Rage

I am breathless with rage right now, so much so that I am taking time out of my insanely busy day to...vent, I suppose.

Politics is my bread and butter, it is what I surround myself with daily, both professionally and personally. Embroilment in local politics can be trying but is ultimately extremely satisfying when I can help constituents with their needs. It's a cesspool, though, of wannabes and self-important jackoffs who never made it to the state or national level and crave even insignificant levels of power within their own small community. I deal with these people too, and it's distasteful but part of my job.

For graduate school I chose Washington, D.C. I attended one of the most prestigious schools of international relations in the country, if not the world, and I became enmeshed in national/international politics at the highest levels.

I spend my free time reading political blogs, political novels/books, talking to friends about politics. It's my passion, my weakness, my strength, and basically, my life.

However, I do not myself blog or write about politics because I need some sort of outlet, some alternate form of reality to save me from jumping out of a window. There's no levity in that statement - I have been moved on occasion to end it all because I cannot seem to deal with the overwhelming passion and disappointment I experience on a daily basis, experienced by just driving to work in the morning.

But this.....this.....this is too much to bear.

The Stupak Amendment, passed on November 7th, is a direct assault upon my body, my brain, my soul, my individuality, my identity, and my purpose.

Should I be surprised? No. We haven't managed to get the ERA passed and therefore there is no constitutional recognition, let alone protection, of women in this country. We can't argue for our human rights because we still are not recognized, legally, as human beings. I can own property, get divorced, vote, hold down a job...but I do not have control over my body.

Sexism pervades my life so exquisitely that it is impossible to notice most of the time. Informally, sexism is something I cannot change, but I can defend myself against it. Formally, however, well.......the Vatican has more of a say over my rights than I do. Who the fuck do they think they are, legislating morality and religion? I do not believe in god, any god. I do not believe in heaven or hell or limbo or purgatory. I do not believe that a fetus is a tiny little human with a soul. It is definitely something, which is called a fetus, but it's not me.

Regardless of the way in which religion has framed the abortion debate, it's essentially about my right to decide what to do with my body. It's actually legal in this country to receive an abortion, yet since Roe v. Wade, protection after protection has been culled away until this most recent assault.

I can't offer any answers right now, I'm just insanely enraged and cannot focus on anything else. I must get back to work, I feel slightly less homicidal.

Celibacy & Smokes

It happens mostly when I realize I don't have anyone to go to a bar with. Loneliness, that is. 95% of the time I am completely happy to be alone, sans romantic interest.

It's probably that I'm just being selfish with my time, but I'm 28 years old. I'm designed to be selfish with my time. I spend roughly 60-70 hours a week working for the constituents of my district, so it's not like I need to volunteer on weekends or anything. NOT that I shouldn't volunteer independently; I actually belong to a very active volunteer organization and we do amazing things. Essentially, I don't give a fuck about amending my time or life to accommodate some smelly asshole who wants to watch football on weekends. I'm done with that.

So - celibacy. This Friday it will be a month, which makes me sad, because I really liked that guy. His loss.

Celibacy and cigarettes is my new motto. If I'm not hooking up with anyone, there's no one to criticize my smoking. A colleague of mine, with whom I had a dangerous flirtation that was eventually consummated in a very inappropriate place, keeps nagging me about smoking. I called him yesterday to schedule a meeting, and he said he would come only if I quit smoking.

That reminds me of a line from Tori Amos' "Precious Things."

"So you can make me cum, that doesn't make you Jesus."

He didn't even make that happen, but it's beside the point. He's not my boyfriend, brother, or father, therefore his opinion was duly noted and filed away the first fucking time he told me, 4 months ago!

If he wants to be able to tell me over and over to stop smoking, then he needs to do some serious stepping up. This will never happen given our similarities as 'players' so the next time he says anything, I will hurt him.

The worst part is that he was a smoker for YEARS. He smoked a pack and a half a day, in addition to weed, so exactly where does his motivation to scold me at every opportunity come from? His own reformed state? Please and gag me. The minute I start taking life lessons from him is the time at which my soul will be irreversibly damaged.

It just occurred to me that perhaps he thinks he can tell me what to do because we slept together. Good thing our meeting is on Friday. If he were to appear in front of me right now, I'd bitch slap him with no remorse.

The friendship is worth saving, so I'll just need to confront him nicely about this crap and hope he moves on and finds something else to tease or nag me about.

