Adventures in Cat Hair

That shit is everywhere! Half hour in the car, and it's all over the place. I'm surprised that little beast has any fur left on his body. Thank God he's going to spend most of his time at my boy's apartment. Not that it matters, though. I'm sure I've got Tux hair on me right now. I think cat hair may be capable of reproducing on its own.

He won't sit still if you want him to. If you need Tux to move, he won't. Try going to the bathroom. He'll sit outside and wait for you to finish. He likes to jump on the stove(we've tried to break him of this but I'm sure he'll have to learn the hard way). Tux also likes to lounge on the kitchen counter and drink from the sink. There goes any hope I had left of being able to eat hairless food. Seriously.

He'll ignore Taco Bell, but if you make a cheap pizza he will NOT stay off the table. Ditto if you try to eat an orange. You ever had kitty paws on your plate before? What about kitty tongue? I made my boy eat those pieces.

We had to put Tux in the laundry room while we ate. Then there was the meowing. Incessant, pitiful meowing. As badly as I wanted to eat in peace that was hard to listen to. I heard a thud. I think Tux threw his body against the door to try freeing himself. It didn't work. Poor thing.

This is going to be an interesting interlude for this non-animal loving gal. Even so, I'm already sorta liking the little kitty monster. I mean, you know, he purred on me.

House Puma

So, yeah. I don't know if you know this, but I'm not an animal person. My mom, bless her heart, is scared of all beasts. Domesticated or not. Especially those of the feline variety. In fact, cats sort of disgust her. As you can probably imagine she transferred much of that feeling to me.

Anyway, my boy loves animals. Most of all cats and dogs. Or as he would say, kitty cats and shnuggers. Often when he would come to visit me he'd come across one of the many stray kitties that populate my apartment complex and stop to, uh...talk to them. 'Cause that's how my boy rolls. Well, one night it took him forever to get to my place. When he finally arrives I find out he was busy following strays into the creek near my apartment. I believed that behavior a bit extreme, even for my aminal(I know what I said) lovin' man, so I decided to try to break him of his habit.

A few days later my plan backfired. The Saturday after his creek adventure I took him to our local humane society. I figured he could get this animal thing out of his system. That sounds logical, right? Who am I kidding!? In the back of my mind I knew it was possible he'd find someone he liked. And so, of course, he did. I also knew it would be possible that he'd be so overcome with love and joy and a savior complex that my boy'd be near death if he couldn't go home with that cat.

One week and a long story involving landlord trickery later, I own a kitten named Tux who likes to walk on my stomach when I lie down.

Jeez...

...But, I'm a Grown-Ass Woman...

I'm 31 and feel like I'm beyond milestones. I'm at the age where society tends to expect me to have reached certain markers of "true" adulthood. The marriage, house, real career, kids ideal that most people have of a capitol 'A' adult. I haven't hit any of those. Some because I don't want them. Some because I procrastinate. Others because I spent all of my 20s making very little money and saving none of it.

I never gave any thought to what I'd be like as an adult when I was a kid. Mostly I just wanted to get away from the little nuts I went to grade school with. Then, since most of them followed me to high school, I just wanted to graduate. When I was in college all I could think about was getting out of school once and for all. I gave no honest thought to post-collegiate plans. Not where I would live, who I would date, or how I would dress. Not even where I would work. I wanted to move on, but had no idea to what.

I was seriously depressed and unmedicated through most of my pre-teen to early adult years. All I ever envisioned for my future was one where I was finally happy. I thought that if by some miracle I could sustain some joy in living that everything else would fall into place. So I made no plans, held out no hopes. Just in case happy never came.

My catch-22? I'm mostly happy now (thank you Effexor), but the plans I failed to make all those years ago are haunting me. I have $5,000 in credit card debit, no savings, a job I hate, interest in an industry that's hellishly hard to break into, a paycheck that barely covers my bills, an interest in buying a house next year without much real hope of making it happen and fear coming out of my ass like water.

