Hear the one about Michael, some say he must be gay/I try to argue, but they said if he was straight he wouldn’t move that way

Ah, good times today, dear readers. My co-workers and I sat outside the Paradise Cafe on 8th avenue and played Gay/Straight. So much fun. According to our resident gay, here are some defining characteristics:

Gay: flat stomach, less clothing than the average straight man (read: tank tops)
Straight: paunch escalating to full-blown belly, backhair sprouting forth from back of shirt

Patty Mean, the aforementioned crier, tucked his wifebeater into his crotch so tight it could barely be removed. And then, I realized. He was using it as a bellybra. I smell a Seinfeld episode.

Don't Cry for Me, Sloppy Vagina . . .

I'm just gonna put this out there. I don't want to sound like a snob. Or overly judgmental or similar. So, forgive me if I sound a bit harsh when I say the following:

I don't like it when guys cry on first dates.

I know what you're thinking: wow, KDub is such an asshole. I know, it's mean. It's terrible. To expect a man to mainture composure and full masculinity when on a first date with a woman. It's shocking. It's high standards. It's asking for too much. I know. You wouldn't be the first to call me demanding, dear reader(s).

After all, society, over recent years, has asked, indeed, demanded that men show more of their feminine side, that they open up to us, keep the lines of communication open, come onboard, get on the same page blah blah blah . . .

But when we swap stories . . . hell, I'll just recount it.

Kath and Patty Mean at Uncle Nick's (Greek place on 9th ave):

So, are your parents divorced, too?
No, my mom died when I was in high school.
Good times.
(chuckling) Yeah.

See, that was nice, wasn't it? I admitted my mom was dead, he made a joke about it. I immediately started picking out china patterns in my head.

Cut to:
An hour later, Kath and Patty Mean at Druid's (cute pub/restaurant on 10th ave)

Patty Mean begins monologue:
So, when my grandfather died two years ago, it was such a big deal. I mean -
(dramatic pause, eyes water)
he was the one.
(pause, pounds chest for effect)
You know? The one. When I decided to pursue acting and my entire family thought I was going crazy, he pulled me aside -
(pause, Patty covers his face, bites his lip)
"I've never seen you act, kid. But I think you should go for it."

Patty Mean turns away. Inhales and exhales, using his right hand to guide him through the breathing, a lesson gleaned from a few semesters of voice class. Chokes back a sob. It's a performance worthy of America's favorite closeted fag Mr. Cruise.

I said and did all the right thing, made sympathetic noises.

But all I can think is: Jesus Christ, guy, pull yourself together.

Sad girl, don't lose your faith/ Your tears are pretty diamonds

Sorry, I know I've quoted this song before. It's a good one.

My friend Tim said something quite smart just now regarding matters of the heart and it's well worth repeating:

Despite things not working out how I wanted them to, the disappointment is surefire, everytime. It's choose your own adventure, but you always know already that you'll get eaten by the alien around page 38.

If you know someone who can sum it up better, I don't want to hear it.

She had the sightless eyes/ Telling me no lies

Guess who made out with a 49-year-old twice-divorced man who referred to acting as his "passion" on Saturday night? He also has a daughter just eight years younger than me. And he sounds exactly like Tony Danza.

But if one has to go up to a girlfriend and say "Is the guy standing next to you sexy or am I drunk?" . . . perhaps it's time for one to go home. Which is what I did. Alone.

Wow, there must be a name for what two glasses of white wine does to a woman. Perhaps it should be called insta-regret.

Pumpkin eyes were on the swings / look away from everything / it seems that what you wanted fell all over me.

I've got a shiteating grin on my face. My dad is doing a buttload of a lot better. No emergency surgery needed. Lung capacity up by 6 percent. I start my new job on Monday.
I'm going out to see the rock n roll tonight.

As always though, the tragic and the miraculous go hand in hand.
One of my oldest and dearest friends' fathers is very sick. Said friend's wife is a few months pregnant with the family's first grandchild.

I'm reminded of how my grandmother's debilitating and ultimately deadly stroke occurred the same day my cousin brought her adopted baby girl home.

And it's true in smaller, petty ways too. I started landing auditions as my last relationship deteoriated last summer. And as my last attempt at dating bit it, I got offered a writing gig and a new job and my dad's health improved.

Such is life. Perhaps it's how God takes care of us . . . an attempt at checks and balances . . . the sick part of me pictures God as Will Ferrell: "Dead mom, you say? Make sure her daughter has fantastic hair."

