White Coats and Tachycardia

I hate doctors of every variety. Not like I hate other people, more like the way I hate great big hairy spiders that fall on my face in the dark. I would rather they didn't exist, and go out of my way to avoid any possible contact with them. Before I even hit the waiting room, my heart goes from waltz to a manic bossa nova, and my stomach does trained-dolphin flips.

I have reasons for my insanity, even beyond genetics. When I was about 13, I hurt my back in a totally preventable horseback riding accident (Mary T, if you're out there, I'm still waiting for my apology, dammit). Nothing was broken, and I got up and walked away from the accident. The next day though, the pain...the PAIN. And the pain stayed, taking with it my sleep, my ability to sit in a chair, carry my books, or be a normal teenager. Numerous doctors were consulted, and my own GP ended up telling me that he didn't think my pain was as bad as I was expressing. I'm not sure of his exact words, but they were something to the effect of, "Yadda yadda, you don't hurt, I'm a big rotten asshole who got his diploma out of a Cracker Jack box." And I told him so.

Yet, I have an appointment to see the doctor next week. Two good reasons: firstly the knee I destroyed while being a geek to impress a guy. Long story, but all that needs to be said is that it hurts, and they need to fix it, or give me good drugs. Secondly, my nightmares. I need them to go away. I need the pill that makes Drop Dead Fred die and disappear. Last night, I dreamt about a cat that got run over, and I had to carry it around trying to find a vet clinic to fix it. I actually saw the cat disappear under a truck's tire, felt broken bones cradled in my hand afterwards, had a rush of adrenaline when I would walk into a store and realize there was no vet clinic. The damn cat died at the end. Stupid dreams.

Also, totally off the subject, this Matisyahu shit they're playing on all the alt rock stations has GOT to go. I hate it. Hate. Hell, at least cut it back to like once a day instead of once an hour. And the live version doesn't count as a different song. And feel free to shove the religious references up your stupid ass. Hasidic reggae? What the fucking fuck. Sounds like a joke, but I assure you, I'm not laughing. I don't care what your religious choice is, please just keep it to yourself. It's time to fire up the ipod. I've just been too lazy to put new songs on lately, but that will be changing sometime before I have to make another long-distance drive to get a rescue dog.

This Should Bother Me

Last night, unable to calm my mind enough to sleep, I finished one book and started another. The first was "Marley & Me," a pretty typical story of the life of a family dog. A bad dog, even, which somewhat reminded me of a bad dog in my past that I had no trouble giving away to an unsuspecting family. Nothing too moving, right? Except that the conclusion of the book coincides with the conclusion of the dog's life, in the usual manner, and left me absolutely shattered, sobbing into a dish towel, shaking too hard to get up to find a kleenex.

When I finally got myself cleaned up and able to see straight, I started "Children of the Fire," which is an account by Jewish twins about the horrors they suffered at the hands of Dr. Mengele. In the first few pages, I encountered five year old children being ripped from the arms of their mothers, people dying in cattle cars on the way to certain death, even an account of a girl finding out that the soap she had been using may have been made from the fat of her murdered family. After all of this, I was finally calm enough to sleep.

One old dog, dying after a long life of luxury, reduces me to tears. Genocide? Nothin'. Think maybe it's time to get back into therapy?

The Power of Crisco Compels You!

I am an awkward specimen of h. sapiens, inside and out. Lately, I've taken to accusing my parents of assembling me out of spare parts, like a discount kit that ends up with a couple of parts missing, and one odd bit you have to file down to get to fit. And I've been bitching at my mother for picking my father, with his fat genes, odd feet, and joints that articulate like the tinman after Katrina (I appreciate my dad for the intellectual things he handed down, though he could have kept his part of the mental issues. My mom's input was enough there.)

Like just about every other female in the developed world, I am on a diet. I am exercising, which really seems pointless now that there's little chance I'll ever have to run for my life from a hungry sabre-toothed lion (or whatever was around with cavemen, give me a damn break). We altered our world faster than our bodies could adjust (you fuckers). My body was made to store and use every last calorie it touches. My metabolism would be prized in a hunter-gather culture where I might not see food for a week. But with a McDonalds on every main street, and a Dunkin Donuts and Wendy's and Burgar King and...jesus christ am I hungry. I almost had to hurt a poor girl last weekend in the laundromat because the smell of her bag of McDonalds french fries were driving me into a frenzy. Explain that to a judge. I'd have to call it PMS and pray I didn't get a female judge.

