The Sweet Smell of Chemicals

When life is shitty,
clean.

At least you'll feel like you accomplished SOMETHING.

Where Do I Go From Here?

This is the type of night
I'd take a bath --

If I lived in a place that actually had one.

Let's Laugh About Our Destitution

Just your average gchat conversation:

Meghan: haha

can't you come earlier?

me: not really

tickets = expensive

and the band I'm in is playing a few shows this month

can't you come VISIT MEEEE

10:16 AM Meghan: why, are tickets less expensive TO colorado?

me: because you have a job

are employed

i am an aimless, shiftless vagabond

Meghan: i'm living on student loans my dear

10:17 AM i don't get a paycheck until i actually START WORKING

me: I don't even know what a paycheck is anymore

is the opposite of bills?

10:18 AM Meghan: YES

it cures them

me: Can you eat a paycheck?

Meghan: you can eat the things it BUYS YOU

10:19 AM me: Can a paycheck fix all my problems?

Meghan: noooo

it can't make your boyfriend 27

oooooh buuuuurn!

10:20 AM me: OH SNAP

You are on this morning

Meghan: hahahaa

me: did you drink coffee or something?

Meghan: i win!

no coffee

this is all me

me: I'm putting this on my blog, you know

you'll be anonymously internet famous

10:23 AM DON'T YOU CARE?

Meghan: hang on

mom called

me: NO EXCUSES

Summer Heat

I would like to state,
for the record,
that I do not seek this shit out.

1) He broke my heart. I did my best to accept it.
2) I collected myself. He started calling.
3) He admitted to being all sorts of confused.
4) He kisses me.
5) We get closer.
5) His roommate / ex-girlfriend sits down in front of us and announces that she feels threatened by me and may still love him.
6) I freak out.
7) He tells her he loves her, but isn't in love with her.
8) But won't admit that he loves me.
9) Somewhere along the line, a band rehearsal happens.
10) The New Guitarist in the band pays attention to me.
11) He says "you can tell [The New Guitarist] you're dating me so he knows where to place it"
12) My brain melts.

Cover Your Eyes

My July 4th
was combustible.

There were fireworks, alright.
More than in the sky.

When some of the smoke clears, I'll explain.

Right now I've got to run off
all that red, white, and blue cake.

This Shit Is Hard To Find

I have been staring at Craigslist for 2 hours.

There has got to be a job out there
That doesn't make me want to murder myself.

A job that's Part Time.
Cool people.
Interesting.

...apparently,
I'm looking for the Golden Fleece.

Nobody Told Me

...that today was Hot Guy At The Gym Day.

Jesus.

Even the front desk dude was smokin.

Had I been aware of this event,
I would have worn
something other than
completely ugly shit.

If I Look Down / Tell Me / Will I Fall

Was at a bachelorette party this weekend.

Was the only single girl there...the only one who didn't make a hurried
phone call
or text
to a boyfriend during dinner/drinks/debaucherous cake eating

Didn't mind, really. Not until I got home

It's not always the best idea to sit and think. Sometimes it's really great. It's good to think about certain things. Paper or Plastic. Heels or Sneakers. Salad or Chicken Fingers. Jack Daniels or A Blunt The Size Of My Thumb. But then there are other thoughts ...one should not obsess over.

There's a certain aspect of victimization when one bemoans her chronically single status - I know this. I'll read certain pieces and my nose will scrunch up and I'll want to tell whoever is bitching to grab some brownie mix and just go to sleep and stop letting it get to them. But then I'll stare at my keyboard or a piece of paper and all I'll want to do is let it get to me.

Because it does get to me. Every so often. Especially when I really believe in a choice / man I've made / met. Cuz it's all, shit - how well do I understand situations if I keep fucking up so royally?

I'm totally buying farms that aren't for sale.
Counting chickens that have recently been made into omelets.

The stupid part about this is that I really think I know myself. But how well can you know yourself if it seems like you continuously steer that self down the bumpiest road possible? I hate bumpy roads. They make my teeth chatter.

I deserve a man
who wants me as much as I want him.
Yes.
I deserve a man
who won't trade me for his Art.
Yes.
I deserve to feel like whoever he is,
he'll stay.
Yes.

This is all so very true.
And I'm so very ready to have it.

So Nice To Meet You

Dear Ideal Job:

Yo, where you at? I've been looking for you for a while now. Thought I found you in March but I was very, very mistaken. That was not you. That was an UNideal job. An impostor.