Once you become a real live grown-up the only milestones left are the ones you create on your own timetable. That's one of the cool things about finally being one of "the big people". The crappy thing is that nobody is obligated to make decisions on your behalf. Primary equation: adulthood=it's all your fault.

Damn Dirty Birds!

A strange thing happened last Friday. It was late, probably after midnight. Me and my bald boy were watching a movie and stuffing our faces with hot, hot pizza. The drama was intense, the cheese was gooey, our fingers messy. A lull in the action facilitated our hearing something odd. Birds. Not just one kind either, but several. These strange species were singing, chirping and crowing at night.

What the hell. Every night since then, there they are. Listen...hear that? Where did these demon spawn aviary come from? What the shit kind of birds sing during the darkest hours of the night? What are they up to in those trees out there? More importantly, should I be worried? Are they planning a takeover? See, this is what happens to me when random strange things occur that I can't get away from. My mind takes odd detours from the realm of real possibility. I daydream, fantasize, create macabre situations that I honestly pray will never come to pass.

Please, if there is any justice in the universe, the crazy-birds will stop interrupting my late-night puttering with...what the hell ever they're doing. It's hard to concentrate on Conan, uh, I mean (something constructive like) writing my screenplay, when I'm thinking up ways to escape a terrorist bird attack.

Damn. I should probably just be going to sleep as soon as I get home to skip the whole thing. Including the screenplay avoidance.

Why Must Boys Play With Their Hair?

I'll admit it, I like it now, but two weeks ago it was terrorfying. Not to sound like too much of a girl, but it actually made me cry. It wasn't those child-like hiccup sobs that cut off oxygen, but I cried nonetheless. Damn him for not warning me!

I should have known, I suppose, that something was up. My boy told me he was going to shave and cut his hair (which I assumed meant trim). I occupied myself by playing with flickr, but noticed that it was taking a long, long, loooooong time. Much more so than usual. Then I heard him, all sweet-voiced and innocent-like, behind me, "Honey?" I turned and quickly regretted it, "Oh God!" I spun around in the chair and buried my face in my hands to hide the horror that was now his head.

"Hee hee hee! Woooo hah!"
"Oh God! God, oh God! Why God?"
"Honey, come on, now."
"Why, why, why would you do that? God!"
"Oh honey. I just got tired of it."
"But why?! What...why...but...there's nothing..."
"I kinda just wanted to see how you'd react. Yeah. Hee heeeeeeee!" (mischievous grin)
"Oh....God." (sad and whimpering)

I recovered enough to wander into the scene of the crime. His bathroom sink was covered with a towel that held all his hair in several thick tufts. My face fell. The evidence was real and could not be denied. My boy was bald. Symptomatic of my photographic addiction, I grabbed the camera from my purse and captured it as a way to try to adjust to the newness. It didn't work. I got sadder and sadder. After a few minutes I couldn't take looking at it anymore. I sat too close to the computer screen. I closed my eyes. I cried.

"One day you're not going to have any hair left and you'll be sorry you did this!"
"Oh, honey."

I screamed at him. He answered by drawing out the 'e' in honey to soothe me. This did not help.

"It's only hair. It'll grow back. In a couple months it'll be right back where it was."

I miss his chicken hair. Standing straight up on his cute little lightbulb shaped head. I could run my fingers through it. Shuffle it around. Muss it and mold it into odd formations. The stubble feels sorta like velvet, but that's a small consolation.

Prepare me next time!

Ugghhh

Wow. I'm sitting at work right now and the boredom is just unparalleled. I am honestly having a hard time staying awake. Seeing as how I'm the receptionist, and have no privacy with which to hide my sleepiness, I might actually drift off right here out in the open. I've done it before, you know. Luckily it was the sound of the phone ringing and not my boss smacking me awake that brought me back from sleepy time. Maybe if I nap, drool and short out a major circuit we can all just go home for the weekend.