You know when your mouth a-getting dry you're plenty high

New York City peeps, check out the link above for a very cool bar. Attractive people but not intimidatingly so. Narrow but not divey (nothing wrong with a good dive bar, por supuesto).

In other news, went to the Museum of Sex a couple of nights ago and heard Ronnie Koenig, ex-Playgirl Editor-in-Chief and SirenSays writer for AmNew York. It was a fun time but I have a feeling she's much more intelligent than her column suggests.

Lyrics to really good song below.

This is catchy as hell. One of those songs that sounds so cute but breaks your heart underneath.

Ben Lee's "Cigarettes Will Kill You"

You throw me in a pan
You cook me in a can
You stretch me with your hands

You love to watch me bake
You serve me up with cake
And that's your big mistake

Your guest comes in dressed smart
You offer a la carte
You didn't have the heart

And I want a TV embrace
And I, I'm getting off your boiling plate
They swore you'd steal my steam to feed your dream
And then be gone
I wish I could say that everyone was wrong

You left me burned and seared
You left me ripped and teared
And older than my years

I should have known at first
That you would leave me hurt
You had to try dessert

No way to let off steam
Don't bother milk or cream
No way to let off steam

And I want a TV embrace
And I, I'm getting off this boiling plate
They swore you'd steal my steam to feed your dream
And then be gone
I wish I could say that everyone was wrong

It must feel good to stand above me
While I make you so proud of me
It must feel good that I'm now gone
I wish I could say that everyone was wrong
I wish everyone was wrong
I wish everyone was wrong
I wish everyone was wrong
I wish everyone was wrong
I wish everyone was wrong

Yet another man who makes me wet in my bathingsuit places

Ah, John Krasinski of "the Office." (click on title of post for headshot)
I like him better scruffy, though.
He's an actor, however.
So he's most likely a self-absorbed narcissist.
And I'll probably sleep with him.
Because I have so much respect for myself.

If this serenade is not what you want . . .

Sometimes the indie rock library in my head simply is not big enough.

I wanted lyrics about eating words and all I came up with is Ani DiFranco. And I'm not going there. Yikes.

Essentially, something I should've kept to myself . . . I told a very close friend a couple of nights ago. Although it was honest and from the heart and I thought had good intentions, it wasn't the right thing to do.

And now he's taking his space and I'll take mine. But I'm sorry.

Just wanted to put it out in the cosmos.

Maybe I mean "ether" instead.

Cosmos: n. 1) the universe regarded as an orderly, harmonious whole. 2) An ordered, harmonious whole. 3)Harmony and order as distinct from chaos.

In acting school, they taught us that drama was actually about creating order.

Hm.

Turning thru sick lullaby/ choking on your alibi

Forgive me for quoting something as ubiquitous as the Killers, kids. It felt fitting. And I'm not sure if it's verbatim cuz I burnt it from Patty McDouche and Googling efforts conflict. (Should add to the "Separating the Wheat from the Chaff" entry).

Last month, I was wrestling with the age-old argument: "On the one hand, he's a cheap, non-committal, fickle douchebag. On the other hand, he has hair."

Surely you've had this argument with yourself, no? 'Course you have.

I sat on a 1/9 train coming home from Harlem. It was late.

Across from me sat a man and a woman. The man put one hand on the woman's forehead. She instantly tilted her head back. With his other hand, the man squeezed eyedrops into both of her eyes as the train coasted south. She blinked. He asked her something. She nodded. They got off the train, grabbed hands, pondered which way to exit.

Reminded me of a piece of a poem that I also saw on the subway:

(variation on the word "sleep" by margaret atwood)

I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment only.
I would like to be that unnoticed
and that necessary.

Needless to say, I had my answer.

So let's watch TV and make out before noon/ I'd cross my heart for you

I was thinking today about a cheesy Melissa Etheridge song that starts with "I would dial the numbers just to listen to your breath."

You can't really do that these days, can you? With caller ID on every phone, you can't call to hear someone's voice and hang up. Cuz you'd be busted, clearly.

And with things like sitemeter and such, you can't just go to someone's website or blog and see what they're up to without said person knowing about it. Again, busted.

And so technology keeps us from behaving foolishly, it would seem. From going down roads already well tread. From letting people know about the giveashitness that lingers.

There's even a cellphone with a breathalizer in England right now.

And yet . . .
There's a trail. Emails and cellphone bills and calendars and address books. You can file, trash or archive the remnants but the fact remains that there is tangible proof out there that you once shared something with someone.