The weight is coming off. I haven't broken and done a late-night fast food run of shame. I'm proud of myself, but I keep worrying that something will happen to change the course of my diet, that the weight will decide to stay like a tenant you just can't seem to evict. And then I worry about the saggy body I'll be left with when the weight is gone. I hate our culture for teaching me to feel this way. I can't appreciate my own mind, my own attractive qualities, because I'm "supposed" to be a size 6 and I never will be. And models in a size six are just about in the "plus sized" category. My friend Kim suggested we just run away and be fat, free, happy lesbians on some island somewhere. If only.

Secrets Should Remain Secret

I want to live in the office bathroom.

In case you're afraid that actually is as weird as it sounds, well, you'd be right. Our office bathroom isn't even accessible from inside the office. We...well, I, have to walk outside, to the outside bathroom door, to take one of my hourly breaks. You would too if you capped off a case of diet soda every other day, in the name of diet (and that's only counting when I'm at work. If we include home diet soda consumption, it gets really ugly).

But that has nothing to do with why I love the bathroom. Neither does the fact that it is a haven for spiders and silverfish and other creepy crawlies that make girl noises come out of me. It has a stained little toilet and a dirty little sink that the cleaning lady never cleans - most likely because my boss made me fire her. Like I'm going to clean the toilet at work. Yeah, right. I don't even clean the toilet at home. I kid, I kid...mostly. And don't look in the tub.

The big thing about the office bathroom is that it's right next to the furnace room. There's a big ol' vent that goes from the furnace to right next to the toilet. So, have a seat. Ahhhh hot, toasty and comfy, though it's negative warm outside. Sometimes it's even too warm. Plus, there is no phone in there, no one to come in and ask stupid questions...and if someone came in, I'd be perfectly within my rights to pop them in the nose. It's a good life, here in the bathroom.

Speaking My Language

Most days, I will tell anyone who will listen just how much I hate people. I hate having to drive with other people on the road. I hate having other people in my car. I hate answering the phone and answering the door. But it's really not true. I hate people who are so self-absorbed and self-important that they have nothing to offer. The man who just came in to the office reminded me of that.

I really wasn't in the mood to talk, and he struck me as the kind of lonely, gregarious ol' guy that can be annoying as hell yammering away about nothing at all, or worse, his grandkids. But as soon as Bella and Frodo came gallumphing out from the office, the guy's face lit up and we started talking about dogs. He told me about his daughter's golden retriever and his son's brittany that cost him seven grand to try to save at Tufts Veterinary Hospital. And his son's new border collie, Emily, that doesn't like kids. I hear ya, Em. Give them a growl for me, sweetie.

And I didn't even mind when he told me about his newest grandchild, a little boy, not quite a year old, adopted from Kaz...Khaz...fuck it. Somewhere that used to be in the USSR that has a bunch of neglected orphans. I'm too tired to look stuff up this morning, and if it matters to anyone that reads it, you look it up. The kid's cute. That's the problem with America, you know. Too many Americans.

Stats

I am utterly obsessed with checking my page stats. Which is silly, really, since the only people who visit this site are the few people I know and have given the address to, and people who have seen my comments on other blogs and wondered what the hell My Muse Is A Whore meant. They probably haven't figured it out yet, either.

Do me a favor, pretty please: if you stop by, just drop me a quick line in the comments. I want to feel like I'm not alone in the world, though I really am. Feel free to put in a link to your web page, blog, whatever...because if it's wrong to use someone else's comments to pimp your own blog, I don't want to be right.

Unfulfilled

I get these wild, almost painful urges to do something creative. I've tried writing, sculpting, painting, drawing, singing (let's not talk about that one), playing several different musical instruments...it always just feels like something is missing. This right here is as creative as I get these days and it's starting to wear on me.

When I was in elementary and high school, I'd draw horses. I guess I had a shred of self-confidence left back then, since I was pretty damn proud of the horses I drew absolutely everywhere: in the margins of notebooks and textbooks, on desks, in the condensation on a car window; I even made a clock in the shape of a horse's head in woodshop. But then again, I was consumed with the concept of horses from a very young age. I blame it on the little indian and pony mobile my parents hung over my crib. Every car ride we took, my face would be plastered to the window, searching for a sign of the fences that might contain a horse. As I got older, I'd start guessing the breed, just to add a little challenge to it (and I was always right, since there was no one there to tell me otherwise).