Celibacy and cigarettes.

Levoquin

I am on my second set of antibiotics, the first having failed spectacularly at curing my sinus infection and causing it to come back tenfold with a vengeance.

I had to take another day off from work, in which I tried to sleep but the blinding pain in my nose and face wouldn't allow such a luxury.

I missed Halloween too. I could have gone to any number of places, surrounded myself with great friends, but no. I sat at home in my Nancy Spungen costume, watched 30 Rock on Netflix, and played Vampire Wars.

Instead of giving me the shits, this new antibiotic just makes me very tired. Sick of being sick, sick of taking Nyquil and Robitussin and Theraflu and Fisherman's Friends and my nose is red and ugly.

Bundle of joy, that's what I am. My brother and I did watch Shaun of the Dead yesterday, best zombie movie ever (objectively not really but I just love watching it). My sister bought Fright Night with the always lovely Prince Humperdink (otherwise known as Chris Sarandon), and I did manage to carve a pumpkin with a cat and a crescent moon, only bungling it up a little. Oh, and we ate fantastic salted pumpkin seeds, sooooooo yummy.

I need cigarettes but don't have the energy to shower up and go outside. After yesterday's wind storm, today has turned out quite lovely. Sky blue skies and crisp cold Fall air. A decent day, actually.

The quitting of the smoking is not going well. Truly I detest smoking, but my willpower is at an absolute low currently. I look like crap, feel like crap, and I just don't care.

In other news, the lament of Tori Amos' career begins today.

She has been so spectacular in the past but somehow her muse has been corrupted and she's fallen into the trap of self-important weirdo musician. It saddens me considerably, but there are an infinite amount of artists out there making far better music than her, and I am moving on. Nothing can beat the glory of Blood Roses or Putting the Damage On (to which I cried when I saw her live in August, sue me).

I promised my bestest buddy Cisco that I would download the iTunes version of her new record "Midwinter Graces" (yeah, I know), since he is buying the other two and it is his mission in life to acquire every recording ever produced by Tori. Gag me.

I'd rather spend money on finishing my Will Oldham/Bonnie Prince Billy collection, or figuring out how to make Caleb from Kings of Leon fall in love with me.

Tori did talk about nicotine and cigarettes and smoking a lot on her last album, which intrigued me. Often when an artist/musician/band references smoking, it makes me happy in an oh so not pc way. Because people smoke! We do! People actually like smoking!!! There's something to the whole smoking thing, why else would we do it?

I was addicted to nicotine yet when the nicotine fully left my body, I still craved a cigarette like nobody's business. Why? Not because of my nicotine addiction, but because of my psychological addiction. So - when it is portrayed in artwork, I relate.

Just for fun....

Helloween

My best friend Sofia had a brilliant idea - let's dress up as the characters from Kill Bill!!! Sofia and Pony (her husband, and names changed to protect the innocent) and I spend a lot of time drinking wine (or gin, or scotch, or beer, or anything on hand really...) and talking about film, politics, philosophy, history, whatever. We sometimes agree, sometimes disagree, but the fun is in the debate. Our film history is sketchy - they really like M. Night Shyamalan whereas I really only liked Unbreakable, but if there is one are we are all 100% on, it is Tarantino.

I love Tarantino because he has, in all his mediocrity at coming up with original ideas, basically put to film what he loves and in an original way. The second Kill Bill movie is my favorite, as it is stylized on the classic western genre, something which is never ever bad in my book.

Last year I was a retro Hooters girl. This may sound ridiculous and anti-feminist blah blah blah, but I have the necessary equipment and I wore a blonde Farrah Fawcett wig, some gray 70s gym shorts with white piping, my puma sneakers, and a black Hooters tank top. MOST COMFORTABLE COSTUME EVER. I live for the comfortable yet awesome Halloween costume. I was once Red Riding Hood (my bf at the time dressed up fully as a wolf, it was awesome) and I wore a red plaid mini skirt, a white tank top, and a red cape. Simple, comfortable, yet recognizable.

So - this year I will be Beatrix Kiddo, AKA Black Mamba, AKA the Bride. Sofia will be Daryl Hannah's* character, Elle, complete with eye patch, and Pony will be Pai Mei.

I am thinking of being Beatrix as she was in the death scene with Elle. She had just clawed her way through being buried alive, is covered in dirt and blood, and is wearing jeans and a light button down shirt. She is also barefoot, which I plan to remedy with wearing light colored barely-there flip flops. Seriously, all I need to buy is a blonde wig (last year's went 'missing'), a sword, and an eyeball.

