Forgive Me. I decided to wear polyester.

But you're really not going to DO anything about it....

2011-08-14T02:05:00.002-04:00

Things seem like they're heading in a downward spiral to hell at "corporate."

The other night, I referred to the place as a "gaping hole of depression," only to be immediately and defensively questioned by another individual. However, I think that the feeling of being upset, disdainful, lethargic, melancholy, underpaid, trapped, etc, warrants my labeling. Anything that is of another opinion I would gladly welcome, but I would probably end up using the logic of "defend it or go piss somewhere other than on my shoes."

Everyone is overworked to the point of exhaustion, making fallible errors out of sheer lethargy, and trying to pin one another to walls. In addition, I have on more than one occasion heard a superior insult the character of a subordinate, just because he/she "could," and the sheer defamation of the subordinate's character gave enough of a morale boost for him/her to successfully complete their evening without committing suicide.

When human beings feel trapped, it's almost comical to see them gnaw each other to bits.

Relationships that once held meaning are now replaced with anti-social and cold platitudes. People stare at one another and forget moments they had together. Everything just burns into a semi-blissful haze, that can easily and somewhat frequently turn into a bad trip; a nightmare.

I watch some who sometimes have a good grip on reality turn into slovenly beings with absolutely no comprehension for what is going on around them... and see their peers defend them, like they are the few dying members of some "has been" elite cult.

Labor laws have exhausted me, as I fight weekly to maintain a decent amount of hours. New York State has changed the labor laws, naturally to protect the very poor because that's the only thing this country can do right. (Meaning protect the very rich and the very poor...) I count my fair share of money every night, spending far too much time being criticized and pushed to nearly my breaking point. Meanwhile, people in other departments are making more money for the same amount of work.

My training team is absolute garbage. Only one of them has ventured to complete his action list since the last meeting, a meeting which I thought went very well. I do not know how to motivate these people any better than I've been trying to. I am not a "feel goody" person, but even I, who wouldn't care to see most of that staff alive or dead, can say the team is a cut above the rest and can be very efficient when probed to do a job correctly. Still, without the perks of discounts, a schedule, insurance, or money, these people could give a rat crap about the team... and I don't blame them.

What I do blame is certain individuals getting testy with me for not accepting their apathy with open arms. Naturally, I know the problem would be solved if everyone worked just 10% harder than they currently are doing... But those people will not give me that 10%, and find it obnoxious that I expect it... even too demanding?

Certainly I feel I have taken a spiky probe to my anus with a lot of these changes, but the sheer work ethic that has been instilled in me prevents me from doing a damned thing half-assed.

Should I become a half-assed fool, I will work less and make less money. I will be viewed poorly, which will severely inhibit my chances for future employment. In addition, since I am still (in my mid-twenties) paying for my mother's stupid fucking financial mistakes she made in HER mid-twenties, I must make damned on-time student loan payments of almost $600 dollars a month or this could hurt my siblings' educational endeavors. I can't ever get away from this wretched past of mine, can I?

People think I do this for my health, but in reality, I am just trying to keep some sort of order in my disgusting life.

I am watching what I knew would happen at 'corporate,' happen.

I, months ago, knew a dissipation of this nature would brutally unfold. Still, nobody is willing to do anything about it. Nobody is willing to give even an extra 10%. Nobody cares.

One of my colleagues gets angrier and angrier by the day because he is trapped, living in his in-law's basement because he cannot get a job in another state where his family is that pays enough money. Yet, he's not man enough to put his foot down and make his wife get a higher paying job. He says she doesn't have time because of their three children. She has the fucking time. If my mother had time to work three jobs when my brothers and I were very, very little, she has the fucking time.

But then again, my mother had the time, and hence, here is my work ethic. Here it is! It's here because I was raised by someone who MADE THE TIME.

I find most people in this world have this attitude that they're unhappy but completely unwilling to do anything to rectify their unhappiness.

People just want to stay unhappy. They don't want to make change.

And the sad thing is, instead of wanting to make change, those people get angry at people like ME for even proposing that change be made!

"Well how dare you ASK US to be angry that they are nickel and diming us to high hell!? How dare you ask us to ask for a simpler solution to problems? How DARE YOU ask us to work just a little bit harder? Why don't you do the work yourself!?"

And then, of course, as things play out in public sector jobs, conversations like these arise.

"Well, we're MANAGEMENT, so we do x, y, and z, which ultimately makes YOU incompetent."

To which retorts follow like "the only reason you're management is because you can live on $35,000 dollars a year, and you were too incompetent to do anything else..."

And the cycle blows out of proportion, creating a hostile, negative environment that nobody wants to be a part of. How does this affect me? Because when they quit, I have to train a whole new slew of actors that are good for nothing except singing and eventually reproducing... 8 hours a day with no small talk to be made. Lovely.

I was trying hard to make myself a member of the elite management, for job security, because I'm tired of waiting on people, and because I figure with the amount of nickel and diming they're doing, it won't be a pay cut come six months from now. But of course, I will not be afforded that opportunity because first I must do a job called "MA," which essentially means I have to work for slave wages. Rich parents would come in handy at this point in my life.

:: static :: "Fish to God, can you please send down some lovey dovey honey money so I can go fuck off as an MA, and then get a big girl job?"

Of course, my desires in that department are slowly dwindling. I must resign myself to the fact that I cannot make a damned difference. Of course, it is not in my blood to think I cannot make a difference.

I am starting to see, more and more as I grow older, that the categories of people I created when I was very young have not changed. People still fall into the same groups, for the most part.

Everything is a big ball of hot mess. I know the solution is to withdraw.

I kind of want to publish something before I do... However, I seemingly cannot find the energy or time. I just need a chunk of money to start my new life as a Ph. D student and avid bicycle rider.

The master plan

2011-08-12T17:08:00.001-04:00

Her name is Phoebe and she's silver. She stays in my hallway and comes with me to work. In fact, her spokes shine so wonderfully I almost feel guilty dragging her through the dirty streets. Still, she's part of my master plan of escapism.

All of the negative energy they've left me with will fall on her. It will savagely be pounded into her peddles and burned off somewhere along 1st avenue.

I don't need anything but this.

I am a machine. Machines need not eat, or sleep. Machines only require fuel.... I have enough of that.

Machines feel nothing of rejection, damnation, or humiliation. Machines know only how to be.

The choice between living and survival has drastically grown too close to being the same.

I will give them the image of the object they always wanted to see... And then I'll let them covet it. Reciprocity and mind over matter is a theory I've always practiced. Now, I am solely unavailable.

I will simply be an object.... an object like Phoebe. But unlike Phoebe, nobody will be taking me for a ride through a dirty street.

Make it better.... Take the time.

2011-06-20T02:49:00.001-04:00

I can't write words that aren't worth reading.

I could have easily written.

I'm so tired. I'm just so tired. I have nothing to say. I'm so tired.

Sing me a lullabye.

Gonna ride me that southbound all the way to Georgia--

2011-04-14T16:52:00.003-04:00

I live in a great city.

I live in the city of dreams... "Concrete jungle where dreams are made of."

I live in a place where you can get any type of food you want at any hour; a city with 24 hour public transit, and I live in a neighborhood where you can get off the train at 5:00 a.m. and still see young women and men walking around as if it were broad daylight.

I live in an aesthetically eye-pleasing city. I live among the blood and sweat of generations, working to erect structures that would house the greatest of geniuses, and the most indigent societal ingrates.

I live in a city where the booze flows 'til four, your gender and sexuality are irrelevant, your race, culture, class and creed can melt gracefully into a niche and stay there for all your years here.

But... I live in a city with some of the most washed up, shallow, poisonous, schizophrenic, terrible souls to spawn from the United States of America.

...and I'm tired.

I'm tired of it.

I'm tired of undesirables running me ragged. I'm tired of the culture clashes, the inflation, and the bad music.

I'm tired of the pure boredom I feel when I interact with just about everyone.

I knew it was time to leave the other night outside my favorite bar on Avenue A. I was smoking, eavesdropping on a conversation. It was between a few twenty-somethings, discussing the movie Love Actually. They were talking about the scene where the Portuguese woman lifted the paperweight, and the English writer's papers flew all over the lake. I interjected, and we all had a laugh. However, in the middle of our laugh, five fire trucks pulled up and people started running into the building across the street.

"Hey!" I said. "Take a look at this!"

...but they ignored me, and kept discussing the movie. That's all people do here. They talk about movies and TV. It's like they have no life experiences or stories to draw on of their own, so they just talk about pop culture. I'm sure whatever caused the slew of fire trucks would have been more interesting, but they weren't interested.

It's time to go.

I want to go south, south where people listen to classic rock and the word "vegan" isn't even in the dictionary.

I want to go south where it's warm, and where everyone moves at a simple pace.

I want to have a large apartment with a porch, and I want to smell the sweet air while I smoke cigarettes that cost me four dollars a pack.

People say I will be bored. People say the narrow-mindedness will get to me. But see, it won't. I'm from NORTHEASTERN PENNSYLVANIA! It's the same damn thing, but with snow.

I could really give a damn if the people around me are narrow-minded. I have my wits about me, and I'm ready.

I want to go to Emory, which is in Atlanta. I'm not really advertising this to people. A few know. Those who find out on their own will find out. I'm not doing anything to restrict the information. I don't plan to keep much contact with anyone I've met in New York, save for those who provide interesting stories.

I'm planning to apply, and if accepted, will go to school there for five years (probably starting in September, 2012.) I want to get my Ph. D. in Sociology, and teach communication in society. I want to research and publish in journals about socio-economic class, and team teach with my best friend of many years.

Of course, I don't want to teach in Georgia. What a waste of time that will be.

I want to study the southerners. I want to see them behave. I want to have time to have peace of mind, and actually continue to let my mind grow.

By the time I'm finished, I'll be 31.

I think 31 is a good time to get married, right?

Well, we'll see. Maybe it'll happen. Maybe it won't. Maybe I'll fall in love with the south. Maybe I'll come running back to New York? Who's to say what's right and wrong? Oh well... Who is John Galt? ;)

I'm stalking you.

2011-02-24T00:28:00.001-05:00

Dirk,

I never realized you are a scorpio. That explains a lot.

A scorpio alpha male... How many of you can there be in the world?

I find this to rile my curiosity. Strange.

I read what you wrote to me. I think you're just denying your basic human instincts. Now that I know you're a scorpio alpha male, it really doesn't surprise me. You feel uncomfortable when you feel those things, because you're a very black and white person in that regard. The truth is, I guarantee she does similar things... And she probably allows herself to enjoy them more.

Fish

postscript- find a way to find me on facebook.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Rational and irrational ranting

2011-02-07T10:46:00.002-05:00

She's been gone for over a week.

I feel like it's been longer because I drank a good deal of the time since she's been gone.

I'm not sure I can physically afford to live on my income this month. February is the absolute worst month in the world. The morale is awful. The people are terrible. The filthy vermin that do not belong to my race plague me with all sorts of inadequacies.... I find them trite and unbecoming. I think, sometimes, that I'd like to light them on fire while they are alive and in front of me. I dream of lighting mass amounts of them on fire, just to help me suffer another second of starring at them.

If she was here, I would tell her these things, and she would laugh and pet my head. But, she is not here, and instead I am looked at as if I have just boiled a newborn baby in a pot. I'm seen as an undesirable leper, probably because the idiots I am now forced to speak to don't see my story-telling for what it is; an obnoxious display of my vocabulary and macabre imagination.

I haven't spoken to the other one in over a week.

I slipped and asked him for a favor yesterday. I ended up yelling at him.

He did nothing about it. I screamed and he did nothing. He let me squeeze him for a moment, or five. I just squeezed his arm as if it was the most soothing object in the entire world. I felt stupid about it, but everything hurt and I needed to touch someone, or something that didn't absolutely despise me.

I shouldn't have asked him for anything. I hate the sight of him. I hate knowing he shares the same air as I do. I hate this raunchy, barren feeling he has left within me.

Furthermore, I hate being in a position where I have to deal with him.

...he did nothing about it, and I am angry. If she was here, I'd talk to her about it. If she was here, I'd tell her about it so I wouldn't have to write it here for the child of a man I date to read it and relentlessly interrogate me about every syllable.

Every syllable... I miss their friendships. I don't know how to remain friends with either of them.

...the bar I went to last week charged my card too much money.

I can call the man today on his cell phone and give him the info he needs to give me my money back. However, I know he won't be at work, and thus he'll write down my full credit card information, probably lose the piece of paper, and then I'll end up with a hundred odd charges. I might suck it up and pay the 45 dollars. People think I'm crazy. I think the human race is incompetent, and no matter what situation I find myself it, human stupidity will always fuck it up. That's why I almost always pay cash.

If she was here, she would laugh when I told her I thought it was pathetic how morbidly obese women at work lust for the 17 year old talentless child, Justin Bieber. He's only about four years shy of stepping his big toe out of the closet. Yet, they wiggle their fat bellies at the MTV studios when the pathetic pop sensation makes an appearance. I could vomit, but I'm not sure I could project it far enough to hit the MTV studios.

The morbidly obese people are on diets. They are trying to lose weight for a competition. They run.

Generally, when people around me go on serious diets, I binge eat around them to make them hate their lives.

I figure by the time the challenge is said and done, I'll have gained 25 pounds.

If she was here, I'd tell her that. She would probably tell me how she loves the same junk food as I do, and make herself a nice medium rare cheeseburger. That's why I love her.

But.

She is not here, and thus I am irrationally ranting. I want her to come back and make things better. Maybe I just don't know how to make things better.

I want to move away from this city.

The most beautiful woman in paradise... has left.

2011-01-29T14:13:00.002-05:00

February 23, 2009....

I wrote for her, nearly two years ago. She never read it.

She grew to be my mentor, my friend, and someone I loved and respected very much.

She has left me for a better life. She has left to be closer to her family. She has left to pursue her dreams with a better education.

She got prettier every day I saw her. Every day, she was more special to me.

Now, I look around and want to ask her a question... and she isn't there to answer it.

I said goodbye to her over wine and friends and Cool Ranch Doritos last night. She was lovelier than ever. I spoke to her honestly. I spoke to her happily. I spoke to her like I'd see her the next day.... but I knew I wouldn't.

And so, I must start my new chapter as well.

...and you can read it too.

Where I've been....

2011-01-23T13:10:00.002-05:00

My loyal blogger stalker has reminded me, once again, that I have been negligent in posting.

I have to say, it's been a weird few weeks.

I was out of the country for a week with my family. They had never left the country before, and I could evidently tell when we set foot on foreign territory.

My family consists of the kind of people that like to complain incessantly, whilst saying they're having a good time.

In the beginning, I could tolerate the relentless bitching about the cold, the food, the "it's not America," the "hotel rooms are too small," and all that happy nonsense. However, by the end I was so infuriated at absolutely everything that I wanted to scream.

I felt that my stepfather was unnecessarily bitchy to myself and my brother Michael for whatever reason, presumably because his biological children were along. It has taken me years to find value in them. I cannot say, with just certainty, that I ever actually did. But, I can say for certain that even though my stepfather raised me and my brothers like his own, there is no replacing the bond between a father and his children.

I find this hard to accept because in general. I find myself better educated, better looking, and more interesting.

Europe was nice.

It was nice to be in London again, and I now know I need to return for grad school.

I was very disappointed that my family didn't immediately fall in love with being overseas, and immediately starting damning American society. I guess I'll never really be able to accept that Americans truly like America.

I returned to New York to find my job had been taken over by a huge corporation, even larger than we were. In essence, we're now owned by this huge company that took away all of the benefits of being a trainer.

We lost a great discount. We lost our anniversary checks. We eventually will lose the awesome health insurance we have and be transferred to "employee insurance."

We're getting absolutely nothing more than the shitty employees there receive, and we do five times the work. Did I mention we're now PAYING for a lesser discount?

I'm fed up.

And then there's my personal life...

I have acquired a friend in the past few months, and I have come to believe I am just one of those traveling electrical outlets he uses to recharge all of his resources until he can be back with people he loves. He has no love or concern for me, and it's very difficult to accept it.

At first when I made the realization, I was a bit upset, even hurt by the situation.

Now, I think I'm just more annoyed than anything. I find myself tolerating less and less of him. It's my own damn fault. I was stupid. I get it.

So, in essence, there's the past few weeks.

I wish I could have lunged forth with some well-written, incredible masterpiece. Instead, I basically just complained.

I'll work on being better.

Irreparable disarray

2010-12-30T02:33:00.001-05:00

There's an abandoned factory by my mother's house. It was once a thriving establishment with a silver water tower along the side. If I ever left school late, I couldn't even cross the deserted suburban end of my street, for swarms of cars would come, one by one, obstructing my path.

Now, the factory is long since past its glory days. It caught fire a number of times in the past few years, finally resulting in the owner being mandated to tear it down. He started.

He started, but was inconveniently interrupted by the discovery of asbestos. The demolition was releasing a good amount of it into the atmosphere, and the containment of it was simply not happening.

Now, the factory lies in ruins. Piles and piles of lumber lay in the abandoned lot. The silver water tower is now rusted and disfigured. It looks as if someone took a vacuum to the inside and sucked the air from the steel structure.

When I was a child, my grandmother would take me for walks by that factory. I always admired the steel tower. Now it sits in ruins.

When I was a teenager, I took walks alone by the factory. I saw the house I'd come to call home be built.

Now, my parents have made additions to the house. It looks nothing like it did 13 years ago. The narrow hall of a kitchen five of us would cram into to have our worldly chats is completely gone. The deck where I discovered my parents' humanity is demolished. A vinyl one has taken its place.

My grandmother, who was once vital and took me for walks, turns 80 in nearly a month.

I went to my father's house for Christmas. My father has always been a bit of an eccentric sort. Years of odd falling ins and outs has rendered us with virtually no communication.

I think of passed time and spouts of craziness, and I feel virtually at a loss.

I bought my father a pipe for the holidays. It was inexpensive, but nonetheless his first pipe. He smoked it for the first time today, and texted me to thank me.

And then, he sent me of a photo of himself smoking it.

In the photo, I didn't see a malicious, mean individual with whom I've had years of history, but rather a nice, retired old man. I'd never seen my father as old before. He was always just "Dad." He was a Peter Pan. He'd never grow old. Women would never stop hitting on him. He'd never lose energy. He was 18 years my mother's senior and always had a world of life to him.

I felt so much guilt. I hold such unnecessary anger for a man who is just trying to make peace and enjoy his retirement.

Yet, despite all the guilt, I don't know how to fix the damage. I'm afraid I never will.

Like the old water tower, I hate seeing things in irreparable disarray.

I don't know what I want, really. I'm just an overgrown baby who sleeps with a blankie and wants her parents to be immortal superheroes. I never want anyone to grow old. I just want to live forever with the people I love.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

7th avenue...in four minutes

2010-12-11T05:39:00.001-05:00

Pennsylvania Station shines brightly Sunday afternoon. In January I'll venture there, but tonight I see it far too soon.

...and far too ugly, raid graffiti, save the princess in your hair. A sad belonging, somewhere sacred, cried tonight but no one cared.

A gem inside my fragile mind; what was yours is somewhat mine. What I own is solidly breathing life to morning. I can see the echo of your opaque thoughts.

Before there was obligation, you believed a resurrection of your youth and all that thrived within; somewhere, something God forgot.

I cannot grant you all you've been searching for.

I want it all... For you, I want more.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Venerable

2010-12-06T03:22:00.001-05:00

You might be the most beautiful face I have ever known....

You're a true face, an honest one. You're a beam of sunlight. You're what I aspire to be.

I cringe to say I want your body above me... Only your body beside me... Only your body inside of me.

I don't want to disrupt your honesty, your integrity, your solidarity, your simplicity...

But through all of the upheaval of everyday, mundane fashions, I can't help but play such notes on one proverbial, innocent keyboard.

Struggling through admiration, forced by intellectual mutilation, I wonder, can these gestures ever be for me?

....and if they are, are you still the man I've seen? Can I venerate the embodiment I've claimed was infallible? Are you still the one for me?

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Day of Thanks

2010-11-25T07:16:00.001-05:00

They sit in a room watching videos on YouTube.

She never once ventured to watch a world of video in her spare time, or even bothered to consume herself with the images...

Images of addiction, images of love, images of pure painstaking grief... They watch them.

His artistry manifests in images, while she only sits and broods alone in a room with white walls. She'd never think to look to images for reasons to justify the means. She only writes words, and hopes reading them back makes sense.

She wonders, how many people sit in impoverished outer borough apartments, watching videos, looking for something to relate to. She wonders when, through all the years, she learned to type feverishly whilst allowing her eyes to follow the movements of agile bodies on a computer screen.

What are you doing on the Day of Thanks? And whatever it is, are you thinking of me? And whoever is loving you, do they love you like I do?

Do they love you like he loves the images flashing across the brightly lit screen?

On the Day of Thanks, I hope you're finding love in something.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Change. I hate it.

2010-11-22T10:18:00.004-05:00

When I was hired at "corporate," I went through this very (ironically) corporate orientation. During that time, I learned all about a man who built the company from the ground up, and how he was still invested in it, still cared, and was still president and CEO.

At the time, the person doing my orientation was the area leader for the store, and grew to be one of my greatest mentors. He believed in the product he was selling, even if he may not have known all the ins and outs that went into said product. He also saw the then president of the company as a role model, and someone who really held the integrity to epitomize the company's ethos.

...and then the guy left the company... completely resigned.

...and then he two people underneath him stepped up and filled his position.

...and then my mentor left his position as area leader, and also left the training team. (Of course, the two can't be so much related, but they're close.)

...and then one of my best friends stepped up into the position of area leader.

...and then "corporate" was bought by this big god-knows-what who only buys bankrupt companies; a group that is willing to sink tons of money in the stores to rapidly expand all over the United States...and elsewhere.

...and then even more of those original faces were gone.

I was training a new trainer yesterday, and he was filling out the test that each new CT has to fill out before they can train. One of the multiple choice questions had an option of, I believe, "C. Because "name" said so..." "Name," of course, wasn't actually "name," but the name of the former president and CEO of the company. I realized that in a few years, that option won't have any value, or mean anything to any trainer that takes that test. Trainers will become a dime a dozen with so much expansion going on in the company...

