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.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
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!
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!
Thursday, October 15, 2009
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
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Broke Down
I should write about this because it represents a serious failure on my part.
I have a cigarette in my mouth currently. It makes me feel like shit. But, you know....I already felt like shit. I feel shitty when I smoke, shitty when I don't.
It all started with a relatively harmless phone call from my ex, hereafter known as goat boy. Harmless if you count the fact that two out of the last three times I saw him I was confessing my undying love (as was he, mind you). The problem with that scenario was that his baby brother had just been shot and killed. Never a good situation, especially when you put he and I and mucho Guinness in the same room.
So - the point is that I should probably have realized that goat boy and I just cannot be friends. It really doesn't matter to me that he is getting married, he's been engaged for about a year already and our stupid asinine relationship began way before that. What matters is that he's an arrogant, cocky, immature jerk. I know these things, of course, but I love all the other parts about him. It's possible there is no one else in the world I am meant to be with, if you believe in that sort of thing. No person of the male gender that is not related to me has ever understood me or known me better. This is why I love him, I think.
He called me and we talked about stupid stuff, Paul Newman movies, music, my raging desire to quit smoking....and then he told me that there was such little joy in the world that he would never deny himself smoking.
Then right before we disconnected, he told me he loved me. He hung up.
I am smart. I know when I'm being played. This boy has been playing me from the beginning. I know it's very possible he doesn't really love me and he enjoys being with me because of the intellectual challenge, and the supreme physical chemistry. Whatever.
I almost had a breakdown over my lack of cigarettes at that point. I threw a tissue box. Agony overtook me. I washed my face, put on some pajamas, and was about to turn out the lights when he called and asked me to have coffee with him.
Uh huh.
He was drunk and flirtatious and all those things I knowingly fall for each and every time, because I don't care or have enough self-respect to walk away. I bought a pack of cigarettes and smoked with him.
We parted as we always do, with regret and longing, knowing that this isn't the last time we will cheat. I continued to smoke while driving home, and I had a cigarette this morning.
Almost done with the pack now and my chest feels heavy and disgusting. I have a terrible headache and I don't actually care enough to be angry about my breakdown. It's like, meh. I will not keep on with the cigarettes but I have this compulsive desire to finish the pack.
Goat boy's brief appearance isn't why I smoked, not even remotely. He and I have been doing this song and dance for so long it feels tired and boring. What made me smoke is an extreme unhappiness with my life, with or without cigarettes. It just becomes more acute without the smokes.
And.....there you have it. I am on a pit stop but I guess I'll get back in the car and keep driving. Fucking lame analogy, but basically the truth.
Also, the physicist hasn't called me yet. Asshole, it's a goddamn courtesy, especially when you have a piece of her clothing that she's asked for. Fucking look for it!
I have a cigarette in my mouth currently. It makes me feel like shit. But, you know....I already felt like shit. I feel shitty when I smoke, shitty when I don't.
It all started with a relatively harmless phone call from my ex, hereafter known as goat boy. Harmless if you count the fact that two out of the last three times I saw him I was confessing my undying love (as was he, mind you). The problem with that scenario was that his baby brother had just been shot and killed. Never a good situation, especially when you put he and I and mucho Guinness in the same room.
So - the point is that I should probably have realized that goat boy and I just cannot be friends. It really doesn't matter to me that he is getting married, he's been engaged for about a year already and our stupid asinine relationship began way before that. What matters is that he's an arrogant, cocky, immature jerk. I know these things, of course, but I love all the other parts about him. It's possible there is no one else in the world I am meant to be with, if you believe in that sort of thing. No person of the male gender that is not related to me has ever understood me or known me better. This is why I love him, I think.
He called me and we talked about stupid stuff, Paul Newman movies, music, my raging desire to quit smoking....and then he told me that there was such little joy in the world that he would never deny himself smoking.
Then right before we disconnected, he told me he loved me. He hung up.