In my longest relationship since college (2 yrs), I thumbed through journals, poems, letters . . . where did it change, what went wrong . . . when did that the ever-dreaded shift occur?

It would seem technology is quite cruel.

The homeless LOVE me!

Doing my thrice-weekly walk home from work yesterday, I came across some shady characters on 8th avenue and 38th street. I won't say I looked especially cute or whorish yesterday but what transpired is rather entertaining.

Cut to: Kath walking down street (the soundtrack in her mind: "superstitious" by Stevie Wonder)

Cut to Homeless Man with Homeless Friends on street corner:

"You not gonna talk to me today, pretty?"

Kath keeps walking.

"You not gonna talk, aw shit . . . cuz you talked to me last night!"

I haven't had a drunken blackout in a few weeks. I've been falling asleep, alone, in an Ambien-induced haze and waking up in sweaty t-shirts and shorts for some time now. So the thought of me having any sort of sexual shenanigans is laughable, even the moreso with the homeless. (Sidebar: I kinda like waking up sweaty. Makes me feel like I did something productive in my sleep. Maybe I worked out. Or wrote some sort of treatise about humanity. Or slayed a dragon, perhaps.)

Then, this morning, I stumbled off the train and upstairs to 16th street. In front of me walked slowly a woman with a shockingly large ass in exceptionally tight jeans. Someone, somewhere, wants to tap that, I thought to myself.

A moment later, I hear:

"Hey gorgeous. You gonna talk to me, sexy? Cuz I'd like to talk to you."

A guy coming from the opposite direction has walked by said girl and turned around to gaze longingly at her tightjean-clad ass. She ignores him.

Ah, there's Someone for everyone.

And my Someone is homeless.

I wish it was Carlos Bernard from "24." (see link, click on title of entry.)
It's retarded how hot that man is.
I'd like to sop him up with a biscuit.

Do you want to be a polyester bride/ Or do you want to hang your head and die?

Spent this past weekend in Florida. Bridal shower and bachelorette party for my sister. The bachelorette party consisted of superior sushi and cocktails, then dancing and drinking "buckets o booze" (literally, it was several buckets of Sex on the Beach with many straws) at a dueling pianos bar that had about five other bachelorette parties. As my sister isn't a big drinker, I got pretty tips.

My sister kept pimping me out to men she deemed attractive. Whoever talked to her, bought her a drink, took a condom off her veil, etc . . . sister would say "But she's single!" and point to me.

One guy was clearly gay. He was way too pretty to be straight. Another guy simply held up his wedding-ring-clad hand.

"But I'm really horny!" he says.

Another guy was Jewish.

The highlight of my weekend was playing with my two-year-old nephew and his trains. Giggling merrily, he suddenly paused and looked at me gravely.

"Aunt Kath, I'm pooping."

"Right now?"

"Yes."

"Should we change you?"

"My butt hurts. I need my buttpaste."

Stumble to the kitchen/ Pour myself a cup of ambition

That's right, loyal readers. Yours truly is no longer an administrative assistant. HR fought it because I haven't been here a full six months but . . . hazzah!

I will be several steps closer to actually writing for a living and will no longer be embarrassed to tell people what I do for a dayjob.

Ole Smellypants and Toothpaste Tit

That's right, folks. I fished pants out of the dirty laundry bag today. Didn't febreze them, either. Thought they smelled okay.

I was wrong.

And, when using my Sonicare electric toothbrush which conveniently also serves as a vibrating dildo (don't have to use the cell anymore! woo-hoo!), I managed to spray toothpaste on the left tit of my t-shirt. Yeah, who's up for a promotion? This girl!

In other news, should one be validated when complimented on one's beauty by the insane?

I often walk home from my job and in a slightly shadier part of town, 29th street and 8th avenue, a blatantly homeless and insane person stopped in front of me:

"You. You have a beautiful face."

I then passed a homeless person talking on a cellphone. Making plans to meet up later that night. Perhaps with another homeless person.

When it's cold like this/ I need a kiss

I think I'm quoting Speedwell correctly above. I hope I am.

Today my dad and I attempted to have lunch at Cafeteria, chef (and Food Network talent) Tyler Florence's restaurant on 7th Ave. The service was poor. Dad was cranky. Not even cranky . . . pissy.

Seems the surgeon my dad had just seen wants to do an invasive procedure (biopsy) on his lungs immediately. Go in there. Figure out what's wrong.

"He says it's very serious, Kad."

But when I asked my dad if he was going to do it, he waved his hand away.

"I'll go on steroids first."