I know people see change as a good thing, but I absolutely hate it. I believe in pouring your soul into something. Without soul, who are we really? I believe that when things get too big too quickly, a lot of that soul gets lost. I believe that once, McDonald's really was a great place to eat.

I hate change, and it's everywhere around me this week.

Financially, things in my life are changing.

This week, I'll be spending my first Thanksgiving ever without my family..

I hate that it's not warm anymore, and some of the summer love I had going with some individuals just faded away with the seasons.

Some argue that change can only lead to productivity, and truthfully, I agree. However, with change and productivity comes a strange sense of "uncomfortable."

Currently, I'm uncomfortable. My area leader at my store says he needs someone to be his co-area leader. It's understandable.

My long-time good friend says I absolutely cannot go one second longer not attending grad school.

Attending grad school will really throw my financial situation in disarray, and I can't be certain I'll even make a decent living after I get my Ph.D.

I swore to myself two years ago when I was eating ramen noodles mixed with ketchup and pepper I stole from McDonald's that I would never let myself be hungry again. I, ideally, never want that to change. I never want to not be comfortable. I've lived a long life of discomfort. Why prolong the madness?

But yet, despite how badly I want to be area leader with my good friend at "corporate," do I really want to invest so much of my time into a company that may not be, in three years, the place I love to work for now?

I just don't want to be hungry.

Right here, right now

2010-11-16T00:38:00.002-05:00

My fingers are bleeding.

I've been gnawing at them for three days, angrily trying to fixate my functional mind on something other than the following. I just cannot seem to put myself in a good place, so instead I put things in my mouth.

Some of the time, I suck on cigarettes until my bitten fingers contain traces of mustard yellow. Those are my favorite fixations, and I love to practically devour them as I anxiously sip Starbucks outside "corporate," awaiting another 10 hour shift.

Sometimes, I flood those dull taste buds with salad, or cheeseburgers, or excessive amounts of chips. Of course, I don't consume all of these at once, despite wanting to.

And after all is said and done, I love to wash down my poisons with oatmeal stouts, Irish beers, Russian vodka and some other crap that has led and will continue to lead to a foamy mouth in the morning and a headache that says "why did I drink that?"

In fact, I'm so fixated at present on the remaining traces of nail on each tip of each finger that I briefly stopped my writing just so I could remove it. My nerves are incredibly twinged today, and I'm working on smoothing them before I crawl into the tiny mattress I call my bed.

I cannot force my mind away from financial woes. I work devilish hours as it is to pay the man, but the inevitable rise of financial obligations is to come this month, and I without a head for numbers must formidably figure something out before I am truly writing this on a note pad in some side street box in Brooklyn.

I am genuinely and subconsciously focused on the man who doesn't love me this week.

He has taken his turn to see the people he loves, and I cannot but help think of him lying next to the woman he loves. I cannot but for five minutes take my focus off of everything that he is, despite my status of being spoken for, and my genuine care and admiration for the one who speaks for me. Even then, I cannot stop seeing his beautiful eyes and pure white hair. I see him endlessly, despite trying to shift focuses.

I don't know why my thoughts are so consumed with the man who doesn't love me.

I have endlessly tried to focus on trivial matter-of-fact things to refocus and regroup, but somehow my mind always drifts back to images of him.

I always say that in another time and place, we could have maybe been something... But then, in another time and place, I'd be someone else, and he would as well. His hair would be a different color, maybe even an ugly one. I may be thinner or heavier, and less bitter, and less jaded, and less damaged. I think, in another time and place, I couldn't be bothered in the slightest with the man who doesn't love me. I'd probably find him to be a minor inconvenience, if anything.

It's the present that makes me admire him. Another time and place would change the entire meaning of everything I know to be true. "Another time and place" is just a weary fable, just like the ones we tell ourselves to occupy our minds from thinking about unsettling things, like death, and taxes.

My mother is not speaking to me, still.

She believes my inquisitions about Europe and my needing to work through the holidays to subsidize a nice bank to fall back on in my absence from work is selfish. She also pointed our that nobody attending this family vacation (which I'm all but certain I'm going to default on) has inquired about anything...except me.

Well, what I really want to know is why they haven't inquired. They are blindly using my parents, not giving a care in the world about this trip or what will happen when they reach the other side of the pond. I have seen and been to both of our destinations. I lived in one of them for a nice length of time. I find my inquiries justifiable. I find them to be essential to ensure the trip goes smoothly.

I don't desire to go on a family vacation. I resent my family with every fiber of my being. Everything I said and did was valid and justified, I felt. If my mother wants to see my attempts to make things smooth and enjoyable as selfishness, I cannot help but allow her the right. However, I shall not focus my energy on someone who does not see me as a beautiful person, worthy of positive energy and discourse. I simply ignore her.

I've been doing so much ignoring.

Maybe we all ignore how we feel, endlessly, all the time.

Maybe if we learned to confront all of those grotesque realities, we could move forward as a race... But instead, we like our sole purpose to be procreation. Obviously that purpose doesn't garner any happiness. I don't know how we ever evolved this far.

Le sigh.

Kissing Cousins

2010-11-11T12:17:00.002-05:00

When I was 11 years old, I developed my very first "hormone raging" crush.

The crush was on the very suave, sexy, fifth grade teacher of mine, "Mr. B."

Oh, I could have done nasty things to that man. At the time he was in his mid to late thirties, dark black hair and a shirt always unbuttoned just a little so his chest hair was slightly sticking out.

In fact, one day I just mustered up the courage to walk right up to Mr. B and said "I wish you weren't married....because I want you." The man turned bright red, but gave me a smile that I, to this day, can only attribute to him trying to choke back the flattery and urges of pedophilia.

I know that somehow, Mr. B is related to the woman who married my mother's brother, Dave. I'm not sure of the relation, but I know there definitely is one. (You have to note that everyone from the tiny town I'm from is inbred in some form or fashion...)

None of this is really out of the ordinary.

What's out of the ordinary is that when I spoke to my mother the other day, she told me her other brother, Joe, is dating Mr. B's soon-to-be-ex wife! (My Uncle Joe is not divorced, ironically enough...)

The entire thing is unsettling.

I'm conflicted because what I really want to do is give Mr. B. a call and get a good romp in before he hits 55 and can't function anymore. That's what I really want to do.

But on the same token, I think that might be quite close to kissing cousins...

Selfish?

2010-11-10T02:52:00.002-05:00

The other day, I got into some heated e-mail correspondence with my mother.

Apparently I'm selfish.

To preface, my mother has decided that we are to embark on a family vacation this January. Apparently we'll be going to London and Munich, two places I have already been.

I decided I would go on this vacation with my family, despite the fact that I genuinely believe it will be a trite, tumultuous experience for all parties involved, and when I return to the states, I may, in fact, estrange my family completely.

My mother, stepfather, and brothers have never been out of the country, nor have they ever spent any modicum of time in a major metropolitan area. My step-siblings, both whom I cannot stand, have done the ubiquitous trips to party locations (i.e. Cancun,) but have never truly educated themselves on anything beyond. I absolutely cannot stand their inability to hold a conversation longer than five minutes about anything other than the lousy, low-paying jobs they currently hold. I find them tedious and boring. Actually, if I had to put a label on hate, I'd probably throw my step-sister in the category with black people.

I have a brother with a disability. He cannot manage to see value in anything other than eating and frivolous spending of money. Unfortunately, his twin, who is a perfectly normal sophomore in college, wishes to spend time with me on this trip really seeing some of the "local scene." Already I see conflict arising.

And, despite the idea that I do not want to go on this vacation because I don't need to fall that far into the belly of poverty, I've decided to bite the bullet and go.

Of course, life can never be easy. My mother is very displeased that I shall not be coming home for the holidays, and I shall not be. I won't be returning home because I work for tips and would ideally like to get ahead. Why even bother come back to that inbred cesspool?

To further make my holiday time jolly, they have essentially gutted their house and the room I once knew as mine has been condensed, half of my things have gone into the basement and the other half moving to another tiny room. I have no desire to sleep in such a place.

I explained to my mother the reasons I will not be coming home for Christmas, along with the fact that it also displeases me. I also mentioned that in displeased me further to have to share a room with that vile wretch of a human being in England, my step-sister.

She went on a tirade about how selfish I am; how terrible I am, and was, throughout the entirety of my life, and how everything I say is some kind of stab to make her feel bad.

Well, truly, I am selfish...

I'm selfish because I lived a miserable life up until the time I went to college, and even after. I'm selfish because I was raised in poverty, and then in middle class hell where people dated their cousins and my "lowest-rated high school in the state" didn't even have AP courses. I wanted to go to prep school.

I'm selfish because I was wholly ignored at the time when my hormones were reaching critical, confusing levels. I was taken to a plethora of strange therapists who all stated I was nothing but an average, brilliant teenager... and when that wasn't good enough, that I may have 'traces' of some (pick a DSM-4 diagnosis and insert it here.)

I'm selfish because I'm angry because when I wanted to see the world, I borrowed 30,000 dollars to do it, which I still cannot pay back.

I don't want to go on a family vacation now with two people I hate, when I'm 25 and have bills to pay. I wanted to do this 10 years ago. Fuck you, now, for making me uproot my life to go play tourist. There are a lot of things and unfinished business I can attend to in Europe. I don't need to be wasting precious seconds pretending I give a damn about anyone but myself, because truthfully, the only one who ever gave a damn about me WAS me.

I was told two weeks ago that I only know three emotions in the world: lust, love, and resentment. Apparently I have never felt "welcoming." I have never known "joy." I never understood "belonging."

No... No I don't understand any of those things. I'm bitter and I hate my family for the nasty, awful upbringing they gave me. I hate them for 2007, when I needed to talk about my reverse culture-shock, and all they did, instead, was make loud mention of the fact that they have no desire to go anywhere, ignored me, and talked incessantly about Harry Potter.

I resent them for telling me never to leave suburbia, and real people don't live in cities, and after I moved, why can't I give them some sort of stature? But... I'm a certified trainer at one of the busiest, highest grossing restaurants in the world. No. You're just a waitress.

Right.

Resentment. I have a lot of it. I hate them with every fiber of my being for raising me to be middle class, and hating me for not accepting that I didn't want to eat over-cooked meat in a former coal-mining town overlooked by a landfill for the rest of my life.

So no, I don't want to drag six people, two whom I cannot stand, the other four who are as uneducated about European culture as a newborn baby, through Europe... I could, instead, stay in my city and enjoy life pleasantly.

Am I selfish? You bet your sweet ass I'm selfish. I'm the most selfish bitch in this world. I'm so selfish I'm considering not showing up at all for this European excursion. What a precious waste of money that'd be that they'd have spent on me. Merry fucking Christmas.

-30-

Back for a hot minute

2010-11-08T13:29:00.002-05:00

It's very true that for a period of time, I wasn't really writing with the magnitude that I like to write.

My job at "corporate" has changed a lot. I work until about 2:00 a.m. every morning, and following that it's two or three beers and then sleep. Taking on more responsibility is a good thing, I think, but I see no room for growth where I'm currently at. With the exception of a few, everyone there bores me to absolute tears.

Myles thinks I should go to grad school. It's happening. Obviously sociology is the way I want to move, and eventually teaching comm/soc is what I want to do. I'm too freaking obsessed with socio-economic class and lack of communication between American classes to not *do* something with it.

For now, I'm back writing because some fool in my building hasn't secured their internet connection. I have no idea how long it will last.

This week, I realized that I'm socially awkward.

When I'm in any setting, I feel confident in what I do and say. I feel that my words are the end-all, be-all, and I have every right to blurt out anything I want, wherever I want. However, I never realized how guarded I have been with my own feelings regarding interpersonal relationships. I've realized time can go by, years even, and people will have absolutely no idea how I really feel about them.

Even the man who loves me probably has no idea what my true feelings are regarding him, and I won't tell him.

I don't know where this damage comes from.

I wrote a letter for a teacher in high school who outright dismissed me, involved third parties, and embarrassed me. I wrote pretty mild words, but he accused me of being very "intense." I'm pretty sure that that was where the "keep it to yourself" stuff started. I got the idea that being "intense" was a bad thing.

But the thing is, I don't think it's a bad thing. I think it's a wonderful thing. If you feel something, you should say it, right? Even if it doesn't mean absolutely anything to the whole God-loving world except for you, you should blurt it out, right?

I'm not sure I'll every stray from my awkwardness regarding what society does and what I do.

I am sure, however, that I'm ready for a lifestyle change before working with a hundred out of work actors eats my very soul alive. I wish I could publish something.... just something to give me a bit of money for school. I don't feel like racking up more debt.

ugh.

6:00 a.m.

2010-11-07T06:16:00.001-05:00

She's eating, slurping the noodles from the bowl with chopsticks at the next table.

He's sobbing mercilessly beside me. He can't believe God exists. He's sobbing. She lived a good life. At 94 they're tearing out her rectum...colon cancer. He's sobbing. "I can't believe in God."

I swear her skinny arms are beautiful. There's a milky taste of rice wine in my mouth. I've barely touched my house red.

And he's sleeping in an office.

If he were to thrust himself into me now, he would taste liquor symbolically infusing itself with saliva; my tongue caressing his with sweet passion. But alas, he's sleeping on the floor and I'm sipping rice wine.

I'm tilting the glass like a measuring cup as the Korean image-based scroll runs along side a building marquee outside. The suburban dream beats through me as I remember a life that was once dead, a life that consumed me.

He's sleeping alone in an office, when he could be near me in my bed. The heat of his body could be wrapping itself around my breasts, engulfed in my every pheromone. He doesn't know I love him. I'm alone without reason.

I want him trembling beside me. I want to feel my hands caress his body as it prespires along side of me. I've had him so many times in the truest fantasy, chanting "tell me it doesn't mean anything to you. Tell me."

I've had him so many times in fantasy.

"Tell me... Tell me it doesn't.... Tell me it doesn't mean anything. Tell me."

I chant it over and over again as I feverishly allow myself to fuck you in my fantasies... As I allow myself to frantically explore every crevice of your body, knowing when I open my eyes it will only be me and cold, sopping sheets below my naked body. I know this but I think of it anyway.

I see the realities of the streets, and the marquees. I know I've made up many truths about them, as I've imagined so much about you.

I'm awake solely because I know you aren't comfortable. You aren't warm in a secure place. I feel I can't sleep...

I can't stand any longer to love you the way I do. I want to run.... I want to run.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Convoluted synapses...

2010-11-04T04:45:00.001-04:00

The photographs I have are endless.

They stay stagnant, hoping for an invitation to meet your eyes.

I'm guarded enough to keep my writing simple. I want to tear the fabric of your shirt to bitter shreds and plaster it on my wall. My body aches for a second of your recognition.

I know you only know facts and figures. You know I see a world you don't want to learn. I understand the curiosity.

I don't understand the painstakingly beautiful process you're enduring. I'm too naïve and strange. I'm too buried and deep.
But truthfully, flesh combined with mental spirit, I want a moment. I want to taste you. I want your effervescent glow.

You're so alive. I want you to know...

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

My auditory memory

2010-11-02T10:59:00.005-04:00

"You're fucking brilliant. You wrote that in five minutes? It would take me days just to write that... and you wrote it on your fucking BlackBerry. Do you have any idea how many people would kill to write like that?

*name,* read this. She wrote this on a fucking train.

I hate you. I hate you because you're such a fucking talented writer, and you waste your time writing these things! You need to spend your time writing something better. Why would you waste your time on such trivial shit?

Can I have another glass of Sauvignon Blanc?

Well don't you dare give this to him. That would be a waste of these words. I know exactly what he'd do. He'd just look at it and say "...OK."

Seriously. What a waste of good words. You can give a man like that something like this. It'd just be a waste of your talent. Can't you put your writing to good use? Can we please collaborate soon? I don't know how to say the things I mean. I don't even know where you come up with half of this vocabulary. Really. I want to collaborate with you so we can create something meaningful before we die.

Want to go smoke?"

Truth telling...

2010-10-08T05:11:00.001-04:00

In the millennium, there's only one light on. I swear, I don't know why. What keeps you awake, awake beyond the hours of everyone normal, and humble, and sober in this city?

What keeps you beautiful, and reserved indoors but outside, ravage and human and reaching to suck the skin of my nipple until it turns fiery pink?

What keeps you tamed and wed to me, despite your intuition and inhibitions, and life molded like clay pots?

I was tired an hour ago. I'm sitting with the man who stole my soul, whose heart I own, who knows a colder truth than I about living this cold harsh world alone. I loaned a cigarette to a woman beside him, just to see him passionate once more about conversation. He is all that is me, and I love him unconditionally.

We flick our cigarettes into a cardboard soup cup of water, turning it a murky grey. We burn our pleasures in fumes of glory, blowing our smoke rings into the sky, penetrating in this room our passions, our glory. "Welcome home," I say. We belong here, only with one another.

It is here, at this hour, that I discover life again.

Maybe, once a few days ago, the barren soul and abandoned cause found it again. I can't be sure.

Any rich elixir can keep a vagabond soul moving.

Despite the inevitable truth that we're human, we sleep comfortably at night knowing we've discovered the most beautiful paradigms of the earth. Sip the finest, my dear. I can offer you an endless world. Abandon everything, because when this sanctuary closes, it will only be me facing the concrete reality of an unadulterated jungle.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

72 Hours

2010-09-03T11:24:00.001-04:00

"Where you going? New York City? I used to go to New York City... When we all were younger. Now as they get up in age, all the ladies don't want to go. They only want to sit around and play BINGO, maybe eat a sandwich. I say "good. You do that. I'm goin.'"

The man must be in his mid-eighties. He relayed the story to me, after showing me the woman in front of him, who he said was 93 and in failing health. They are, at present, on their way to Mt. Airy casino. I'm heading out of Northeastern PA to New York City.

I woke up yesterday in Philadelphia with a man who loved me. However, over time our differences have driven a wedge between us. I have fallen out of love with him, probably because the amount of work it took to keep us amicable was just too much, and drained every ounce of pleasure from our once productive relationship.

Some of the last moments I'll always remember about that trip is standing in the polluted restroom with a strange woman who was looking to commiserate, and offered to read my cards. Funny how the crazies are always attracted to me.

I spent the day before with an old friend, sitting and drinking and discussing life. She just returned from a cross-country road trip with two individuals whom I'll graciously call "eccentric."

They epitomize everything I despise about New York City. However, they (she more than he) live in a virtual world of technology, and tend to become mounds of proverbial blur in the actual, tangible universe. I suppose it was like Ashley said - "I don't care who you know or what you do... Just tell me who you are." I don't know if people in the sector those people dominate in can actually manifest an explanation as to who they are.

The man she and I discussed was a suave bullshitter. I liked him when I met him back in June. I'm not sure his skill set was anything beyond extraordinary, but the way his tongue looped ten syllable words into complex phrases, and diligently spit them out without a modicum of thought made him the most marketable creature alive. Yet, I did not have to travel across the country to make these observations. I just made them.

What bothered me most about the time we spent people analyzing was the man who loves me. He sat silent through the duration of everything, even when we weren't making reference to mutual friends. It bothered me so much, and I don't know why.

Of course, instead of seeing value to the entirety of the day, he pretty much called me a boring "town drunk," as he always does.

And that was what flew me into a twinge of heartache, since so often I go for months at a time without such heavy intellectual attention from others in New York.

I never quite got over it, and I ended up alone (mostly by choice) in Philadelphia crying, my mother calling me and telling me to hop on the old, reliable Greyhound. The last time there was a crisis, I remember taking a Greyhound 10-12 hours from Maryland to New York. I was sitting amongst the dregs of society, going 35 on some dusty back road toward Philadelphia, and then onward to the Northeast.

And then there I was yesterday, traveling through West Philadelphia, seeing buildings that advertised on billboards "we ship to prisons."

The man who loves me reads this blog, and always sees it as a relentless "bash at him." I get tired of explaining that I never have disliked his character, but am forced to feel alone and abandoned by his hatred and lack of understanding for any passion I have. It's just an ugly situation.

I'm now emotionally hungover, thinking of the trip and the one I don't love any more. I'm also thinking of the one I do love, and how for months he has consistently held my head up, slowly allowing his life to become intertwined around mine. We were once bitter strangers, accusing the other of awful things. Now, our lives seem to peacefully wrap around one another. I can explain little of it.

I can't explain the two of us screaming, exchanging outbursts of pure neuroticism outside the 34th street subway stop at 4:00 a.m. I can't explain how in five minutes of my life, at any given time, I experience more passion than some people do in the duration of a year.

I can't explain it, but for it I was lethargic beyond comprehension. This morning, as I sat next to one of the last relics of the 1920's, I could not bring myself to be fascinated enough to hear more of the story.

But yet, I thought as he spoke the passage I began this blog with, that so many of our realities are so different. Perhaps in fifty years, God willing I live that long, my reality will shift to wanting to take a bus to Mt. Airy. But yet, then I think it probably won't. I don't like gambling now, while most of my peers do. Why would it change in fifty years?

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Five minutes

2010-08-29T14:10:00.001-04:00

I stood outside smoking for some time before I walked in the direction you went.

I thought, if only I could pass you on the street. I'd hoped you'd taken a moment to stop and look around. I wanted to see you alone at a street corner, and tell you that I loved you, and I was so angry, and so frustrated, and so upset.

But as I started walking, I slowed to a point where I almost regressed. The very thought of seeing you again petrified me. What if you were to reciprocate any of what I said? The thought made me sick to my stomach.

So I got in a cab and sped off, the wind taking my hair in every direction as my arm hung out the window. I saw you somewhere along the ride, walking slowly, alone. I didn't wave to you, but be sure, I wished you good night as I passed.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Relentless need

2010-08-24T02:55:00.001-04:00

I needed to know more.

I needed to be more.

I needed to say more, so often I'd drink more.

I needed to touch more. I needed to feel more.

I needed to craft more, and to selfishly steal more.

I needed to know that I knew all along, and I needed a reason to justify wrong. I needed reciprocity along with companionship. I needed to fill voids and completely defend it.

And in honesty, and truth, and all I could favor, I needed the most your attention to savor.

...and now I'm here, needing.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

"Country girl, I think you're pretty..."

