Why should I "consider using this is future posts" Mr. Martynez?
Because it's a good way to begin a sentance?
Or because to the observer my life has become something that would necessitate the more frequent usage of "sadly"?
Hopefully the first reason, or some other one.
It's a beautiful day and I don't want to adopt a "Negator" attitude today.
Question...
Would I become less a person if I went to church?
What if I went to a Buddhist temple or a mosque?
What do your answers tell you about your prejudices?
DON'T JUDGE ME!!!!!
please
Sunday, March 29
Saturday, March 28
I need some blogs to follow. Some times my old reliables aren't so reliable, and I find it tiresome to look through endless boring blogs, serching for something as awesome as mine...
:)
Do you write a blog?
Would you like for me to read it so we can perform mutual commenting?
Come on it's hot!
Plus, I get bored.
Let me know people (or person. Not exactly sure how many people read this).
Tell your friends, tell your relatives, tell that coworker you can't stand but just can't figure out why.
:)
Do you write a blog?
Would you like for me to read it so we can perform mutual commenting?
Come on it's hot!
Plus, I get bored.
Let me know people (or person. Not exactly sure how many people read this).
Tell your friends, tell your relatives, tell that coworker you can't stand but just can't figure out why.
I've been looking back through old pictures, and realizing that in alot of ways, I really miss the life I used to have.
I guess because I used to have a life.
I wouldn't want to go back to everything. Only parts of it.
I guess when you compare fun, carefree times with weighing 20 lbs more, sitting at home alone while your boyfriend drinks and smokes weed with his friends, having no life outside of work and school, oh and let's not forget, not being able to drink, the past is always going to sound better.
I had such fun taking Curry to Bull Creek with Tiffany, going to the green belt, dancing in front of the mirror, Spiderhouse, even going to work at night.
I wrote on my blog all the time. I wasn't doing any drugs. Just some drinking and some having fun.
I was saving money and I was going to South America for six months.
When I compare then with now, I get such a strong longing for the past.
I suppose the grass is always greener.
I guess because I used to have a life.
I wouldn't want to go back to everything. Only parts of it.
I guess when you compare fun, carefree times with weighing 20 lbs more, sitting at home alone while your boyfriend drinks and smokes weed with his friends, having no life outside of work and school, oh and let's not forget, not being able to drink, the past is always going to sound better.
I had such fun taking Curry to Bull Creek with Tiffany, going to the green belt, dancing in front of the mirror, Spiderhouse, even going to work at night.
I wrote on my blog all the time. I wasn't doing any drugs. Just some drinking and some having fun.
I was saving money and I was going to South America for six months.
When I compare then with now, I get such a strong longing for the past.
I suppose the grass is always greener.
Friday, March 27
This is one of THOSE posts
I think I like being alone more than with anyone.
When I'm alone, there's nothing to pretend. No talking for the sake of talking, no acting like I feel better than I feel for the sake of being good company. I don't have to be some version of myself. I'm just myself.
I can not talk all day, get lost in my thoughts, sing without self consciousness, and fart without embarrassment. I can eat my store-bought sushi in the driver's seat of my car and when I'm done, I can sit in the HEB parking lot, windows down, enjoying this perfect day, just because I feel like it...
I have no secrets from myself, no hidden thoughts, there's no quiet bitterness of self consciousness. There's the wonderful freedom of being with the one person in the world who knows me completely, and accepts me that way.
I keep my secrets with myself. We know how to keep things on the DL.
Sometimes I imagine this enormous world inside of me, and I'm amazed. Then I imagine every other person I see, walking around with just as colossal and complex of universes inside them, and I am flabbergasted.
I don't feel I'll ever be able to exhaust my terrain. I wonder if other people feel the same.
I know that you don't always present to the world what you really are/think/feel inside. Surely tons of people keep up a simple front, but on the inside....
How could anyone tire of exploring their own unknown?
Maybe some people are scared. I know that when faced with a space vast enough to appear infinite, terror is a common reaction. Perhaps that's why some seek the constant company of others; to distract each other from the undiscovered within.
When I take time to look inside, I discover that every thought is poignant, every moment is documentable, every idea novel, and that, yes, you make a movie from my life.
Maybe that's just me.
Maybe I'm just more awesome that everyone else.
Maybe other's inner worlds are more akin to 90210 (the new one duh) than chaotic cosmos of resplendent captivation.
It's hard to say.
When I'm alone, there's nothing to pretend. No talking for the sake of talking, no acting like I feel better than I feel for the sake of being good company. I don't have to be some version of myself. I'm just myself.
I can not talk all day, get lost in my thoughts, sing without self consciousness, and fart without embarrassment. I can eat my store-bought sushi in the driver's seat of my car and when I'm done, I can sit in the HEB parking lot, windows down, enjoying this perfect day, just because I feel like it...
I have no secrets from myself, no hidden thoughts, there's no quiet bitterness of self consciousness. There's the wonderful freedom of being with the one person in the world who knows me completely, and accepts me that way.
I keep my secrets with myself. We know how to keep things on the DL.
Sometimes I imagine this enormous world inside of me, and I'm amazed. Then I imagine every other person I see, walking around with just as colossal and complex of universes inside them, and I am flabbergasted.
I don't feel I'll ever be able to exhaust my terrain. I wonder if other people feel the same.
I know that you don't always present to the world what you really are/think/feel inside. Surely tons of people keep up a simple front, but on the inside....
How could anyone tire of exploring their own unknown?
Maybe some people are scared. I know that when faced with a space vast enough to appear infinite, terror is a common reaction. Perhaps that's why some seek the constant company of others; to distract each other from the undiscovered within.
When I take time to look inside, I discover that every thought is poignant, every moment is documentable, every idea novel, and that, yes, you make a movie from my life.
Maybe that's just me.
Maybe I'm just more awesome that everyone else.
Maybe other's inner worlds are more akin to 90210 (the new one duh) than chaotic cosmos of resplendent captivation.
It's hard to say.
Well I brought the ol laptop to a coffee shop to upload the aforementioned pictures, bought a decaf mocha and everything, and it's just not working.
It lets me sit there as it "uploads" for about five minutes each time, before suddenly the "page cannot be displayed" although I'm doing a crossword on another one. Fucking lying machine!
Any way, I've decided not to upload pictures today, since I have to be at work in an hour, and I have a bad attitude.