I'm super pumped to meet you because I know you're gonna let me be the social, party animal I am, while also being intellectually and maybe even emotionally stimulating. You're gonna give me mad cash [or at least a nice influx of dolla dollas] and you'll introduce me to cool, fun people. Most of all, you'll be fun -- and I won't hate you after 3 weeks.

Neat.
Looking forward to meeting you.
LIKE...TOMORROW.

Love,
J

Artificial Stimulation

I like to take my One A Day Women's Active Mind and Body vitamin -
[ AKA legal coke]
Mid-afternoon.

Because how else am I gonna get through the day?

Change Me

It's really hard
to write anything even close to good

when your heart still feels like shit.

At least tomorrow's Wednesday. I'm crawling through this week like a baby with a huge ass load in it's diaper.

Like that?
Yeah.

Walking On...

Obvious statement: heartbreak is not an easy thing to recover from.
Metaphor alert: sweeping the shards of said heartbreak into a pile without cutting yourself is impossible.

Thinking back to how things used to be before they became what they are is all about cutting yourself. Little tiny cuts. Tiny but deep, you know? Just enough for the blood to seep out and ruin all your favorite white thoughts.

I’m not sure why I seem to fall again and again into this lame hole. This stupid lame hole of what the hell why doesn't he stay?! It’s deep and really damn familiar. My only consolation is that each time the fall is a little shorter.

I’m looking into the hole now, but this time I’ve got both hands hanging on, nails digging into the dirt, teeth clenched. I may be back here but I’m not going all the way in. It’s my choice; how long I want to hang here, and when I have enough strength to pull myself out.

History is not repeating.
Not this time.

In other news: I’m pretty sure I’m just going to pledge myself to Sting for eternity and quit relating all together.

So I realize
now
the freedom he's given me is priceless.

He needs Time. Space. The Chance to go and see who else is out there. At first it hit me like cemented bricks. Another man who I'm losing. And I grabbed onto my comforter and I cried real tears real hard. Because god I wasn't supposed to go through this again.

But then things sink in, hit the ocean floor, and I come up for air and I realize yes. Thank you. Because I need Space and Time and The Chance to go and see who else is out there. I need to take back the part of myself I'm always so eager to give away.

It's time for him to realize
-- for me to realize -
the girl he's pushing away
won't always be there
to be taken back.

I Have Sensative Viens

I just wrote something inspirational and then erased it.

The boxing gloves went with the first post,
but now all that's left is the picture and I can't help but ruminate on the fact that I would really
hate
to be punched in the nose.

Under The Skin

"This is actually more complicated than a simple he sucks, girl. Leave his ass." She paced back and forth on the white carpet, watching her footprints fade into the thick yarn. Or whatever it was they made carpets out of.

"Well, what is it then?" Her Friend sat on the couch, texting something not very important to someone. She was always texting. Probably even when she was eating cereal.

"I think I might love him. And he never lied to me about where he stood. And has always given me the freedom to walk away." She stopped pacing and leaned against the coffee table, her thoughts making her feel just the slightest bit dizzy. Whenever she worried her heart did this stupid thing where it sped up and made her feel like she was on coke. But the cheap kind. The kind that felt really toxic going down. "So there's no way to blame him for anything."

"Well. Maybe that's true." Her friend was still texting. Could she really text and listen at the same time? Doubtful. "Then maybe all you can do is admit the truth and move forward."

She let her head drop into her hands. Her Friend was right. Somehow, she had spoken through the distraction of tiny letters and had actually made sense. Just admit the truth. To him. To yourself. Admit it and be ready for what's coming next.

"Whatever." Her Friend put the phone down and looked up. "What the fuck can we do, girl? People get under our skin. It's like a good disease."

She smiled a little, her head still cradled by fingers bit by worry.

A good disease
Indeed.

I'm Fucked

I think I love him.

This sucks.
This is shit.
Bad. Danger. Pricker bushes.

He almost ended it tonight.
The conversation ripped me up in ways I wasn't expecting.
He needs space. Lots of it.
I'm Irish-Italian and possessive as hell but I'm willing to give him that space because
- fuck -
I think I love him enough to do that.

I'm scared.
Down to my red blood cells.
Scared that I love a man I wasn't planning on loving. A man who's insides are hard to decipher.
Scared that if things end,
I'll be lost here.
Lost completely.

Oh boy.
It's clear.
I'm fucked.

Image Problem

Recently, he's quit cigarettes
pot
and liquor.