2010-08-20T12:43:00.002-04:00

If anything, I could see they were unhappy. Years ago, I came home with bottles of sparkling wine, and they sang songs to and for each other, commencing in a celebration of marriage and life. Yet, now as he sits with his new hip, and she finds trouble focusing, save the attention she pays to the dog. They barely notice one another.

When I asked them recently what they would do to celebrate another year of marriage, they simply said "nothing." I called him a few days prior, on his birthday, and she wondered why. Why was his birthday a big deal? Why did I care to send him well wishes? There was no sense or need for well wishes.

I remembered the years when they danced into the night, shuffling about in the country air. The nights always smelled so clean, lighting bugs lighting up the woods nearby.

I'd seen far too many people slip into complete and utter monotony. I knew, once when I kissed a charismatic sort, that I could never allow myself to find that road fitting to me.

I know I must fix all of those who have forgotten how to love.

I know it, so I give love to that country man; the country man with rugged hands fit for fixing anything. I know, because I too have rugged woman country hands. I had them since childhood, those rugged hands that can mend and bend, and paint and pull picker bushes from the soil. I know, those rugged hands, because I was supposed to live a working class life. Only my own stubbornness rendered me an urban sort, floating in a sea of techno-gadget underpaid savants. And so I see the same in him. We're black sheep in an urban socialite world.

And why do I give him this new boost of energy?

Because I know if I don't give him a taste of reminder, he'll soon become what they are.... Forgotten.

Payback

2010-07-29T16:37:00.000-04:00

It was an incredible injustice to the world, that day in June I'll always remember. The man who should have loved me, whose hearty help brought me life, slandered and jabbed at me in the obscene setting where I felt the safest. It was the only beautiful place I knew in the city, with the only family I knew... It was the only safe haven among the putrid discharge of corporate America, and within it he brazenly bashed me, until my soul was as numb as fresh skin first being tainted with the tip of a needle.

And there I was, broken, eyes glazed over by embarrassment and disbelief, when a man walked to me. He didn't see that I was broken, but his surest sense of self helped gather my mangled pieces with his domineering smile and inflated ego. I could have rested in such a tranquil state for the rest of the evening if allowed.

And thus, I watched diligently over him...

I silently owed to afford him peace of mind, but my gifts were not honored, as they were only replacements for what he already held on to.

That is, until the day he became broken.

And now I wish I had never been so vulnerable.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Mistakes.

2010-07-28T12:30:00.002-04:00

I'm glad I didn't say more.

Then I'd feel like you do.

It's awkward.

Wednesday Night Stories!

2010-07-22T22:26:00.004-04:00

It's been a good while since I've posted, and there's a reason for that. Firstly, I moved to a new apartment with one power outlet and a landlord I absolutely cannot stand. I have not gotten the internet yet, but probably will soon, as my trip to Verizon today was most successful. Apparently when I entered the cold, obtuse world of New York City smart phone users, my monthly consumption of minutes went from 2,000 to about 240. Thus, I dropped my plan and will probably save 50 dollars because of it.

The second reason is that even though I have an amazing credit score, I cannot seem to be approved for a credit card because I never had one. That plays a big factor when you need a new computer. That's right... My computer is dead. Well, not really. It functions well, but every other key is broken.

So, today I have a bit of stolen internet, and I got a nice, tiny, battery operated keyboard to use until I get myself a new computer. That brings me here, to the next lovely era in the history of Polyester: Wednesday Night Stories.

I'm doing a practice run with this, and then my friend and I are actually going to spin off a blog about it.

Basically, my friend Ethan and I are "not like the others." You remember that old Sesame Street song? Instead of doing normal things at night like "go to a baseball game," or "buy into the latest Inception fad," we tend to do things that are completely random, obscure, and really cannot be found enjoyable unless you happen to be a true communication scholar... or a sociologist. Whichever. I think, in a way, it fits.

This brings me to the first test of Wednesday Night Stories!!!!

Wednesday Night Stories- The 'race' to Hamilton Heights

A.S. told me he got an apartment at 156th street and Riverside. The first thing I did was BBM Ethan, who immediately asked "what the fuck is wrong with him?" A.S. never lived in New York City, and wasn't aware that anything above 50th street, unless it's the Upper East Side or Queens, was a sure sign of "don't go."

All of us are as white as a summer day is long. Not only are we white, however, but we're all a little chubby, and pasty because we avoid the sun like Ebola. Don't ask why. I don't.

He told me he took the place because it was enormous, and there were many windows that overlooked a historic cemetery. Apparently some famous people are buried there, but when they lived and thrived, New York was a very different town, if you will.

We decided we would go see for ourselves, instead of going to the bar and having the usual 8-10 cocktails, if the area was really as safe and bright as A.S. found it to be.

First, however, we needed to make our usual trek for food.

Food is always difficult because Ethan doesn't eat anything. I eat everything. But even if Ethan ate "everything," we still don't have that great millionaire budget to pleasure ourselves with Sushi Samba every night, or a great filet at the Bryant Park Grille. No, sir, normally it's some dive on 3rd avenue, or a hole in the wall on a side street.

We walked toward Union Square, hoping to find something along the way. When we got the Broadway and Wanamaker, however, Ethan pulled me back onto the sidewalk to prevent crossing the street. A car was smoking in front of a building.

Knowing that this is New York, normally the first reaction is to run away, call 911, and hope it really isn't a bomb (like that time in Times Square a few months ago? Yeah. I was there.)

"Should we call 911?" Ethan asked.

"Yeah," I said.

"You call."

"No YOU call!"

"I called 911 the time the car crashed into the building."

"But if we call we have to stay."

"I didn't stay when the car crashed into the building."

"Well, you called before, so you should call now. What street is this?"

"Broadway and...WANAMAKER. No, I won't call. I hate dealing with 911."

"But, I don't want 911 to have my number and be CALLING me. You call."

"No, you call!"

"You call."

Finally, Ethan took it a different route.

"We're not calling. The time to call has passed. Besides, there's a whole group of people standing in front of that car."

"They're going to die."

"It's THEIR responsibility to call. They are the ones in FRONT of the car, watching it smoke."

"You think it's a bomb?"

"No, it's a car fire. That's what a car fire looks like."

(At this point, we started walking down the street.)

"You've seen a car fire?"

"Yes. That's what it looks like."

"You think we should call now?"

"No. We're not calling. Those people will call."

"We're supposed to be VIGILANT!"

(A few blocks later, we changed the subject. I didn't hear anything on the news this morning, so I assume it was a car fire.)

We walked all the way to Chelsea (yes, Chelsea,) in search of a nice but cheap place to eat. Finally, at 8th avenue and 23rd, we gave up and walked into the notorious DALLAS BBQ.

If you are white, you will inevitably be reminded of your race when walking into a Dallas BBQ. Known by the ghetto as "Bee-Bee-Q's," the restaurant has paper menus and serves wet naps with their meals. To be completely adventurous, instead of getting my normal Ketel One and water, or Stoli and soda, I decided to have one of their enormous Pina Coladas. They are served in something like a chalice, and there is an option to add a shot for two additional dollars.

I decided to be uber trashy and get the Pina Colada with blue raspberry syrup. They served it with a tiny umbrella in a plastic chalice with something stuck inside that looked like a test tube. That was what contained the extra shot. Around me, every table that appeared over the age of 20 had a similar drink. Except, out of the 100-150 people in the restaurant dining at the time, maybe 5-7 of us, including Ethan and myself, were white.

The food came out fast, but the service was terrible. Our server spend most of his time waiting on a family of about 12-15 people sitting near us. They made feverish demands of the server, and he scarcely had time to check back to see if we needed water. The portions were enormous and I was full, not satisfied full, but full like there was a rock in my stomach, for hours.

The funny thing about trashy ghetto people is that they like to have a good strong drink that will give them a buzz fast, and that is exactly what the drinks do at Dallas BBQ. However, the crash that comes after that drink, including the habitual lethargy and endless desire for water and a stomach pump really doesn't sit well.

All in all, we weren't surprised that the gratuity was added after 8:30 p.m. and tipped our server extra on the bill.

Then, we walked to 7th avenue and got on the 1 train to 157th.

The 1 train was crowded after the Penn Station stop with everything you can imagine, but students seemed to dominate.

At one point, a man came through the car dangling a change bag. I think he was singing. As he grew closer, and I heard his voice, it was apparent where I knew him from.

"This man is spending a lot of time in this car," I said to Ethan.

He laughed, and we put in our headphones to pretend we couldn't hear him. When he finally entered the next car, I shared my story.

"That's the guy from the R train," I said. "I know because I have perfect pitch, and I'd know that guy anywhere! He pretends to be blind and sings, and he hits people in the leg with his cane and pretends it's an accident! He's the same guy!"

New York, no matter how hard to try to escape, always has its crazies.

Upon getting off the train, the area was spooky and deserted. To our left was a gathering that resembled a gang, and nobody was walking the streets. Also, up that high in Manhattan, buildings don't seem to be straight and lined neatly, but rather jagged and faced different ways. I felt awkward walking from Broadway to Riverside, especially since I was wearing a very skimpy outfit. Even the bodega that was outside of the train station screamed "run away!"

We saw no thriving business, or even open business...

We got back on the train to midtown, where we parted ways. I shared the story with a friend who said he lived at 157th and Broadway, and saw a shooting and several beatings during his time there. Needless to say, A.S. also did research, and heard of a brutal break-in and rape in his soon to be building, and a fire. He will not be living there, after all, but the trip to Hamilton Heights just added another chapter in the soon-to-be series "Wednesday Night Stories."

The story of when I was little...

2010-06-23T17:17:00.002-04:00

When I was little, I used to play under an old poker table that was stored in my room.

My mother initially put a doll house on top of the table, but I was never interested in doll houses. Instead, I would take long, colorful pieces of vinyl lace I accumulated from various sources and tie them on all sorts of areas underneath the table.

Back then, we were very poor. My mother was in college, also trying to raise twin toddlers. Along with our welfare and food stamps, my mother found often it was easy to placate us by feeding us McDonald's kids meals. To this day, when I feel sick or depressed, I always eat McDonald's cheeseburgers. This is why I will never be thin.

Every time I got a kid's meal, I received a new toy. My favorite two toys were a yellow Power Ranger, Trini, and a John Smith action figure from the Pocahontas movie that came out at that time. I always used to place them in the webs of vinyl lace under the table, because I found they were the two most attractive action figures, and should be in love.

I also used to pretend they were intrinsically smart, and must save the world from the imminent danger of stupid people. I was just about nine years old at the time.

I did not have any friends, because I lived off a main road that was too dangerous to walk along. I also did not make friends easily because the other children found me to be mean and obnoxious. They didn't like my company, because I found their conversation boring. So, I used to sit in the house every day and get fatter.

My mother paid very little attention to me, so every day, I would call this random Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania phone number to hear the daily forecast. When I got bored of the forecast, I used to call the number multiple times a day, just to see precisely which time the woman's voice changed from saying "good morning," to "good afternoon," and finally "good evening."

When the bank foreclosed on our house, we moved a few miles away to live with my grandmother. The lair that I built under the poker table got torn down. I took my action figures, but never touched them again.

My grandmother's house was worse than my mother's house.

Instead of calling the weather line, I would sit in the grass and play with my enormous collection of super balls. I must have had over 300 balls. Each of them had a name, and they too were to save the world from human stupidity.

However, I stopped playing with them in the yard because my grandmother's neighbor used to stare at me. My grandmother told me that I was talking to myself too much, and that when she was younger, they put people in an institution that "talked to themselves." Following that day, I stayed in the house to play with the super balls, and only "talked to myself" in the shower.

On Tuesdays, I would go with my grandmother to the grocery store. She would buy me cheddar cheese, and we would eat sandwiches while watching the Bold and the Beautiful. I looked forward to this half hour of TV each day because it wasn't the weather channel, and I got to eat.

It's amazing how when one person has little to no interaction, they can sway to obesity or mere starvation. When your weight is the only thing you can control, one will almost always control it in an extreme manner.

My grandmother, however, always had a fixation with weight. To this day, she comments on people's weight almost exclusively. She led me to believe it was "the most important thing" in my life. She liked to refer to my legs as "big club legs." Nine and ten year old girls don't adjust well to such statements.

My grandmother was the only person I spoke to. I did not know where to find another child to play with. Once, for three weeks, I begged for my aunt to allow me to come and swim in her large, in-ground pool. I always had an ingrown pool as a child, and did not enjoy not having one now that I was in a "free lunch family." She allowed me one day, and I went and swam for hours. None of the other children talked to me during the few hours that I was there.

Sometimes, I would walk to the end of my grandmother's street and back. I would hear and feel every step I took, listening to nothing but the silence of the air. She lived on a dead end street with no one under the age of fifty...

And this is how I spent every moment that I wasn't in school until I turned 13. Every summer, having little to no social interaction, for many years.

Hacking away at berry bushes...

2010-06-19T19:26:00.005-04:00

I live in the city.... And in the city, man has won.

Every building towers above the lowly people traversing the ground below. We scarcely forget the ground that once existed, below the asphalt. We never question the nature of anything. If anything, we in the city live an existence thinking man cannot prevail, that man is not strong enough. The lifelessness and illustrations of a weaker man consume the thoughts of every lonely, minute creature, climbing the stairs to the fourth floor of their walk-up apartments.

I live in the city, but today I fought the power of nature. Six and eight foot vines with piercing thorns intertwined themselves, weaving about the property we stood clearing. We stood, heavy metal clippers in hand, chopping and dismantling sixty years of history. Every time we heard the sound of a buzz saw, we watched as another few decades of history crashed to the ground.

Around me, people hacked away at nature's wrath, diligently dismantling the lot that would soon be the sight of another home, or playground, or deck for their own entertainment. In their heads, the saws and hacking, and bleeding scratches on their arms from the brush reminded them that this world is theirs for the taking. Empowerment at its finest was grasping hold of them; the good fight against nature, the good fight against the toll of time....

And after, as I emerged, sweaty and bruised and scratched from every corner of my being, the only solemn reward I could see fitting for my plight was the sweet taste of wild raspberries...

There shall be no redemption for the city. The city provides an illusion that man is all-powerful, all-knowing, and has outright conquered the world. I will continue to find myself sublime to know differently...

My apologies...

2010-06-18T16:06:00.000-04:00

I'm sorry I haven't written.

...I just don't have anything good to say.

For so long I've written for other people. I wrote for people, even if I knew they wouldn't read it.

If I thought she smelled enchanting, I'd write about her scent. If I found him endearing, I'd write a ballad just for him.

If I was feeling humbled, I'd write about those who humbled me.

Even my most narcissistic pieces were mostly based on love and admiration for others; my love for their stories.

I haven't felt any drive or any story great enough to write about. I am, however, heading home to my mother's for the first time since Christmas. Hopefully the visit will be inspiring. Somehow, it usually is.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

"The Zen" revisited

2010-05-30T03:43:00.004-04:00

In the lull of the music, they stopped talking.

They were sticky from the evening, and the sickening taste of the cheapest whiskey consumed them. How, they wondered, could they continue their ridiculous charade?

His eyes were studded like diamonds, shining on a sea of emotion, stern enough to etch a pattern into her heart of glass.

She was the martyr of the story, one of the few modern-day crusaders. She was an epitome without reason, and a sarcastic microcosm of treason. She never let her hatred of society interfere with the melodic voice she lent to him. Her words for him were the kindest of all words, deserved or not. She would read him like a cheap paperback novel, and afterward, would smile as his body twinged when he digested her syllables.

In the lull of the music, they stopped talking.

Two of the last modern-day crusaders, silenced in a public forum, silencing their tongues to keep the last of their precious conversations a true secret. The words exchanged would never be overheard, and their chemistry would never be shared with anyone. It was, for its sake, a crime.

Some people think that the most brilliant masterpieces begin simply by one sitting down at their computer to write. This isn't true. Some of the best writers are out of their minds. They'll walk aimlessly for hours, or climb rocks, or wander aimlessly in the woods.

She was an aimless wanderer, only allowing her soul to copulate through their experiences. She lent to the world her words, but selfishly and secretly kept her passion for him. He was her equal, and her biggest enemy. He gave meaning to the feeling she felt when she sat near waterfalls, and an explanation to why she could read so many others. He shared her astral plane.

What an existence to have, it was. It was the silence of Astor Place, walking home through the cube when the musicians began to amplify their Beatles chords at 2:43 a.m. that provoked the writing.

She felt compelled to tell the story, though there was no definitive beginning of end to it.

She is only the martyr, one of the last modern-day crusaders.

She comes around. Her scent is strong, like perfume and cigarettes and freakish pheromones bound and tied by fiery rage. She'll send you running, because such a sinister aphrodisiac is too potent for any one man, or any one woman, or any one society. But despite her leaving you feeling raped and longing, foolish and naked, she'll always remind you that you're alive.

I need a minute.

2010-05-29T14:45:00.002-04:00

I need a minute.

And when the minute is over, I will begin telling the most beautiful story I've ever heard, and ever knew, and ever felt.

I've been under a rock. A simple man invaded my life, and argued with me senselessly and relentlessly.

Even when I saw the muse, the man would try his best to incessantly talk, and question, and pry, until every sense of inspiration the muse instilled in me was drained from my every pore.

I've done my best to purge myself of this.

Now, I'm sitting in the same chair, alone, right where the story started. I will tell it. I just need a minute.

Unfortunately, such is not the case.

2010-05-25T02:58:00.003-04:00

I have no idea what I want.

If I could pick, though, I'd want incredibly bad sex with everyone I've ever lusted for. I'd want it, consecutively, for days on end until I was utterly repulsed by every single one of their vile bodies.

Then, I'd want betrayal from everyone I've ever been unsure about as comrades. I'd want thorns and stabs, and etched writing on my forearms to remind me of who I am, and who they are, and why the two should never mesh.

And then, I'd probably want a good sum of money.

If I could just allow my body to convince my heart that I am an a-sexual being, and not a hyper-sexual being who simply chooses to sleep alone, and if I could possibly allow my mind to accept my utter dismissal of nearly every inferior sheep on this planet, and if I could fill my wallet with hundreds and ones... well, my friend, I'd be able to start anew.

I see no value in you.

2010-05-20T16:38:00.001-04:00

They have been standing here now for ten minutes.

They have been talking about LOST for those ten minutes.

First, they started by talking about how they cleared their schedules for the 8 hours of LOST on Sunday. They discussed in detail how it would be a "whole day event."

After, they discussed what baked goods they would make for the LOST event. They went on about that for a good three minutes.

It was at that point that I turned on my music.

They have done this since I've known them. It used to be about their friend "Big Mike" on American Idol. Before that, it was about Lady GaGa. They never once told adequate stories that encompass anything about human life, and endless struggles. It's like they never had struggles. It's like they never have a thought that solely belongs to them. Every sentence that is uttered from their feeble mouths was inserted there by a media generated reality.

They find pleasure in their conversation, even though they don't really ever say anything. They just endlessly babble about nothing. They idolize people they've never met. Their lives are as simple and structured as any board game. Their words make my mind hurt, and make my body feel lifeless and fat. I can't explain that one.

They find no explanations for rules, why we should follow them, and why we should break them and damn the hell out of them. They cannot understand any nuance that drives us forward, or keeps us stagnant.

They selectively choose media directed at the lowest common denominator. They are the prime sheep targets of CEOs in high midtown office buildings cutting budgets and pumping out brainless, mind-numbing television.

They are doe-eyed and weak. They are the downfall of American society. They make me cringe. They make me want to projectile vomit. They make me angry. I hate everything about them.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Restless mind

2010-05-18T02:47:00.003-04:00

My body tingled when I looked at his groin. He blushed and told me to stop. I didn't stop. I looked more, and he turned and walked away. Then I studied him another way. My body tingled a bit more.

Then I thought about him and I wanted nothing further of him. No body on this earth could seem less appealing. I wanted nothing of his body. He was just another trans fat addiction. He was carnal lust. I didn't want or desire to pull his hair. I wanted nothing.

I am scratching my face in the mirror. It's stained with tar from these years. The cabinet is gone. The man who loves me took it outside to the car. Only the remains of an old roach infestation linger, but I do not have the energy to clean them. Now, he's sleeping in my bed, but I do not have the energy to love him.

I'm scratching my face in the mirror because I do not recognize it.

A few days ago, I was complacently kissing him, but then I heard the voice of another soul.

My mind started growing. I've been so suffocated.

Mike Lynche came into that job tonight. He finished 4th on American Idol. He used to work at that job, as I work at that job. I have never seen American Idol. I did not recognize Mike Lynche when my friends were talking to him. And when I passed him, I did not feel the flame of his soul wrapping around me. Yet, they idolize him, and view themselves as pseudo-celebrities. I felt nothing.

Why did they idolize him when I felt nothing? I only feel sometimes, like when I heard that sound.

And when I heard that sound, and I heard the voice of one NOT on national television, I remembered the way of being a crusader. I remembered the truth I had so long fought to forget... the truth I've known for all my life. It's the burden of knowing, being six years old and wondering why you find no enjoyment in childlike fantasy. It's feeling the energy of those around you, those thirty years your senior and you still read their souls like the calories on candy wrappers. Sense or not, I am this.

My mind was blooming again. I destroyed my body always, but protected my mind. It began expanding. I began to see bold red truths again. I couldn't stand to hear the sheep speak. I just toned them out. I listened more.

And I stopped recognizing them, everyone around, the man who loves me, the friends who admire me. I found them not to know me.

The television is in the car. I have turned it on very few times in these last two years.

There's a stain on the wall from the refrigerator.

The floor has an odd pipe, and there is dust from a year of construction. I never cleaned it.

I want to go to bed tonight, my last night in this box, before I resume life in a new dwelling. Yet, the television is gone, and the only thing left from a year ago is a pile of roach remains, and maybe a few receipts. One told me I bought a cupcake in September. I remember, we ate it in Astor Place, talking to that weird guy while people talked about spinning the cube, but they never did.

I didn't think I was this messy tonight.

He will hold me and not know who he is holding, just as a soul mate stranger can ease the poison from my veins with a simple sentence.

I started the evening excited. Then I became melancholy.

I am forlorn. It is my last evening here. Tomorrow I will sign a new lease. I have not seen my mother. My grandmother is sick. I am growing older and seeing my youth fade. I am becoming increasingly aware of my own mortality.