In college, I went through a celtic obsession and bought a bamboo penny whistle. I painted it, shellacked it...I even named the damn thing. I admit that I was, and am, pretty strange. But I lived in an apartment and was too self-conscious to ever practice, since it sounded so awful. Because I know I can improve with no practice whatsoever. Then, when I left my first boyfriend, he so kindly threw a hissy fit and snapped my poor little whistle and left the splintered pieces for me to discover later.

I occasionally get this desire to get a tablet peripheral for my computer so I can express myself that way. It's stupid that I feel that's a waste of money, considering some of the useless shit I throw my money at, but I can't seem to part with it. Maybe I'm just afraid of failing to find my creative outlet yet again. I always have writing to fall back on, but drawing seems more cathartic. It's more of a struggle to write, when doodling or putting together a piece of art (I dare you to distinguish a real difference) can come almost subconsciously.

I've Got Earworms

I always have a song in my head. It's a good day when that song isn't annoying or really obscure and weird. If I'm lucky, the song doesn't make me cry. But there are an awful lot of songs that make me cry.

My first boyfriend had very strong opinions about a lot of things. He didn't really get into rock music of any sort, and would give me the hairy eyeball whenever a song came on that he didn't like. For a while, I pretended to care. He liked to talk about his feelings about music, namely that people who felt some emotional response to music or identified with the lyrics, were weak and gullible. People like me. Yeah, I let him insult me like that for almost six years. I introduced him to some music, I like to think, though how much I care these days couldn't be expressed in parts per billion. I don't give a nanoshit. The strangest thing was that he thought the soundtrack to Braveheart was great for background music during sex. Which makes sense, since he's a rammer (term swiped without permission from Mimi).

Music is usually an important way for me to relate to people, since there's generally nothing else I can stand about them. One guy was several years older than me, and was into "classic" rock. Every time he turned on the radio, I'd curl up my hands into T-Rex claws and screech annoyingly, since everyone knows that's what a dinosaur sounds like...and then, if people didn't get it, I'd announce "Dinosaur Rock" in something approximating a radio deejay voice. I'm a fuckin laugh riot. The really strange thing is that I dumped him, and not vice versa.

The best relationship I've had yet was with someone who liked almost all of my favorite music. If a new song came out that really caught my ear, he'd usually tell me about it the same day. It's really a pity that it takes more than music to sustain a relationship.

I can be myself musically now that I'm alone. I can sing along without offending anyone (except for the cats, who have better singing voices than I do). I can listen to whiny emo shit without anyone telling me how pathetic I am. But I miss sharing.

Dreams and Dogs

This day is just draaaaaaagging along, which might just have a little teeny bit to do with the fact that the dogs decided to growl and fight a bunch of times between 2am and 7am, the little fuckers. If they keep it up, Bella is going to start sleeping in her crate. Or outside. I really don't understand what her problem is. They sleep curled up together, which seems really sweet, but almost every time she wakes up growling and attacking out of a deep sleep, and Frodo counters with a bark or growl or some other noice that is terrible to hear at 3am. One of my theories is that she just gets sick and tired of listening to Frodo snore his stupid head off all night and bites him so he'll stop. More likely, she's just a little psycho freak.

Sitting here wishing the day was over isn't what I wanted to do with my life. From maybe third grade on, I was as certain as only the truly naive can be that I would be a veterinarian. God forbid anyone tell me that there would be challenges, that I might not really want to follow that path. That is, until I realized that this path meandered through years of 8am classes, painful final exams, and all without the certainty of ending up at my goal. So I pared back my dreams, finally admitted that I really didn't know what I wanted to do with my life, and was sedately pleased to walk away with my piece of paper. What made me happy was not being in school anymore. When I finally worked in a veterinary clinic, I told myself that it proved that I made the right decision in giving up. That is difficult, thankless work, though I'd do it again if I had the right people to work with. Doctors like Hank and Sarah, techs like Beth and Jenna - that would be a workplace that I could handle. But veterinary clinics don't work like that. In my experience, there was always one tech I got along really well with, and the others made me watch my back. I didn't learn about scary veterinarians until the second clinic I worked in, when the little Ben Stein-esque doctor had a hissy fit and threw a labrador against an exam table because the lab was being a lab. That was enough for me.