And has been filling those voids
- those vice-shaped holes -
with food.

I told him if he got
fat
I'd break up with him.

He laughed.

I'm pretty serious, though.

How Emo Do I Look Right Now

Sometimes,
You just need to die your hair

Fire Engine
Red.

Best Thought Ever

What if:

Dr. Phil & Martha Stewart
got into an argument,
and there were ninja stars involved?

Highly Unlikely

I’m a random person.
I think we all understand that.

Today I was thinking about porn. I wasn’t thinking about a specific genre [sorry]. It was more about the argument that porn has given men unrealistic expectations regarding women and sex. So I was sitting in traffic (which ended up being for no reason. How does that shit happen?!) and I was thinking about unrealistic expectations and I’ve decided maybe it’s true. Like:

• Having a big peen does not always guarantee sex. Especially if you’re fat and your face has that sick “meth” sheen to it
• It’s probably not feasible that I will dress in a Catholic schoolgirl uniform and instantly realize I’m a lesbian.
• No one likes giving 45-minute blowjobs.
• It’s not likely that I’ll tell my dude to invite 5 of his friends over to join us
• There’s no way in hell I could listen to that music while getting it on
• Most pizza delivery boys/plumbers/mailmen aren’t attractive
• Swallowing buckets of jizz will most probably result in lots of unsexy puking
• If it’s not my job, I’m not pretending you’re the best I’ve ever had

Any other "expectations" I might have missed?

Fishing For Something

"I just need to be single. In my head. For the sake of what I'm doing right now with music."

The conversation last night marks the 5th time we've gone over this bullshit. Sometimes we're in bed, sometimes I'm sitting on his floor, and one time we were eating lunch at a restaurant and had to whisper because the people at the other table were obviously listening.

I'm not sure how much more I can take.

How many times he can reel me in,
then yank the hook out and chuck me back into the water?

Why do we keep talking
about how he needs
to not be with me?

I Know This To Be True

I've taken many a dude to see those lovable computer-animated movies,
and it's come to my attention that:

The man I marry will enjoy Pixar as much as I do.

The [Sage} Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

I've always said that I'm
a free spirit stuck in a sarcastic realist's body.

I have the impulse
for love and joy and no shoes and weed and flowers in my hair
but I also have a threshold -
a bullshit meter -
a part of me that, every once in a while, skids to a stop and goes
"Um, no."

Last night, I found myself breathing through sage and patchouli on an organic farm watching chicks wearing 7 dresses at once and butterfly wings free form dance to music that was half Middle Eastern half crap. I mean, it was weird. It was a hippie fest of the worst kind, white people with tons of money pretending they're all about getting back to nature -- dirty dreads and $90 Birkenstocks.

You get me?
It was weird.

The worst part was that I was stone cold sober. No liquor. No pot. Nothing to dull the senses to discussions that went like:

"Where do you want to go in the future?"
"Everywhere. New York, the Hopi Indian Reservation, Nepal...I mean, that's just where I want to go right now."
"Right on. My friend wanted me to farm cherries with him down South."
"Really? Righteous."
"Totally. Back to Mother Earth."

Now,
I'm not saying these fine human specimens
have never had to worry about money,
but not too many people with student loans and low paying jobs
can afford to randomly farm bite sized fruit.

You know?

All before 9 AM

Locked myself out of the house.
Climbed through a window.
Fell onto a desk.
Wished I was more graceful.
Ate 2 cookies.

All better.

What I Do For Rent

I want to sleep.
But my landlady's GIANT pets are sharing my bed tonight.

...this can only mean on thing:
dog hair in the mouth upon waking.

Someone Turn On The Noise

Tonight is the
First
Night
I've been alone
in some time.

It puts things in perspective -- or it doesn't. It gives me time to think -- or slump in front of the TV. It provides the quiet I've been looking for -- or desperately running away from. See. Sometimes what you ache for isn't exactly what you've been aching for.

I ate random things for dinner. An apple. Hardboiled eggs. Cottage cheese. 3 cookies. I was distracted. I was watching terrible, boring, bullshit on television. I was tapping the counter with fingers that desperately need some careful care and a few band aids. It was quiet, I was alone, and I didn't know what the fuck to make of it.

These days
I can't make sense of anything.

So I write.
I keep writing.
Every day I look at my bank account and bite my lip and keep writing.
Hoping somewhere in these words,
I'm coming up with an answer.

