I can't fight this feeling anymore . . .

I cannot stop crapping. It's really quite amazing. I crapped no fewer than four times yesterday. It was bizarre. And uncomfortable. I sit in a coffee shop of all places in Boston right now while a band practices nearby and the iced soy latte in front of me was a bad choice.

Boston is pretty. Very clean looking. Very sterile. I think I've seen a grand total of three black people. I witnessed a scandalous discussion last night. A couple of four years breaks up. The guy's best friend starts sleeping the with girl the next day. Suddenly the circle of friends, engaged in a fierce wiffleball club, is divided. Mind you, these people are all in their 30s. And the folks talking about this incident outside a club in Boston? Four GROWN MEN. Not girls, not women. Grown men. It's absolutely retarded. If this behavior is exemplary of Boston, count me out.

Saw a really good band though. Tom Thumb and the Saints. I imagine they have a myspace page, which I invite you investigate.

In other news, I continue to scrape by somehow. No idea how. I'm very excited about the debt consolidation service to which I've recently committed (thank you, Tim). I am tired of seeing how long one paycheck will last. The current one I have will expire on about May 4. How I will get through the eleven days until the next one comes is a mystery. Especially since I have tentative plans to come up to Boston the weekend of the 12th but I won't have money again till Monday the 15th. Hhm. Looks like I will not be coming up to Boston that weekend. Getting out of debt and publishing a collection of plays. That is what this time is about. Lisa, my debt advisor, suggested I keep a small notepad of daily expenses . . .it can apparently be a very eye-opening experience.

Christ, every guy in Boston either has a) a beard or b)a baseball cap and a huge gut. I'm attracted to neither.

I'm going to go revise my script. Wish me luck. Happy Sunday. hey God, sorry I didn't look into getting to Church today. I'm out of town, you see.

File under notes to self:

God struck me with crazy cramps last night and I spent much of the night tossing and turning and sweating and sighing. I looked at the ceiling, shook one mighty fist and yelled:

"I didn't even HAVE that much sex this month!"

as it's always been my belief that cramps are God's way of punishing a woman for a) having sex and b) REALLY enjoying it.

At a friend's suggestion, I read my friend's recent ex-girlfriend's blog. I wonder if she ever read mine. I suppose it doesn't matter. Regardless, it wasn't a great idea and it really wasn't any of my business but isn't that what the internet is for? It's the ultimate in masochism!

I received yet another email in my Atlantic alumni mailbox asking me to go to a show that features talentless fat fuck Fat Daly. It was recently decided that if we were to enlarge Gabe's asshole, we might get Fat Daly. This brought me great joy. Hey Gabe, you gonna put links up again? What the eff, man?

One of my contact lenses has completely clouded over and it's making me surly.

not my finest hour

Let's examine some of the truly tasteless things yours truly has done lately, shall we? Come on, it'll be a hoot, as I used to say.

I yakked in my toilet, on my couch and in my bed. Then I peed in my bed. There is nothing more humiliating than waking up naked, on a naked mattress and seeing a hair drier plugged into the wall and a plastic bowl on the nightstand. Because then you realize: you weren't alone. Someone cleaned up your yak, your pee, your furniture, your rug and yes, YOU. Someone made sure you didn't cuddle with any of your teddy bears and offered their easier-to-clean body instead.

There's something called grace that I don't think was bestowed upon me at birth. Maybe it has do with me being a sloppy dresser or never feeling completely comfortable in my skin .. I often wondered about becoming a man but I don't think I could go through with it. They call them social graces .. not social quirks or social mishaps . . . I sometimes feel like a social nightmare: a farting, nosepicking, freefood eating, sometimes rather drunken hooligan.

I replaced the health kick of february and march with an april bender.

I just ate a crossoint. sp?

The last hour of work

You know it. You've been there. It's the last hour of work. You swore to yourself that you'd work as much overtime as possible and now here you are, counting the minutes till the whistle goes off. Yabba dabba do.

I don't have much to report. Got sick over the weekend. Banged my face on the toilet and now I've got a huge bruise on my right cheek, my right inner thigh, the underside of my right arm. Look like some sort of battered housewife. Was white wine involved? You betcha. Was some sort of seafood appetizer a factor? Oh dear god, yes. As my sheets will fully attest. Ew. Ew. Ew.

The apartment I'd hoped to get in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn. . . they finally got back to me. Three weeks later. Said it was down to me and one guy and they really had a hard time deciding. Now they want to invite me to their housewarming. Whores. I'm going to tell myself that one of the guys who had a girlfriend was insanely attracted to me and couldn't handle living with me and that the gay guy (the other guy in the house) was threatened by my masculinity as well as my ownership of a non-penis (aka vagina). Whatever. The bedroom didn't have a window.

It's spring time. That's something. Trees in bloom. I continue to bang away at my script and vow to live a more artistic life. Have started The Artist's Way for the 15th time. Each time I do it, I learn something new. Though usually I think I do it right after a breakup.

Saw Gabe for the first time in over a year today. He looks good, though he'd tell you otherwise. Gabe, for christ's sake, will you put your blog back up?

When in doubt, clean. That's what I shall do.

"etc" jobs

Once again, I'm trolling craigslist for work and I come across this post:

Midget stripper needed for Bachelor party, June 5 ($$$)


It's something you never really think about. I mean, you think about midgets .. who doesn't? You think about strippers, certainly. But midget strippers?