Sucks to be y'all.
It lets me sit there as it "uploads" for about five minutes each time, before suddenly the "page cannot be displayed" although I'm doing a crossword on another one. Fucking lying machine!
Any way, I've decided not to upload pictures today, since I have to be at work in an hour, and I have a bad attitude.
Sucks to be y'all.
I have so many "good" ideas for posts rolling around in my head, but for some reason I don't just sit down and stamp them out.
We had a hail storm here the day before yesterday, and I have a bunch of pictures and video to post, but they're on my laptop and I don't have a wireless router in my apartment, and so, there's my excuse for that one.
Also, I went to a Latin American restaurant last week called Cafe Colombia and took pictures of my food and wrote a whol review. Why don't I post this? The trouble of deciphering my own handwriting from my journal.
Also I had two funny thoughts while at work which I can't share yet because that will spoil them, but I don't feel emotionally ready to do them justice. They're not amazing thoughts or anything. I just know I can make them funny.
Okay enough being mysterious.
I have real writing to do... After breakfast.
We had a hail storm here the day before yesterday, and I have a bunch of pictures and video to post, but they're on my laptop and I don't have a wireless router in my apartment, and so, there's my excuse for that one.
Also, I went to a Latin American restaurant last week called Cafe Colombia and took pictures of my food and wrote a whol review. Why don't I post this? The trouble of deciphering my own handwriting from my journal.
Also I had two funny thoughts while at work which I can't share yet because that will spoil them, but I don't feel emotionally ready to do them justice. They're not amazing thoughts or anything. I just know I can make them funny.
Okay enough being mysterious.
I have real writing to do... After breakfast.
Wednesday, March 25
Frio Frijoles
Someone follows my blog!
Well, I just went to Sonic to get a watermelon slush with half syrup, andI'm pretty darn sure that it has full syrup so I am devastated.
Also, watermelon tastes like vomit.
From now on I won't test fate by trying new slushes. I'm sticking with blue coconut from here on out.
I also ate a chili-cheese dog and a pack of Mike and Ikes from 7-11, since I'm on a diet.
Not.
But seriously I ate two bagels with cream cheese this morning, and about an hour and a half later, I threw them up, since I'm involuntarily bulemic.
Chili dogs just seem like the right thing to eat on an queasy stomach.
So I bought those previously mentioned pornos, and when I got home, I decided to preview them, you know, to make sure there was nothing too graphic for Cris.
As I'm watching one, Cris comes home, and starts unlocking the door. Fortunately I had enough foresight to lock the dead-bolt, but I panicked nonetheless.
After turning off the tv and dvd player really fast, I bolted over to the door and I kissed Cris, and immediately said, "I threw up both my bagels. But don't worry I brushed my teeth."
Real smooth.
To get him out of the way while I set up the porno-watching seduction I had planned, I told him to go take a shower and brush his teeth.
Of course he got all butt hurt at that, because it's really nice to come home and the first thing you're told is that you stink.
I say, "I have good intentions," and this pacified him not at all, so he stomped off to the bathroom.
Next thing I know, he's unscrewing the bathtub drain cover, and plunging the drain. When he came out for more supplies, I ask what the heck he's doing, and he said, "I told you that next time I take a shower, I'm going to clean out the drain.
To be fair, it had gotten to the point where one would no longer feel comfortable peeing as they showered.
Well, long story short, I tell him I was planning a seduction but was just trying to get prepared for it, and it didn't cheer him up, and his plumbing skills and tools were proving inadequate, and then his boss called him back in to work.
Needless to say, I had to watch the porno by myself.
C'est la vie...
Now he's still not home, we're having a severe thunderstorm warning, and a tornado watch, the sky is the color of a dead mackerel's eyeballs, and goddammit, I still want another chili dog!
Well, I just went to Sonic to get a watermelon slush with half syrup, andI'm pretty darn sure that it has full syrup so I am devastated.
Also, watermelon tastes like vomit.
From now on I won't test fate by trying new slushes. I'm sticking with blue coconut from here on out.
I also ate a chili-cheese dog and a pack of Mike and Ikes from 7-11, since I'm on a diet.
Not.
But seriously I ate two bagels with cream cheese this morning, and about an hour and a half later, I threw them up, since I'm involuntarily bulemic.
Chili dogs just seem like the right thing to eat on an queasy stomach.
So I bought those previously mentioned pornos, and when I got home, I decided to preview them, you know, to make sure there was nothing too graphic for Cris.
As I'm watching one, Cris comes home, and starts unlocking the door. Fortunately I had enough foresight to lock the dead-bolt, but I panicked nonetheless.
After turning off the tv and dvd player really fast, I bolted over to the door and I kissed Cris, and immediately said, "I threw up both my bagels. But don't worry I brushed my teeth."
Real smooth.
To get him out of the way while I set up the porno-watching seduction I had planned, I told him to go take a shower and brush his teeth.
Of course he got all butt hurt at that, because it's really nice to come home and the first thing you're told is that you stink.
I say, "I have good intentions," and this pacified him not at all, so he stomped off to the bathroom.
Next thing I know, he's unscrewing the bathtub drain cover, and plunging the drain. When he came out for more supplies, I ask what the heck he's doing, and he said, "I told you that next time I take a shower, I'm going to clean out the drain.
To be fair, it had gotten to the point where one would no longer feel comfortable peeing as they showered.
Well, long story short, I tell him I was planning a seduction but was just trying to get prepared for it, and it didn't cheer him up, and his plumbing skills and tools were proving inadequate, and then his boss called him back in to work.
Needless to say, I had to watch the porno by myself.
C'est la vie...
Now he's still not home, we're having a severe thunderstorm warning, and a tornado watch, the sky is the color of a dead mackerel's eyeballs, and goddammit, I still want another chili dog!
I can't believe that someone remembered a small sentence from a large blog entry of mine from almost a year ago that perfectly applies to what I wrote about last night.
"Your life will not change in ways you want it to unless you do something about it."
My how I contradict my self. What can I say, I'm an enigma, full of opposition.
Rereading this entry, I realized that I've, at least at some point in my life, been awesome. Or at least I could convince someone that I was with my writing.
So that's pretty cool.
To be honest, I just woke up from a tumultuous night of tempestuous carnal dreams, so I'm still sleepy, and also I haven't brushed my teeth yet, which isn't tasty.