Not So Much Phone Sex As A Verizon Commerical

"I have this fantasy, of you wearing a short dress, no underwear..."
"I like that..."
"What?"
"What?"
"What did you just say?"
"I said I like that. Tell me more..."
"I can't...it sounds like you're underwater."
"Really? Can you hear me now?"
"A little."
"How about now?"
"Kind of."
"Weird."
"Who's your service provider?"
"Verizon."
"Oh. I'm AT&T."
"That could be why you had trouble hearing me."
"Probably."

Timber

Last night,

I sat in a restaurant next to my 40 year old ... boyfriend(?) ... his roommate who used to be his girlfriend, and his parents.

This is my life now.

It's not an altogether bad life. Sometimes it's a beautiful life. Other times it's confusing.
Because what am I doing living it?

This new person, boyfriend or lover or partner or guy-who-makes-me-not-be-single whatever the fuck...he's not easily navigable. His moods are 17 years too late for me to fully catch. Sometimes he'll say one thing, talk about space and freedom, and then get frustrated when I'm not constantly close. Now he talks about the future of us. The future?

My future used to be clear.
Now it's rippling around me.
Nothing's settled.

So sometimes I feel strange next to him. I don't know what he wants. I don't know what I can give. You spend years teaching yourself to be alone, and in one kiss, someone can topple your entire house of cards.

Age is just...a number?

The lady I'm living with
doesn't know I'm dating a 40 year old guy.

For some reason I'm nervous about telling her.

For some reason I'm nervous
about telling myself.

Sometimes I Write Plays

[Sometimes I write plays. Long plays. About controversial things. Because I like controversy. Here's a scene from one such polemic piece. ...Apologies all around if you are A) bored or B) not feeling enough contentiousness]

Characters:
BETHANY – 27. Teacher at an All Boy’s prep school.
COLE – 16. A recent transfer student from Australia…who’s got a weird thing with numbers

Place:
A professor’s house during an all-faculty Halloween party

SCENE IX.
The muted sound of a party. Lights dimly come up on Bethany, lying on a pile of coats across what seems like Bill’s bed.

Bill’s bedroom window slides open, and Cole, his mask on, climbs inside. Pulling the mask off, Cole itches his head ferociously. He stops when he sees Bethany.

Slowly, Cole walks over to the bed, staring at the sleeping woman.

Bethany opens her eyes. Cole jumps back and tries to put his mask back on.

BETHANY: What the -- ?

She sits up, and stares at Cole, his mask hiding his face.

BETHANY (still drunk): Were you staring at me?

Cole doesn’t answer.

BETHANY: Who’s under there?

No answer.

BETHANY: For fuck’s sake.

She lunges for Cole and grabs his mask before he can jump away.

BETHANY: Who’s under there?
COLE: Hey, stop - !
BETHANY: Who’s - ?
COLE: Stop!
BETHANY: Are you a burglar - ?

Bethany manages to pull the mask off.

Cole and Beth stare at each other.

BETHANY: Hey.
COLE: I’m...uh -
BETHANY (squinting): I know you.

At a loss, Cole covers his face.

COLE: No you don’t.
BETHANY: Hey. Cole?
COLE: It was Peter’s idea.
BETHANY: What?
COLE: Peter wanted to crash the faculty party. But he got too stoned to do anything. So I came by myself. I don’t know why.
BETHANY: Peter...?
COLE: Are you drunk?
BETHANY: Are you?
COLE: No.
BETHANY: I am.

She sits on the bed.

COLE: I’m gonna leave.

He turns to the window.

BETHANY: Wait.
COLE: I’m gonna go.
BETHANY: Jesus, just wait!

Cole does.

BETHANY: Cole.
COLE: ...Yes?
BETHANY: Why’d your parents name you that?
COLE: Don’t know.
BETHANY: You never asked?
COLE: I don’t really talk to my parents. I’m gonna go now.

Cole turns back to the window.

BETHANY: Why?
COLE: What?
BETHANY: You don’t need to leave, burglar. No one’s coming up here.

The boy turns around a second time and looks at Bethany.

BETHANY: Why don’t you talk to your parents?
COLE: They’re crazy.

Bethany bursts out laughing.

BETHANY: I’m sorry. Liquor. You’re not joking...are you?
COLE: Both of them. In different ways. My mom’s the most...I don’t spend a lot of time at home.
BETHANY: Hence the private schools?
COLE: My Uncle is a pretty rich guy. He knows what they’re like. So here I am.

The muted party explodes into laughter downstairs. Bethany cringes.