My boy thinks that the 2 hour lunches and month of vacation time many Europeans get as immediate perks from their jobs is a bit insane. He says this is why those nations tend to be less productive than us or, say, Japan. While that makes all kinds of sense, I would lu-u-uuuuuuuuuve to have a two hour lunch. I mean, for real folks, who the fuck are we kidding? If you would refuse a paid two hour lunch, raise your hand...Ok, now all those with their hands raised STOP LYING TO YOURSELVES!!

Do you know how refreshed I'd be after taking a nap, grabbing a bite and then getting back to the grind (where, truthfully, in my current position, I do little more than read blogs, surf flickr or watch movie trailers)? In fact, even though I'm still in this job completely of my own accord, I feel I deserve more time off. Just for putting up with this boring crap in relatively good humor and not coming to work with an automatic weapon, forcing everybody into a tiny windowless office, typing a separationist manifesto then a suicide note detailing my dissatisfaction with all the processes of the modern world and then blowing people away. Lord, it's a good thing I haven't told anyone at work about this blog. I'd get Dooced for sure.

Anywho...I love the idea of starting a job with a full month of available vacay time. Don't you think Americans as a whole work too much? Sure, it means we're more productive but productivity does not equal happiness. And who the hell is happy with their job? Truly happy? So happy that if you won enough cash to quit and live the rest of your life without needing to work, you'd do your job on a regular basis anyway? So happy that you don't daydream about early (like, now) retirement daily?

I've always been a pessimist, but, honestly, I don't think anyone likes to work. It's a hassle. The only consistently good thing about it is that it gives you the ability to NOT live on the street naked, dirty and hungry. If you're lucky you get to do fun things with the leftover dough. Movies, clubs, traveling, fancy dinners out or in, accessorizing. That last one is very important, by the by. My boss once got mad at me because I (foolishly) revealed that my job was 'just a job'. Just for the money. Just so I could have a roof over my head. No, sir, I am not interested in answering phones and typing address labels for the rest of my life. What's wrong with that? He got pissed off that I wasn't all pleased as pie to come to work everyday. The man really did not seem to get that there is a difference between being glad you have a job and loving to work. I suppose that's what happens when you pull in over $200K a year. No matter how little you do. Because you're the boss.

If everyone were independently wealthy nothing would ever fucking get done.

True that, y'all.

Wallflowers

I suppose I'm a rare bird, because while I was single I was almost always in. Alone at home watching tv or movies or reading. Now that I have a boy we go out often since we like the same things: movies, music, books and good, cheap food. We're both coming out of our lonely wall flower days, and if we need to retreat into the warm solice of home, we know we can do it comfortable at either place we live.

The thing that's getting to me is that I know I'm better at talking to new people when I'm alone. If I'm with somebody when I go out all I do is cling to that person. Why step out and do the different thing if I don't have to? He's becoming my path to least resistance, my easy way out, if you will. I can feel myself closing into a little ball and only letting him in. New people are hard for me, so why not hold onto this one person for dear life? At least I don't look lonely anymore.

Strangers see me with my boy. Sometimes we're holding hands. Often we're kissing or nuzzling. All things I never thought I'd be willing to do in public. But it's HIM. He makes me comfortable so I don't care. Unless we're surrounded by teenagers during a late-night Wendy's pitstop in rural Arkansas. But that's another story.

He's a sweet boy. He feels he's holding me back. Last weekend in particular. We went to SXSW. I want to write and produce films. He loves movies, but has no interest in the business. He deals in lasers for fuck's sake. He's the most perfect, smart, sexy, funny geek-boy ever. But he knew last weekend. No parties, no celebs, few films, one panel. This is all my fault and I know that. This is why I spent so much time cranky in Austin. How could I demand he spend more for a badge, like me? That's not fair. Maybe I should have gone alone. But that would have sucked; to spend four days so many miles apart. I wanted him there, here. With me, always. I can't be selfish with his time and pissy when his desires monopolize it.