"Bitch, you have no future." I get to utter this line all night.

In my previous life I was The Good, Clint Eastwood's character from the spaghetti westerns. Before that, I was probably Andrew Jackson. I don't actually believe in reincarnation, I am agnostic, but given my personality I could easily see this to be true. Lofty ideals for sure, and I'm definitely not into murdering Native Americans (as was good Old Hickory), but everything else rings true.

I have to go return my policewoman costume that I bought before I found out that my costume had been assigned to me, which was too small and far too slutty anyways. I think they sewed it for a female of average height, meaning 5'4", because the costume was just far too short, up top and on the bottom. I should just sew my own, but I'm lazy, and I'm pretty sure my sister is not going to dress up as the gangster I encouraged her to be.

I am pondering a trip to the Reservation to buy much cheaper cigarettes than the pack a day I've currently been buying. To do this would admit defeat, however, and I'm just not in the mood to accept my failure. Let's leave that for another day. For once it's sunny, the sky is blue, and I am at 80% health-wise.

Off to buy a blonde wig and practice my kung fu!

*Daryl Hannah's next movie after Kill Bill vol. 2 was Yo Puta. I never knew she could make such interesting films. Assassin to whore, and owning each role magnificently**.

**I was once in a spelling bee when I was in 3rd grade. We were down to the last three contestants, me and two 7th graders. I spelled magnificent with an 'a', and to this day it haunts me.

Shizzle

Shizzle is my substitute swear word for shit. Shit became my favorite curse word perhaps when I was 10 or so, but now that I work in the wonderful world of politics, I can't let my tongue be that loose....well, in front of other people. There's more than enough swearing going on behind closed doors. I just loved when President Obama called Kanye a jackass because he is my political idol and it somehow made my potty mouth seem better.

Shizzle is actually a derivation of shizzle nizzle, which is a derivation of "that's some cold shizzle nizzle," a dubbed quote from a Jet Li movie that my sister and I watched on TNT several years ago. Ever after, it has been a line we whip out and laugh to hysterically.

Why am I writing about this? I came down with a blinding sinus infection last Sunday. I knew I was sick because although I normally suffer ridiculous levels of sinus pain, this was accompanied by a fever and the cold shakes. Alternations of extreme work business and me laying in bed reading blogs and watching hulu have ensued. Tuesday was my first sick day since I became an official politico (instead of just a volunteer), a fact that makes me proud because in previous professional incarnations, I have exhausted my sick days within months.

This is all leading to my extreme denial that my sinus infection has ANYTHING to do at all with my resumption of the cigarettes. I became ill because I wasn't sleeping, was stressed out about work, and live with my family, 2 of whom suffered from severe sinus infections mere days before I became ill.

And I continue to smoke. Usually when sick, cigarettes take a slight edge off of the pain. This time, not so. This sinus infection is completely within my sinus cavities. It's not so much a build up of mucus as it is an inflammation of the sinus cavities, which apparently causes the mind numbing pain (thank you Web MD). The pain is at such a consistent, dull level that I can barely think straight while working. I have become quite stupid.

Shizzle has become such a part of my vocabulary that I have started to use it almost ubiquitously. I must train my brain to start saying shit again. Since I was a child, I have had the habit of talking out loud to myself, holding entire conversations, vocally putting out into the world all the strange things that go on in my head. It's quite embarrassing when I loudly shout 'shizzle!' upon tripping on steps or stubbing a toe in public.

This blog post is a perfect example of my inability to concentrate on one thing at a time while suffering this ridiculous bacterial infection. The worst part about it is that I was put on a regimen of 5 day antibiotics, SUPER antibiotics, instead of the normal 10 day dosage. These drugs, called z pack, have instituted a severe case of gastrointestinal distress. Now I not only have a fever and sinus pain, but I also am suffering from nausea and other problems, things which have caused me to shout shizzle more than a few times in the past week.

To my great delight, there are now only 10 days left until the general election. A hiatus from literature drops and phone banking is direly needed by this nicotine addict. It won't last long, I anticipate a flurry of activity beginning in early December, but I need some goddamn rest.

I have the perfect job. I do a million things a day, travel all over the area I live in, go to meetings about everything from economic development to building new community centers, organize press conferences, write legislation, design and administer a web site, go to events and functions where it is actually EXPECTED for me to drink and enjoy myself, and hobnob with an extremely interesting variety of individuals.

