want to waste my days making plans. I don't want to be more absorbed with the future than the present. I don't want to be living the life I'm living or working the job I'm working. I don't want to be obsessed with a budget and I don't ever want to set foot in another grocery. I don't want to be the bubble girl. I don't want to keep making excuses. I don't want to be sick anymore, I don't want to limit my coffee intake, I don't want to pay for dentist visits and unnecessary blood work. I don't want to be twelve miles from the city I love. Twelve miles from greatness.

I've always been twelve miles from greatness.

I'm about to take a rather serious leap of faith. So new to me. I've taken risks before, that's different. Risks are based on extenuating circumstances and luck, defying personal limitations and alcohol tolerance. This is based on something entirely wavering. Trust. And faith. And another human being. I've never been much of a believer sooooo it's safe to say I'm freaking out. It's not attractive (but I hide it well.)

highlights of the week

-Photoshoot with Brenda-the friendly and flirtatious transvestite. New experience for me. I shall add it to my resume.

-Asked out by a Starbucks employee. (Starbucks, I know. Don't key my car!) Obviously I had to turn him down, but it's still nice to get every once in a while. I just hope this doesn't effect the discount he's been giving me.

-Made friends with a six year old rocker named Jake. When he came in wearing Chucks I knew I was in luck. He plays in a rock and roll band with three girls from his class. He can't tie his shoes but he can play electric guitar. C'mon. Now that's gotta strike someone, anyone, as odd. I can't be the only one. I didn't even take up piano lessons until I was ten, and I sucked. This kid's past the lessons stage and into the full-blown rocker bit. Crazy. Seriously! Crazy. Children shall surpass us any day now. We'll be wiping their asses but they'll be dictating politics.

I miss the summer of beatboxing to Matisyahu while intoxicated and lost at 4am. The summer of unemployment, bellydancing, coffee dates. The summer we brought back the French press and MarioKart. Roadtrips and camping and Bonnaroo. The summer I gracefully tripped on my ass in front of an entire bar. The summer of water gun fights at Shilito. I miss Lexington, The Dame, Common Grounds, Rakadu. But mostly, I miss the friends that made it the summer it was...the summer of hippies, coffee and good music.

MIA

Been gone for a while. Sortof got a life. Go figure! A life I pretty much hate...well, all save the boy...and the location...and the roommate, so basically all I really hate is the job, and were I working less than fifty-five hours a week it might not be so bad, but I do hate it. But I miss posting. So hopefully I can pick up where I left off. Maybe.

I don't want to rely on you to make me happy.
But you do.
I hope you know that.

Ugh

I feel as though it's been raining incessantly for months. Pouring down worries and stressors and drama that prolonged unemployment has weakened me for. My immunity to frustration is startlingly low. I want to destroy something every time I post another resume to some craptacular website that promises results. I want to scream at the mention of cover letters. They expect me to chose a city, a salary, health benefits, sectors. Nonprofit , corporation, relocation, waking up at 6 am thirty years down the line to realize I have no clue where my twenties went. It's like Trainspotting without the heroin. But it'd be a whole lot cooler if there was.

Life

You return from a few days in sunny Santa Fe, slightly sunburnt, sore from hiking. Thirteen hours in transit across three timezones. The irritating screams of teething toddlers, the kind that are predisposed to kick seat backs and throw cheerios, still lingering in your mind. You'd expect a certain sense of relief upon returning to a quiet home, but you're more realistic than that.

And just as you're pulling the plug on optimism's last vegetable breath, bracing yourself for flatline...you find your roomie dressed as Courtney Love: The Crackwhore Phase, traipsing about the house in a boys size 12 button down, no pants and enough black eyeshadow to refinish a Hummer. Smashed plates grace the kitchen floor, the shower is filled with candles and knives, roses are ripped of their petals and strewn around the house in patterns you'd liken more to Escher than accident.

And for a moment, life is good. Your friends are the most interesting in the world. You can fly to locales just for a weekend at a moment's notice. You have no reason to set an alarm, no responsibilities. No one utters commonplace trivialities or plays pop music. The unexpected becomes the norm and spontaneity is intrinsic. Life is good. Fleeting, but good. But your life, your life is bloody fantastic!

I think that should heaven exist, it is finite, based upon universal standards. But if hell exists, and I'd be more prone to believe it does...well, at least more so than heaven, it's bound to be relative to the individual.

My coffeemaker broke this morning. My very own personal hell.

Obviously, that is excluding Dante's presupposition of a tiered hell. Should that be the case, we have, as follows:

First circle, watching a movie directed by no-talent hacks, second, paying to see a movie directed by no-talent hacks...when you're ungainfully self-employed[read::unemployed.] Third, running into acquaintances from high school that feel the need to ask if I remember EVERY individual in our graduating class. There's about a 2% chance I remember anyone from high school. Fourth, three country music channels on the radio and only one classic rock, fifth, people asking me what I plan on doing with my future and why I don't have a job because my brother has no problem finding a job and neither do my friends, sixth, getting roped into uninteresting conversations with even more uninteresting people...in crowded bars...because no amount of alcohol can make you more interesting. Attractive, maybe. Interesting, no hope. Seventh, the grocery. Eight, being hit on...in the grocery. Ninth...now, NOW, we have no coffee.

Because Trivial Pursuit rules my life decisions

I’ve decided to reread Edith Hamilton’s Mythology, despite the intense pangs of bone-crushing hatred that arise from memories of the first reading. But I’ve come to realize that much of what I despised in high school can be attributed to teenage dispassion and sheer stupidity. Yes, I said it. I was stupid. Let’s not dwell.

I couldn’t stand Steinbeck, I found Salinger to be insipid and infuriating, algebra was beneath me, Camus made no sense. And now. Now I lament the fact that Salinger wrote no more than four novels. I’ve read everything written by Camus and moved on to his contemporaries. I work quadratic equations in my free time. And as for Steinbeck….well, still not a fan. Can you blame me?

So I’m hoping this time around I’ll gain more from Hamilton, because I can’t avoid mythology for the rest of my life. And as soon as I find I know next to nothing about something it pops up all over the Trivial Pursuit board…like that ENTIRE category on sports. Seriously, if you thrive on the sports questions, what’s the chance you know anything about the Hindenburg explosion or the number of times Eva Braun attempted suicide? I just don’t get it. But back to point. There’s a good chance I’ll actually enjoy it if you factor in the number of things I once hated but now enjoy…like green beans…and cubism.

p.s. The house guest has left us. And not once, Not. Bloody. Once. did he brush his teeth. I knew you were curious.

Torture

Nine days with a blind, underage, Japanese house guest. He hasn't brushed his teeth once since arriving. He tape records Dre and I singing in the car and listens in on our phone conversations. He wakes up at five am. He's more dependent than a child.

I fear he's going to return to conservative Japan spouting words that would make Solomon blush. From the crowds of pissed off fans at this weekend's UK game to that episode of Sex and the City he chose to watch which, awkwardly enough, featured the longest orgasm known to man. Hell, I might as well have a naked lady tattooed on my forearm for the amount of expletives that pass unnoticed from my mouth. I'd make a terrible role model.


But...it hasn't been all bad...save that bout with horseback riding. For that I wish I'd never been born.

Janis Joplin keeps telling me to find somebody to love.

It's a good thing she's already dead.

The whole concept of 'rock bottom' is a crock. It's an abyss.




And that's my two cents for the day.