Right there. That last sentence is wrong. If we're gonna do this right, his time is my time. When together we have OUR time. We'll need discussions on how to spend it. We'll both give and take, stand and sway. It's the only way to make it work. The only way not to hold anything over each other. The only way to both get what we need and want. He goes to Fry's, I take time out for photographs. He sleeps, I bop around the convention center. He reads a thick novel, I try to pry my way into a film panel and then have a hearty cry because nothing is going like I want it to.

I'm still new to this thing, still confused and figuring. Still like a little girl playing house. Still an irrational adult, driving angry and scaring my passenger/prisoner. He's sat willingly beside me since then, but I sense the tension. I'm still sorry for that.

We can't go backwards. Two shy seekers peering at life through a little hole in the world. Alone, depressed and sometimes shattered. Teach me how we move ahead together.

Holy Fuck!

People, being stuck in traffic is no joke!! For an hour we literally DID NOT MOVE. I even left on time today. In fact, I skipped brushing my teeth so I could get on the road early. What, I ask you, did my commitment to getting to work on time get me? NOTHING!!! I leave at 7:50 am. I get to work at 9:40 am when this trip, with normal traffic, should have only taken about 25 minutes. AAARRRRGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! Of course, when I need to hear traffic on the radio there is none to be found...anywhere. I had to get to work to find out that the highway I was on was actually CLOSED DOWN, folks. This is why we had no movement for a solid hour. Granted, there was a bad accident. Granted, I'm lucky to not have been involved in that accident. But fuckity-fuck-fuck y'all! Look how damn-ass long it took me to get to work.

I made the mistake of leaving my car on for most of that time. I kept thinking "We're going to start moving soon, right? We have to start moving before long now. Don't we?" Oh, foolish little girl! How wrong I was. And I was so close to an exit, but I was in the fast lane and couldn't get over. No one would move! A few brave souls managed to maneuver themselves to the exit after backing up or driving over the grassy knoll between us and the exit. I was so proud of them. "Tell my mom I love her," I shouted after the escapees. "Send help," I pleaded. They didn't listen. Bastards.

I feared for awhile that we would never get out. In the year 2929 archaeologists would find me, fossilized, in my '98 Ford with my foot on the brake, hands on the wheel and mouth locked into a perma-scream. Upon my arrival at the j.o.b. I had a friend suggest that this should not have been excruciating at all, seeing as how I had a chance to relax as I sat hostage in my vehicle. Look everybody, right now I will tell you that after about 10 minutes of sitting in the same spot and staring at a viable exit I could not get to that the only thing that began to relax me was the idea of bitch-back-handing EVERYONE I could! Multiple times. For days to come.

I suppose that's the end of my rant. Now I need to go find cookies to soothe my soul and some sucker to punch.

Vent

I HATE MY PERIOD. And I will tell you right now that I DO NOT want to hear any crap about it being a gift because it means I can have kids. I am, at 31, pretty positive I NEVER want to actually birth my own spawn. I sorta think it's kinda selfish without at least considering also adopting one of the millions of children who've been abandoned for whatever reason. But now I'm getting off topic.

I HATE MY PERIOD. I was fine for most of this morning. Within the last hour, though, I've had every negative emotion humanly possible rattling around in my brain. Hate, rage, anger, sadness, depression...I can go on but won't. I should mention that all that bad juju was directed at ME. FUCK! Like I don't have enough to put up with from the outside.

I HATE MY PERIOD. Did I tell you it's messy? Nobody likes to talk about it, but hell! Is it ever fucking messy to deal with. The worst for me is at night. I use ultra-super-jumbo maxi goodness with WINGS and WALLS and wear two panty liners people, and STILL cannot keep my damn period in that area. I have to sleep on my side to try and keep it in the desired space and often even that doesn't work. Finally fucking-ass tired of ruining sheets about two years ago, I resorted to sleeping on my old robe. On my side. With all that feminine padded protection. Do I need to say, really, that this sometimes still DOES NOT WORK?! And I'm not talking massive quantities here. Sometimes there will be just a little dribble. But If I've disrespected the menses goddesses somehow...well, it's gonna end up somewhere crazy. Like, no lie folks, THE MIDDLE OF MY BACK! Dammit!! I had to wash my shirt in the bathroom sink. Pure fucking ridiculous dick sucking shit!!! Thank God the robe is dark plaid so that the stains don't show well. Shit.