I just don't think I'm prepared for a revelation right now. Even a minor one.
But as a reward for the several hours of studying for a history test I have ahead of me, I'm going to the porno store and buying some butt sex porn.
Ha ha ha!
Don't worry, I'm gonna watch it after I finish studying. =)
More deep thoughts later.
"Your life will not change in ways you want it to unless you do something about it."
My how I contradict my self. What can I say, I'm an enigma, full of opposition.
Rereading this entry, I realized that I've, at least at some point in my life, been awesome. Or at least I could convince someone that I was with my writing.
So that's pretty cool.
To be honest, I just woke up from a tumultuous night of tempestuous carnal dreams, so I'm still sleepy, and also I haven't brushed my teeth yet, which isn't tasty.
I just don't think I'm prepared for a revelation right now. Even a minor one.
But as a reward for the several hours of studying for a history test I have ahead of me, I'm going to the porno store and buying some butt sex porn.
Ha ha ha!
Don't worry, I'm gonna watch it after I finish studying. =)
More deep thoughts later.
Tuesday, March 24
Girlfiend in a Coma
I thought I had written something brilliant in my journal today, but it turns out I was just whining about life.
How do I constantly deceive myself into believing in my cleverness?
Earlier I spent about an hour reading Henry and June by Anais Nin. Seven years have passed since I read it last. That basically just means that I'm old.
Rereading those first pages made me realize how much has come to be missing from my life that I didn't even realize was gone.
Passion, stong emotion, abyssmal depression and intense joy. Some how my burner has been set to medium. My pendulum no longer swings, but only flutters mildly from time to time.
I don't think I like this place.
"Vivacious" could no longer be used to described me. Along with "wild" or "spontaneous."
All of my worse fears have come true.
Except the fear of cutting my eyeball with paper.
Is it time for me to settle into a life of emotional mediocrity?
I feel the answer is no but I don't know how to make a change. Maybe something extreme needs to happen to me. Something bad, something good; either way, something to knock me out of my coma.
How do I constantly deceive myself into believing in my cleverness?
Earlier I spent about an hour reading Henry and June by Anais Nin. Seven years have passed since I read it last. That basically just means that I'm old.
Rereading those first pages made me realize how much has come to be missing from my life that I didn't even realize was gone.
Passion, stong emotion, abyssmal depression and intense joy. Some how my burner has been set to medium. My pendulum no longer swings, but only flutters mildly from time to time.
I don't think I like this place.
"Vivacious" could no longer be used to described me. Along with "wild" or "spontaneous."
All of my worse fears have come true.
Except the fear of cutting my eyeball with paper.
Is it time for me to settle into a life of emotional mediocrity?
I feel the answer is no but I don't know how to make a change. Maybe something extreme needs to happen to me. Something bad, something good; either way, something to knock me out of my coma.
Trust Fund Baby
This weather is depressing.
After a week of sunshine and tanning and doing delightfully nothing (besides working); after a weekend of going shopping and getting one year older and eating gourmet french toast and getting teary eyed watching Shamu and friends leap from the water and finally, truly believing athat I can do anything, this grey sky, school and work and real life routine is severely depressing.
Some people enjoy living their lives of responsibility, working and then vacating for a week a year and doing it all over. Some how this is enough. Somehow, after one week, they are revitalized and ready to buckle down and get to work for the next 51 weeks.
I do not operate this way.
After any uber-joyful experience, I am left wanting more, always more, and find the return to normal life crushing. The more joyful and lengthy the experience, the harder it is.
Some people were meant to be trust fund babies.
Like me.
It's not that I'm lazy. Ask any one who knows me and they'll tell you I'm a hard worker and have been for the past 10 years.
It's that I would use it well. I would take that temporal freedom and that monetary freedom and build a life of adventure and unforgettable experience. An amazing life.
I wouldn't waste away in casinos or on beaches. I wouldn't waste it on expensive things to flaunt my privelege.
Life would rock.
Maybe that's not the best way to use it either.
I suppose I'm actually suppose to say I would use the money to help the poor, crippled orphans and tsunami victims of the world.
But the fact of the matter is, there is no trust fund, and my life is an unhealthy balance of school, work and not cleaning my house, so FUCK if I'll help any motherfucker out in my fantasy.
After a week of sunshine and tanning and doing delightfully nothing (besides working); after a weekend of going shopping and getting one year older and eating gourmet french toast and getting teary eyed watching Shamu and friends leap from the water and finally, truly believing athat I can do anything, this grey sky, school and work and real life routine is severely depressing.
Some people enjoy living their lives of responsibility, working and then vacating for a week a year and doing it all over. Some how this is enough. Somehow, after one week, they are revitalized and ready to buckle down and get to work for the next 51 weeks.
I do not operate this way.
After any uber-joyful experience, I am left wanting more, always more, and find the return to normal life crushing. The more joyful and lengthy the experience, the harder it is.
Some people were meant to be trust fund babies.
Like me.
It's not that I'm lazy. Ask any one who knows me and they'll tell you I'm a hard worker and have been for the past 10 years.
It's that I would use it well. I would take that temporal freedom and that monetary freedom and build a life of adventure and unforgettable experience. An amazing life.
I wouldn't waste away in casinos or on beaches. I wouldn't waste it on expensive things to flaunt my privelege.
Life would rock.
Maybe that's not the best way to use it either.
I suppose I'm actually suppose to say I would use the money to help the poor, crippled orphans and tsunami victims of the world.
But the fact of the matter is, there is no trust fund, and my life is an unhealthy balance of school, work and not cleaning my house, so FUCK if I'll help any motherfucker out in my fantasy.
Sunday, March 15
My efforts to post everyday have been thwarted by a curious happening...I have nothing to say.
Or maybe I just literally don't have the energy to formulate my thoughts into words.
Maybe my brain runs at a lower capacity without the occasional helping of undercooked or raw meat.
Last night, in an insomniac effort to lull myself to sleep by thinking (brilliant), I reminisced over past adventures, and tiptoed into dreaming about new adventures I pray come to fruition. I was paralyzed with the fear that they never will.
Something I've thought about. My past adventures, especially the "big" one, have, sadly, had a focus around drinking from about sundown on to the wee hours of the early morning. I've slept in a construction site, I've slept undersomeone's beach bungalow on a stolen towel. I've slept in places I either don't remember or wish I didn't.