I am aching to see the brighter colors soon. I am aching to find solace in someone who faces this battle of a deranged mind.

I will roll up the carpet in the morning. I want to find my diamond earring.

I will have my own shower in the evening. I will not share with transients. I will run the water over my forehead and write about the experience. I will play music. I will dream of fanciful things.

I will feed my mind more. I will continue the struggle.

I must find myself before I go any further. It begins tomorrow.

Number 9.... Number 9.... Number 9.... Number 9

2010-05-14T03:08:00.002-04:00

It's a painful picture of a beautiful time.

Before there were papers, there was a fountain of euphoria gushing from the pours of the blissful youth.

Before there was a reputation to uphold its salvation, there was a pure vibe of solace and consolation.

Before there was distance and submission to the endless trials of a corporation dominated world, there were sandals sliding through ashes, and Belgian beers without fruit, and bodies slamming against walls in the midst of an inebriated afterglow.

The sounds remind me of that time.

The vibrations...

I want nothing more to silence them, but I do not.

I live to pour salt into these brilliant wounds.

Bubblegum.

2010-05-11T02:33:00.003-04:00

She told me she liked to sit in the park and make up stories about the people.

I wondered "why?"

Why did she want to invent a story only derived from her own experience with life? What fun was that, to imagine everyone being white, and eating dinner at 5:00 p.m?

Just tonight, a woman who is a year my senior, but looks far younger, told me she moved in with a man from Tunisia that she knew for six hours. She told me she married him, and they put the wrong name on the marriage license, a name that differed from his passport. Now they are getting a divorce, in which she is doing the paperwork. He was deported, and is again in Tunisia. She lives with her boyfriend in New York City, and sings and waits tables.

Why would I ever need to make up stories? Why, when there are so many out there, begging to be told?

Everything I do is a story.

If I am carrying on with one, it only means the story is not finished.

Some stories taste like oatmeal cookies, like the way his cheeks smell when he first wakes up, and how he rubs his nose on my cheek. I usually smile then.

Some stories are stale and unfortunate, like the ongoing saga of poverty.

Some, which are some of my best, are the ones about love. And usually, when I write about love, I don't write based on the better loves I've had, but simple, romanticized ideals.

And all of these stories are worthy of being repeated.

And so I shall continue to listen to the stories of millions, walking and making sense of their lives.

Sometimes, they are reused by my confidants to help them make men fall in love with them.

Sometimes, people use them in cover letters to get jobs.

Works of fiction are far over-rated.

Remember the way the bubblegum tastes. Now, pick up your pen.

It's a "hostel" situation... and work's "going to be a blast."

2010-05-06T13:39:00.003-04:00

May 1st, 2010.

My head was heavy when I rolled out of bed that morning. I had consumed one too many Chimay Blues at a birthday bash for two friends in Midtown. During that time, I screamed at anyone who would listen, about my dissatisfaction with life. Needless to say, I woke up disoriented, stomach aching from the fatty food I put into it at 5:00 a.m.

As I went for my first cold sip of ginger ale, I heard unfamiliar footsteps in the hallway. What I saw was to be the first horrific happening of the day.

My near-vacant apartment building had been turned into a hostel.

I took it upon myself to piece the situation together. Only one day prior, I had mailed my rent check to a new company. I'd called the management company I currently rent with, and they said that the new name was just the people who leased all the units from them, and to send the check to the same place... Send the check to the same place but address it to a different name? Sketchy.

May 1st was a Saturday, and on that day, I found my building had overnight become a hostel for foreigners, all sharing a bathroom, packed into rooms too small for one person.

The tears had started. It was a hostel situation.

There was nothing I could do but nurse the hangover, and head off to work. I stopped by the mailboxes and collected my mail, which I promptly dropped into my large bag. I noticed the doors on the front of the building has been taken off the hinges, and a man was in an office that, a day before, had been a storage closet... or so it seemed. Foreigners were everywhere, arguing about how the space could not accommodate them. I was horrified and made a trip to Starbucks. I could worry about the situation the next day, right?

When I got to work, I carried the weight well. I was supposed to be talking to a good friend about the idiocy that was the night before, but instead I just burst into tears when a bystander who follows me on Facebook asked "why did they turn your apartment building into a hostel?"

I became manic and cried for a long time. My current squeeze, who treats me like gold despite my ongoing mental instability and brooding persona, coupled with my fits of rage, bought me a bag of Doritos. I love Doritos. Maybe things would start looking up.

I tried to dry my eyes enough to continue with my job at corporate. A half hour later, I returned to find the chips missing. That led to more tears, which continued. I scarcely noticed the police cars outside.

An hour later, people started asking why there was such a line of police activity outside. Two major sections of Times Square had been blocked off. I didn't know, but I asked. Of course, finding answers was all but impossible.

I found myself completely unable to deal with the situation gracefully. I woke up in a hostel. Someone stole my chips, and now, rumors were flying that a car had been left abandoned a block away... and the barricade for pedestrians was moving... moving past our front door.

"Evacuate" they told my GM. She said "no."

"Nobody is to come in, and nobody is to leave," we were told.

"Great," I thought. "I woke up in a hostel. Someone stole my chips. Now there's a bomb outside and we're in lock-down... We're in lock-down when everyone and their brother has been evacuated. This may be the worst day I've ever had."

We remained in lock-down for over two hours when the guests were finally allowed to leave. The information coming to us was faster through BlackBerrys, computers, and family members calling our cell phones. Nobody outside seemed to be sharing any information with us about anything. We just knew that we were just a block away from a bomb.

An hour passed as we finished cleaning. We were told we must leave in large groups. Just before midnight, we all were let out onto the street, as we bolted to move south past the barricade. All of us just started walking.

I walked 10 blocks before I found a cab willing to take me home. Ten blocks, sweating, no water and my stomach turning in all sorts of knots.

I returned to the hostel, opened my mail, and found that I owed nearly 300 dollars for bloodwork. I went to the gynecologist this month for the first time in three years. When they asked if I wanted to be tested to STDs, I thought "why not?"

I could have gotten that done at a clinic, but since I have health insurance, I found the one-stop to be better for me. Well, apparently I have a deductible I know nothing of.

...so now I have to pay 300 dollars, and I don't have any STDs.

Of course, doors were slamming when I got home. The hostel was in full swing.

My friend got me on Facebook and asked if I worked the next day. I told her yes, but I worried about going. She said "yeah... It's going to be a blast."

So, that was May 1st, 2010.

Today is May 6th. In the past five days, I found a new apartment. I thought for a minute I could wait to move on it, but the boyfriend thought otherwise. He made a phone call to see it on May 2nd, and by May 3rd I put down a deposit on the place. I also fought endlessly with my management company, and they are going to reimburse me for half the month's rent and give me my security deposit in full.

In 9 days, I should be in the new place. Times Square is on high alert, but as of yesterday, the bomber had been arrested.

I don't know if things are on the up and up. I hope they are. I have a bit more fighting to do, but all and all, I can't wait to move.

When all of this nonsense is over, I'll hopefully be posting some more substantive garbage on this blog. For now, I bid you adieu.

Weird happenings...

2010-05-03T01:43:00.002-04:00

Hey all-

Just giving everyone a heads up that I will be moving out of my apartment within the next month and may not have internet access immediately following the move.

On another note- I was in Times Square for the bomb yesterday, and was locked down for about three hours. Everyone made it out of the area safely, and we, for the most part, have resumed life as normal. Hopefully everything is being handled to ensure our ongoing safety.

When the final move is over, and I am settled in the new place, I'll begin to humorously tell the story of my yesterday. In the interim, look to read the same garbage I normally write.

Peace to all of you,

Fish

Lower East Side

2010-04-30T20:26:00.004-04:00

She likes to hang at the corner bars with the musicians that are long past their glory days.

I live in a hostel, just a few blocks away.

She likes to dream of stardom, while the chords still ring in her lover's ears.

I want to help them, but the only thing I can do is tell the story.

A night in paradise....

2010-04-24T22:36:00.000-04:00

I could have touched you in this room...

Everyone in this room is waiting for the next horizon to come forth, and every light to shine upon them. I could have touched you here.

They're young and soulless are present, and every sound we could have experienced together, and all the history we have could have made this so much more.... So much more.

I could have touched you in this room, but instead I hid in Queens. I didn't want you to know that you were the only thing I cared about on this Earth.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

...stolen.

2010-04-21T19:03:00.002-04:00

When you turn on the radio... do you ever wonder? Or is your head so lost in the melodic frequencies that you perhaps don't care to? But is there ever a time that you wonder?

--

A love connected by soul provoked the writings.

It was not eternal love, but rather a short, inadmissible friction. It knew endless boundaries in the material world, and none in the world of spirit. It was a love that existed in brief moments, but carried on for years without communication. It had no tangibility in any universe, or any concrete form. It was just a level of mental copulation that somehow managed to exist among all the concrete and bodies and things run by corporations.

It was, for it's purpose, a muse.

She wrote of this love with every fiber of her being, and infused it into every anecdote she knew to be true about the world around, and her findings in the spiritual realm of her soul. She re-drank the poison to cringe over and over, mulling through these writings. They made, to her, the most sense. To others, they made little to no sense, and to a select few, they made all the sense in heaven and earth, for they were vague and open to interpretation.

And then there was a man who worked in a bar...

And a woman fancied his winks and charisma, but knew nothing of his soul, only his upbringing.

And this woman, she took the writings and carefully posed them, not as her own, but never acknowledging they weren't. She hoped the man would find the writing, and would be drawn to it. He was.

She would ask, "explain this," and it would be explained in writing. And this woman, she'd take those explanations and bring them to the bar... And suddenly the man was smitten with a mind he had not met, but felt he was seeing, and felt he knew for years.

And they kissed in furious passion in the middle of the night.

But the writer, the writer felt no passion. She felt nothing, for her muse had gone. She rejoiced in the second-hand praise the man gave the woman, as they spoke in the bar late at night. She felt second-handed the praise she hoped the muse would give her. She witnessed a budding romance that she should have been having, but not in that bar, and not with that man, and not with that woman's thoughts, but with her own.

And you can love someone for their mind; it's true. But do you know who you're actually loving? The mind is an easier thing to manipulate than the body. A wig can change your hair, contacts can change your eye color, but if you look long enough and pull hard enough on another person, until they're completely naked and sweating and breathing their scent onto you, you can find who you're truly touching. You can't see a mind. You can only accept it at face value.

---

So, this brings me back to the beginning of this passage.

When you're listening to the radio, and you get lost in the music, and your body begins pulsing with the beat of the drum; when that happens, do you ever stop to wonder, "who's writing the songs?"

Writer's lament

2010-04-16T02:11:00.004-04:00

I've been given a lot of time...

Sometimes, I think I'm in purgatory when I'm at my job. We walk in circles, literally, all night; all night, walking in circles, down one street, down another, and back.

During that time, I have a lot of time to think all the thoughts I want. I don't get to live any life, just think about it... It's my jail sentence. I just get to think; think over everything I've done and every choice I've made.

The servers around me sing show tunes. I hate show tunes. I get to listen to them, all night while walking in these circles; just one big circle of walking and show tunes, 8 hours, every night.

I've thought about leaving more times than I've thought about staying, any every day I think these thoughts as I walk in these circles, listening to show tunes, every single night.

But yet, I can't find a job I want to pursue. I'm a writer. I know how to tell stories. That's the only thing I can do well, save the curse of understanding people and having very good pheromones. Other than these three things, I am nothing. I can only write.

And so I seek the opportunity to write, but I also live in a very real world of debt, and bills, and rent, and a bad economy... And writers are paid pennies, if pennies. And even if I could write, I do not wish to write about American Idol, or Lady GaGa, or anything that the "free world" wishes to consume. I wish to write stories, because I have many of them.

I wish to write about teenagers, coming of age in abandoned tractor trailers in a parking lot in small town America... They sit, with wads of chewing tobacco in their mouths. They do not enjoy the tobacco, but yet in the stillness of the August night, they make the memories of their first time asking the universe for answers.

I wish to write about the smokey room with the effervescent vibe of the piercing music... I wish to write about her, and her beautiful skin, and the man who was unworthy of her, and the shots they took to ease every ounce of pain they felt when they were with one another. I wish to write about the one who loved the married cocaine addict, and how they emaciated themselves while struggling to hug one another in public venues, since they couldn't have just a simple moment of serenity with one another.

I wish to write about the sickly crew that stood in front of a run-down donut shop on the main drag, and how they drove beat up trucks and had missing teeth. I wish to tell the world of their simple conversation, and notice how the intelligentsia of society will damn them for their simplicity, but how I envy them for never being cursed to think the thoughts I do.

I wish to write about a man confessing to his wife that he wished he had the relationship with his children from a previous marriage, as she had with her children, also from a previous marriage.

"I think we have that relationship because of our brother," the daughter said to her mother, walking through the sunny streets of Manhattan during a sole day of escape. "When we were growing up, nobody could begin to understand the tumultuous world we were living in. They thought they did, but they didn't... So as we went through these experiences, the only people we could really confide in were one another... I think that's where the level of 'over share' came in. And now, we're just stuck in that mentality that it's OK, and truthfully, it really is OK."

"You think deep thoughts," the mother replied. "People don't analyze things quite like you do. You need to do something with that ability."

"I would," the daughter replied, "but the world doesn't care."

I want to write such stories, because I know them, and because they should refelct upon the world we live in.

I should be able to tell the story of my brother with Autism applying for social security, and how the government wrote a letter to him, almost verbatim telling him that having his disorder does not make him disabled. It also said "we have decided that based on your experience as a fast food worker for the past three years that you are able to do that job."

"Great," my mother said. "So he can work at Burger King."

I want to tell these stories, because they accentuate human life. They make humans important.

I do not want to write about media generated Lady GaGa. I do not want to write about American Idol. I do not want to write about mollycoddled rich kids. I do not want to write about sports, and the same games people have played for generations with the same rules, and the same fields, and the same balls.

I want to write about how all of his money couldn't save him from himself.

I want to write about the magical hands of a man I could never have, but still want every single day of my life, for no other reason than his ability to understand my thoughts.

But yet, as I do this job, I begin to feel devoid of all ideas. My brain becomes a mushy piece of garbage. I try to soothe it with alcohol, but often when I write drunk I don't recognize myself the following day.

I feel so lost and without a muse. It used to come easily. I used to have so many beautiful souls around me that inspired me. They were intense individuals who felt things strongly, or maybe I just felt them strongly. I felt, around them, the vitality of life. I felt, with them, the way I wanted to live. I never belonged, but I liked to sit on the outside and observe.

Sometimes I made people feel awkward, but I suppose they loved me enough to humor me and just let me analyze. They knew I was watching them, but because I never really belonged, they confided in me, telling me their deepest passions and secrets.

Now, everything I found to be a muse is gone. This entire city is filled with name-droppers and show tune singers. They sit at bars and discuss things on TV, like American Idol. They talk about shows, and plays, and never once explore their own stories. They only talk about the stories of other people, and the works of other people. They only know what the lowest common denominator finds to be "entertainment." They love the thing that drove me from the media, and made me never want to return.

I have a few things I try to use for inspiration.

I like music because it inspires me. When I'm listening to music, I go to another place. I find there's a different universe in the world of music. It's a brilliant escape from the earth. It can bring you to a state of healthy euphoria, or deep into ugly ego-centrism.

Sometimes, music can be enhanced with the use of drugs, but I have never found much use for them... I've known only two languages throughout my life- English and music. Those two I learned from a young age. I can understand the dynamics of music, and play instruments. I can write beautiful stories.

And these are the things I understand...

But for me, the only thing I can see myself doing is writing stories. I want a world that cares. I find a world that doesn't know where to start caring, even if the media allowed them a choice.

I want to tell stories, and not end up in a pauper's grave.

Destination

2010-04-07T23:02:00.001-04:00

He's standing on the corner of Avenue A...

My thoughts of him will last no longer than this cigarette...

But as he walks up the street, irregardless of traffic and the attention he fails to lend to it, I briefly wish he was walking toward me.

And not but an hour ago, I was walking with the dearest friend I have... And not but three hours ago, I was held in the embrace of a beautiful man.

And in this hazy interim, I wish for all the fantasies of life and youth, and the daring conversation I could have with whomever crosses the avenue...

But by the last inhalation, I'll succumb to the burning reality; I already have that... And I'm so terribly sorry that he couldn't be a part of it as he walked along the avenue, deep into the heart of Alphabet City.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Truth.

2010-03-27T20:08:00.003-04:00

I, like all other human beings, romanticize my past when it's not in my present. That's why I am wholly convinced that other career choices would have garnered much more wealth, other cities would have brought me more life, and some of the more evasive, pathetic human beings I knew would have undoubtedly been the best lovers I ever had...

Toxic Confetti

2010-03-27T02:48:00.002-04:00

A crimson piece of confetti fell from the sky... One piece, lingering alone from a sea of paper from the commencement of the year. A red fragment, landing on the cracked soles of boots that have traversed through many cities... One red piece, never having been swept away, played with the motions of her eyelids. A red piece of tissue, encapsulating a moment in time, a moment long gone.

The rubber under her feet, worn with age, remembering the feeling of cobblestone smashing against the sidewalk carried her along, along the path of the red confetti in a sea of millions.

Every breath a memory... Every scent, a world of desire.

The confetti, suspended in the air.

The rubber soles, making love to the street as she remembered...

The way his neck emanated a scent so strong, it engulfed years of toxic pheromones as they embraced one another in the dungeon, memorizing the crevices of the others' hands... The chunks bitten from her nails from a moment of haphazard lunacy. The calluses on his fingers, acculumated from the years of beating metal strings.

The scent, the dripping sweat from the highs and lows of perfumed melodies, polluted and complimented by the alcoholic daze, stabbed through them, cracking the floor of the dungeon underneath. In the morning, all would be cleaned, save the spill in the corner, and the flecks of ash from the swinging doors.

In the morning, the scents would be purged with the absence of darkness... but not before. Not before the daylight hours could he lose the complimenting scent of the city, nor could she the explosion of olfactory euphoria as she pressed herself into his neck, begging for another chance to save him.

Daylight, to remind one of humanity, would come with inevitable force through every wrinkle in their faces.

And the streets would cry in the morning, as cracked rubber smashed against them, and the ash blew from the inside, back into the world, back into the city, back into submission.

A routine would bring her back to the crossroads... the crossroads of the world... where a flaming piece of red tissue painted a trail in the sky; a flaming piece of red tissue, dropped from thousands of feet above at the commencement of the year. A piece of red flaming tissue, made by man in an enormous spool, cut by man into a rectangle, and dropped, thousands of feet through the rain, surviving months of nature whipping it in hopes to destroy the memory... A piece, floating through the barren sky as millions of feet eroded the ground below.

But yet, as the red piece of paper floated above, she was reminded of the memory of that toxic scent, as toxic as the commencement of the year...

And if these senses do not validate human life, I shall break my pen and become a CPA.

...elipses.

2010-03-24T03:48:00.006-04:00

For years I've kicked the rocks barefoot, trudging along.

Being fifteen, sitting in a sewer drain with another girl, the boys outside on the rocks, throwing them against the hardened dirt that once was a mudslide from the factory above. I felt it then, the rocks in my hand, and had no other company but them.

I felt it, swinging on swing sets as a child, not a fragment of understanding from anyone near me. I've felt it then...

I kicked the rocks across the parking lot with headphones and a song in my soul, but no one to sing it to. And I felt it as I moved my hands across the rocks on the dyke above the river.

Being twenty, holding the rocks on the porch overlooking a sea of uncertainty, and on an outdoor platform of an oncoming train thousands of miles away. Rocks turned to cigarettes, and the smoke always lingered on my fingers after every inhale.

But none of this whole world could provide me any company... Because the world did not understand.

And I have found you, and you brutally penetrated my soul... And you stung me and you kissed me... And you knew me the second I met you, and I loved you long before that moment.

And I waited for you patiently.

And how can you deny me this? My dear, how can you deny me in your life, because meeting you was the first day of mine. Touching you was the first time I felt another human being. Starring into your eyes was the first truth I ever knew.

How can you deny me this? How can you blatantly refuse me this?

How can you, with our same eyes seeing the same world, leave my hands to rocks and cigarettes... How can you leave me to that when I weaved through a world of white noise to hear your song, and see your face, and have you take my soul and mold it like putty?

I've waited for you longingly, longer than I knew your name, or your face.

Because my darling, the world is filled with many who cannot provide me company. I have no one to sing to, because I'm telling a story they have not yet learned, and perhaps may never learn. How can you, with any sincerity, not allow me a second of serenity?

For candidly, in a sea of a smoker's solitude, I wouldn't mind the company. I wouldn't mind to hold your mind a little longer every time.

Quid pro quo.

2010-03-19T00:33:00.002-04:00

It's warm tonight...

And there, there are trees and the sky, and I haven't seen the sky. I miss the sky. What does it look like to you, you beautiful soul I once knew?

Your face, it's moving so fast. And I'm so young and I feel it in my bones, a healthy alternative to what the future holds. I want to reach you, touch you again.

And there, it's warm and the sky is alive. I know the stars are there, because the rain has gone. The city is clean. The path home must be also. I know every driver is awake. I know they love the idea, just the very idea of life. They feel it, as do we.

How, I wonder, could I reach you if I wanted to? How is it that I miss the feeling of wheels I control under me as I'd speed to you. I'd drive through the sleeping villages to get to you. The world there is calm... The world here is bustling. Here, it's early. There, it's late.

A bottle of wine, a bottle of gin... A bottle of whiskey, a bottle of sin.

What you do with the poison is something I'll never understand, as I reach through the blank air and yearn for your hand. And every ounce of green in your eyes that I remember as blue and sparkling, is now turning grey and holds traces of longing.

But I know it to be factual that if I were able, I'd drive all night to sit at your table. And I know that between us the love would be poison, and leave us to wonder why we ever were talking.

I'd drive all night in the air with the mist, I'd pounce and I'd prod and I'd mangle your wrists.

I know where you're sitting, and the way of the air around you. Your aura is fragile but undoubtedly alive, needing mending and compromise. You need for me to hold you now, though you deny my existence. I need for you to free me now, but I give no resistance.

How can I, with all that's beautiful in heaven and earth, only desire that one thing I know to be poison? How can I with good intention want the company of another addiction? I'm fully intrigued, and sad, and lost for all the world can give me. I don't feel an image anymore, but a reality.