When I get home, however, the last thing I want to do is read another Mailer book (one is staring me down right now, just waiting to be read), or take up a hobby like learning to play guitar, or even gussy myself up for a date.

I just want to lie in bed and watch old movies on netflix, smoke cigarettes and drink wine. Which is what I'm doing right now. Perfect rainy Saturday (I did drive over an hour at the crack of dawn this morning to do a lit drop, but I'm forgetting that).

Shizzle!

and we each made an incision

It always astounds me how Regina Spektor makes the most profound observations on life yet still manages to write well-constructed, lyrically beautiful songs.

I listened to this album at work today and I must say, it is a great accompaniment to writing and research

wine and brownies

I am still smoking, it still tastes vile, yet today I was happier and more upbeat than I have been since I quit. It feels strange, like putting on an old pair of jeans and realizing they no longer fit.

I began smoking three years ago at the end of a very long and, in the end, deeply unsatisfying relationship. I had a plan, a purpose, goals, a vision for what would happen when I finished graduate school - somehow a Master's degree was going to make my life better, more important.... This began to unravel about 1 year into the program and 6 years into the relationship.

The quiet disintegration of love takes effect slowly so that the victim doesn't really realize what is happening. My summer in Ecuador was the catalyst for this realization, and by the time I watched him walking towards me in the airport in Quito, 3 months after my arrival, I knew what had to be done. It took another 3 months; logistically leaving the love of your life is difficult, especially when you've recently relocated to a city in which the only other living soul you know is the one whose heart you're about to break.

We were finished and I had to find my way. Smoking became my new boyfriend, my new lover, my new confidant. One doesn't feel quite as lonely with cigarettes by her side when she is drinking a bottle of wine and watching old movies.

Smoking is a destination, a place to go to, an ever-present pull towards the future. You keep going on because you need that next cigarette. There's a fucking point to life, even if it's as minuscule as lighting one up.

It's a mask, really, covering up my real issues with life. I am a confident and charismatic woman with no real self-esteem. Each day I tackle new challenges in my chosen profession, excelling and doing 'important' things. Each night, though, I come home to myself and find it a big empty space.

The curling bend of the smoke rising out of my ashtray fills that void. I don't think anymore. I used to be a big thinker, content to spend her time contemplating the universe's giant unsolved questions. Nowadays, if I do think, it's about whether or not I should send out that press release to a certain blog, and how to politically maneuver the constant demands upon my time.

Academia is my haven, my Valhalla, but I just didn't go there. Every chance I got, I turned in the opposite direction.

And now here I am, living at home with my parents because I don't make enough money to support myself and pay my bills, alone each night with the inescapable reality of myself.

At the bottom of it all is my greatest fear that I am insufferably boring and irrelevant. Knowing from an early age that I wasn't a genius but remarkably smart, I have never actually been able to accept this.

This is perhaps why the physicist held my attention - he is smart in a way I can never be. Sure, give me a debate on the feminist conception of the 'home' as it applies to international spheres of influence, but ask me to construct even a simple workhorse and I will fail.

So I smoke. And I smoke. It saves me from myself. I don't want to think about myself. I don't want to be presented with the acute horror of who I really am. This delusion is scary, actually, because I have always ascribed to the tenet "know thyself." Only as you get older do you realize what an impossible challenge this is.

I drink my cabernet, surprisingly good, and eat the brownies my mother made (still soft in the middle), and smoke a stolen pack from my father. I can't possibly recall the fortitude with which I first gave up cigarettes 3 weeks ago.

The physicist will not call me, which sucks, because I truly wanted to inhale his very presence. Goat boy is an ass, but a lovable ass, and at this point it's comforting just to know that he exists out there, loving me. The dork, well, I am seeing him tomorrow. Zombie boy is on the books for Sunday. I keep seeing these men for no apparent reason other than to distract myself from reality.

I am working all weekend - it is campaign season after all. I cannot wait to walk outside in the drizzly northeast cold dropping off literature Saturday morning, and attend fundraisers and award dinners that night. At least free booze is involved at the latter of those events.

Summing up this ridiculously self-indulgent pity party of a blog post, I will very likely soon try to quit smoking again. I just took my good wool winter coat to the cleaners today, don't want to sully its magical cleanliness with stinky cigarette smoke.