COLE : Nice Halloween party.
BETHANY: If you like Charades and awkwardness, sure.
COLE: Which are you hiding from?
BETHANY: What?
COLE: The...charades or - ?
BETHANY: Life is awkward. There’s no running from that.
COLE: Yeah.
BETHANY: I ate all the candy. Two bowls of it. Thought I might throw up. Somehow I ended up here. Do you see barf on the coats?

Cole looks.

COLE: Puke free, I think.
BETHANY: Too bad.

More laughter from downstairs.

BETHANY: I hate my coworkers.
COLE: Really?
BETHANY: No. Just most of them.

She pushes herself up, steadying herself before walking over to the open window.

BETHANY: I think I need some air.
COLE: I’m gonna go.

Bethany looks at Cole. They’re close.

BETHANY: How old are you?
COLE: Sixteen. ...Almost seventeen. Seventeen in 4 weeks, 2 days...and...

He flinches.

COLE: Sixteen seconds.
BETHANY: Do you think I’m sad?
COLE: What?
BETHANY: Am I a sad old woman in a youngish woman’s body?
COLE: ...What?
BETHANY: The fact that I hang out with other teachers on Friday nights, Cole. That I get drunk and then fall asleep on coats. I don’t really do anything else. Is that sad?
COLE: I don’t really -
BETHANY: Sixteen is old enough to know. You can tell me I’m lame to my face, Cole. Chances are I won’t remember any of this on Monday anyway. I’ve recently developed this talent for getting blackout drun -

Cole kisses Bethany. She kisses him back. Then pulls away.

BETHANY: Wait. What?
COLE: You kissed me back for 5 seconds.

He swings himself out the window and disappears as fast as he can.

Bethany touches her lips, then stumbles into the wall and falls over.

BETHANY: Shit.

Blackout.

Relax the Drive Away

Sometimes I worry
that chasing happiness
isn't the same thing
as chasing passion.

Am I sacrificing my Art
for a few contented moments in the Colorado grass?

Shit.
I got no answers.

That's Me in the Spotlight...

I met his parents today.

It's something that usually happens much later down the line,
say,
after you've both finally committed to actually being committed,
and so I was slightly unprepared for the weird
"bird watching"
feeling I had all night.

Not that I was the one with the binoculars. Nope. I was the odd creature that confuses the people with the binoculars. The atypical specimen. The twenty-five year old where a forty year old should be. The species without a drawing in the handbook.

I could feel his mother's eyes on me when she thought I wasn't looking. I'm not sure his dad cared. But his mother knew. Mother's always know. By the end of the night and after three glasses of wine, we were sitting close enough to blow any kind of "friend" cover we may have had. Still, I'm not sure his dad caught it. But yes. His mom knew.

I mean, I hope they liked me.
Don't we always hope they like us?

...or at least get comfortable enough to put the binoculars away.

Watch Out For The Roundhouse

Sat the Tattooed Hippie down.
Made him tell me what he thought about my staying around.

Was surprised by his answer.

He was not, as I had expected most nights lying alone in my bed, counting down the days until I gave him back his well worn freedom. The space between us, growing as the hours toward my once surefire departure got shorter, has seemingly disappeared. There are still things to navigate. Neither one of us has been in a relationship in years. Neither one of us wants to call this a relationship. I did, however, explain that if he has sex with someone else, I'm going to kick him in the junk and then walk away.

That's really my only policy, at this point:
Sleep with someone else and it's over
(plus a kick in the junk)

Careful What You Wish For

So that apartment
in CA
that place I was working on for two weeks ?

That place is history.

I was denied. The first time I've ever been told you can't live here because you're too poor. The first time my bank account has ever dipped to a place that even the world's creepiest real estate agent wouldn't look twice.

I'm a financial leper.

So what do I do now? I stay in CO, do what I can to make more money, and then try to venture out to the land of glittering lights and beachy breezes in a few months.

Can I just tell you
how fucking crappy it is to be poor?

Mama really needs a pair of jeans that don't have 700 holes in them.

Won't my Tattooed Hippie be surprised when I tell him I'll be hiking these mountains for a little longer? We'll see what his expression does when he realizes whatever he's gotten himself into -- it ain't going away just yet.

Robots Got It Good

This week, I'm doing my best to
sign a lease
for an apartment in Redondo Beach come mid-June.

Part of me really doesn't want to leave.
Really, really.

Goddamn heart strings.

See?
This is why living an emotionless life is ideal.