I'd drive to you, dear, if I could. The dew would accumulate on my car. The words would scar my bleeding ears. Would we remember the conversation in a sea of delirium? We both claim to know the world so well, and for it, we long for the drink above all else. The love of the drink to outweigh the love of one another. We'd never be able to move forward, if we keep timing our journeys so purposefully, drunkenly. We'd only be an ongoing fantasy.

I feel your pulse moving through my body every time I touch you.

I feel the stars grow closer every time I see you.

I want you to read this. I want you to read this. I want you to read this...

Because I only love language so to you I can speak it. ...beautifully.

"You can take a picture of something you see. In the future, where will I be?"

Validation.

2010-03-17T14:06:00.003-04:00

This morning, I woke up to see an article about a friend in the Philadelphia Inquirer. Ashley is a friend from college, and a girl I shared my first overseas experience with. You can read the article here.

The conversation that spurred from it took place with a good friend of mine; in fact, my best friend. We spoke about the recent on goings of the past few days, and the people we know and "knew" back when.

The last few days has been full of Pennsylvania goodness. I can't say all that came from these three days was good, because I lost a boyfriend because of it. I can't say, however, that I wasn't in full need of these three days. In fact, they utterly saved me from everything I fear in this world.

Saturday night was the night I saw a Pennsylvania band at Arlene's Grocery, a lower east side venue with a full stage downstairs, complete with a blacklight ambiance and darkened bar. It was grungy in a modern sense, not in the old sense of the Bitter End, etc. The whole place became electric at times, and at other times seemed very "lower east side" In fact, my best friend commented (with pleasant enthusiasm) about getting "stuck to the chair" by "the duct tape holding it together." Priceless.

The band's show was short but incredible. The time spent afterward was equally as incredible, albeit a drunk time I remember little of. I only remember the strange conversation I made with the people involved.

I knew a whole bunch of the people who went to the show, most of them by only having exchanged a few sentences with them in years prior.

In fact, one of them remember the exact moment he last saw me, when I arrived, etc. Weird but cool.

A lot of the guys I ended up spending the remainder of the evening with (mostly because I was drunk and fancied the lead singer) were older than me by a good ten years, and were a nice break from the incessant naivety of the population who occupies New York City. They were real, gritty, passionate, and soaking wet from the monsoon we walked in all night. I felt a nice drunkenness and a soaking wet, fuchsia peace of mind.

Following Saturday night's endeavors was a visit from my "husband," Andrew, and my old mentor, Andrea. My best friend and I met them for drinks in the early afternoon Monday and spoke endlessly about life, choices, research, the world, politics, music, movies, etc. A few beers brought us to the poor choices of the administration of our alma mater, which we all claim to care deeply about.

I decided then to finally pursue sociology for my MA.

I haven't made a decision yet about where I will go to grad school. Andrea reassured me that she would write me a stellar letter of recommendation, which was something I think I needed to hear. I'd obviously take a communications spin on things, because communication in society fascinates me more than any other thing in this world.

The evening was spent with Andrew, who got accepted to Columbia's Investigative School of Journalism. We discussed characters, and Myles (my best friend mentioned earlier) and I both agree New York City lacks most of the "characters" we admire and talk about constantly.

Late night was spent with my friend Mark, my former department chair and ex boyfriend... Yes, ex boyfriend. We still get along quite well, and talked at the bar until 4:00 a.m. about the world we live in, and our choices within it. We're getting older, and we don't like it. Only a few years has passed since we dated, but it has been enough time that we feel we have aged much more.

I confessed to him that the other week, I was out with a friend who is only two years my senior. He asked how old I was, in which I replied "24." He told me I spoke like an old woman in her seventies. I told him that was accurate.

Mark and I talked about how I read Atlas Shrugged, a book he "lent" to me years ago. I asked him if he was the one who said I reminded him of Dagny Taggart. He said "yes! That's why I lent you the book, asshole!"

The conversation was wonderful, and after the three days, I felt completely understood in all areas of myself.

This leads to the opening of this blog.

I am crazy. So is everyone I know.

I know a lot of people, but I don't consider "those people" to be "everyone I know." The people I "know" are the people I hold dear. They are the people who find out we're in the same area code and send me adoring messages saying "together again." Period. Exclamation point. Love.

Some of the choices I made this week were not the best, but they were for me and in my best interests. The people I know approve of them, and approve of me.

The people I know are people like Myles, and Andrew, and Ashley, who basically is just living a Bohemian, non-conventional lifestyle. They are people with a drive and passion for life. They are people with the desire to taste everything, to experience everything.

Yes, on Saturday night I willingly cheated on Mario the second this music man grabbed my face and kissed me. I could have pulled away and said "no," but all I said was "please do it again..."

I can't ignore my story, and the story of the past for a present that is trying to turn me into a woman with a husband, 2.5 kids, a dog and a white picket fence. You'd think the New York dwellers would be different about such things, but they aren't. They aren't because most of them have parents with money, pretending to be happy and "staying married for the kids." They have delusions about the world. They don't understand life could turn out completely opposite. You could get "stuck," like my boss, who lives in his in-law's basement in Long Island. Really... That could be your life.

People in the city, particularly the members of my generation, are not crazy.

But the people I know "are."

Every one of them, from Ashley with the middle finger project, to Myles and his chutzpah, to Andrea, who is in her late forties, brags about menopause, and wants to grow her hair to hippie status again.

I know so many to reference, but none of them are here... And none of the people here can see why I do what I do. It's the freedom. It's the "not settling." It's the never being OK or complacent with anything that doesn't breathe life into you.

Mario wanted to live with me. I told him it would kill me. I wasn't lying.

I want to say "fuck you" to societal norms. Did my kissing the music man do anything for me? Not a thing in a tangible world. We may not speak for six months. But damn, it breathed a new life into my soul, a kind of life I'd lost for a long time.

The world is a place full of stories, and beautiful ones. It's full of ridiculous chutzpah and insanity. It's full of brazen, crazy folks. It's full of uncertainty. For all I know, there may be an afterlife. For all I know, I could live again... But the face I see in the mirror is the face I have to look at for maybe another 50 years. Maybe longer. Maybe not. That's the face I must love. That's the face I must continue to recognize.

I have to do what she feels is right. I cannot live for others.

Do I self-deprecate? Yes. I do it for humor's sake, and at the end of the day, humor is all we can drag from this life. Joy is all we can hope for. Serenity does not come for me in a warm body to come home to. It comes in bursts, with moments of extreme sadness to juxtapose good with awful.

It's what I have now, which is "me." I have "me" back. And I have been reassured with all of the visits from all of the characters in "Ethics" that this shall continue. My existence, for the most part, is verified.

I won't go home. I won't commit to anything. I won't see any side of the story but the craziest one possible.

"At last she was able to define love... Love was.... SON OF A BITCH! PANZY-ASSED STOOL PUSHER!" -Melvin Udall, As Good as it Gets

lowercase romance

2010-03-15T01:48:00.004-04:00

i got your message.

and you look beautiful with rain in your hair.

...and it's so good to see you.

you were incredible.

...it's going to happen this time. you inspire me.

kiss me again.

i'll kiss you. oh, i'll kiss you.

where is your girlfriend
...what girlfriend. i am a single man.
("i don't know what to do... i am not a single man")
i'm not a single woman
...you have.. a boyfriend
'well it's my turn dammit'

she wanted me to settle down. she didn't want me to pursue this. she didn't want me out all night playing music.
...but if you take that away, if you can't tell the world your story... if you can't play your song... what's left to you? you're nothing without it.

"don't let him go. he's holding on. don't let him go."

i should go home...
...come with us.

i feel this.. after all this time. i feel this.
...yes
i feel this. and it wont go away. and you are my muse.
...and you are mine

your hands.

your amazing hands

i can't touch you enough

i can't believe...

you're killing me, "a." your hands...

you don't have to see me again
...i will see you again

i want to make love to you
...i will make love to you

"How long do you want to be loved? Is forever enough, is forever enough?"

Crazy never takes a holiday...

2010-03-09T22:53:00.002-05:00

This week has been BY FAR the craziest week I've had in a long time.

It started the other day when I coughed up a small amount of blood. I, being the hypochondriac that I am decided to go to the doctor. By doctor, I mean the ER (since I don't have a doctor, and it was a Friday evening,) and by "going to the ER" I mean "I went to the ER at 1:30 a.m.

Of course, upon arrival I immediately saw a homeless man sleeping, stinking up the waiting room. After some paperwork and a short wait, I was in a bed. Then, the real fun started.

The man across from me was naked in a hospital gown, eating some sort of wrap. He flagged down the doctor, asking if the doctor had a turkey wrap because the wrap he had would "mess up his teeth." The doctor said that he got what they had, and that was it... So, the man moved along to talk to his imaginary brother for the next ten minutes.

"Brother, come down for me. I'm in New York City... Come down... And flyyyyy me back to Omaha..."

I looked around a bit more until I heard the crazy say "water" to no one in particular. "Water, I need water... In my mouth and all over my body." Somehow, a jug of water appeared in his hand. When he finished taking a swallow, he grabbed a mustard packet, opened it, exclaimed "I love mustard," sucked the contents from the packet, covered his head with the blanket, and fell asleep talking to himself... In that order.

Later, after I was awaiting results on a chest X-Ray, two girls came in. Both were NYU students and one was hit by a car. She wasn't ad, and didn't even seem hurt. Just procedure.

We started chatting it up (I was moved so an older man could have the heart monitor in my former spot) as the woman in the bed across from me slid down and her hospital gown went up to her breasts. I saw the FULL MONTY, hairy vagina and all. It was not a pretty sight.

What was even less appealing was the fact that the sheets were soaked in urine. The woman waddled away from them to the receptionist, and then, upon receiving no sign of care or concern, waddled back and removed the sheets. The nylon mattress was also soaked in urine, so the woman picked up a crumpled sheet from the floor and wiped it.

I began smiling about this (after seeing the woman's va-jay-jay at least twice more) with the NYU girl who wasn't hit by the car (or as I call her, the "big fat friend.")

My current "squeeze" was with me at the time, and at one point he looked forward, and then quickly back with only the word "oh" uttered.

"What," I asked.

"The lady's naked..." he said.

Sure enough, I looked forward to see the lady in her birthday suit, slowly assembling her clothing and dressing herself. Five minutes later, she was dressed and left the ER.

The doctor (who homeboy asked for a turkey sandwich) then came over, and managed to let us know this was his last day. I asked what was the deal with "the lady," and he didn't know. She could have been crazy or homeless. God knew. We didn't.

I then noticed a man just passed out in a single room, about the size of the rooms at a dentist's office.

"And what's his deal," I asked.

"Just like you'd see on the street,"the doctor replied, meaning the man was homeless.

"So why does he get his own room," I asked.

"To keep the smell away from the rest of us," he replied.

We all had a laugh about it. We also left two hours after we arrived, which for a Friday night in Manhattan is absolutely stellar.

If you're curious about the reason that I went, the chest X-Ray came back fine. I have a post-nasal problem from a dry apartment, and am experiencing dry, bleeding sinus passages. My lungs are excellent, and I'm making efforts to not smoke.

Now, this ER visit took place during a 6 shift work week for me. On the 6th day (which I wasn't supposed to work in the first place,) I deduced that a drink was in order.

My friend and I went to the bar, and naturally the only few available seats were near a chair with a coat on it. The bartender is a friend, and told us "be careful, that guy's weird."

We thought "what's the worst that could happen?" I mean hell, we're from Pennsylvania. The craziest people there will try to buy you a drink, and you just tell them to go away. If they don't, some fat guido kicks their ass. Makes sense, right? Wrong.

This man literally starred at us for a straight hour and a half, talking to himself minimally but giving us the strangest smile I'd ever seen. Finally, after he was good and drunk, he came over to me and made some psychotic remark about eyes. He said my eyes were green, to which I replied that my eyes were brown.

Well, he kept repeating what I said over and over and over again. The bartender finally told him that I was not interested. This set him off. He, in a strange pedophile-type voice (I really believe this man is a serial killer) started arguing with the bartender, talking about how God hates homosexuals and Jesus is going to come back and destroy homosexuals. He just kept repeating "homosexual" until the manager had to tell him to leave.

He went into the bathroom and didn't come out, when the manager went in and got him. They walked out together, and when the manager returned he said the only reason the man was angry was because of gay people. Really? Well you could have fooled me that this was the ONLY lingering issue in his messed up brain.

One of the hardest things about New York is being "on" all the time. Always looking and being aware of your surroundings, always making sure everything checks out. It gets tiring.

When do I tell the truth? When do I lie? Do I pay with cash when a homeless person is right behind me, or do I haveto make a conscious effort to use my card? Being female doesn't really HELP the situation. This is a city of millions, and I'm just another young orifice.

I'm a little worn-out after this week and the crazy, and I still have to make some time to do my taxes before Saturday.

ALSO, I am in desperate need of a gynecologist appointment, since I haven't been in ages. I made an appointment that was supposed to be this week (I made this appointment 3 weeks ago) and naturally, my period didn't show up for two and a half weeks. Was I pregnant? No... No I wasn't. It just felt like waiting until an inconvenient time so I had to reschedule. Crazy. Never a break.

And speaking of crazy things happening...

I mentioned that a few weeks ago, out of the blue I heard from Mr. Smith. He's going to be in the city this upcoming Saturday playing a show with the band. I haven't heard them play since last year att he Autism benefit in Scranton, and certainly haven't spoken to him in ages.

I don't understand the reason for his resurfacing, but it always seems odd to me when I interact with him. He had this woman in his life for the longest time, and never kade a point to contact me and tell me he'd be here. Presumably, it was because of her, because when I came to see him (and missed his show) in the summer time, his girlfriend was there, and that was the second thing he said to me. It's odd how he can pick that piece of us right back up where he left it, if there is anything to pick up in the first place.

I wrote a love letter to this man a year and a half ago, easily one of the craziest and irrational things I've ever done. I even went so far as to re-read portions of that letter when I heard from him this recent time, just to remind myself what the hell was there to begin with. No matter what it was, it seems odd that after that kind of parchment I pretty-much hand delivered to him via the postal service, he'd be interested in interacting with me.

A lot of time has passed, so why not more time? Why not let this eternal saga go?

I call it a saga because this man is my complete equal in every way, from the way he speaks to the way he lives, to his values, morals, etc, this man is me. I cannot be certain what the reasoning is behind my attachment that grew so quickly all that time ago, but I formed an admiration and love for this man that I generally do not take interest to form. I act alone almost always, even when I date someone. Even though now I date a man, and dearly love the man I date, I still see us as separate entities. When we kiss, I see us as two people. When we are intimate, I see two people engaging in acts. Such was not the case with Mr. Smith. I always felt very much a part of him any time I interacted with him. I cannot explain it.

So, the best friend and I shall go to this show Saturday, if for no other reason that then fact that I admire his work tremendously, and really want to support him for doing so well, and booking himself in so many different states recently. I read a little about this on various other internet sites and social media sits.

I cannot see any other reason to interact with this man than to say hello, which I may or may not do. I hope it ends at that point, but for me, crazy never takes a holiday.

Arrivederci!

Stupid.

2010-03-03T12:59:00.002-05:00

Human stupidity astounds me.

Out of all the things I cannot stand about being a part of Generation Y, stupidity is the one burden I cannot let go of.

It all started when I was five years old, at Disney World in Orlando, Florida. After the trip, my mother and father showed me the family photos, and I saw all of the strangers walking aimlessly in the background. I wondered "gee, how many photos am I in from other people's vacations?"

Stupid? No... Until 2008, when I was speaking to one of my 30 year old friends. She said "You know how people take pictures? I want to know how many pictures I'm in from other people's photos."

...you're about 25 years too late for this revelation.

I began getting angry this weekend when two short, fat morons were singing Lady GaGa in the pantry at work. They were going on about how revolutionary the music was, and blah blah blah.

I like Lady GaGa. I like to sing her music, but after a few repetitions, I find nothing to hold me to it. No inspiring lyrics about the state of America, or the human race. No political activism. No underlying theme of trying to better the planet. All she sings about is shit, and the gay men flock all over it.

I told the people that in 3-4 years time, nobody would even entertain the idea of playing her music on repeat, because the media would have moved on, and someone or "something" else would be in the spotlight.

They didn't believe me. The fat must have gotten to their brains. Let's review some of the "played once" selections of my iTunes playlist.

Roses- OutKast - A great track. He was going to be the NEXT BIG THING in 2003-2004. Everyone walked around singing this song. It was AMAZING! The next era of music. When was the last time you heard it anywhere?

(Any Song) - Avril Lavigne - Yeah-- I remember how we cared about her music career. Guess the media didn't like her "Skater Boy" style.

Let's Get Down - Baby/Bow Wow - Haha. Do we remember even a verse of this? Guess the "deep lyrics" didn't fly.

Right Thurr - Chingy - Who the hell is Chingy? Would we notice him among a group of ugly black people walking the streets of New York, wearing ridiculously large clothing? I don't think so.

How Come - D12 - Yes. Eminem's little "gig" which Mr. X, Y, and Z really lasted. I remember them raving about this shit on MTV years ago. I even remember the white trash guy I lost my virginity to walking around singing this song. Ha. Great music.

London Bridges - Fergie - Fergie was the new, explosive AMAZING big thing. Everyone loved her. How UNIQUE her music was... Until it wasn't.

(Any Song) - Justin Timberlake - He owns a restaurant now. I don't think he makes any music, and if he does, we're not idolizing him like the N'Sync days. Or his pathetic solo days afterward.

Basically, I can go on and on. I won't, because I feel I've mademy point. I don't hate the pig-look-alikes for loving Lady GaGa. I think her tunes are catchy and good for a time or two listen. What bothers me is their obsesseion, thinking this "music" is unique, and "the next big thing." The only NEXT BIG THING in your lives are your ever-growing fat cells blocking the synapses from working properly in your brain.

Second point - my obtuse manager at corporate.

After bussing a table at "corporate," I started to head to the kitchen. I looked down at my pocket and saw my black book (with hundreds of dollars in it) was missing. Now, unlike many of the trust fund babies, I cannot afford to lose my job, and if I lost that amount of money, I would have. I knew with the dirty, disgusting clientele we get on Saturday nights roaming around, and the sticky-fingered servers who hadn't made their rent yet flocking by, I had to make a run for it and grab the book before they did.

I ran, threw my dishes on a side station, and retrieved the book.

"Andee," said this cronie.

"I'm sorry. I left my book," I said. "I didn't want to get fired." (I can't afford it, you bitch.)

"Well you almost did right then."

Andee: (thinking) No, you have no authority to do that. (aloud) I'm sorry! There was hundreds of dollars in there.

Cronie: But... you ran through here

Andee: I'm sorry. It won't happen again.

Cronie: But... you almost ran into guests

Andee: I GET THE POINT. I did the wrong thing. I just left HUNDREDS of dollars sitting over there. IT WON'T happen again.

Cronie: But...

Andee: (annoyed, walks away)

-- AND WHAT was your intention, moron? Did you want to grind your point into my hand with a piece of broken glass? Do you not think that my MENSA IQ could not absorb your putrid, stupid point? I "got it," in case you didn't notice from the first 20 seconds of our conversation. I mean, I could see if I acted bizarre all of the time, but I am a certified trainer. And if ANY of my trainees ever asked me what to do if they left hundreds of dollars sitting somewhere, I'd tell them to run their fat asses after it. Not everything is black and white. Moron.

And speaking of morons- I attend these "meetings" for corporate. One of the people who does a great deal of speaking (and outranks me) cannot deliver a point. He reminds me of my English 101 teacher in college (who was just an adjunct filling in, and actually worked in admissions, a field more suited to her.) I learned, though many communications courses, that the human brain can absorb over 400 words per minute. When that quota is not met, the human mind begins to fill in the space with thoughts; FILLER.

This person may speak between 150-200 words per minute, making it virtually impossible for him to deliver a point. Every time I have to listen to him speak, I want to throw tomatoes in his direction. I do not know how to rectify this situation.

So that's me, today. Annoyed by dumb things.

Maybe it's because I don't like where I'm at. I don't know. Maybe it's because everyone looks the same to me. All their conversation is the same. I find no escape from it, not even from my friends.

I did, randomly, hear from the music man a week or so ago. He's going to be playing in the city very soon. I think I'll go to that show. Have to get some perspective and inspiration back into my life.

Right?

Because really, how much mundane can you cram into one life before the proprietor of said life desires nothing more than to end it?

How soon is now?

2010-01-25T19:00:00.002-05:00

I hate to be scolded by children.

I'd sooner be hostile than agreeable when people judge my morals.

A woman this week, one year my junior, lectured me, angrily, about my ethos regarding relationships. Apparently, when being in one, I need to fully be in it, to work for something.

And maybe, someday, I will be fully in one. But I cannot foresee that with a person who does not understand me, or any ways of life other than one solitary path. I cannot see that happening. I cannot see that happening with one who argues senselessly, and grabs me, and pushes me on the street. No, I cannot see it. And so, I am not fully in it, nor was I the night I displayed to the world my desire of infidelity.

I had curled my hair, removed my plastic-framed glasses, and put on a "little black dress," dressed up with a new sweater that hung loosely about me. I fastened a belt to show a slimmer waste than I tend to have (because of the child-bearing hips I somehow inherited) and finished the illusion with a pair of Nine West pumps. Possibly a tad out of style with a pointed toe, but black and classic and rare for a city of so much walking and scurrying through wet, filthy streets.

I did not expect to earn a lover at the party, or to be desired by the room.... (which ultimately happened with a few peers, as they showered me with compliments upon arrival.)

I wanted, wholly, to be an elegant piece of arm candy on the one I loved... I wanted, upon him seeing me, to know that for hours, I had worked to ensure I was one of the prettiest girls in the room. My outfit had to be spectacular in comparison with my peers, and the only situation where I'd find it acceptable to allow another woman to surpass me in graceful charm was if her body was toned much nicer than mine... (And as it turned out, only one woman did accomplish this, but she's a tan dancer. I don't ask to compete with such types... She's flighty at best, and awkward with conversation. I consider it a far trade-off.)