To top off my excellent day my negativity has led to my eating like a starved giant on his way to the gas chamber. Which means gaining weight. That means added bloat and assorted puffiness. This will all lead back to more depression/sadness which may lead to me ripping my lower woman bits out with my bare hands.

Who's with me?

Well Now

I have a sneaking suspicion that this blog, and the ones I've come to read/comment on, only give me another means by which to allow the world to ignore me.

Citygirl

The last one is my favorite. Courtesy of googlism

citygirl is a graduate of both the american academy of dramatic arts and ccny
citygirl is ryles
citygirl is extremely pleased to confirm james earl jones for the postscreening discussion to be moderated by eugene nesmit
citygirl is a dumbass on tue sep 10 14
citygirl is a dumbass subject
citygirl is my last name
citygirl is the director of yet another upcoming theater group called salaam
citygirl is walt
citygirl is a hobitch

Mean Green

What is it about realizing I have my hands on more money than I thought I did that makes me want to spend every cent of it? It's deeper than that actually. Even when I have NO cash to spare, my instinct is to throw it away on useless stuff. And not just some of it, people. Copius amounts of my limited resources. I have a serious problem. Does anyone else suffer from this affliction?

I find myself in a bind now, needing to plan a trip to Austin for next month, buy pretty much everything one could need to keep an 8-year-old car running and purchase a new mattress and box spring. Ask yourselves what I most want to do? Buy shoes? Yes! Acquire a new (and obscenely expensive) camera? Certainly! Add to my already bloated collection of lip glosses considering I only have two pairs of lips and only one of them is lip gloss material? You bet your sweet asses!

Why does spending make me feel healthy and alive and like a real living grown-up? I used to be able to budget, I swear I did. This is back in the days when I had just moved out of my mom's and was only a year and a half out of college. I bought nothing. No cd's (I still used the double deck tape player I got for my 16th birthday), no videos (what's a dvd player?), no clothes, no meals out. Financial stability through simplicity. And total boredom. I never went out, but since I was sad all the time and felt like a blob of useless semi-humanity I guess that's understandable.

Then something happened. I decided to just go ahead and get a frivolous little thing for myself. Fuck, ya'll; that was hella fun!! Then I actually found myself with a few friends. Naturally they wanted to go to movies and eat out and shop. Why not join them? I never did anything fun. I've even roped my recently acquired boyfriend into it. Baseball bat for burglar protection? Check. Nerf guns and ammo? Check. Ultimate Mahjongg cd-rom? Check and re-check.

Five years later here I am. I'm not in the poor house but I have the checking account of a 12-year-old. Savings? Wait, say that again. I think I need to look it up. I even had a part-time gig to supplement my income. Guess where I worked? Lord and fucking Taylor! They could have just kept my check because most of it went back to them anyway. I'm actually glad they fired me.

So now I look cute and have friends and fun but no reliable stores of dinero. There's got to be a middle ground.

To All the Men I've Loved...

Don't get too excited (I'm looking at YOU boyfriend), this isn't as glorious as it sounds. See, my boy and I have a thing we do. I've given him permission to ooogle any "cute black ladies" as long as they are on tv or otherwise so far away from him that he will never actually come into contact with them. He can feel free to share his erection-inducing desire for their girl parts with me. He can even suggest that I have wild lesbianic sex with them while he watches and then cums all over us. (He likes to say, "Any jizz I get on that other lady will just be incidental, honey. 'Cause that's all for you. Just for you." Grin. Thanks babe.)