There was a big difference in working for a veterinarian. I did something important. Lives were saved with my help. There are so many dogs I remember, just for being so damn happy or somehow understanding, and I just don't get that in my job now. I like what I do, and I know it's an important service, testing water, but there's not the immediacy of it. I guess I have this need to be important, to be valued, to be known. Not exactly unusual. Writing holds the same promise for me, only I just don't have what it takes to get through that either. At least with writing, I could potentially create something while maintaining this job. This job that doesn't leave me in tears more nights than not. This job which has been more stable than my life at home for all the years (going on four, now, hard as that is to believe) I have been here.

I would enjoy this job more if things weren't so damn quiet. It's strange to say that, remembering the days in Manchester where business was so "good" that I couldn't think straight, and there were days I didn't get home til 8pm or later. There, people were coming in two and three at a time, and there were my favorites who would hang around to flirt, share a story, gossip or bitch about the business or life in general. Now, there are a few good ones who will chat, but more often people are too busy and there just aren't that many people. I never thought I'd complain about living in a lower population density, and for day to day life, I love it. But I'm lonely, still. The few people who understand me, or care even though they don't understand me, are far away and busy.

An Entirely Preventable Event

Yesterday morning was rainy and disgusting. I followed my usual routine, dressing up the dogs and myself, hooking up their leashes, and following them out the back door onto my second-story deck. When I first looked at the apartment, my landlord had pointed out his ingenious painting of the stairs leading from the deck; he had added sand to the paint to give a poor man's version of traction. Too bad he didn't do that inside on the exceedingly narrow and steep wooden steps leading down to my front door, but that's another painful story for another painful day.

Bella and Frodo, in their hurry to make yellow snow, slipped and slided and barely managed to stay upright (by the grace of the detested leashes) on their way down the icy and treacherous stairs...but I saw their difficulty and was very, very careful. On a side note, I have fallen down every flight of stairs in every house I've ever lived in, so far as I can remember - but not these - yet. As soon as I reached the concrete walkway, I breathed a sigh of relief, and the dogs reached the end of their leashes. And pulled me in two different directions, while I went in a third - down. My left leg went back, my right leg went forward, my clean new corduroys went straight down into icy rainwater. My left shoe fell off, leaving my sock sodden and frozen. I whimpered and swore, pretty certain I was going to regret having left my cell phone at work, since I was sure my injuries would prevent me from getting to my apartment or my car.

No, I got up, brushed myself off (like that helps with freezing water that has already soaked into your clothing while you moan and cry) and cursed the dogs all the way to the car. I wanted to tell about something interesting that happened afterwards, but I decided that I'm not in the mood for writing fiction today. I still hurt, and I'm sure the concrete does too, so that's all you get, bitches.

Shopping, a la BNL

Ugh, happiness hurts. No, wait, that's just the hangover. Scuse me while I take a second to dry heave. I guess smiles are like food. If you don't have any for a while, too many all at once will make you a little sick.

Last night was a typical Saturday night for me, to start out. Tears were cried, walls were kicked. The usual. But I'm pretty fucking sick of that routine. There just don't seem to be that many options out in the wilds of Cow Hampshire, unless I want to go to a cheesy bar thirty miles away, or watch a movie all by myself in a theater full of rowdy kids. So I did what anyone in my situation would do: I went grocery shopping. It was like ten or so when I decided to go, and the only store open late is all the way down in Keene, some 25 miles away, but I figured I deserved something better to subsist upon than my own pathetic fears. Frozen pizza ought to do it, the diet be damned.

I had never been to this particular store and I don't know Keene very well, so of course I got extremely lost. The drizzly rain and dirty water kicked up by other cars certainly didn't help. My windshield wipers truly suck. I never knew a cute little college town like Keene would have "slums" (argh, this fucking keyboard...stupid dog destroyed the left shift key, so everything is out of whack), but I found them. Around midnight, even small-town slums are creepy, especially towns where there are few if any streetlights.