And then, as it were bound to happen, my lover arrived, and said nothing of how pretty I looked, or elegant... Even though others were to remind me for days to come of this. He only stated I was improperly dressed, or as he so eloquently put it "you look like you're going to work."

I was heartbroken, but said nothing, as a gentlewoman should say nothing. I knew drinking could become a disaster by that point, but I wished the love of no man to be at that party, and the majority of them were gay to a fault.

The room was charming, loaded with those to be loaded... The prettiest of pretty faces, painted with makeup, sipping cheap beer. I sipped the most expensive, my Belgian triple, which in it's plastic cup lacked the charm it would hold in its proper chalice. Still, I knew I was sipping a fine beer, and not a rubbish domestic brew with the qualities of debauchery. I could sooner have vomited my beer into a cup and provided a nicer sample than that of what they drank, and I was pleased with my secret.

I moved from person to person-- the newer comers to our circle, and the old. I spoke fervently to all as they were my equals, including my one solitary companion from the kitchen, who was the only one to carry a conversation in English with me. He brought me to the middle ground, and his colleagues respected me for my attempts. I sincerely hurt when he said he was mistreated at the party, and for a second desired to leave with him to the hole one block away, where the drop ceiling was stained from years of illegal smoking inside.

I thought of it for a minute, but I seemed to be charming where I was, and I was beginning to feel the effects of a well-planned outfit and outlet for my enormous desires to be noticed. I was noticed, but not sexually... I was noticed as a beautiful stranger that night, one they'd never seen within the work environment. I was new, as were most of them. Real faces replaced hungry ones, and impoverished ones. Men with bad haircuts and beards were well-groomed. Women seen daily in disgusting unwashed jeans were supporting the latest fashions. Brightly-colored scarves wrapped around dainty necks, and women with larger bellies were covered with flattering tailored shirts. It was a new scene, and a new discovery. I was happy finally, my head swimming with a Belgian aphrodisiac.

It was swollen and sinking desperately into a waning evening when I saw him standing at the top of the stairs, examining the crowd. He, the one I had desired for months, nearly a year. He who did not belong to me, but my heart did to him.

I held the ear of a blue-eyed boy who was accounting for his taste in literature when I suddenly stopped him min-sentence.

"I have to go," I said. "...and I'm sorry... But I have to, because there's someone I need to see."

When our eyes met he smiled. I never learned the reason, but as I retreated outside with a friend, I expressed that this would be the night I confessed to him all I had felt for such a long time.

And so, resuming my presence inside, I chose the most inopportune time to unleashed a whirlwind of feelings in his direction.

I cannot remember any rejection or submission on his part. I cannot remember a solitary word I said to him, but yet I know what I said. I know what I said because I know at the moment I was uninhibited, and angry that of all times, I had chosen to do this in such an inappropriate place.

I know I meant every word, and I know in my heart what the words were, even though I cannot recall saying them.

Days later, when the pot had simmered down to a lukewarm bitter stew, I finally recounted some of the intimate details of the evening. He was upset that I chose the venue that I did to say the things I said, especially near some of his peers. But as I asked if he was upset at the actual words I said, and if they made him uncomfortable in any way, he said they did not.

I wondered why, after the deeper part of me thrashed itself at him, he did not feel discomfort in my presence. I wondered why he was unwilling to tell me to detach myself from the mystic charade I had created. He said nothing of that sort.

I promised him it would not happen in the future, and I would behave. I promised him I would right what I had done, but there was no wrong to right. I had not hurt him, nor had I done anything to pleasure him. I simply said words I'd been holding for some time, and I probably didn't have to even say them. Stupid fool I was, saying such things. Stupid...

So, another night came, as we all stood in our familiar settings. And the woman one year my junior, who believes to know everything but scarcely has an idea of what people sometimes yearn to get from one another, lectured me about my ethos, and my morals, and my actions regarding the one I was with, and my betrayal of him at the party.

And yet, I saw nothing of it that she could comment on. I saw no right within her to judge me for needing to speak to him, as he often finds the need to speak to me. I cannot see how she could openly judge something so strange and beyond her realm of expertise.

For she does not go home with him, nor with me... And she does not know the world I have grown up in, or the world he currently resides in...

And as we are nothing to one another, we are also something rare and beautiful. We do not touch or taste one another, and we live no practical lives or fanciful evenings together. We often do not even say goodnight when parting from one another, as we try to convince ourselves goodbyes are not necessary. We have nothing between us except the words that I don't remember... And perhaps we do not even have that.

Still, I value him in ways I cannot describe. I value him because instead of creating voids in me, he fills them. When I speak and no one understands me, he does. When I smile at him feverishly, he reads it.

I cannot continue to love him as I do, knowing there shall be no love between us. Yet I cannot value another higher than him at this moment, because he draws a smile to my face so perfectly.

I find the lectures on how I should act mean virtually nothing.

Who is more right? The one who understands happiness in another and strives to create it, or the one who doesn't understand and strives to destroy it?

I suppose that answer will come to me another day.

"You shut your mouth, how can you say I go about things the wrong way? I am human and I need to be loved just like everybody else does..."

...the world will be missing you.

2010-01-14T13:50:00.003-05:00

Pessimism...

It leads me to be practical.

There are so many people that I expect to die. People I expect to get drunk and run their cars off the road. People who I expect to OD. People who invite Dominicans to their apartment for gang bangs... I expect it.

There are then the eternally depressed who I fully expect one day will off themselves.

But then there are those people I just expect to live forever... People with so much life to them that the very thought of a world without them existing in it would be unimaginable.

Ryan was one of those people. The world will miss him.

I have not a single unpleasant memory of him. Every memory I have is perfect. From his bar mannerisms, to the way he walked into my media law class singing "Whyyyyyy waste yo time!? You knooowww you're gonna be MINE!"

He was a man who made people laugh. He was a man who SAVED lives everyday as an EMT. I just always suspected that even though people lose touch after college, every few months I could look forward to that random AIM message from him, or that random Facebook wall post. I always loved that he existed, because he had a happiness that I aspired to one day find.

The world will miss him. You can read about Ryan here.

Sleep easy, my old friend.

Welcome, Freshman.

2010-01-11T03:51:00.002-05:00

The new year came in in a rare fashion this year. My eyes were glued to thousands in the street below, the great Crossroads of the World, Times Square. Oh, what a year brings, and what a year en-capsules. I can't think of any true way to encompass into words all of the changes, or what they mean to me. I can't even accurately explain the joy of being recognized at Starbucks today, and having my coffee and cookie given to me for free. I'm of few words, I suppose.

Maybe the truest feeling of love hit me in 2009, just hours before the year ended. We all stood, gathered in the area, feeling the pulsing of the Times Square "New Years Rockin' Eve" transpiring below.

The music you hear on the TV really plays in the city, loudly and passionately. We were conducting a meeting (and with our crew, that meant a person talking and 60 other conversations going on to disrupt his message) when all of a sudden, the only person in the room speaking was Dustin, our Assistant General Manager.

It wasn't Dustin's words that silenced us, but I'm sure he was elated to feel as if they were. What really put our pointless conversations to rest was the blaring of "Seasons of Love" from Rent. Nearly 50 people began mouthing the words ("five hundred, twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes",) as they blared clearly from the street. Now, that's power.

I can't explain the love that we have, or why we have it. I can't explain how I fit, or what happens to me every day. I can only remember fragments, moments. I can only retrace memories with a fine pen. I'm shockingly apathetic to much else, and my former self is as distant and foreign as anyone I've ever known.

In her book "Nickel and Dimed, on (not) Getting by in America, Barbara Ehrenreich writes about her experiences waiting tables. I've worked in places like she did, with the lowliest dregs of society man can invent and hold hostage. I've been in the conditions, and seen it first-hand. However, she began her participant observation first as a journalist with a stable, if not very good, income.

She mentioned how when she'd listen to messages or read emails addressed to her from people of her old life, how she felt like they were meant to be read by a stranger. She noticed a loss in herself, and a helpless one.

I do not feel helpless, because what I do is unlike that. What I do garners moments like the one I mentioned above. Yet, I am different, and a big part of me cannot recognize the person from my earlier entries.

My ears are always open, and my mind more so than my ears. While I see friends moving along on their same paths, constantly being knocked down despite their toiling hours and unpaid internships where they work for morons (mostly those morons being younger than my friends and being paid under 25,000 dollars a year,) I feel like I am rising up. I'm not, in the sense that society does not value me more, and my parents don't have something to brag about when asked about me... But, I feel life a bit more. It's shocking. It's terrifying. It's exhilarating.

I trained a guy the other night at work from South Africa. He lived in London for a bit, and in various places as well. Now he lives in the city, and traded his life as a writer to be a waiter while his wife does some skilled job in Parsippany, New Jersey.

He worked for us before, and had to do something of a single shift, just so that he can serve again. It's corporate rule that those gone longer than a month (and he had been, for a holiday and his wedding) must do this shift, and make minimum wage, not tips.

Well, he was unhappy, going on about how Americans and all of American culture consistently does things because those are "the rules" and they follow said "rules" even though they don't "make sense."

This hit me harder than any other person I relayed the story to, because unlike the other trainers at work, I have lived abroad, and I have been a big Anti-American, Anti-Capitalist. I used to be this guy I trained, and I believed the words he said with all of my heart. I agreed with him. I still do.

But, I've changed... My former self is so far gone that when telling him about it, I almost felt like I was talking about a long-lost friend, rather than me. It was weird.

I sold out for the corporate world to pay the rent, and I'm not ashamed... And my former self is... And I'm OK with both of those realities.

I'm over a lot of people, because the people who are living within 50 miles of their birthplace (90% of Americans and almost everyone, excluding my friends here, that I know) are the only ones telling me I have to "do something."

The people here tell me the ride is worth it... Comparatively, the people here are the only ones on the "ride."

"So and so became a nurse," my mother says. And yet I say "and so and so also lives with her parents in the mile stretch town that suffocated the hell out of me. I'd rather be a server." I'm over the explaining. I know the moments that I have, the irreplaceable ones like New Years.

All relative. All choices.

"You're dating a boy... You need a man," he says, his white hair glistening from his young face. "A man.."

"I do," I said. "I do but the man I love wants nothing to do with me."

"How do you know?"

"I've asked..."

"I don't think you have..." he said.

I think about him late at night, wondering what dazzled his days and nights in the interim which we were apart. I imagine his glistening blue-green eyes when it grows dark and seedy.

We move into the New Year with uncertainty, leaving the previous year as we left our former selves behind.

To love? To want? To hate? To imagine? To weigh good and bad, sadness with happiness, adventure with commonalities, monogamy with polygamist lust?

Welcome, 2010. May the Andee of this year be as glorious as all years come to pass.

But is this life?

2009-11-27T00:58:00.002-05:00

It's been another long time since I've written. I don't know why I can't keep up.

I'm a Certified Trainer at work now, which kind of blows. I cannot believe I have done this much ass-kissing to get the corporate cronies to finally like me. I cannot believe I go on liking myself after this.

The only light that may be at the end of the proverbial tunnel is the idea that they're opening a store in London... They don't have a location yet, and the children that I work with cannot understand that if I am not chosen to open that store (and I won't be) I'll be devastated.

They think it's a game, but I see it as a matter of life or death.

I think of death and dying all the time. Psychiatrists would say that I'm depressed, and that's why I am thinking of such things. I agree. It could also have to do with the fact that an old friend of mine's wife is dying of a rare, aggressive brain tumor. I've taken the liberty of following their struggles through the blog my old friend writes. It's disturbing. What's also disturbing is that he posted a link that displays symptoms patients exhibit in the hospice stage of brain cancer. I read all of them... And became even more deeply disturbed. I just want that poor woman to live.

I don't know.

I'm moving along in the normal direction, but I'm not happy.

I have a loving boyfriend, but I still think of that magical music man from all that time ago.

I force myself to believe that men like that are just myths that take place in the midst of drunken hours, and in the morning they awaken to be just typical, average people wearing sweatpants and eating Frosted Mini Wheats. I like to think they are just like everyone else, and like me, only exhibit such intense, powerful thought and emotion when rubbing shoulders with kindred spirits... Such as we found in one another.

But then I think, perhaps if I had someone like that man, I'd be happy not just in the heat of drunken hours, but in the bizarre mornings, and the idle Tuesday afternoons. I like to pretend that... I like the idea.

All of these ideas are what I want.

What I have is someone else's story, and someone else's dream. I have a loving boyfriend, but is that the kind I want? I love him, but not enough to think I wouldn't leave him to move 4,000 miles away and find happiness.

New York City... I love it on occasions... But I hate it moreso than love. I dream of London. I dream of the streets and the people.

I can't think of anything I want more than to live there, and have someone like the magic music man. I wonder if I'll ever have those things. I always hear that people should abandon their bizarre desires, and then they'll find happiness. ...but what if that's just a tall tale unhappy people tell you.

My parents grow more depressed every day. I feel maybe I should move home.... But then what of me?

Life seems to be so unfulfillable. Does everyone realize their own insignificance at 24?

Long time coming...

2009-10-30T02:07:00.002-04:00

I haven't written in a long time, and I have no excuse for it. Actually, I'm not sure that anyone who has followed this would still be following it, and I cannot blame them. I'm feeling devoid of thoughts and ideas at present, and that scares me more than it should anyone. I cannot remember a point in my life where I have thought so much... and so little.

What upsets me further is not my absence, but rather that the last thoughts I have left you all with are those of a cockroach infestation in my apartment (which, by the way, is gone.)

Much has changed in my life, yet nothing has changed at all.

My parents call me less now, less than they ever have. Ron and I barely speak, and my mother can scarcely find time to phone on her nights off (and mine.) I know it is because of Louis, and this bothers me.

Louis really is limited in his ability to make friends. It's called Autism. Perhaps you've heard of it. He can speak about the things he likes and dislikes, but is wholly unable to make a rapport with someone and build on conversation. In other words, he is capable of having I-It and I-You conversations, but is incapable of the I-Thou, which is the conversations you'd have with a best friend or spouse. Those true, deep, personal connections evade him.

Because of his Autism, he cannot make friends easily. After all, what 18 year old peer of his would be interested in that incessant dialog?

My parents and I have had our practice with speaking to him, and thus we are the ones who have to do it. Now that I am gone, my mother is the only one for Louis to speak to. He waits patiently until she comes home from work, and then speaks to her for hours about the same things, over and over and over again. He will talk about what concerts he wants to see, over and over. He'll plan out his course schedule, over and over. Really, you cannot understand how tediously strenuous the conversation is, because you are thinking of it with a person exactly like you. You cannot imagine a one-sided conversation of such magnitude, and I cannot explain it, other than it's stressful.

No, I do not take part, but as the weeks go by without Michael living with my parents, it seems they become more and more exhausted. My mother fears there will be no end to this charade, and is constantly depressed and believing she is dying of something. Studies say when people think of death often, they're truly depressed.

I see no "quick fix" or longterm solution to the problem. I feel going home often will ease the burden on my parents and Louis, but they have not encouraged this. In fact, they are firmly opposed. I cannot dwell too much. There's no easy answer.

At work, things are going well. Yes, I still wait tables and I am happier with that then the idea of working for the slime in media of the United States.

I read Ayn Rand often. I read Atlas Shrugged last month and am just about finished with The Fountainhead. Her protagonists always seem to be on my "page." I have never seen or heard of any philosophy that describes me better. I love the idea of writing television or books, but not enough to ever work on a show which follows the ethos of modern American media. Thus, I'm abandoning that entirely and going "on strike." I don't know how long the strike will last. I think it may be permanent.

I've entertained the thought of Columbia for grad school, but I don't know how to do this. I know if I take the GREs, I have a plethora of people who will write me outstanding letters of recommendation. Those people hurt more to see me wait tables than my parents, and that's saying something. However, I cannot say what I want to go "for." I'm interested in sociology primarily, only to better my understanding of society. But, what money will this make me? I am already 90 grand in debt. What then?

I know I can always teach, but that won't make me happy. The identity crisis soars onward, but where to turn? I cannot be practical and say I should follow my heart and ignore my pocketbook. I cannot stand where I am for long. What then? What?

Work is tedious but not as miserable as last year. I am well-respected and waiting to hear word on if I got "certified trainer." It's a good position which will allow me to keep my health insurance while working 20 hours and week, and 70% off food. I don't care about either benefit because I already have health insurance and I need to work 40 hours a week. In addition, I get so much free food as a cash taker that the only reason I'd want the position is to capitalize on training to make the work environment a better place. My job has done more for me since I've moved to NYC than words can say. I never have any problems paying the bills and I carry with me an attitude I want everyone to have. I want to help people be better, and give back to the company.

Whatever... We'll see.

Jim and I are no longer allowed to "fraternize..." but we do anyway.

Basically, a server complained about us, saying "he's married, and he flirts with her, and blah blah."

I find that the company is perfectly just in stating we cannot fraternize, but they are wrong in including his marital status in the argument. They say little to absolutely nothing in terms of every other fraternizing manager... Yet, they single out Jim.

What made me more angry at the time was that Jim had to be sat down with our GM and her supervisor to have this discussion. I know as well as anyone that Jim is looking for upward mobility in the company, and even wants to be the GM of a future store opening possibly in the south. Way to go, knucklehead server. Now he's got a scratch on his record. Yeah-- you really helped him with all of your puritanical morals. Why don't you shut the fuck up and let the poor man live his life? So what if we make each other smile? Have you ever thought, even for an instant, that maybe neither of us have much more to smile about? You don't know...

I'm sort of seeing someone and it's going normally, which basically means it's underwhelming. He's a typical nice guy who likes typical nice things... which means it isn't going to work. I love how sweet and innocent he is, but I know he doesn't really "get" me. Those who "get" me tend to do it within the first 20 minutes. All others are lost forever. I don't know how to be gentle when I eventually hurt him. I don't know at all.

I'm getting sick and predict all of us will have the Swine Flu before the winter is out.

Other than that, there's really nothing new to report. I'm looking for a few solid days of peace and music. I feel like such a member of the Woodstock generation.

It's been so long since the days of the pure, good music and the souls swimming in it. It's been a long time since I've tasted Stoli Blueberry with the people I loved, us all smelling so sweet and moving so softly.

It's only on occasion that I still think of "him," now. Only when things seem too boring, and people "try to make me happy," but just fail miserably. Only then do I remember my nights with "him."

I got word tonight that he will be in the city at the end of November. I missed him the last time, despite an invite. I think I should make an appearance this time... It might do us both good. He was always such a muse for me.

...'til next time, all my love.

Fish

Fish v. The Roaches: Week One, p. 2

2009-09-09T03:17:00.002-04:00

Last night, following my blog post, I saw another three roaches.

Now, to be clear, I am not a dirty person. I do not have a kitchen, or a bathroom INSIDE of my apartment. Yes, I live in a box, which many of you knew. I have nowhere to cook or leave uneaten food. I take out my garbage every other day. I am careful to wrap food containers (if there are any) in plastic bags before disposing of them.

I do, however, clutter.

Last night, I saw roach #5 crawling on top of my bag. Enough was enough. With gloves in hand, I began to tear apart my apartment, and then noticed a shoe pile that had been idle for many, many moths at the base of my fan. On top were boots, which I won't wear for another month or two, so with gloves in one hand and a bottle of RAID nearby, I began taking each boot one by one and examining it, followed by placing it in the closet when all checked out.

When I reached the bottom of the pile, uncovering and exposing the bare floor to light, I found a strappy pair of sandals I may have worn ONCE since I've been in New York. I grabbed the bottle of raid and uncovered the final shoe to expose nearly 25 roaches under the sandal. They tried to flee, but I soaked the entirety of the floor, killing all 25 of them. I soaked them, and every time one tried to scatter, it was killed.

I spend the following hour cleaning the debris, and disposing of the shoes and all papers (soaked books, etc) from the pile into a bag of garbage. I cleansed the wall. I wiped up all of the roach carcases, along with 10 egg sacs I found sitting amongst them.

I then checked under every piece of furniture, if you will, that I have to ensure no further "infestations." Apparently, despite the pile being nothing but some clutter, the roaches managed to gather and accumulate there.

My entire apartment continues to reek of buy spray.

This morning, I noticed that the super had coated the entirety of the halls, stairwells, and floors with roach killing powder. I cannot imagine this being healthy for us to injest, but since I spend so little time here, I'm dealing with it.

I think I've successfully cleared the bugs from MY living space, but one cannot be sure how long this will last.

My father says the source may be a nearby restaurant. If this is the case, I cannot see the problem being eliminated. However, I think if the super and all the tenants work together, we can clear the roaches from the apartment building. Oh, let's hope.

Fish v. The Roaches: Week One

2009-09-08T03:32:00.004-04:00

So, this week the super of my building decided we had a roach problem.

...yes, yes we do. Unfortunately there's really no way to be rid of the roaches in the building. Once they're there, they're there.

The bugs we have are not HUGE roaches. They're tiny, like water bugs, and come from the pipes in our sinks. They really haven't bothered me, but since the super decided to spread bug killer lining the bathrooms and in various other places in the building, it seems a larger amount of roaches appeared in my apartment. I AM NOT PLEASED.

The first roach was seen the moment I came into my apartment this evening. I sprayed it with hairspray to kill it, and thought I'd trapped it on top of the mirror. It was too fast for me and hid on the side, seemingly moving slower due to the hairspray.

I climbed on top of the sink to see if it was dead on the mirror, resulting in my tearing down a shelf. It took 30 minutes to restore the shelf. The roach got away.

Later, I discovered a roach on the floor, which I killed with a shoe. I spent the next ten minutes spraying bug killer along the doorway of my apartment, which stunk up the place. Then, I noticed the first roach climbing along the door. I sprayed at it and it ran under the door. Following, I sprayed more bug killer. Now the place really stinks.

I spent the subsequent 20 minutes restoring the items of the self and rearranging my apartment, finding acceptable screws to place the shelf correctly. The shelf fell down three more times.

The next roach was seen 15 minutes later, crawling along the wall. I attempted to kill it with a shoe, but it ran and hid under my desk. I swatted at it on my hands and knees with a shoe four times before it hid in an unreachable area. I can no longer find it. It shall live.

The idea is that the roaches will eventually leave the apartment, but I believe they are dwelling in the unsprayed areas of the building.