I am smart. I know when I'm being played. This boy has been playing me from the beginning. I know it's very possible he doesn't really love me and he enjoys being with me because of the intellectual challenge, and the supreme physical chemistry. Whatever.
I almost had a breakdown over my lack of cigarettes at that point. I threw a tissue box. Agony overtook me. I washed my face, put on some pajamas, and was about to turn out the lights when he called and asked me to have coffee with him.
Uh huh.
He was drunk and flirtatious and all those things I knowingly fall for each and every time, because I don't care or have enough self-respect to walk away. I bought a pack of cigarettes and smoked with him.
We parted as we always do, with regret and longing, knowing that this isn't the last time we will cheat. I continued to smoke while driving home, and I had a cigarette this morning.
Almost done with the pack now and my chest feels heavy and disgusting. I have a terrible headache and I don't actually care enough to be angry about my breakdown. It's like, meh. I will not keep on with the cigarettes but I have this compulsive desire to finish the pack.
Goat boy's brief appearance isn't why I smoked, not even remotely. He and I have been doing this song and dance for so long it feels tired and boring. What made me smoke is an extreme unhappiness with my life, with or without cigarettes. It just becomes more acute without the smokes.
And.....there you have it. I am on a pit stop but I guess I'll get back in the car and keep driving. Fucking lame analogy, but basically the truth.
Also, the physicist hasn't called me yet. Asshole, it's a goddamn courtesy, especially when you have a piece of her clothing that she's asked for. Fucking look for it!
Sunday, October 11, 2009
nothing
Nothing will ever replace smoking. There is a vast emptiness in my life that smoking filled. Now that it's gone, there is nothing.
I am a ridiculous irrelevant piece of trash.
I like a guy but am kind of sure he won't like me. He's cooler than me, which means that he's smarter and more interesting. He is himself, all the time, and I envy that greatly.
I've decided my job is completely soul sucking and destroying very important parts of me. I love it, but it's fucking difficult to remain who I am and do well at my job.
I need money. I need to get my credit better and pay my bills better. I need to be better.
I like this guy. I want to see him and spend time with him. This is strange for me.
I can't tell if he's a gigantic nerd or just really cool. He's a physicist and engineer and plays guitar in a band and lives in a house that isn't quite up to code but he's fixing the electrical.
The problem is I think I'm putting guys and sex into my life in place of the smoking, and that's not good.
But I must say, the sex with the physicist is probably the best I've ever had. Yeah. It's damn good. Mmmmmmmmmmmm.
Fuck. I hate most guys who are interested in me. They're not smart enough, interesting enough, etc. Physicist, well, he's funny and smart and interesting and really hot. My life is over. I know exactly where this is going to go. I am going to fall in love and he will break my heart. This is always what happens when I meet guys that actually pique my interest. I get shit on.
Fuck.
I had a funeral for my cigarettes today. I smoked about half of one, put it out, and buried it in the ground with a purple lighter. A little weird, yes, but sometimes closure is necessary to assuage the grief.
I am bored and anxious, waiting for the physicist to call me. He said that he would early in this week. So - today is Sunday, maybe he will call Monday or Tuesday? I don't know. He may realize I'm a sham, a waste of space, a loser, and just never call me again. Fuck.
The reason I say these things is because he is authentic, and I work in politics. Oh yeah. I suck. Maybe he sucks too, I don't know. I am not used to being nervous about a guy generally because none of them are remotely interesting enough for me to worry about.
Well, anyways, gonna listen to some music and read my Andrew Jackson biography. Cheers.
I am a ridiculous irrelevant piece of trash.
I like a guy but am kind of sure he won't like me. He's cooler than me, which means that he's smarter and more interesting. He is himself, all the time, and I envy that greatly.
I've decided my job is completely soul sucking and destroying very important parts of me. I love it, but it's fucking difficult to remain who I am and do well at my job.
I need money. I need to get my credit better and pay my bills better. I need to be better.
I like this guy. I want to see him and spend time with him. This is strange for me.