I imagine it probably doesn't take a midget very long to strip, since their clothes are so small. But then again, so are their limbs, so it's probably all relative.

But perhaps my point is that I need a new job but if you're a midget stripper, you're all set.

What does this email mean?

Please be advised that today April 13th there will be people from Knoxville coming around to take Fixed Asset Inventory. Please allow them just a few minutes to look underneath your desk. If you have any questions or concerns please feel free to contact me.

By request . ..

Trying to add stuff about my mom to a script I'm working on:

My mom was patient and kind and polite. She loved breezes in the summer and painting snow with bits of sponge in the winter. The kitchen was warm and AM radio was jolly. She had the ugliest feet I’ve ever seen. Clearly, they’d never, EVER seen a pedicure. Yet she regularly colored her hair with Loving Care and constantly plucked her eyebrows. Once she accidentally dyed her hair pink. She had the same haircut for at least 40 years, maybe longer. She sent me care packages when I went to camp for two weeks every summer. She sewed costumes for every dance recital I performed in and played Chopin for me when I was a little girl. Pieces I would later play at her funeral. She drank ice water incessantly, took mile long walks and longer bikerides. She grew a beautiful garden. When she wrapped gifts, she included miniature roses she’d grown tied into the ribbons.

She was horrified by older men in speedos:
“Those old men with their . . . dried up . . .genitalia!”

Who says that? Who says genitalia?

When my sister was 16, my mom put on her bright red bathing suit to prove that she hadn’t gained weight since marriage and three kids and wore it to the beach.

When I was 13, my mom wordlessly left a giant box of maxi pads in my bedroom, behind my bed.

When I missed her cheek once when I kissed her goodnight, she said
“Girls never kiss each other on the lips. Never.”

And thus was my inroad to my own sexuality. My mom was in Yugoslavia when I got my first period. Was God suggesting that maybe Mom wouldn’t be around for the big events in my life?

I miss her. I don’t remember what her laugh sounded like but I remember how rosy her olive skin turned when she drank wine. She talked to my dad every day at lunch time and talked to her mother for at least an hour at least once a week.

When she died, I rushed to her bureau and looked at her clothes, her jewelry, her stylish clutch purses that had long since been replaced by handbags more practical. I stole my favorite pair of earrings, a pair of beautiful opals encircled in gold, remembered the way they’d dangled from her ears.

and so we press on . .

This is from a famous novel or similar and I'm confident my friend Tim knows what it is .. Ulysses or similar I imagine. Although then I find myself humming Bob Seger's "Against the Wind."

I'm notorious for causing myself unnecessary pain and worry. Masochistic, yes?

I used to go to my long-since exboyfriend's website to see what he was up to and hope that it was nothing. More upset when it wasn't. Now I just flip to the comedy section of Time Out New York. Haven't seen his name in there in a while. 'Course that could mean he's out of state and doing something more important than what I'm doing right now.

And then I hate myself for doing that. Thinking that.

So today I went to the website of the production company that shafted me a couple years ago. Their movie just got into the Cannes Film Festival. Not the one I acted in . . . no mention of that one except that it's still in "post production" . . They're doing plenty of little projects that are reminiscent of the play of mine they put up and have since abandoned any note of. They don't even mention the director, who is easily one of the most talented theater professionals in New York.

And so with the conveniences of the internet come a multitude of ways to torture oneself.

I pull the black and white postcard out of its hiding place behind the list of Production Contacts at my cube and will it to burn into my brain, bleed into it with indelible ink:

NEVER LET THE ODDS
KEEP YOU FROM DOING
WHAT YOU KNOW
IN YOUR HEART YOU WERE
MEANT TO DO.

Since whittling my life's goals down to two: 1) get out of debt, 2) get collection of plays published, my path has become quite clear. Even on a day to day level. Do I need to go to Williamsburg at 11pm to see my friend's band on a tuesday night? Does that help me achieve either of my goals? Nope. Do I need to buy a dresser? Nope.

Do I need . .do I need . .do I need ..

And so I start adding my real goals to my "to do" list at work. Start thinking of the various places my next paycheck will/will not go. Remember that God put me here for a reason and if I don't use the gifts He gave me, I slight not only myself and God, but you, my family, my friends, my neighbors, my co-workers, humanity. Were I a scientist with the cure for cancer but instead I decided to be a Production Assistant at a cable network, I'd surely be shafting someone, no?

It's just about outdoor drinking season and Druid's will open its outdoor garden soon and I will gulp wine or Yuengling, smoke the occasional cig (though am trying to stop once and for all) and drink some of this feeling away. Ugh, that was a poor last sentence. My apologies. It was like a Hallmark card for depressed people.

so terd.

The following "read receipt" makes me laugh.

Note: This Return Receipt only acknowledges that the message was received by the server. There is no guarantee that the content has been read or understood.

I love this. It suggests that that the recipient of my email is a fucking idiot and that makes me laugh.

In other news, I think my recruiter/headhunter chick is breaking up with me. Her love of me has clearly faded. She has stopped calling me ten times a day and our daily rapport, 20 emails bandied back and forth has faded to a sad 3. So sad. Sigh. I had hoped to have landed an expensive job and a cheap apartment by now. Alas.

I think I picked my nose too much today. It's a little sore.

crikey.

want new job. want money. ggrrrr. that is all. more soon. must go to copywriting class. yours in Christ, k.