Now, I have to call the super to fix the shelf I destroyed, and also to spray better along the perimeter of the floor. All hope seems lost as of now, but I am not giving up until every blessed roach is dead.

Hairspray is great for killing roaches, because it immobilizes them so they cannot breathe or move, and makes it easy to swat them with a shoe and kill them. I have officially used 1/4 of the fresh can of hairspray I purchased two days ago in unsuccessful attempts to kill roaches. I am now angry at the loss.

I shall keep you posted on the progress of eliminating these vile pests from my living space. Thus far, I believe I've put up a good fight.

As true with the ghetto garbage that festers in New York City, it seems vermin is the most difficult of all things to purge from one's life.

Le sigh.

The fights of life...

2009-09-07T02:14:00.003-04:00

I don't see any point to fighting...

I don't believe in guns. I really don't believe in war. I don't believe anyone should outright hurt another living soul on this planet, because there's absolutely no point to it. Nothing good can come from fighting, and no fighting can produce a desirable outcome. The only thing fighting can produce is hate and resentment, which is not healthy for any human being at any time. ...and I am not wrong.

It's funny, the fights we have in our lives.

Some of them are tiny...

I can remember being 19 and walking through Wal-Mart with my mother. She and I were bickering and I looked at her and said "ugh! Being with you makes me want to slash my wrists!" (You know, typical 19 year old shit.)

She looked at me and stoically said "then slash them or don't be with me."

We, at that moment, laughed.

"I love you," I said, and we hugged.

It was a dumb, stupid quarrel, and lots of friends and family members have those. Those are the petty fights, the excusable fights, the mundane fights.

But really, people have all different types of fights.

There's the fights we have with people who don't like us...

Today, for example, I had the opportunity to fight it out with one of the most disgusting individuals I have yet to meet in my life. He is arrogant, pompous, and altogether annoying. He believes that his method of talking and thinking is the correct one, and that no other types of people can be compatible with him.

He's one of those that likes to talk about published works, and artists, and everything put to writing, but has little to say about other human beings that he personally knows. Honestly, he's known me for an entire year and probably cannot tell you one thing about me. He doesn't care where I've been, or who I've met, or how I grew up. And really, he doesn't care for many around him. It's like the people from different walks of life, like the different artists, or the scientists, or the Mexican immigrants we see EVERY DAY mean nothing to him, and their struggles are not at all fascinating.

He's the type of person who believes the whole world should turn to his liking. He treats people with utmost disrespect when he is not having a good day.

He's someone who ate my food one day without asking, and when I left him a passive aggressive not to not do so, he outwardly pushed me not once, but twice.

Today, at work, he was giving up his shift. (Yes, he works with me... dumbass.) He was in a spectacular 200 dollar section. Making a joke, I said "you could make 200 dollars there!"

"Why do you care," he said, and mumbled something patronizing.

"Because," I joked, "if you make 200 dollars today, you won't need it next week, and that will be one less person on the "pickup list" I have to worry about. (Note: the pickup list is what we form when we are not scheduled, but would like to work. Slow season starts next week, and we're all going to be strapped for cash. All of us lost at least one shift. I was being ...myself.)

He started blabbing at me to worry about my own life, and blah blah, and started saying some nasty crap, right after just blatantly ignoring me. Generally, he ignores me. He finds nothing of value in a single thing I say. I find it quite ridiculous that a person could see that little value in someone else... And, being that all of us generally look out for one another at work, especially during the slow times, I can't see the unnecessary hatred, and the lack of "getting" my joke.

I declined to fight with him, which lately has been the case.

I even declined to fight with him last week, when he uttered the most narrow-minded comment at me. He said "you're just not my kind of person. I think it's better if we just not speak to one another."

My best friend was appalled at the audacity of the statement when I told him.

"Did you call him fat?" he asked.

"No..." I said. "I should have, just because a ridiculous insult of that caliber would be the only viable response to his preposterous statement, but I found it better to say nothing."

So, there's one example if the kind of "fights" people can have in their lives, and how they start. Disagreements turned ugly... that's a type.

The next, and most bizarre type of fighting, in my opinion, is the "mentally ill fights."

This is, in essence, when someone fights with you for no reason, without your knowledge, and lives a life with you that doesn't, in fact, exist.

I've had a man I know delete me from his Facebook page. I was given no notice to this, but it happened right around the time when my mother called the school he taught at (my old high school) and had him reprint 2000 programs for the school play, because he made an error on the ad she paid for congratulating my younger brother. At the time, I also wrote a nasty letter to the editor, condemning one of their policies. I got accolades from the school district. He deleted me from Facebook.

The man hadn't seen or spoken to me in over two years. Why delete me? Apparently he was having a fight with me that I wasn't involved in.

Mentally ill fight.

He's actually not the only person to do this. I have people who randomly delete me off of Facebook and re-add me for no apparent reason. I do not make an effort to speak to these people. I don't call or email them. I rarely contact them at all. Yet, they seem to find pleasure in deleting and re-adding me.

They apparently are having a fight with me, but since I minimally exist in their lives, if at all, I see the fights as ones in their own heads. Mentally ill fights.

Or, there are those people who will tell another person "oh, she is saying 'x, y, and z about you." Ever have that? How someone you haven't spoken to in ages calls you and says "yeah, well this person said you're doing this."

...and then your response is "funny... I haven't thought about you or that person in months. I'm glad I'm living a life and fighting with people in some parallel universe, 'cause I sure as fuck am not doing it in real life.

Maybe people who read this blog claim they don't know anyone with mental illness, but I'd beg to differ. I honestly think at least everyone has a mentally ill person in their lives who creates imaginary turmoil in their heads. I believe this, but I wish it wasn't true. The world would be better if those mentally ill people just appreciated their lives, as opposed to fictitiously fighting with others. Heh... easier said than done.

Besides stupid little bickers, I really have little desire to fight with anyone.

I don't cause drama. I don't fight with my family. I appreciate all contact I have with everyone who is pleasant to me, and I enjoy the pleasant contact they provide in return. I like people who respect one another, and I like the life I live.

However, seeing as so many people do not follow my example, I find the silly fights rather irritating.

Why be cruel to others? Why not love and live, and spend time around those wanting to be close to you?

Why do people purposely go through motions of "well, I want to 'cause turmoil in this person's life because I am insecure about my own inadequacies."

Why not just say "I am insecure about my own inadequacies, but maybe if instead of pushing people away, and playing people like card games, I should decide to bring people closer to me. I should decide to learn about their lives, and they, in turn, will want to learn more about mine. I shall listen to their stories, and they shall then listen to mine... And none of us will fight, and we will all appreciate one another, and then my inadequacies will slowly diminish, until they've vanished completely."

This blog sounds rather high-schoolish. Truth be told, it is.

In my life, my immediate family and circle of a few friends do not bother with such pettiness.

But, apparently my acquaintances and people I am not close with do take part in such garbage. I often wonder if the whole of the world participates in such extreme audacity. I'd like to think not, but I know that way of thinking is naive.

I suppose I'll just continue on laughing, while I work toward completing MY manifesto. Heh.

So long, sweet summer...

2009-09-02T01:40:00.004-04:00

Every year, as September approaches, I always say that the world is moving into the "time of the Libra." Granted, the first portion of September is devoted to the sign Virgo, but Libras tend to flourish in all sorts of ways in the month of September.

If we're going to make life changes, we pick September to do so. If we're going to look wonderful, we will definitely bloom in September. Our eyes will open wider, our mid-sections will tighten, and our ears will cling to the comfort of a familiar place and good music. Libras tend to live well, better in September than any other month... And we're proud of it.

The month of September, though, brings as many ends for me as it does beginnings.

As I find myself covering myself with a sheet when I sleep, and clinging tighter to my blanket, I also find my covering myself with extra articles of clothing, and moving along a bit slower. My finances are fair, but never above average. My brain is normally more willing to ponder deeper thoughts, and lash at the less sublime members of my inner circles. September is never an outwardly social month for me, like the previous three.

The ends are the hardest to deal with.

Tonight, Jim and I did not speak at all, and when he finally approached me and pushed me at the end of my shift, he said "well, I hadn't done anything mean all night. Figured I'd have to."

I glared at him, and produced an oasis bottle, which I sprayed in his direction. "Stop," he yelled, and jerked away from me. His eyes lacked that playful, youthful expression. Our summer "love," which was nothing but an innocent gander, is over before it began... Such is true with my "summer love" of 2008... and so on. I knew, feeling the coolness of the breeze drifting up from the open doors at the base of the building, that we would never venture down the lusty road of summer infatuations, and playful glances.

The people at work have finished their summer "selling" competitions. I won, being 4 out of 150, or something. It really wasn't a big deal, but all of us are at a loss for a reason to compete...for anything.

On Saturday night, as I stood in front of the bar that began the summer, when Jenna and I ventured to see a band I knew from PA, the air was warm and muggy. I knew it was one of the last evenings where my long hair could be left freely to float against my bohemian attire.

The summer ended with Jenna playing a gig at that bar, and while I tell her she "has six months to book a gig and play 'The Bitter End,' I know the feeling of summer air will be absent from our surroundings.

This summer, unlike many in years past, lacked the relentless boredom of sitting on my parents' deck. Sure, I craved the serenity of it, but I also cannot forget the year when all they did was endlessly discuss the Harry Potter series, or last year, when their bitterness and distaste of the community they lived in affected the overall morale of everyone around.

This summer, unlike all before, I did not gain weight. I did not look unpleasant, or unhappy. I did not wish to cease existing amid the exhausting heat and lack of good companionship. I entered it with nothing, and exited with fond memories. For this, September seems a bit lonelier than in previous years.

I don't know why I let a seasonal change affect my mood as I do. Perhaps this is true of all air signs, but I can't be certain. I can't be certain now of the bridges I wish to mend, and the ones I wish to destroy. I'm simply being where my heart allows, and where not, I am resisting and avoiding.

I think of this time last year, of the friendships I forfeited, of the loves I've lost. I think positively toward the future, with this innocent longing.

I have no desire to better American society, but I have less desire to move along aimlessly for much longer. I'd always worked toward "something," but now I'm satisfied with "anything." I crave affection more, these days, but reject it when it's presented to me.

I don't know anything, except that I took the summer for granted. I took so much for granted that I should have held dear.

I always wish, most of the time, most every time the summer ends, that I could take what was encompassed in it with me... But I know that there's a greater cosmic change with the emergence of September. I know September is a life-altering month, and the destination finishing the 30 days is only clear until it has passed, until October, until I've completed another full year of life.

So tonight I was anti-social.... and I went home... And somehow, I think I'll be spending many nights here, with my words, and whatever they mean.

Silence me now... Cerebral thoughts consume me.

2009-08-25T05:17:00.000-04:00

"You are very beautiful, ma'am..." he said.

"Why thanks," she said.

She was drunk... Drunk as the summer day is long, and as the summer breeze is relieving. She was intelligent, arrogent, intellectual, pompous, capricious, tumultuous, arduous, expedentious, automated, flirtateous, and oddly adherent to present day anomolies.

She wanted the body of so many, the hands of the committed, braking their promises to caress her alabaster skin. Her callused feet a symbol of her true, humane integrity.

She wanted a virtue, a conundrum spiting her own intellect.... She loved the man with such solemn virtues, like the rat scaping the undeground tunnels loves the fresh scent of freshly deposited meat, flung from the carcas of the named "gyro," grilled to perfection in an East Village tavern.

She loved him, she thought. Why was it so easy and simple for but a stranger to express the light of one's enhanced state, seeing the beauty of a strange woman, but a comfortable confidant could barely express the need to be held by her, whom she loved fiercely?

She loved him, his hands tracing the pen by the register, watching her every movement in ecstasy as she gazed upon the length of his torso, the protectiveness of his groin. He loved her. She would wait eons for the local train to surrendur to his conquest, than take the express, chancing the evasion of his love. She loved him.... Like rats, uninhibitably chasing one another freely through the tunnels, she loved him stronger, she ached for him eagerly, she sensed his insecurity, and she filled his void truthfully. She loved him.

If only her love was morphed so brutally into catacombs silently sucked of their purity, tainted by rats running so freely and occupied mercilessly by cheapened leather of peasant shoes....

She wished all could be simplified by Atlas and greed, but she knew her love was that of his simple mind, the mind so heart-breakingly attached to the one thing it yearned for... She longed for the mundane touch of the truest of passionate moments.

His simple mind penetrating into her brooding universe, bleeding purple into the catacombs, depth within her soul, she loved him...

She ached to better him, to pursue the darkness to retrieve the booming, blasphemous light. The adjectives pained her... She wished it was simple. He thought of it as such. She knew of it as not.

She knew, that night, the only words spoken in her favour were that of the man at the newsstand, wanting her so timidly, but exercising his masculinity with such precautions. She never bothered to learn his name, but as she dreamed solemnly of the soul she deemed so worthy, she did the sin of wishing, and reluctantly, ceased to type on the keyboard small as her right hand...

Silently to her slumber, she wept, wishing the pain and uncertainty upon no one. She loved him with words she could only express in a drunken hour.

She wished, so fiercely, he could thrust himself within her just once, to cry out in exuberant pain that he, himself, had found yet another in the glorious chamber of life... the chamber God himself had deemed a pleasure dome, amongst the evil of all mankind.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Shit.

2009-08-20T02:16:00.003-04:00

Out of all the words, and adjectives, and verbs, and vowels and consonants I could have juxtaposed to form something to describe this feeling...

Out of all of the beautiful words the English language...

Today, when your shoulder was pressed against mine, and your eyes were tracing the line of my body next to you, and you were smiling like an adolescent boy...

The only word... the only vile, cruel, vulgar description...

The only thing that came to mind....

...was "shit."

Catching up

2009-08-19T02:32:00.003-04:00

Hello everyone.

My, have I missed you.

I've taken a few days off from the blog world to kind of collect my head, go home and visit family, and what not. I've really enjoyed my time away, but I must confess, my lack of words has a lot to do with my lack of new and exciting adventures. The only thing on my mind right now is that I believe to have throat cancer, which is almost 98% unlikely. I seem to experience congestion in my throat when I think too hard on it, so I'm attributing that to anxiety. Oh well.

What have I been up to?

Well, let's update.

Woody moved back to PA, and I fear she won't return to NYC. This saddens me, but I know that truthfully, when you are wed to the idea of living in NYC, you also have to marry the idea of hard work and poverty... and bouts of extreme loneliness. Sometimes you're ahead. Sometimes you're behind... Sometimes you have enormous 5 day benders with friends and good alcohol... and sometimes you retire early to your apartment for weeks on end to do nothing but cogitate. Whatever the situation may be, it's yours to take on, and yours to make work. You have to be ready. I sure hope she is.

Myles is home in PA on vacation. I miss him being here for the factor of shared experiences, but his being home provides nice, new, clean stories of friends from the past and a hint of nostalgia. I like this as well.

Things with my boss at "Corporate" are heating up. I don't think we're going to have an affair, but God, I'd give anything to have him put his hands on me. We continue to have water fights after work, continue to flirt mercilessly. I think we both know, now, that there's an attraction. Truthfully, I want nothing more than him in my bed with me, because I have feelings for him that have mutated in a way I can't really grasp. But, I respect him for being a great father and a decent man. It's getting to the point where I don't even want to touch him, knowing he is married. He's the kind of man I want to be mine, and only mine. Odd, how things change.

I want to touch him, feel him, press myself against him... But, the last thing I want to do is hurt him, and I fear us engaging in any type of relationship would do just that. I may have to have a conversation with him, but he and I desperately avoid talking about "us." We did a LOT of talking about "us" when there wasn't an "us" to talk about, but now things have changed.

One day, I said that if I were to see his wife, I'd probably have to stop hitting on him, because then she'd become "real," and his life with her would be real as well. He seemed upset by the statement, and said "uhm...OK." He's just not good with words. He's a practical man... Very short with words unless he's telling an outrageous story.

I don't know what he wants, or how much longer I can withstand this tension, but I know bringing it up to him would probably be uncomfortable and counter-productive. I don't know...

And then, we have my parents and brothers.

Michael continues to be wonderful and is moving to college on Saturday. He'll be local, but it's so surreal to see him as a grown person. I adore every thought that he has. When he was little, I always thought he was much less intelligent than I. I've erred in my judgment. He's a brilliant young man. Unfortunately, he faces a lot of the struggles I do, and I hope this doesn't prevent him from finding love.

Stupid people find love easily, because they mistake comfort for love.

Let's chat about my stepfather's children.

They have this annoying habit of bringing their significant others to the house to meet my family. They've done this forever, which I find odd, considering my family doesn't even KNOW them well, not like they know me, or my brothers. Yet, they bring these people, who they date for 6-8 months and then leave.

My mother and I talked about-- "why?!"

My stepfather's children just bounce from one monotonous relationship to the next. His daughter moreso than his son, naturally, because girls are stupid and needy. I just don't get it.

I was privileged to spend time with each of them this weekend.

Oh, and my parents sold my car... My very first car. It hit me like a ton of bricks. My car was gone... I took a good week to mull on the fact, so you can imagine how flabbergasted I was to see it sitting in front of the house on Thursday morning.

Yes, my stepsister bought my car... This is her third car. She was given her first two cars.

And her current(now old) car? It's being bought... by the parents of a guy I used to work with... a guy I liked... A guy who never gave me the time of day... A guy that now truly likes and wants to date my stepsister... who does not find him attractive. (I'm not bitter.)

It's SO NICE to see someone just JUMP into my life... Like just TAKE OVER!

I don't know why I'm so angry. She just isn't "like" me, and never was. I'm the odd, awkward intellectual type. I wish I had more to show for myself. I will...someday.

Other than that, I've been reading Ayn Rand. I've come to the conclusion that I AM Ayn Rand... Truly, I love her work, and reading Atlas Shrugged is something I really have hurt myself by not doing sooner. I'm freakishly inspired by almost every line, as if every line was written for me.

I'm seeing the book as this odd quest, and I just hate myself for not being able to physically consume it faster. With most books, I can literally just skim pages, and speed read. Books never tend to hold my interest quite like this one. I literally read and absorb every sentence, and replay the pages like a movie while I engage in activities of lesser importance.

I'm torn, because I so would love to be the one who puts the book to motion picture... But I'd never take on the task, because there truly is no way to set it to film. I hate to even attempt this comparison, for fear that I will be mercilessly judged as ignorant, but it's almost like setting the Bible to film... Obviously on a lesser scale, but you get the comparison. It's strange to feel such emotion over the written word. For so long, I've only love the words I myself have spoken. I become so bored with fiction... Apparently I've been limited. I'm going to work on expanding myself a little more.

So many unanswered questions, I have.

I wish I knew a way to work on everything at once, but seemingly, I'm still stagnant.

I should prioritize my life in a better way, but for now, it seems my boss is lingering near the tip of my mind. Lovingly aliased "Herb" by a coworker, I tend to find Herb in my thoughts presently and with frequency.

Maybe it's just because I've been lonely and unloved by another for so long... And maybe, just maybe, I enjoy the attention. I don't know what flare about him caught me so off guard. He's not the type I'd be used to seeing. For the longest time, I didn't even like him.

I feel if I could just gather a cumulative opinion and answer from him, as in, his actions and words corresponding perfectly with his desired intent and message, I'd be able to trudge past this.

I believe this, but I'm stuck.

For those of you who know me, dare to laugh.... but, maybe, just maybe, I should write him a letter.

D10 showers

2009-08-12T01:25:00.000-04:00

Everyone watched him that night...

And all of them, they blamed him. They looked and saw him starring at her, flirting with her, desiring her. And they wondered just how his marriage was... And they wondered if he and his wife were fighting, and what the situation was with his children... And they saw a man seeing a young woman near him, looking to recapture some of his youth.

But nobody saw her when she was just shy of 21, sitting in a cocktail lounge after a long day, sipping a dry Tanqueray 10 martini with just a mist of vermouth.

Nobody ever dared to ask her for the ID card that labeled her age at 20. She always dressed in the sleekest of suits and various clothing bought from stores serving a much older, more sophisticated clientele. She probably had one pair of flat shoes that she denied owning, and never ventured to wear in public.

Near her sat an older, dapper gentleman, holding a ubiquitous tablet and a clove cigarette. They spoke in a language of adoration for one another... They spoke of her family, and how she emotionally and carefully supported them, whilst financially supporting herself. They spoke of his ailing parents, his failing marriage, and their love for each other.

She spoke of her tasks at her multiple positions of young authority. He lamented reports he was writing for his position of significant authority. She encouraged him to be a better person, and to love the human race. He encouraged her to be adventurous, but longed to keep her close to him. He told her he would leave his wife for her. She told him that while the idea was novel at the time, she would not marry him. Age would hinder their relationship.

She told him he was young and vital, and good looking and well off. She told him that he should leave his wife, but for himself, and more importantly, for her... so she too could find love again, as he had, and would once more.

She worked 24 hour days at times... Overnights and weekends. And on random Tuesday evenings, she'd sit atop her fire escape, escaping the view of passers by. It was the only time she didn't have her very short hair done and primped. It was the only time she wore flip flops. She was known to look better, to act older... And he would have criticized her to see her that way.

And she called her parents, for she was their hope... And she listened to their dying hope. She listened to their stories and planned to some day provide them a better life than they have, for she wanted to save them from all they hated in life.

So she ran...

And then one night in a London restaurant, her lover visited her... And he hated her happiness, for he was not strong enough to free himself from his own prison. He criticized her mercilessly, calling her "uncouth" and slovenly. He hated her flat shoes, and her polyester. He hated that she could easily walk down the street eating a baguette sandwich, and that she made pleasant company with individuals not consumed with class and power.

And she left him sitting there, and retired to her flat, sobbing, and put on a pair of flat shoes to go to the veranda for a cigarette.

And when that day had passed, she started growing her hair, until it reached her shoulders, and then grew longer still.

And instead of dry martinis at the Algonquin in New York City, she drank Stoli and club soda in Pennsylvania, with aspiring musicians and kindred spirits... and bartenders.

And they taught her never to sell out... never to be ashamed of who she was, because she was beautiful and intelligent, and free. And not without skill, or without determination... and a person like that should find true happiness.