That doesn't matter. The point is, while I still want to travel, I don't know if I can hang with so much drinking anymore.
The point of my last trip was to be free and have fun, go with the flow and see what fate brought me. And naturally I still want to do that, but I'm not 23 anymore, and by the time I travel again, I'll likely be embarrassingly old. I need a new focus.
It could be archaeological sites through out the world (after seeing The Ruins, this scares me), or I could take an anthropological standpoint and read up on the pasts of different cultures and while on my travels, juxtapose this information with the modern day cultures of different peoples. I could try to learn the language of each country I visit (ha ha ha ha). I could be be purely journalistic about it all and write every detail of my advenure down, in hopes of writing either a travel memoir or a some sort of pseudo-travel guide (I like the former better).
I don't know exactly. But I am sure that it will require both going to bed and getting up earlier, and meeting more people outside of the Anglo,English-speaking tradition.
Hmmmm. I think I've just inspired myself! You go girlfriend!
Despite the chill and gloom outside, I think I'm going to see what's going on in my lovely city today and take myself on a lttle Austin adventure!
Photos and writings to follow.
Or maybe I just literally don't have the energy to formulate my thoughts into words.
Maybe my brain runs at a lower capacity without the occasional helping of undercooked or raw meat.
Last night, in an insomniac effort to lull myself to sleep by thinking (brilliant), I reminisced over past adventures, and tiptoed into dreaming about new adventures I pray come to fruition. I was paralyzed with the fear that they never will.
Something I've thought about. My past adventures, especially the "big" one, have, sadly, had a focus around drinking from about sundown on to the wee hours of the early morning. I've slept in a construction site, I've slept undersomeone's beach bungalow on a stolen towel. I've slept in places I either don't remember or wish I didn't.
That doesn't matter. The point is, while I still want to travel, I don't know if I can hang with so much drinking anymore.
The point of my last trip was to be free and have fun, go with the flow and see what fate brought me. And naturally I still want to do that, but I'm not 23 anymore, and by the time I travel again, I'll likely be embarrassingly old. I need a new focus.
It could be archaeological sites through out the world (after seeing The Ruins, this scares me), or I could take an anthropological standpoint and read up on the pasts of different cultures and while on my travels, juxtapose this information with the modern day cultures of different peoples. I could try to learn the language of each country I visit (ha ha ha ha). I could be be purely journalistic about it all and write every detail of my advenure down, in hopes of writing either a travel memoir or a some sort of pseudo-travel guide (I like the former better).
I don't know exactly. But I am sure that it will require both going to bed and getting up earlier, and meeting more people outside of the Anglo,English-speaking tradition.
Hmmmm. I think I've just inspired myself! You go girlfriend!
Despite the chill and gloom outside, I think I'm going to see what's going on in my lovely city today and take myself on a lttle Austin adventure!
Photos and writings to follow.
Tuesday, March 10
My Lenten Vow
Well that was a nice little booster-oo from my 2 "fans."
(Thanks Andrew and other person for helping to perpetuate the delusion.)
Let's compromise and say that I'm Super-Ultra-All right!
Yay!
Since my time has been completely usurped by unimportant things like work and school, let's underexaggerate and politely say that important things, like my blog, have fallen to the wayside.
Okay, I've pretty much crumbled it up and discarded it like a half eaten loaf of moldy bread.
I know.
I'm a terrible person.
Moving on.....
Next week is spring break for me (oh holla!) and while, sadly, this well timed hiatus doesn't extend into my piteous "profession", I do hear opportunity a-knocking.
So I just got up and went to see who was a-knocking at my door, and damn it to hell, no one was there.
Anyway, as I was saying...
Oh, wait, there it is again. Hold please.....
(Muzak rendition of Stairway to Heaven playing lullingly in the background)
Okay, that time it was definitely opportunity. Turns out it knocked on my door, thought it had gotten the address wrong and went to check the MapQuest printout in the car, and so when I opened the door, it was gone. Alot of confusion, etc.
Long story short, mine was the right address, and it basically just gave me this message:
"You have all next week off of school. Why don't you write on your blog everyday?"
Excellent idea.
So while some people have given up meat and alcohol for Lent, I am doing the opposite for my abbreviated Lent, and am going to write here every day. For Jesus.
That is everyday starting Friday. I still have two exams.
(Thanks Andrew and other person for helping to perpetuate the delusion.)
Let's compromise and say that I'm Super-Ultra-All right!
Yay!
Since my time has been completely usurped by unimportant things like work and school, let's underexaggerate and politely say that important things, like my blog, have fallen to the wayside.
Okay, I've pretty much crumbled it up and discarded it like a half eaten loaf of moldy bread.
I know.
I'm a terrible person.
Moving on.....
Next week is spring break for me (oh holla!) and while, sadly, this well timed hiatus doesn't extend into my piteous "profession", I do hear opportunity a-knocking.
So I just got up and went to see who was a-knocking at my door, and damn it to hell, no one was there.
Anyway, as I was saying...
Oh, wait, there it is again. Hold please.....
(Muzak rendition of Stairway to Heaven playing lullingly in the background)
Okay, that time it was definitely opportunity. Turns out it knocked on my door, thought it had gotten the address wrong and went to check the MapQuest printout in the car, and so when I opened the door, it was gone. Alot of confusion, etc.
Long story short, mine was the right address, and it basically just gave me this message:
"You have all next week off of school. Why don't you write on your blog everyday?"
Excellent idea.
So while some people have given up meat and alcohol for Lent, I am doing the opposite for my abbreviated Lent, and am going to write here every day. For Jesus.
That is everyday starting Friday. I still have two exams.
Tuesday, March 3
Friday, August 22
"How come when it rains, it pours?"
That is the text message I just sent to my mommy, who of course is terribly concerned about me. As I hit send, I thought about an inspirational art piece hanging on the wall in the bathroom of this coffee place for you to contemplete while you shit. You know, just in case you have no receipts or voter resigtration cards in your wallet to read. The thing says:
"Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass...it's about learning to dance in the rain."
So unexpectedly beautiful and inspiring for folk art wisdom in a W.C. But it seriously fails to consider acid rain and the harmful effects that extended contact with this poison infused precipitation can cause. What can I say, I'm a realist.