This is the fourth doctor my dad has met with since he got sick.

My sister gets married on June 4. I'm in the middle of bridal shower/bachelorette party planning (for this weekend).

I wish I could fall into someone's arms tonight.

Friends, Romans, Countrymen -

It's official. I am no longer pursuing anyone ever again. I originally thought I would declare myself a raging lesbian or asexual. (Although it would seem I'm on the one anti-depressant that has NO risk of sexual side effects. Figures.)

I just read a few chapters of "He's Just Not That Into You" and I just realized: I've pursued EVERY MAN I'VE EVER DATED. I'm not kidding. I mean, EVERY MAN. I shouldn't say man. Guy. Every one. Whether smooching him at a bar, begging my friends to set me up with so-and-so, calling a guy first or encouraging a guy who supposedly likes me to grow a set and ask me out (although, that relationship was good for about 1.5 years, to be fair and he's now one of my best friends).

I've always thought I was more manly than some women. I've also thought, in general, that men were pussies and thus it was my responsibility to ask them out if I intended to find love and sex.

This is just silly. And rather tarded. And I wonder why all my relationships bite the dust in the worst way possible.

That's not true! Jim B, king of the Jewfro, asked me out! Ha! Although talk about a headcase. Jesus Christ. And Sander, ex-male prostitute, asked me out. Now, that's quality.

Yeah, definitely time to fly solo for a while. Douchebags. Chubby hairy douches with lisps and bad posture. I squeeze my left one in your general direction and lube up the Silver Bullet, Jenna Jameson's "Masseuse" in hand.

Pantshitting Douchebags and the Women Who Date Them

So, the blogger known as Kosmo left an exceptionally well-put comment yesterday.

Why, indeed, did I date Fat Weekly (maybe Fat Trimester, Fat Biannual? Fat Perennial . . no, that's a flower . . . is funnier . .. you guys tell me) for over a year?

I was in severe rebound mode. Unbeknownst to me, I was craving someone who was the antithesis of my boyfriend before him. I hereby decree that one of the not-so-healthy stages of post-breakup-stress-disorder should be:

WILL DATE ANYONE, INCLUDING DOUCHEBAG, IN ATTEMPT TO GET OVER EX.

A friend of mine suggested this is akin to Duckling Syndrome. Not to be confused with Ugly Ducklings. Although, not unrelated. Apparently, when ducklings first pop out or whatever, the first clearly adult thing they lay eyes on, they will love, follow and obey. In a perfect world, this would be Momma Duck; however, although I began dating Fat Trimester many months after breaking up with my ex, I'd originally laid eyes on Fat Weekly not long after the initial breakup. Hence, I fell prey to Duckling Syndrome.

Back to my original theory, the Theory of Antithesis. Fat Annual was, well . . . fat, unfunny, shockingly hairy (read: Caveman. If backhair could be wings, he could fly), bald, uncouth and rude to my friends. Oh, and rather ugly as well. And lacked basic necessities such as tact, common sense and proper hygiene. And he capitalized his "r"s. That always pissed me off.

Speaking of farting and douchebags -

Fat Weekly (a douche I dated for a little over a year and broke up with last summer) shat his pants on our first date. That's right.

Here I was, terrified, having been set up with a guy that I'd reboundingly hit on six months prior and I'm in the Holiday Bar in the Village, my only company a gin and tonic and a surly bartender, when I get the call:

"Hey, it's Fat."
"Hey, Fat. What's up?"
"I'm running late. I had a sushi incident."
"Oh, okay. Cool. I'll see you later."
"Yeah."

During the exceptionally awkward first date, he admitted that he didn't shower on a daily basis. Neither did his roommate, an overaffectionate Russian, who blew him regularly (That's how we say goodnight, Kath! Why do you have to be so friggin' jealous?).

About three months later, he told me. He had nearly beaten me to the bar when he felt a little gassy. Deciding to push the gas out, he instead shat his pants. He then hightailed it back to work in Union Square, tossed his underwear and cleaned himself up as best as possible.

Wow, I sure know how to pick em.

I should move. To Maine, perhaps.

I hate that . . .

the last man I dated might have heard me fart
the morning after hearing me yak up the previous night's burrito.

(i like to think he was asleep and snoring. or the air conditioning was especially loud)

but i might be wrong.

more than a week later, i still have a bruise on my left hip from knocking over my nightstand en route to the can.

i'm so attractive.
i love myself.

bite me.

