"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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.