Okay okay, I'm a pessimist. Maybe I'm a horticulturalist.
I definitely have some sort of 'ist' attached to whatever adjective I am.
I wrote something last night and too long, graphic, and personal to post here, but I'll tell you that it included a new promise to myself, a vow if you will, to get out of my Aunt's house for a while each day, and go somewhere and write. I am fulfilling this promise right now, which I guess makes me awesome, even though I'm still unemployed, but hey, at least I'm pretty.
I purchased a biscotti to dip in my under-sugared coffee, which disappointed me direly. You know how it is with biscotti. It's either really good, really bad, or some where in between. I'm sad to report that I ate it anyway.
I'm happy to report that I bought 3 books at the Goodwill donation center/bookstore next door for a grand total of $6.48 which is awesome. I guess I just want to buy as many books as I can with money I shouldn't be spending to make it even more annoying to move again. I love love love books but why does having a library to display your intellect to visitors come at such a heavy cost?
The most hilarious thing about right now is that I came here to get away from noise and people blah blah blahing, but the radio is playing as loud as the widescreed at Auntie's and the two other patrons here have been in an animated and echoing conversation with one of the employees for the past 15 minutes. Maybe I just need my own quiet place that no one knows about that has electricity and air conditioning and is also free. I probably should just go to the library so the librarians can "shhhhh" any one who tries to start any shit. Oh wait, there's no library in Jonestown or anywhere with in reasonable 98 degree driving distance.
I hate the country. Whay can't the world just be continuous city?
I've discovered something about myself lately which has always been true. I like to be around people but have them leave me alone. I like background noises: traffic, construction, the hum of many conversations, but I don't want to be involved in it. The same is true when I sleep. I can't sleep in quiet. I need a noisy fan or tv turned down low.
When I'm out in the country, the peacefulness lulls my mind onto a coma. Except in my Auntie's tiny over populated home. There, the noises are disturbances and the only way to get away from them is to go out side, where it's too hot and quiet.
Blah blah blah.
"Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass...it's about learning to dance in the rain."
So unexpectedly beautiful and inspiring for folk art wisdom in a W.C. But it seriously fails to consider acid rain and the harmful effects that extended contact with this poison infused precipitation can cause. What can I say, I'm a realist.
Okay okay, I'm a pessimist. Maybe I'm a horticulturalist.
I definitely have some sort of 'ist' attached to whatever adjective I am.
I wrote something last night and too long, graphic, and personal to post here, but I'll tell you that it included a new promise to myself, a vow if you will, to get out of my Aunt's house for a while each day, and go somewhere and write. I am fulfilling this promise right now, which I guess makes me awesome, even though I'm still unemployed, but hey, at least I'm pretty.
I purchased a biscotti to dip in my under-sugared coffee, which disappointed me direly. You know how it is with biscotti. It's either really good, really bad, or some where in between. I'm sad to report that I ate it anyway.
I'm happy to report that I bought 3 books at the Goodwill donation center/bookstore next door for a grand total of $6.48 which is awesome. I guess I just want to buy as many books as I can with money I shouldn't be spending to make it even more annoying to move again. I love love love books but why does having a library to display your intellect to visitors come at such a heavy cost?
The most hilarious thing about right now is that I came here to get away from noise and people blah blah blahing, but the radio is playing as loud as the widescreed at Auntie's and the two other patrons here have been in an animated and echoing conversation with one of the employees for the past 15 minutes. Maybe I just need my own quiet place that no one knows about that has electricity and air conditioning and is also free. I probably should just go to the library so the librarians can "shhhhh" any one who tries to start any shit. Oh wait, there's no library in Jonestown or anywhere with in reasonable 98 degree driving distance.
I hate the country. Whay can't the world just be continuous city?
I've discovered something about myself lately which has always been true. I like to be around people but have them leave me alone. I like background noises: traffic, construction, the hum of many conversations, but I don't want to be involved in it. The same is true when I sleep. I can't sleep in quiet. I need a noisy fan or tv turned down low.
When I'm out in the country, the peacefulness lulls my mind onto a coma. Except in my Auntie's tiny over populated home. There, the noises are disturbances and the only way to get away from them is to go out side, where it's too hot and quiet.
Blah blah blah.
Wednesday, August 20
Not at all complaining
I had to get out of the house, so I came to Mocha Latte in Jonestown, which is nice and completely out of place in this little town that is so desperately trying to reform itself from the speed freak capital of the hill country. It may be succeeding, because it's starting to resemble quaint. At least on the main thoroughfare. Who can tell what hides down the pitted side streets that take you into the trailer park?
God I love it out here!
I actually wanted to go to some sort of poetry reading, writing group, open mic, etc. but struggled with the idea of driving 35-40 miles one way just to do it. I'll let you guess what won.
Sadly this oasis of semi-culture is closing in 25 minutes, and the owners are already giving me the stink eye, as if to say, "I hope she knows we close at 8."
And I do, and I'm so very sad that I'll soon return to my Auntie's crowded abode. Between the televisions blaring, and the washing machine squealing, and the human body heat accruing, and Don, my uncle's brother's toothless cackling, and the dogs..oh Jesus there are so many dogs!
But of course I am not one to complain.
What oh what will I do with the rest of my evening? Perhaps get started on watching one of the 4 Harry Potter movies that Cris bought for me. Oh wait, I forgot that Don the Toothless has usurped the living room and its 40 inch tv screen as his own personal Sci-Fi channel viewing room.
No, I reckon I'll look around on Craigslist for a job so I can feel like I'm actually trying, before giving up in frustration and tears at my abysmal lack of qualifications to do anything I'd like to...
Watch out, the tears might start early.
But of course I'm not one to complain.
God I love it out here!
I actually wanted to go to some sort of poetry reading, writing group, open mic, etc. but struggled with the idea of driving 35-40 miles one way just to do it. I'll let you guess what won.
Sadly this oasis of semi-culture is closing in 25 minutes, and the owners are already giving me the stink eye, as if to say, "I hope she knows we close at 8."
And I do, and I'm so very sad that I'll soon return to my Auntie's crowded abode. Between the televisions blaring, and the washing machine squealing, and the human body heat accruing, and Don, my uncle's brother's toothless cackling, and the dogs..oh Jesus there are so many dogs!
But of course I am not one to complain.