I wanna see it when you get stoned/ on a cloudy breezy desert afternoon

I accidentally got stoned recently. But it was more like a rainy saturday city night. I always liked "Car" by Built to Spill. Reminds me of my youth and my stint in college radio. Sigh.

Lots of people I know are popping out babies these days. Don't really know what that's all about. I'm still confused that I'm closer in age to the mom on "Gilmore Girls" than the annoying daughter. Not that I watch "Gilmore Girls." Ever. Really.

So, yours truly may finally get her chance at an orgy next month. No more cockblocking from Ron Weeyums or the ever-randy toy poodle Mr. Brown.

I spent Mothers Day, as I often do, with my dad. We agreed to meet at Home Depot, in the Lighting Fixtures department, at 4pm, then have a casual dinner.

I arrived at 3:55pm. My cell started ringing as I entered Home Depot.

"I'm at Home Depot"
"I know. So am I."
"I'm in da Lighting Fixchas depahtment."
"Dad, I'm here."
"Kadrin!"
"Hi, Dad."

Dad had already done a thorough, albeit shuffling, walkthrough of the store. We were off. It felt like when you're in a relationship and you know it's over and you're doing your best to be kind but it's unsalvageable. We then went to the Comfort Diner across the street so Dad wouldn't have to walk very far. I ordered Thanksgiving Every Day, which was outstanding. Dad's Caesar Salad and chicken soup were "lousy." Why anyone would order a salad at a diner is beyond me. Our waiter was almost-attractive, a smidge of toothpaste crusted on his upper lip.

Dad walked with me to seventh avenue, then took a bus home. He called me later that night.

"Hi, Kad."
"Hey, what's up?"
"I just wanted to apologize for being testy earlier."
"It's okay."
"I guess I just wasn't feeling well."
"I tried to get you out of there. You wouldn't have it."
"I know. You did da right ting. I guess if it'd been anyone else, I woulda cancelled. But I know you're very forgiving. I know sometimes I take everything out on you just because you're the only one here."

Hm. Anyone wonder why I have trouble with men. Anyone?

Striped shirts and the douchebags who wear them.

Look at the above link. Too fucking funny. The douchebag I just broke up with wore striped shirts.

Every anxious wave rode through/To find me lying safe with you

That's right, folks. Sebadoh has a song called "Kath." How badass am I, you ask? So badass. Yes, it's a really old song but it seemed appropriate for today. And I talked to my friend Jon last night who introduced me to Sebadoh. Lyrics follow later in this post.

I've decided there a few, I don't know "tests" if you will, to gauge how much you want someone in your life, in your space (and feel free to add on, I love to hear your thoughts, good folks in the cosmos of Blogland)

1) THE TOOTHBRUSH TEST. If you find yourself in the local drugstore saying to yourself: "you know, I should probably have a spare toothbrush on hand with one of those cover thingies in case Johnny Sleeps Over would like to freshen." This is usually after he's hit your Listerine a few times already in previous stays.

1a) THE TOOTHBRUSH TEST #2. This one is a bit more hardcore. You're willing to SHARE your toothbrush with someone. You're already licking each other's bathing suit places and seriously frenching so why the eff not?

Then there are the post-breakup tests to gauge how much you miss someone or, perhaps more likely, how much you miss having Someone and the give-a-shitness-they-bring to your daily existence:

1) THE MUSIC TEST. I couldn't listen to Elvis Costello for some time after one breakup. Today I happily listen to the Killers, Snow Patrol and the Postal Service. (Eff you, Patty Mean!)

2) THE TV TEST. I couldn't initially watch Rachael Ray or Unwrapped after breaking up with Fat Daly. But perhaps that was because I couldn't watch those shows without being reminded of his massive gut and shocking quantity of backhair.

3) THROWING OUT THE AFOREMENTIONED TOOTHBRUSH. That just sucks, quite frankly. Although, again, I did that without too much trouble recently.

4) THE I-MUST-CHANGE-MY-SPACE-IN-SOME-WAY-IMMEDIATELY-BECAUSE-EVERYTHING-REMINDS-ME-OF TEST. This is usually reserved for a longterm relationship followed by a painful breakup. Sometimes your friends are kind enough to take part. This involves tossing the pictures, hiding or tossing the gifts/little notes/clothes, et al from the person who is no longer a part of your life. Maybe you move your bed to a different corner, get a new set of sheets. Buy some plants.