Granted, when I gave him the ability to speak freely he didn't realize it meant I'd be doing the same thing with any men I found even slightly attractive on tv. Ha!

So here, because I feel like listing past and present obsessions, are some of the men I hanker for. Grrrrrrr, meow!

1)Daniel Craig: The new James Bond. So very, very smooth.
2)Eric Bana: It's the eyes. Deep.
3)Shemar Moore: Holy fuck! He's just plain hot-ass!!
4)Larenz Tate: Revived in a new tv show and cuter than EVER before.
5)Lenny Kravitz: He sings. Need I say more?
6)Clive Owen: I like an accent, ok? Wanna make something of it?
7)Hugh Jackman: Wolverine's not afraid to play gay for pay 7 times a week. That's hot.
8)Joe Flanigan: I'm a sci-fi nerd. This Stargate:Atlantis actor is my secret boyfriend.
9)Colin Farrell: It's the bad boy thing. And the fact that he's so damn fine.
10)Kelly Jones: None of you know who this is. And that's alright with me.

Trust?

My boyfriend and I had "the talk" after two weeks of already exclusive dating. (I know this because we saw each other EVERY night. He would have had to skip work to date anyone else.) I came to trust him quickly. The first date, really. I let him refill my Sierra Mist while not in my presence. Usually a big no-no. I could hear my mom's voice: "Don't ever leave your drink! If you do, don't go back to it! Don't take drinks from strangers!!"

There was just something about him. As the night went on, and our date lasted into the next afternoon (!!) he revealed so much of himself that I wondered if he were for real. Could any regular guy be this honest and open and straightforward? Was he softening me up for some big fall? Just trying to get into my pants with true-sounding tall tales of past hurt and rejection? I thought I would be more suspicious. I had no gut feeling telling me to head for a speedy exit by way of bathroom window. Had I suddenly lost my ability to read people? Or had I just found, luckily and by God, someone I could put faith in?

Trust is a four-letter word. Eventually we come to accept it. Or not.

Dooce

Thank you. Thank you so much for talking so openly about your depression. This is something I know well; I've been in and out of counseling since I was 15. I've had the hopelessness, the fear, the self-destructive tendencies and wild mood swings. I've been angry at myself because I couldn't "just make myself better," and I've been angry at God and the Universe for the same reason. I was even, for a time, resigned to believing that I was simply meant to be miserable if for no other reason than to be a cautionary tale for others: HERE IS HOW NOT TO BE.

I know better now. I am better now. It took medication and serious counseling, though. I tried 3 drugs before hitting on one that did the trick. Drug A made me so sleepy I almost fell asleep driving home from work. Drug B caused bruises and welts on my arms and legs. Drug C just plain didn't do anything. Fuckers. Effexor is my med of choice. For the past two years I haven't thought about killing myself at all. Or considered my breath a waste of oxygen. Or cried myself to sleep while wishing I were someone else somewhere else. Life is good, finally, and I worked hard to earn this good life.

Again, thanks and continued success.

Sincerely
citygirl

MMM...

BBQ Ribs If I were capable of thinking straight Caesar Salad I'd write about something Cheese Garlic Bread lofty and important Fruity Pebbles but I can't really. I've been Potato Salad sick and am still Honey Glazed Carrots woozy from the hunger. I'm almost Foccacia afraid of what will Homestyle Mac and Cheese happen when I get my Honey Baked Ham hands on some good-ass Rising Crust Pizza food. I dreamed of Crab Rangoon food overnight. This may have Beer Battered Onion Rings been the only thing that kept me Sweet Potato Corn Bread asleep. Thank God French Fries. Even with all the Pasta Con Broccoli sleep I got I'm still pretty Pecan Pie tired. BLT Worn out, even. Must have Cinnamon Rolls been the flu. Without a Fried Cabbage fever or body aches, but Baked Pork Chops bad all the same. Every Chocolate Covered Strawberries time I thought I was well enough to eat a bit...bam! Gatorade, jelly, water, syrup, rice. I never should have Birthday Cake seen them again. Should I take it slow? Re-acclimate my Cantaloupe self to eating? Prepare my Grilled Corn Salsa stomach for the coming Carmelized Onion Quesadilla feast? I don't have it in me.