What oh what will I do with the rest of my evening? Perhaps get started on watching one of the 4 Harry Potter movies that Cris bought for me. Oh wait, I forgot that Don the Toothless has usurped the living room and its 40 inch tv screen as his own personal Sci-Fi channel viewing room.
No, I reckon I'll look around on Craigslist for a job so I can feel like I'm actually trying, before giving up in frustration and tears at my abysmal lack of qualifications to do anything I'd like to...
Watch out, the tears might start early.
But of course I'm not one to complain.
This is not the place for me
I hear her walking down the hall
She says “I love her”
I think “I hate myself”
The smell and presence of canids is overwhelming
It’s stifling
The heat bakes us in this aluminum tube
And there is always someone around
Making some sort of noise
We are too many miles from town
She’s walking by
And my brain is baking
It is slovenly, atrophied
Depressed with calamity
And I just don’t know
Why did I pack up my things
And come here
Expecting a life
But there is no life
Where people can love me when I am most wretched
They call this the “Hollow”
Because that’s where your soul goes
It’s placed on the saliva stringing
Tongues of hungry dogs begging
Sucked into the television
You watch grinning stupidly
As it milks your almost everything
I left my home now I am homeless
I sit inside here I am lifeless
Why did I pack my things and leave?
This is not the place for me
I hear her walking down the hall
She says “I love her”
I think “I hate myself”
The smell and presence of canids is overwhelming
It’s stifling
The heat bakes us in this aluminum tube
And there is always someone around
Making some sort of noise
We are too many miles from town
She’s walking by
And my brain is baking
It is slovenly, atrophied
Depressed with calamity
And I just don’t know
Why did I pack up my things
And come here
Expecting a life
But there is no life
Where people can love me when I am most wretched
They call this the “Hollow”
Because that’s where your soul goes
It’s placed on the saliva stringing
Tongues of hungry dogs begging
Sucked into the television
You watch grinning stupidly
As it milks your almost everything
I left my home now I am homeless
I sit inside here I am lifeless
Why did I pack my things and leave?
This is not the place for me
Sunday, August 17
Sun shining on an empty driveway
I make lists of things to write about that I never seem to get around to. I just write it down, fold it up, and tell myself I'll do it later. But invariably a funk sets in, and I no longer care anything about what I cared enough about to write down to remember to write about.
That last sentence was just confusing enough to amuse me, so it stays.
I bought a briefcase at an estate sale earlier for $2.50 and they said they didn't know the combination, but I closed the lock, moved the numbers around, and it seemed to open right up when I got back to 000, so I'm gonna go ahead and assume that's the combination.
Now if I could only figure out how to change it to something a little harder to figure out... something like 123.
I wanted to write about how I almost burned down my Aunt's kitchen yesterday, but I already wrote about that last night. I'll just quote myself:
"I'm feeling a little better today. Little did I know, my uncle is an extremely good pep-talker. He should consider a career in motivational speaking.
I almost burned down my Aunt's kitchen making potato chips. Should have just bought a bag of Lay's.
I thought I would handle myself a little better in a kitchen crisis, what with all my restaurant experience, but as the flames rose from the stove top and from inside the oven, I couldn't for the life of me remember what to do. I basically just ran around the kitchen squealing at such a pitch that only the dogs could hear me, trying to remember what you're supposed to use to put out grease fires.
"Salt!...No"
"Sugar!...No."
"Water!...No." I'm remembering countless training videos which instruct you to never ever put water on a grease fire. I'm remembering these as I'm filling up a bowl with water, preparing to pour. Thank god my uncle's brother had the calm sense to grab a pot lid to stiffle the fire until we figured out what to do. Thank god some genius shouted "BAKING SODA!!!!" before I caused and even bigger calamity with my bowl of H20.
Needless to say, an inch or two has been sawed off the legs of my shining kitchen pedestal. But don't worry, I'm not so much humbled as embarrassed, but that will pass, and I'll have that spring in my strut back in no time."
There it is...just saved myself alot of work.
The dryer, which is right next to my temporary room, makes this noise that can only be described as the noise that the nob on the washin machine makes when you turn it so you can start a cycle. But for some reason the dryer is making this sound every two seconds, and now it's doing this squeal like a rusty swing set, and I think I'm going to snap any second.
And by snap, I mean snap along to the rhythm of the dryer. Man oh man, that is a hip tune!
No but seriously, I'd rather wear dirty clothes, or clothes crispened by sun drying for the rest of my life than listen to that sound. It is maddening.
Now I'm trying to drown it all out with some Brand New. I'm listening to this for one line, which I know hearing will quell my melancholy malady, for a while anyway.
"Every line is about who I don't want to write about any more."
Every word of every sentence is a side step of everything I want to say that I've already said. Every period marking the end of every sentence is occasion for me to pause, turn my head to the right, and see a still empty driveway. Every breath is a concentrated act to control the welling from my gut to my esophagus to my throat. Every thought is skewed and convoluted. I wish I could say I'm through with it. But I'm not a liar.
"Holding on to your grudge, oh it's so hard to have someone to love."
This is too long.
That last sentence was just confusing enough to amuse me, so it stays.
I bought a briefcase at an estate sale earlier for $2.50 and they said they didn't know the combination, but I closed the lock, moved the numbers around, and it seemed to open right up when I got back to 000, so I'm gonna go ahead and assume that's the combination.
Now if I could only figure out how to change it to something a little harder to figure out... something like 123.
I wanted to write about how I almost burned down my Aunt's kitchen yesterday, but I already wrote about that last night. I'll just quote myself:
"I'm feeling a little better today. Little did I know, my uncle is an extremely good pep-talker. He should consider a career in motivational speaking.
I almost burned down my Aunt's kitchen making potato chips. Should have just bought a bag of Lay's.
I thought I would handle myself a little better in a kitchen crisis, what with all my restaurant experience, but as the flames rose from the stove top and from inside the oven, I couldn't for the life of me remember what to do. I basically just ran around the kitchen squealing at such a pitch that only the dogs could hear me, trying to remember what you're supposed to use to put out grease fires.
"Salt!...No"
"Sugar!...No."
"Water!...No." I'm remembering countless training videos which instruct you to never ever put water on a grease fire. I'm remembering these as I'm filling up a bowl with water, preparing to pour. Thank god my uncle's brother had the calm sense to grab a pot lid to stiffle the fire until we figured out what to do. Thank god some genius shouted "BAKING SODA!!!!" before I caused and even bigger calamity with my bowl of H20.