The supermarket was right there, just down a side street I had passed no fewer than a dozen times. I'm glad I didn't give up, though, since it turns out that this store is the only one in the area that makes the sushi I like anymore. Score! I'm a little embarrassed about how much I ended up buying, but whatever. It's more or less healthy. Anyway, there was almost no one there to see what heinous diet choices I was making, so they don't count. I think I only saw like two or three customers in there, an addled-looking old couple, and a kind of cute emo girl type. I even grabbed some Guinness, to make a real meal of it, and drown my sorrows all at once.

After paying for everything - and let me say, they friggin gouge you for the convenience of being able to shop in the middle of the night - I stumbled out into the parking lot humming the song that had been stuck in my head for most of the night, something by the Gorillaz, trying to ignore the icy rain blowing in through the collar of my shirt. I was loading my plunder into the trunk of my car when a rattly little Nissan something pulled up next to me. "Hey! What does your license plate mean?" I've lost count of how many people have asked me that, in parking lots, in line at a drive-through, even slowing down in heavy traffic and leaning out the window to get my attention. It's L4BR4T. If you can't figure out that means lab rat, I don't know that there's any hope for you. But it was the cute emo girl. Somehow I explained without being a total asshole, and she asked me about some of my bumper stickers, and we got into the usual dog rescue chat that the bumper stickers tend to initiate. But damn was I getting cold. She asked me if I'd come sit in her car and talk a little more, since she had some questions to ask me. It's not like she looked particularly dangerous, since she couldn't possibly be 5'5", and I'd eat my hat if she weighed more than 120. Not exactly someone to freak out about and keep my distance, and fuck it, I'm lonely. It's not everyone that really seems to want to talk to me, though that alone made me wonder what in the world was wrong with her.

Nothing is wrong with Julie. She's lonely too. As she drove me back to her apartment, just a couple of miles away on the main drag in Keene, she started to tell me a little bit about her life, as it is. She's from Montana, so I guess Keene doesn't seem quite so podunk for her - but she's without her family here. Her boyfriend moved here for college and brought her along, so she studied too, but not very seriously. Keith, her boyfriend, was in the Army Reserves to pay for college - which was fine until he graduated and was shipped off to some land of brown people to kill them. I think she said he's in Afghanistan, but I'm not sure. She teared up every time she tried to talk about him. They were supposed to get married last month. Now here she is, thousands of miles away from her family, many more thousands from her love, failed out of school because she just couldn't get her ass out of bed in the morning. Funny thing is, she asked me since I like animals if I would feed her boyfriend's snake. Sounds like innuendo, but she just doesn't like to have to deal with the great big ball python, and she can't very well just get rid of it. Doesn't bother me, and I just imagine the terrified little mice with the faces of my ex-boyfriends and the job is done. After he (it? Julie didn't know) was lumpy and satiated, I set aside my beer and pulled him out of the aquarium. After pretending he was lunging at Jules a few times, I put him back in the aquarium and we put on some music and kept drinking. It's so much easier to get comfortable with someone when you're both swaying and giggling like jackasses.

A big problem I've faced before is spending the night at someone else's house. I get a little anxious and weird about it. But apparently alcohol is the antidote. I crashed on the couch, but woke up on the floor. Julie's bedroom door was closed, but I could hear little snores from the other side. I really didn't want to wake her, so I left a note...it was strange, like sneaking out on a one-night-stand, except there was no sex and I really want to see her again. It was only about five blocks to my car, but the cold wind bit through my forehead and made it feel like five miles. The drive home was even worse - I never realized just how loud my turn signal was. Fuckin thing. Now I just hope she calls.

I don't know exactly how many times a day I give up, but it's up there.

I'm really pissed off about the news report I read about James Frey's book "A Million Little Pieces." Apparently, people with nothing better to do went and looked into some of the things he wrote about, such as his run-ins with the law, and found nothing to substantiate his reports. Now, this book wasn't passed off as a legal document, academic study, or anything else like that. Just the life of a fucked up addict. I don't see how changing the story a little to make it more interesting to read makes it any less valuable. I enjoyed the book a lot. But now it seems I could get my money back, since the author wronged me by twisting the facts a little. Does that mean people can get their votes back if they voted for Bush?
I don't understand why the publisher didn't tell everyone to get bent.