And if I understand the lyrics below correctly, I hope to someday believe them:

Kath

I’m so glad I waited for this
Every nervous moment worth it
Every anxious wave rode through
To find me lying safe with you
All too right
Righteous coward, chicken-head waiting for a storm in paradise
Push, whine, push
To gripe to her at me
We killed the jealous; killed the judgment right
I’m so glad the wait is through
I’m so glad I waited for you

And if we meet on the street some day/ And I don't know what to say

Last night I ran into a guy I went on one really bad first date with who lives in my neighborhood.

Well, by "ran into" I mean I saw him and ran for the hills.

His name is Geoffrey, a 40-year-old musical theater actor who said I was "yummy" and referred to physical attractiveness as the "Yum Factor." As a matter of fact, on said first date, he put his musical theater paw over my face and said "YUM!"

Ew. Ew. Ew.

Three gin and tonics later we parted ways. He was horribly disappointed when I didn't want to see him again. Said we had great chemistry. He wore a lot of jewelry, talked about himself A LOT and the importance of keeping his chakras aligned. For the love of god.

So, last night I'd popped out of my apartment to run some errands. By the time I spotted Geoffrey, necklaces blowing in the wind, I carried tampons, Effexor XR and Panko. A mixed bag, to be sure. I averted my eyes, pushed my hair into my face. I was spotted, though. Thankfully nothing came of it. Ugh.

I know he belongs to my gym but since he's an actor, we're on different schedules.

It occurs to me that perhaps I shouldn't wear a t-shirt that says "29 licks!" in the workplace. But it's the Tootsie Roll owl. Cute, no? Not so offensive? Oh, eff it.

No matter who calls/I gotta screen my phone calls

One of my favorite things to do upon breaking up with a boy or unfriending someone is to change the name of their entry in my cell phone. Some folks just put in the generic "DO NOT ANSWER" but I like specificity, quite frankly and were I to employ this vague option at this stage in my life, I'd be stuck with "DO NOT ANSWER #1-46."

It's lots of fun. Let's scroll down my address book, shall we? Yes? Yes. Splendid.

#071: Ball less (the most recent douchebag, total pansy. did all communications, even of a serious nature, over IM and email. wanted me to get a text-msg-receiving phone.)

#013 Bitch BF (the boyfriend of a total bitch who unfriended me last summer for no apparent reason. and hung me out to dry professionally).

#044 Chef Hottie (this isn't esp insulting as he was hot, but vapid. smelled like gourmet food).

#043 Chubby (close friend of Crazy Bitch, Bitch BF, and Hot Food, below)

#003 Crazy Bitch (the aforementioned bitch)

#061 Flake (in previous posts, referred to as the Italian Adam Sandler. called Flake for obvious reasons)

#058 Frat Boy (an actor I dated who needed to be surrounded by minions at all times. Went home with a hot blonde right in front of me. was also divorced at age 30 after one year of marriage, incidentally. fancied himself a professional bodybuilder. it was painful to hold him.)

#001 Hot Food (also known as Fat Daly. is infamous for his joke about blowjobs and eating hot food at Applebee's.)

#054 Raccoon (again, not particularly offensive. Just a bartender that works at the Raccoon Lodge. A little flaky. When I returned his phonecall, he said he couldn't talk because he was "eating nachos.")

I smell fantastic today.

I trusted misleading promises worth repeating.

Anyone who reads this blog is hereby requested to do the following:

If I so much as look at an actor, smack the shit out of me.

Sander, upon fessing up, after much prodding, to sleeping with his publicist while we were dating, emailed me the following:

"Avoid the damaged and the fickle. We're a dime a dozen."

Though he is the finest bullshit artist I've dated, second only to Patrick, he had a point.

Think I finally got it this time.

And almost immediately I felt sorry/ Cuz I didn't think this would happen again

I was still drunk till about 9:30pm last night. It occurs to me that perhaps I should lay off the sauce for a bit. I think technically I'm not supposed to mix Effexor XR with the booze anyway.

My dad is healthy enough at this point to be worried about me:

"What is it, Kad?"
"Oh, Dad."
"Is it boys, Kad? Boyfriends? Ex-boyfriends?"
"It's not just one thing, Dad."
"Is it money?"
(it's always money)
"Is it ya career?"

And I told him that something that was really nice got screwed up. Something that made me happy. That a handsome man with blue eyes looked at me with a kind of awe/respect/want for a few weeks till he, like so many others, turned into a douchebag.


My head swims again and I vow to take care of myself and my needs and my agenda.

I really liked being looked at like that, though.

I got shit for brains/Kick me in the head and you got a scrambled egg

Never again do I want to wake up clad in nothing but jewelry still tasting last night's burrito asking the question:

Did I do coke last night?