Needless to say, an inch or two has been sawed off the legs of my shining kitchen pedestal. But don't worry, I'm not so much humbled as embarrassed, but that will pass, and I'll have that spring in my strut back in no time."
There it is...just saved myself alot of work.
The dryer, which is right next to my temporary room, makes this noise that can only be described as the noise that the nob on the washin machine makes when you turn it so you can start a cycle. But for some reason the dryer is making this sound every two seconds, and now it's doing this squeal like a rusty swing set, and I think I'm going to snap any second.
And by snap, I mean snap along to the rhythm of the dryer. Man oh man, that is a hip tune!
No but seriously, I'd rather wear dirty clothes, or clothes crispened by sun drying for the rest of my life than listen to that sound. It is maddening.
Now I'm trying to drown it all out with some Brand New. I'm listening to this for one line, which I know hearing will quell my melancholy malady, for a while anyway.
"Every line is about who I don't want to write about any more."
Every word of every sentence is a side step of everything I want to say that I've already said. Every period marking the end of every sentence is occasion for me to pause, turn my head to the right, and see a still empty driveway. Every breath is a concentrated act to control the welling from my gut to my esophagus to my throat. Every thought is skewed and convoluted. I wish I could say I'm through with it. But I'm not a liar.
"Holding on to your grudge, oh it's so hard to have someone to love."
This is too long.
Friday, August 15
Low
Even though I'm sure I am constantly littering my blog with whining rants about my special feelings, blah blah blah, I 'try' not to. Despite this most considerate effort, I'm abandoning it right now because I'm despressed and I want to whine.
I'm very sad, and I won't be able to get myself out of it by having winning thoughts or writing affirmations. I know that only time will heal my wounds yadda yadda, but I don't have time. In fact, my watch just broke about an hour ago. What does that tell you?
I am 25 years old and now find myself and 80% of my belongings living at my Aunt's house, and I'm crying 35% of the time at anything, and I'm trying to pump iron so I can feel good about one thing which is being hot, but I haven't crossed the border from Fatsylvania yet.
I'm here because I can't be the only one who tries. I can't be the only calm and reasonable one. I can't be the only one doing sweet things to show I care. I can't be the only one willing to do anything at all, because if only I do it, I may as well not have done it at all.
But I'm still in love.
I'm pretty sure that everyone thinks I'm a stupid idiot and that I suck, but I wouldn't really know since my phone gets no reception in BFE and my car is broken, so now my only friends are either canid or part of a soap opera cast and the only one I have to hold me at night, on the couch, is my purple teddy bear. Actually I hold the bear. This is very sad.
But hey, on the bright side I still have a keen sense of self pity.
And when will I stop looking out of the window every time I hear any sort of noise that could possibly be coming from outside, hoping that it's him, coming with flowers and promises of doing anything to make it work because that's how much he loves me?
The sooner the better. Delusional never really was my color.
Why am I constantly hearing the sound of car engines drawing near. I'm feeling low but I'm pretty sure I'm not that crazy yet. Talk to me when I start seeing headlights endlessly climbing the driveway.
Actually don't talk to me. Just have me committed.
I'm very sad, and I won't be able to get myself out of it by having winning thoughts or writing affirmations. I know that only time will heal my wounds yadda yadda, but I don't have time. In fact, my watch just broke about an hour ago. What does that tell you?
I am 25 years old and now find myself and 80% of my belongings living at my Aunt's house, and I'm crying 35% of the time at anything, and I'm trying to pump iron so I can feel good about one thing which is being hot, but I haven't crossed the border from Fatsylvania yet.
I'm here because I can't be the only one who tries. I can't be the only calm and reasonable one. I can't be the only one doing sweet things to show I care. I can't be the only one willing to do anything at all, because if only I do it, I may as well not have done it at all.
But I'm still in love.
I'm pretty sure that everyone thinks I'm a stupid idiot and that I suck, but I wouldn't really know since my phone gets no reception in BFE and my car is broken, so now my only friends are either canid or part of a soap opera cast and the only one I have to hold me at night, on the couch, is my purple teddy bear. Actually I hold the bear. This is very sad.
But hey, on the bright side I still have a keen sense of self pity.
And when will I stop looking out of the window every time I hear any sort of noise that could possibly be coming from outside, hoping that it's him, coming with flowers and promises of doing anything to make it work because that's how much he loves me?
The sooner the better. Delusional never really was my color.
Why am I constantly hearing the sound of car engines drawing near. I'm feeling low but I'm pretty sure I'm not that crazy yet. Talk to me when I start seeing headlights endlessly climbing the driveway.
Actually don't talk to me. Just have me committed.
Sunday, August 10
The sky looks like a sunset in a bad mood, like tonight we see god’s darker side, but he’s still looking pretty good. A bright red radio tower light blinks, miles away, as if in flagrant display of what it can see or say that we can’t. I’m walking down the stairs of my apartment building, toward my car, which I will then drive, toward the bar, where I will drown this disposition in $2.50 draughts.
My boyfriend is at his weekly Sunday softball game. As he was leaving, I said, “you didn’t even invite me,” to which he replied, is just so many words, “I didn’t really want you to go.” So I watched some porn, packed up my computer, put some mascara on so I would look just cute enough, and headed out to drink a solo toast to Jesus on his most special of weekdays. I’ll probably toast more than once.
I find myself in one of the few bars left in America that allows smoking, and I’m finding the cigar’s and cigarette’s noxious exhaust, both fresh and aged to a stale perfection, are contributing nicely to my desired ambiance. That, combined with the undecipherable bombilation of background chatter, makes a mighty fine mood for sipping, drinking, or chugging some beer. Depends on your style.
I can imagine the scene when I get home. I’ll, hopefully, stumble through the door, reeking of beer and fumes, but then again so will he. He will be angry that when he left me alone, instead of sitting at home, waiting for his return, possibly making him a little snack in apology for not understanding his shit attitude toward me all day, since he felt a little off, I went out and amused myself, without him. I’ll ask him what’s wrong, and he’ll say, “just chillin,” and ignore me for the rest of his waking hours.
Normally I would keep pestering him about what’s wrong (something’s always wrong), but tonight I will ignore him in turn, and wonder when the hell I’m going to grow a pair and call the whole thing off.