A publisher might not, but I will. Tonight, I want to tell everyone to get bent. All the people who only have time for me on their terms, which is everyone except for the people who never have time for me to begin with. I hardly understand why I want to get in shape. I mean, I know it will make me feel better physically, and make me feel better about myself, but I'll also be so much more likely to attract people who are likely to use me. Fat is a defense? I'm lonely, but I'm afraid that my only other option will end up being like the relationshits I've been in in the past. Those relationships were like suspended animation, suppressed growth, blighted portions of my life. But now, alone, I feel like I'm missing something, not doing whatever it is I'm here to do. Not that being part of a couple is that, though caring for someone who cares for me in return is an attractive concept. Argh. This is why I always stop writing journals. I know I've said these words any number of times. I just can't get them out of my head. I need to find something else, something to drive me, to make life feel worthwhile.

Casual Thursday

No boss, I'm not posting to my journal (blog, online p.o.s., whatEVER) from work. I wouldn't do such a thing. Now go away so I can write.

This week my new doctor suggested that maybe I should consider adding another medication to the handful of pills I swallow every day to keep myself functioning physically and mentally. He's the first medical professional to listen to me and take seriously the problems I have with nightmares. Maybe the drug he prescribes will even help with my friggin' mood swings, since there's still considerable room for improvement, though I know I have to do some of that work on my own (dammit). Of course, last night I actually had a good dream, the first in quite some time. I dreamt of both real and imagined objects of my lust, was happy and desired and all the things that would make my life pleasant. It's just one dream. But the possibility of killing those dreams along with the nightmares...is it worth it? I have a creative mind, more or less. I come up with plenty of daydreams. That should make up for whatever dreams I might poison and bury in the basement...Right? This is one of the reasons I've never really demanded that a doctor address the issue with my nightmares. When my nightmares aren't bad, I consider the dreams my own private movie theater, and the screenwriter is my subconscious. When my nightmares are bad, the screenwriter is Stephen King on acid, with a broken window into my subconscious. Not only is King a creepy fucker, he's made some pretty crappy movies. But I used to be able to sleep, nightmares or no. I was a champion. I could nap after work and still sleep all night. These days, I barely even have any caffeine. My brain is probably so pissed at me for depriving it of caffeine, it's waking me up at all hours just for revenge.

Being single has done one really bad thing for me lately. I have no one to focus on but myself, which fuels and twists my depression. It really sucks when someone else has to call you on it, but I guess it's better than never snapping out of it at all. I guess. I think I'm introspective rather than self-centered by nature, since I'd rather talk to other people about other things, given the choice. Being self-centered out of the lack of options is a little different. I swear, I don't believe that everything must revolve around me. If anything, things should revolve around my pets and my volunteer work and my job. I really liked having someone to take care of; if only the feeling and actions were reciprocated, I'd be in a totally different place right now. I can feel myself expanding into the area of my life a boyfriend once filled (if just barely), like a single person is the gaseous phase of human. I don't know if I'll be able to shrink back into the role of half a couple again. It might smother me. And if I have to share a bed with a snorer, I'll end up in prison.

I'm a Fuckin Rock Star

Why oh why do I feel so honored when other bloggers (I'm a blogger? Just cuz I have a few entries of crappy journaling..."Dear Diary, None of the boys in my fifth grade class like me") write to me, responding to my embarrassingly sycophantic comments or emails? They're just like me, only they can write, and some of them even have lives. Yeah, that's all I have to say about that. Loser.

I love the internet. It's tailor-made for antisocial wallflower dipshits like me. All of my friends come with an off button. No one knows I'm fat unless I tell them (aw, shit. There I go.). And if I remember to proofread, no one knows I'm a dumbass. My self-esteem issues might be a bit more difficult to disguise. I've met and dated other losers that I met through the internet. Is anyone surprised that every single attempt ended in tears?

I wonder if anyone ever decided to become a serial killer, without the mental problems that one usually associates with that sort of thing, more just to see if they could do it, and succeeded. It's not so hard to come to hate people - isn't that what public school is all about? It really shocks me that we don't get more killers out of the system.

Fuck Sundays

Yeah, Mondays suck, but they've got nothing on my Sunday nights. Something about being alone and feeling alone and...music and tears and ARGH. Fuck this shit. If i wasn't such a wuss, I would have stayed out there in the fuckin snowbank the first time. I could try it again, but I'm still working out a reason not to. It's getting worse every day, now that I think about it. Of course, there are upswings. Is that a manic phase or a sunbeam? Fucked if I know. Everyone tells me it's a sunbeam. All I know is that the day after, it burns like a urinary tract infection, but all over. Yeah, all over. But it's not, is it? It'll come back, with a vengeance, every Sunday I decide to wake up. Great, huh?