I can't tell if he's a gigantic nerd or just really cool. He's a physicist and engineer and plays guitar in a band and lives in a house that isn't quite up to code but he's fixing the electrical.
The problem is I think I'm putting guys and sex into my life in place of the smoking, and that's not good.
But I must say, the sex with the physicist is probably the best I've ever had. Yeah. It's damn good. Mmmmmmmmmmmm.
Fuck. I hate most guys who are interested in me. They're not smart enough, interesting enough, etc. Physicist, well, he's funny and smart and interesting and really hot. My life is over. I know exactly where this is going to go. I am going to fall in love and he will break my heart. This is always what happens when I meet guys that actually pique my interest. I get shit on.
Fuck.
I had a funeral for my cigarettes today. I smoked about half of one, put it out, and buried it in the ground with a purple lighter. A little weird, yes, but sometimes closure is necessary to assuage the grief.
I am bored and anxious, waiting for the physicist to call me. He said that he would early in this week. So - today is Sunday, maybe he will call Monday or Tuesday? I don't know. He may realize I'm a sham, a waste of space, a loser, and just never call me again. Fuck.
The reason I say these things is because he is authentic, and I work in politics. Oh yeah. I suck. Maybe he sucks too, I don't know. I am not used to being nervous about a guy generally because none of them are remotely interesting enough for me to worry about.
Well, anyways, gonna listen to some music and read my Andrew Jackson biography. Cheers.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
8 Days
I have been smoke free for 7 whole days and I'm extremely bored. My life is a vacuous pit of nothingness. It's like the weird blackness that took over the world in The Neverending Story. I am sitting here right now drinking coffee and I'm bored out of my mind.
This week I got a phone call from my ex, who I still basically am in love with, and it really made my day. He cheered me up and asked why I would do such a silly thing as to quit smoking. Miserable is sometimes worse than smoking was his point.
I went out with this guy last night, he's nice, kind of dorky, he very much reminds me of President Obama. Nowhere near as hot because, yes, President Obama is smoking fine, but they have the same skin tone and height/build, and manner of speaking. I found out that he lives with his mother because he JUST got out of a 7 year relationship.
OK, I have known him for 3 weeks and he just told me this, which is fine, but I know exactly what it is like to get out of a 7 year relationship. Three years ago this month I ended a relationship that was going nowhere, and I no longer loved him, but it took me a really long time to get over the whole stupid ordeal. So, I am a little worried about him being ready to date me.
Also, I'm a maneater and get bored very easily. I am almost already bored with him. I can't seem to concentrate on one guy for a very long time.
I can't seem to concentrate on a damn thing without cigarettes.
Life has basically no meaning anymore. I don't like food that much, so I can't turn to that, and my coffee intake has increased to dangerous levels.
Sex isn't helping either.
Work helps, but at some point I have to go home.
This is how I feel all the time:
This week I got a phone call from my ex, who I still basically am in love with, and it really made my day. He cheered me up and asked why I would do such a silly thing as to quit smoking. Miserable is sometimes worse than smoking was his point.
I went out with this guy last night, he's nice, kind of dorky, he very much reminds me of President Obama. Nowhere near as hot because, yes, President Obama is smoking fine, but they have the same skin tone and height/build, and manner of speaking. I found out that he lives with his mother because he JUST got out of a 7 year relationship.
OK, I have known him for 3 weeks and he just told me this, which is fine, but I know exactly what it is like to get out of a 7 year relationship. Three years ago this month I ended a relationship that was going nowhere, and I no longer loved him, but it took me a really long time to get over the whole stupid ordeal. So, I am a little worried about him being ready to date me.
Also, I'm a maneater and get bored very easily. I am almost already bored with him. I can't seem to concentrate on one guy for a very long time.
I can't seem to concentrate on a damn thing without cigarettes.
Life has basically no meaning anymore. I don't like food that much, so I can't turn to that, and my coffee intake has increased to dangerous levels.
Sex isn't helping either.
Work helps, but at some point I have to go home.
This is how I feel all the time:
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