But for now, I’m drinking my beer, and I’m looking out the window, and it seems as though god has killed a squid and spread the inky remains across the sky. His mood hasn’t improved. The darkness outside is so complete and terrifying, we flock to islands of electric light, drinking spirits to embolden our spirits, watching screen to distract from that formidable dark biting at the edge of our shores. Even the bugs swarm the lamp posts. No one wants to get stuck out in that stuff.
I quit my job yesterday. Just before my lunch break, my boss had a talk with me. I should say he had a talk at me. Apparently it had been pissing him off for quite sometime that I ask him these irritating questions when he tells me to do something, like “why?” He doesn’t like to be questioned by his employees, and he made it clear that up until the point when he hired me, no employee had ever questioned him; they merely obeyed. Obviously he’d never hired anyone, until me, with brains or curiosity.
So I took my lunch, and I never went back.
Instead of feeling anxious about finding another job, I now feel free to drink this beer I’m drinking and write this thing that I’m writing. I feel free to take steps toward the things I want instead of stewing securely in a job I hate but feel a slave to because of money. I feel like I just broke off a relationship I hate but had been too afraid to end.
Things are going to get better from here.
My boyfriend is at his weekly Sunday softball game. As he was leaving, I said, “you didn’t even invite me,” to which he replied, is just so many words, “I didn’t really want you to go.” So I watched some porn, packed up my computer, put some mascara on so I would look just cute enough, and headed out to drink a solo toast to Jesus on his most special of weekdays. I’ll probably toast more than once.
I find myself in one of the few bars left in America that allows smoking, and I’m finding the cigar’s and cigarette’s noxious exhaust, both fresh and aged to a stale perfection, are contributing nicely to my desired ambiance. That, combined with the undecipherable bombilation of background chatter, makes a mighty fine mood for sipping, drinking, or chugging some beer. Depends on your style.
I can imagine the scene when I get home. I’ll, hopefully, stumble through the door, reeking of beer and fumes, but then again so will he. He will be angry that when he left me alone, instead of sitting at home, waiting for his return, possibly making him a little snack in apology for not understanding his shit attitude toward me all day, since he felt a little off, I went out and amused myself, without him. I’ll ask him what’s wrong, and he’ll say, “just chillin,” and ignore me for the rest of his waking hours.
Normally I would keep pestering him about what’s wrong (something’s always wrong), but tonight I will ignore him in turn, and wonder when the hell I’m going to grow a pair and call the whole thing off.
But for now, I’m drinking my beer, and I’m looking out the window, and it seems as though god has killed a squid and spread the inky remains across the sky. His mood hasn’t improved. The darkness outside is so complete and terrifying, we flock to islands of electric light, drinking spirits to embolden our spirits, watching screen to distract from that formidable dark biting at the edge of our shores. Even the bugs swarm the lamp posts. No one wants to get stuck out in that stuff.
I quit my job yesterday. Just before my lunch break, my boss had a talk with me. I should say he had a talk at me. Apparently it had been pissing him off for quite sometime that I ask him these irritating questions when he tells me to do something, like “why?” He doesn’t like to be questioned by his employees, and he made it clear that up until the point when he hired me, no employee had ever questioned him; they merely obeyed. Obviously he’d never hired anyone, until me, with brains or curiosity.
So I took my lunch, and I never went back.
Instead of feeling anxious about finding another job, I now feel free to drink this beer I’m drinking and write this thing that I’m writing. I feel free to take steps toward the things I want instead of stewing securely in a job I hate but feel a slave to because of money. I feel like I just broke off a relationship I hate but had been too afraid to end.
Things are going to get better from here.
Monday, August 4
B is for Beer
I just found out today that either this fall or in the area of early ’09, Tom Robbins will be coming out with a new book, a children’s book, entitled B is for Beer. This is one of the happier events to take place in my life in recent history. The prospect of any new construction of written words by Tom Robbins who is, it is no secret, my hero and literary crush, it ti-ti-titillating to me.
I felt that titillating required a stutter in this instance.
I can’t wait! I have abandoned all here-to-fore intense interest in learning Spanish and acquiring the rape-me-in-the-ass expensive Rosetta Stone program, the compilation of a personalized dictionary for myself, and the possible start up writing career endeavor of resume writing. Life has a new spit shine on it, and you will find me observing my newly rendered reflection in it for some time to come.
It just occurred to me how sad it is that I’ve always been just ‘Candice’. That I’ve never had the personality to inspire some embarrassing nick name and at least a random arrangement of the sounds of my name, is quite distressing. My middle, for example, is Nicole. I could be Nico or Nicker. Or you could take the last syllables of both of my names, combine them, and contrive the blatantly hilarious Dic-cole. But no. It appears I am forever doomed to be merely ‘Candice.’
Even the previously self appointed names of ‘Grass Firefly’, ‘Pablo’, and ‘CJ’ stuck about as well as… Um… if anyone has a good analogy for something that doesn’t stick to something else (I have an abundance for the opposite) please share.
All I’ve ever gotten is some unimaginative variation on ‘candy’ which is not my name. Never call me that, I will risk prison to kill you.
I felt that titillating required a stutter in this instance.
I can’t wait! I have abandoned all here-to-fore intense interest in learning Spanish and acquiring the rape-me-in-the-ass expensive Rosetta Stone program, the compilation of a personalized dictionary for myself, and the possible start up writing career endeavor of resume writing. Life has a new spit shine on it, and you will find me observing my newly rendered reflection in it for some time to come.
It just occurred to me how sad it is that I’ve always been just ‘Candice’. That I’ve never had the personality to inspire some embarrassing nick name and at least a random arrangement of the sounds of my name, is quite distressing. My middle, for example, is Nicole. I could be Nico or Nicker. Or you could take the last syllables of both of my names, combine them, and contrive the blatantly hilarious Dic-cole. But no. It appears I am forever doomed to be merely ‘Candice.’
Even the previously self appointed names of ‘Grass Firefly’, ‘Pablo’, and ‘CJ’ stuck about as well as… Um… if anyone has a good analogy for something that doesn’t stick to something else (I have an abundance for the opposite) please share.
All I’ve ever gotten is some unimaginative variation on ‘candy’ which is not my name. Never call me that, I will risk prison to kill you.
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