Comedy is great. This Christopher Titus special right now is actually managing to make me smile. He's married, you know. Two kids. Everyone's fuckin' married, and everyone has or wants kids. I am most definitely not everyone. Most days I don't feel like anyone. And sure as hell no one's feeling me. The few options I've had haven't been so good, and why should I think the future will bring any different? It's not where I live, dammit. My mom met my dad in Michigan. That ended in tears. My mom met her ex waste of carbon (he's still a waste of carbon, he's just not hers anymore) in Pennsylvania. I met the first one in RI, the second one was from NY, the third one from NH. It doesn't matter where I go or what I do. Even if I weren't a total loser magnet, I don't know if there's anything else out there. And it doesn't help that I'm not exactly gorgeous, stable or anything else anyone would want for long term. I should qualify that: Not anything anyone worthwhile would want for long term. No, I fall for guys who care more about computers or games or their cars or a friend's sixteen year old sister, or guys who aren't even remotely available, and even if they were...heh. Not sure where to go with that, but let's just say it isn't good and my keyboard can't take many more tears before it dies in a puff of smoke beneath my fingers.

This shouldn't bother me. I've lived on my own for six months. I take care of myself just fine. I'm losing weight, getting into shape, and not taking shit from anyone. I got a new kitten, even though the landlord probably wouldn't approve, and none of my exes would have approved, and my family calls me the crazy cat lady and I really don't have the time or money or...but awwww...her little stripey tail is hanging out from the soft blanket on my bed, and she's all curled up. If I so much as touch her bunny-soft little pure white belly, she rumbles louder than the train that goes by my house at 5am. She kisses my nose, for no reason, and moves on to my forehead like it's the most delicious thing ever. Of course, she licks her ass the same way. Maybe that's why I'm single; my forehead tastes like a cat's ass.

I'm not going to settle, goddamnit. I settled from the beginning, like a dumbass, and paid for it. I'm sure it could have been a lot worse, but it fucked me up nonetheless. Yeah, I'm going to hold out for someone that actually cares as much about my happiness as I care about his. I am NEVER going to give a guy more than one chance to ignore me when I snuggle up to his computer chair and whisper dirty promises in his ear. If he has dreams and a job he hates and no real prospects, well jeez Scooter, follow those dreams and give me a call after they pay off. I've supported two boyfriends through long term unemployment. What did I get out of it? Damaged self esteem, lighter burns, suicidal ideation and a World of Warcraft subscription. And several thousand dollars worth of credit card debt. Fuckers. I've never dated a guy who had any sort of relationship with his dad. The closest was the last, since they still spoke...but with a side of physical and emotional abuse and all that comes with it. I wish I could have something of a happy, supportive relationship. Someone I might lean on a little, and not worry that I might have to carry everything at any moment. Someone who would actually be happy to let me lean when I need to. Someone who didn't make me feel like I was only getting sex because it was expected. What a way to learn to love yourself...when no one else will.

My best friend from highschool has gone after and gotten a lot of the things I wanted, things I've given up on. She's married and in vet school. But then again, she has an anklebiter and couldn't be happier about it. I'll state it right here, in front of Kim who is the only person who reads this, that I will not ever curse a child with my genes and this world. I keep a coathanger at the ready, shaped into an inverted cross, fuckers. Stick that in your censer and smoke it.

Yeah, Christmas only comes once a year too.

Snow is a lot like that really gorgeous girl you had a crush on in highschool. Stunningly beautiful, painfully cold, and really quite a bore once you get right down to it. But in the ten years between graduation and the reunion, or the six months (this is New England after all) between snows, you fantasize and blow the excitement and aesthetics waaaay out of proportion.
Even snow that falls into my boots and down the back of my pants is kinder than the boys I remember from highschool. I'd like to go to the next reunion and impale a few people on giant icicles. I can think of several candidates. Of course, if anyone who knew me saw this, I'd probably be banned from reunions, investigated by the homeland security jackholes and who knows what else. Probably get fired too, just because that is the great power of blogging.