Where's my brownie...

Goal

The problem with me is that I'm lazy. Ok, I guess I shouldn't put it that way. Makes me sound bad. And like I'm truly capable of doing NOTHING all day. More correctly, I just enjoy leisure. Sitting by the window with a good book, getting in bed to watch a long movie, eating a marvelous meal with my favorite show on tv. I like the idea that I have no responsibilities outside of work. That my evenings and weekends are mine to squander at will. They really are, too. Which may just be my core issue.

I tried once to get a schedule together:

Monday=free night, to adjust to the work week
Tuesday=tv night, too much good stuff on
Wednesday=exercise (resist the flab)
Thursday=painting, while watching tv of course (two birds...)
Friday=reading, to tackle the pile of books I've accumulated
Saturday=writing, get up early and do at least 10 pages (right)
Sunday=errands/housework

Guess how long this lasted. I am so good at making plans for things like this, but not so good at long-term follow through. I hate feeling hemmed in by rules and rushed by deadlines. It's mainly why I hated J-school and never became a photojournalist. As if your average college syllabi weren't stringent enough to drive me insane.

I just want to be free. Alas, for that to apply to me I need to do something other than sit at my lame-ass job all day and answer phones. I need to create. Paint, write, photograph, make music, draw...I know that these things make me feel good, like I'm worth something to the world even if no one notices. Why do I resist them so much? For almost a year I returned to painting after a twelve year hiatus. When I ran out of ideas I allowed my brushes to dry and gave up. I'm smart enough to know that it doesn't work that way! Sometimes you have to push yourself. Force the art through your fingertips. Get whatever you can onto the page, burned into film or played out on your instrument. Living with the crap in your dry period makes a real artist.

So, that's it. I cannot deal with my own suckage. When I feel The Sucking coming on, I stop. I resist. As if stopping suddenly will mean I no longer suckass. It doesn't. It only means I can pretend to be golden. Forever.

Bitch

I can't find any good deals on the two phones I picked out on ebay! All the "buy it now" prices are over $100! Who do these fuckers think they are? Fuckin multi-media conglomerates?!?! Why do these damn things cost so much anyway? All I fuckin want is a new goddamned ass-fuckin cell phone so I don't look like I stepped outta a fuckin time warp when I pull that shit from my bag!! The harder it is to find one at a reasonable price the more I want one NOW!

Please go to the verizon store with me later tonight so I don't murder any innocent bystanders in my quest for a new technological implement with which to make wireless calls. I will try to have my attitude de-bitchified by then so as to not bitch-you-up unfairly.

Love
Me
*walking into de-bitchification chamber*

I Know

I should be working on something else: screenplay, resume, dinner, a cleaner apartment. But I enjoy this, this thinking of you and us and we. Maybe I would have been more productive the past five weeks had we not met. The fucking truth is that that's just crap. I make lists and have dreams and plan goals but rarely act. So you've stopped nothing. In fact, I can feel you pushing me gently toward the things I want (just like you're supposed to). I tell you my ideas and you eagerly aid and abet. Love it. Love every damn thing about it.

If I get moody and quiet at your mention of something I want for myself, ignore it. That would be my natural tendency to lie back and let life wash over me. I get scared, still. I used to be afraid of everything. Newness and change especially, even the good kind. Even with all my progress I fear the challenge of something different. I wholeheartedly understand insecurity; the deeply rooted feeling that I just cannot be good enough, cannot live up to my desires. I admit a certain lack of ambition. My greatest successes only in my mind's eye. Right now my thoughts are more firmly planted in your reality. Thank God you are a part of my reality.