So she made it to the city of New York, and at first was appalled to wear flat shoes, but learned that everyone in the city of New York wore flat shoes. At first, she was appalled to wear tee shirts to work, but then learned that everyone in New York puts on a tee shirt every now and again. She knew that in New York, everyone starts at the bottom...

And she surrounded herself with young souls... but creative types... and her friends that supported her all along, who knew she had a fine taste for fermented beverages, but stayed true and respectful.

So that night, that night they all wondered about him, about his marriage... about his children...about whether he was trying to escape… to be younger.

She watched him, in her tee shirt, jeans, and sneakers. She watched him come from the office with a ketchup bottle filled with water. She had two spray bottles filled with D10 sanitizer. One she opened completely, and one she left to spray. They played a game, chasing one another around corners, looking in mirrors, while 10 people eyed them and their attempts.

And when they caught one another, he sprayed her with water, and she ran after him and tackled him, pouring the D10 on his shirt. He grabbed her and soaked her shirt, as she wrestled with him in the aisles, both of them soaking one another with water and D10, until both of them were red faced and laughing, and the floor was a river. Everyone saw... Everyone noticed...

But what they didn't think, even for a moment, was that they were both proving the same point to themselves... that they still could be youthful. They still could be free. They still could feel like the world was a ketchup bottle filled with water and a school girl crush.

They both needed one another... but what they didn't admit, even to each other, was they needed one another for the same thing...

It was a strange love...

But if you ever told her, during a night in the Ritz in London, smoking cigars from Davidoff, after a day of shopping at Harrods and Turnbull and Asser with her former lover, that she'd be thanking God above for those moments where she could wrestle in a tee shirt and take those D10 showers, she would have scolded you for the audacity. But now, now it's those moments that keep her sane... Albeit temporary, she can't see her life, right at this moment, without him.

Please come... Will you?

2009-08-10T03:02:00.001-04:00

Will you come?

There's a place with gutted buildings on the highest peaks, with condoms and hypodermic needles flooding the streets. There are knives in the backs of color-bearing, gun-toting black men. There are green-tattooed women searching for a fix.

There's gentrification on the West Side. There's mindless television and frantic celebrity crazes, and hipsters sitting in pizza places, drinking the new-found status symbol of Pabst Blue Ribbon... You know the kind, the beer your grandfather drank after a day working in the mines. You remember, surely, the way he told his stories of hard days work.

There's expression on the East Side, and music with no meaning.

And on the East Side, the men stand naked on the tops of bars, wearing only shimmering thongs that cover their erect penises, and G-strings that slide through the cracks of their anuses... And they've shaved and oiled their bodies, and the feet of strangers get sticky with spilled rum and cola, as their slimy hands caress their objectified bodies. Men stand in the sweaty rooms, brushes together, pornography on the walls. This is their paradise. This is their "good time."

And tired footsteps traverse the subway steps, soaked by the rain, and hoses to wash the filth into the sewers.

There's corruption, the drug dealer sitting in the darkened bar. His patrons, all underage, slipping him 20's as they big for their fixes. The bars stay open all night, as he takes the lives of America's youth. And those who know look the other way, for what is there to say?

There's a stock pile of dreamers, never discussing finances. They're either living off daddy's money, or deferring their loans to accrue a substantive amount of barely repayable debt.

The 4 train, where the lascivious stares of those headed to Brooklyn trace the crease of your crossed, pale legs... the only pale legs on the train.

The cracking of the A train, carrying the slums of the city from A to B.

The undercover policemen, pushing the disheveled homeless men against the walls of the arbitrary stations.

And if you stand long enough, someone will undoubtedly ask you for money to eat, when they have eaten, and you both know that. Do you chance the lie that you "don't have any?" Everyone has some... Everyone has it.

And I swear, your thoughts won't matter... And your personal life will be reduced to mundane double entendres. Unless a vulgarity ensues, you are hardly interesting.

And you won't find work, unless you can prove yourself dumber and less ambitious than your employer.

It's a game of cheating the system... a city of people enrolling in single credit courses at community colleges to gain free work, and then cheating the universities by dropping said courses. People will lie, cheat, and steal to work for free.

And here, it's a rare blessing and virtue to eat more than once a day. You will feel like you're living large to buy a snack after dinner.

You'll either be around company who mocks your taste in finer things, or with company that is constantly critiquing your choices, aching to prove theirs are superior.

...and they don't care.

And for days, you'll stare at a blank screen, unable to find the words. And eventually, you will lose the will to beg for comfort. And your soul will start to die, but you'll know that there is nothing for you anywhere else, because while other places are where people dwell to live full lives, this is the place where dreams can exist. Dreams die everywhere else. Dreams die there. Life dies here.

So will you come, my muse, my love?

Please come and sing a song for me. Please come and sing loudly, and strongly, a song that everyone else knows. Please sing, for I have damaged my vocal chords. I can't sing without you.

Please come and hold my hand, and my head when I need you to.

Because right now, there's a woman being slapped across the face by a gypsy cab driver. Right now, impoverished twenty-somethings are blowing lines of cocaine, and people are being fed false hope from affluent visitors, unwilling to share but stating otherwise. Right now, nobody is inspiring me.

So please come, and sing your song. Right now, come to this place, and save me... And inspire me to write. Because my love, there is no thought more provocative to my senses than the thought of your head next to mine on a pillow, or the thought of your hand in mine as we shield ourselves from the discomfort of the raging monotonous, mollycoddled hollow man.

Please come, and share this life with me.

Because I think we can do it together. I honestly believe with you near me, I can just about find the words to complete another paragraph.

Please come... Please... Because you might very well be the last person to see me alive.

The men I never slept with...

2009-08-08T11:35:00.000-04:00

Everyone who has known me for an extended period of time knows I have a horrible sex life.

Truly, there are quadriplegics in this nation that probably get more substantive action than I do.

After last night, however, it has been determined that my lack of "getting some" is entirely, completely, 100% MY fault.

Sitting at the bar with Myles and Woody, I noticed our first subject of conversation, Mr. Sean. Woody and I were groping one another as we often do at bars, and Sean, a 34 year old health care consultant, asked if I was giving out massages. I said "no," but offered him my hand to massage for me.

I had no intention of starting anything with Sean, but since he was well dressed and had baby blue eyes, I geared myself up for at least ONE free drink and a make out.

When I exited for a cigarette, Sean persistently followed me, wasting no time in putting his arm around me and kissing me. He must have thought I was more inebriated than I actually was, because he was taken aback when I asked for his driver's license. He showed me, and when he opened his wallet, I also examined his American Express Corporate Card, just to verify that the information he gave me about his career was correct.

We went back inside, where Sean paid his bill. His friend had left, and he once again forcefully kissed me. I didn't mind the kissing, but stopped him and said "just so you know, I don't plan on having sex with you tonight."

Within five minutes, my time with Sean came to an end. He abruptly made his exit, with an almost non-existent goodbye.

Woody and Myles told me they'd have taken him home.

"I get it," Myles said. "The reason you don't go home with them is because you have high self-esteem!"

"And you?" I asked.

"I have low self-esteem," he replied. "I go home with people."

"I go home with people" said Woody.

"No..." I said. "No no..."

Thinking back, there have been a lot of "Sean's" since I've been in this city. Just the other night, there was Ken, a Long Island police officer, who bought me a beer and a bouquet of flowers. He too made a nice exit after I told him that while I appreciated his kind gestures, I would not be having sex with him that night.

There was Brian, the incredibly attractive bartender, who gave me a zero dollar bar tab and promised he'd marry me if he could get me to squirt on "table 15." I also declined to sleep with him, and since, cannot return to that bar.

There was Steve, the boy who worked for Newscorp, and Caleb, the finance dude who worked on Wall Street.

And lest not forget Tony, the incredibly wealthy (we're talking millionaire) attorney.

Oddly, I also never slept with "M," the unsavory man from my "regular" bar. He would call and beg me to make love to him, in which I declined every time, knowing he was Latino in decent and a resident of New York City. To me, that's a winning ticket to some horrible sexually transmitted disease. I also declined to sleep with him because he constantly referred to me as "the future mother of his children," which I took to me "I'm going to deliberately knock you up." So was the end of "M."

And then, we have Mario, the host from work, who made ample passes at me to get in my pants. I found him too young, too horny, and not educated enough. I too declined to sleep with him.

Oh, and we also have Alejandro, the Mexican assistant kitchen manager at work. He was quite sweet but spoke minimal English. My love of words kept me from so much as calling him on my day off.

I realized, just today, that my lack of "action" is totally my fault. I could be having many sexual partners, but for some reason, I refuse. I refuse to so much as date people who do not match the criteria I deem worthy enough to spend time with me. Thus, I sleep alone virtually every night with a blankie. It's upsetting, but I suppose that's what comes with that "high self esteem" territory.

Oddly, I like "liking myself" far more than I like other people liking me. I don't know what it's like to not "like myself," but I do know that I am willing to wait endlessly for another man like my "zen" to come around. Until he does, I shall patiently go without the company of a member of the opposite sex.

The only man I'd truly consider being with these days is obviously my married boss. He wouldn't in this lifetime consider being with me, so it's another slew of lonely nights for me.

Le sigh. Whatever. ;-)

Evolution....

2009-08-07T07:18:00.000-04:00

There's something to be said for bouts of clarity in early daylight hours. Of course, I'd prefer my clarity to come at the end of my day, and not at the beginning. When you have clarity early on in the day, you have to then "think" on that clarity all day. Not so lovely stuff, I'll tell you.

I'm enjoying my time on the Lower East Side as of late. Two of my friends who like similar things that I like have moved down here, and it's nice to spend time with them in our neighborhood. I can't *really* picture myself living in any other New York City neighborhood, and I'm kind of cool with that. My best friend will be moving down here probably within the next month(ish), so it will be nice to have him here as well. Of course, I know he doesn't really want to live here, because he doesn't like the culture of it. OK, that's a lie. He doesn't dislike the culture, but would rather a more suburban calm, and people who are not as utterly pretentious. I agree with him when it comes to the people, but I swallow a lot of that for the sake of the area. Really nice trade-off, I think. I could be living in Washington Heights, which after two nights ago, I swore I'd never set foot in again. (But that's another story...)

Life continues on, as always...

I've been thinking a lot on the topic of evolution lately. No, I'm not talking about Darwinism or any of that religious (or non-religious) mumbo-jumbo. (But highlighting religion, some people have this bizarre idea that I do not believe in God, which is wholly untrue.)

For the brief periods of time over the past few years when I lived with my parents (mainly summers and then the time in 2008 when I was commuting to New York) I referred to our household as a "big gaping hole of depression."

You'd really have to live it to understand.

I never knew WHY, per se, that I felt that way, but now as I am older, my mother had adopted the term I used, and fully agrees with me on the issue. She notices, too, that the household is a big gaping hole of depression. It makes me slightly uneasy to go home and spend time there next week, but my presence is always welcomed in some way there, and they appreciate my short visits to alleviate some of that "depression."

I think, after years of mulling on this, that I've finally realized the reason for my feelings on the subject. I've also realized "why" I am correct when stating that my family is depressed and the household has become somewhat of a sink-hole in terms of the "depression."

There is a distinct lack of evolution...

My family has had the unfortunate circumstance of having a child with Autism. Now, I retort back to this a lot, but the other night, it really became clear to me how much this has impacted our lives. It isn't entirely unfortunate. It bonded us together as a family, and we hold dear love for one another in ways many "white" families to not have. Many "white" people just don't "do" that. "White culture" often doesn't bond with ties of ethnicity or "race," really, and many white families just prefer not to communicate truly with their lifestyles or what have you. We're not like that. However, at one point or another, in a certain fashion, my brother stopped evolving.

He continues to evolve in that he attends higher education, drives, works, etc, but in terms of emotional intelligence and his understanding of place and time in society is virtually not there. He is like a child in this regard. He knows of his age and his responsibilities, but is unable to understand the world around him. He cannot, for example, build on conversations. He can limitlessly discuss one topic at a time, but makes no ties. He relates to family in terms of who they are in his life, but does not understand their place in the world, or their feelings toward it.

Basically, my brother is an adult who constantly perseverates about the same things, and has for years. As a family, my parents have led lives that remain monotonous and unchanging.

After returning from work, my brother will follow my mother around the house and endlessly speak the same lines to her for hours upon hours, until she just has to go to bed. My stepfather escapes to ESPN in his recliner. They lead lives that are on "repeat." They are not adventurous with where they travel, or the food that they eat. Even their meals are repetitive and boring.

The opportunities for them to have conversation that extends beyond "I just don't know Mom.. I don't think I'm going to have a good life. I think I want to buy "x, y, and z." I need a paid diet. I can't lose weight,"are, again, limited.

Now, I'll trace back to my original point of evolution.

I called my mother the other night, but unfortunately, she was going to retire to bed.

Instead, my brother (without special needs) answered the phone. I thought our conversation would be boring. He was my "little brother." I did feed him and change his diapers. But now, he's nearly 18 years old.

I'll tell you, I had the most pleasant, two hour conversation with him. We talked about beating the system with college and internships. We talked about connections. We talked about Americans being unhealthy. We talked about health care reform. We talked about how we don't "get" people who vacation to exotic, warm locations. We said we'd prefer an educational experience. We also spoke about him coming to visit me in the city for a day, and possibly going to a museum, and then to dinner. We talked about how we generally find people's behavior boring, but we go along for companionship. We talked about how we were raised, and the book he's been reading recently.

The "little boy" that was born in 1991 had become a very intelligent, wonderful young man. Not only is he my brother, but now that he's on the leading edge of "beyond child," he's a pleasure to talk to. We had the same parents and were raised with the same values, so naturally we find a mixture of solace and catharsis in our conversations.

I know by talking to him that he found our conversation quite pleasant, because his friends are a bit immature, and our parents are tied up being stressed with our brother. When I was his age, I didn't really have anyone to have such talks with... at least, not until I went to college.

Our relationship has evolved. Instead of being bickering children, angry and plotting for affection, bored out of our minds in tiny rooms of suburban houses, we've become people... and people that have goals, plans, dreams, and a set of values.

During our conversation, though, my brother highlighted that his relationship with his twin (our brother with Autism) pretty much hit a stand-still when they were about 12. He kept growing and changing, and our other brother did not.

Living a life without change can be depressing.

I always say that the city kills your body. It's absolutely on crack in terms of the pace and the struggles. Everything is over and done in a hot second. Every moment is an explosion dying to a fizzle so quickly, you'd never even know it existed if you didn't have the bruise or the hangover to prove it. Every month is a swarm of money devoured by landlords and bill collectors. Every cigarette tastes like garbage.

The body can be sleek. It can adapt. I've said this... But when you leave the city, your mind tends become tired, restless, achy.

The mind, or at least mine, craves new experiences. My parents are highly intelligent people, and my mother often laments her not being able to "go anywhere, see anything." I often feel she was cheated in life, and her lack of evolution and subjects to conjure ideas about causes this "gaping hole of depression."

I can't say my life is perfect.

The other night, I asked a man to accompany me to the bar. This basically meant, me buying HIM drinks, us going to Washington Heights to smoke some weed with two friends, and then me drinking a foul domestic beer while watching our friends do two lines of cocaine and rap poorly to nasty rap music on one of those music satellite channels. The guy I asked to come with me did not pay attention to me, and we ended up taking the garbage C Train back to Midtown, where I finally caught MY train to my friendly home on the Lower East Side. Of course, the train was one of the MTA's oldest rolling stock, and the trip would not have been complete without after immediately leaving their apartment, seeing a dirty, used condom on the ground, and some friendly slummish-looking gutted buildings along Amsterdam Avenue.

An evening of perfection? No! Actually it was very unpleasant, and not what I really like doing at all... But now I have a story, and can tell people yet another thing I do not like.

I can also tell people how much I enjoy wine with Alex at the restaurant... I can tell people how much I adore nights with Myles.

I can talk about train rides from Briarwood. I can tell people about some inspirational stories from people I barely know, but open up their lives to me.

I can look into new sets of eyes every day, and familiar ones.

It's such a burden, and a relief to look at the man I care about, and see in his eyes when he's upset, stressed, tired... But yet, that too is evolution... Evolution of our relationship, minimal as it may be. It's the evolution of me, of him, of life. It's the progression to something.

People aren't meant to stay stagnant. They're meant to evolve... to build... to grow... People are meant to have dreams, and to move through life loving sounds and feelings and tastes. They're meant to sing and dance and experience. They're meant to "be."

When I go home, I see there isn't much change. I see people who, by no fault of their own, have been forced into a repetitive cycle, and thus, they have become lethargic and depressed.

I know my presence adds a break to the repetition. My conversation is welcoming and soothing to them. I enjoy being that pleasantry for them, but I often wish they could live the lives they want to live, and not the lives they have been slated to trod through.

Say what you want about evolution... It's important. We need it. And I, unfortunately, don't have it with all I want to have it with. Upsetting.

There is a taste of time, sweet and honey...

2009-08-01T03:37:00.002-04:00

Currently, I'm sitting on a Manhattan bound E train from Brairwood, Queens. Myles got off the train a few stops ago, and I'm on my way home.

There's nobody sitting across from me, but caddy-corner is a young hispanic couple and their two children. I'd place the daughter at age 6, and the son no more than 18 months. It's currently 2:27 a.m.

I don't know why I'm writing, or if anything pertinent will come from this writing. I know CSNY's "Four and Twenty" plays on my iPod, and I'm lowering the volume to hear the automated voice say the name of each unfamiliar station, followed by the ubiquitous male voice saying "stand clear of the closing doors, please."

Right now, I have paid all of my bills. I've paid my rent. I've paid my health insurance. I've paid my student loans. I've paid for dinner tonight. I paid for beer.

And as I listen to this song on my iPod, all I hear is the lingering line- "a different kind of poverty now upsets me so. Night after sleepless night I walk the floor and I want to know "why am I so alone?"

It was nice tonight, seeing Jes, a mutual friend of mine and Myles'. It was nice meeting her abrasive friend Joanna, who outright asked me "do you have daddy issues?"

It was nice seeing a Pennsylvania crowd, because they were accepting and outgoing.

Myles and I wonder often if the pleasantries between ourselves and such individuals signify that we should resume our lives in Pennsylvania.

Personally I don't think so. The stimuli of New York is quite fulfilling. I just wish I could meet more individuals to share these things with.

I wish my muse was here with me. If he cannot be, I wish to find a new muse.

At this point, I'd just about wish for anything. The directions are limitless. I am one of the only members of the elite crowd of NEPAites that can say "I got away. I make my own destiny! I am where I want to be."

Now, I just need to figure out where, exactly that is.

Why does my mind always travel back to London when I think of happiness?

I almost wish my landlord will, in fact, let me rent month-to-month. If I can find a way to escape back to the UK, I don't think I'd bat an eyelash in doing so.

Since I began this blog, I've changed trains once. I got on a local 4 train to downtown Manhattan.

When I got on the E train in Queens, it was obvious I was leaving a grassy, sleeping suburb. I exited the 4 train to enter distinct and well-traversed urbanism. I went to the brightly lit Walgreens. I walked down my street where people were still stumbling drunk in and out of bars.

I walked up a staircase to my box-like apartment, so unlike the spacious furnished studio Joanna now resides in in Brairwood.

I returned to an ambush of stimuli, and now my senses are alert, untarnished by the many Sierra Nevada's and games of "asshole." "And now we drink around the head. Who said head? I'll take some of that! Tonight we drink a lot."

I suddenly am not lucid as I was listening to the automation on the train, but rather annoyed and typing on my BlackBerry, taking intermittent drags of the cigarette burning in the ashtray next to me.

At Joanna's, I found myself wishing for a place that nice, hoping to bring a gentleman back for love and breakfast, and promises we'd be destined to break.

Now, now that I've returned to the "dream" I worked for years to live, I dismiss the very idea.

The Bohemian never wishes to settle down, and while a few nice moments of sedation may calm my tingling nerves and work each knot from my aching back, I know deep down the life of the suburban picket fence is not for me.

Still, I kind of wish right now that "different poverty" wasn't plaguing me. I wish for another kindred spirit to imbibe with me by the cube, making music with rubber bands and pixie stix.

I shall retire to my cauldron after this post, hoping to awaken with blind hope, and not jaded memories. Sigh.

Just another lonely man there on the corner...

2009-07-31T03:02:00.000-04:00

I'm trying to get to the point in my life where I can stop blaming my past for every tiny little thing that happens to me.

I recently applied for a job at an Autism non-profit. My mother told me that in addition to being familiar with the struggles of individuals with ASD, I also have experienced first-hand the stressors on siblings of such individuals. She pointed out a few as "social isolation, reduced attention from parents, embarrassment, frustration, uncertainty of the future."

Even at the Parents Loving Children Through Autism dinner back in May, the woman who hosted the event gave many accolades to us siblings, for having to grow up "too fast."

That, combined with my life without money, and the repression from living in a mile stretch town I am certain can recreate Deliverance, I'm pretty sure the way I am isn't going to change.

Over the past few years, I found very few like-minded individuals. Somehow, though, I collected those I now call friends. I have about five of them.

It's very difficult to live in NYC and be like me. I used to describe the mentality of the city as "a bunch of rich kids without social skills." I also said the ones who didn't fit that stereotype were either on drugs or completely puritanical. My best friend used to think I was crazy, until he moved here, and caught himself a nice taste of the truth I was speaking. He told me, just today, that it isn't something you can just "take someones word on. You need to experience it."

Growing up fast, my life has been so different than the majority of my peers'.

I find tremendous difficulty dealing with it.

For example, I've discovered just recently that I have feelings for my (married) boss at "Corporate."

More and more of my co-workers have been watching us, and many of them seem to feel that my feelings are not one-sided. Even on some days, I am absolutely positive they're not one-sided.

Yet, when it all boils down to it, I don't think I really am his type, nor he mine.

I find myself being jealous a lot of the time...

My boss is really a kind-hearted human being. He has a rough exterior but I see behind his eyes that he is a soft person, just repressed when it comes to a plethora of emotions. He approaches things in a concrete, level-headed manner, and those traits are what draw me to him. He's my polar opposite in every way.

Everyone sees his eagerness to accept my flirting, and his annoyance when I don't flirt, as attraction. The other night, we literally fought each other with spray bottles, until I was virtually soaking wet. We chased each other around the restaurant like little kids, and after it was over, I was all about ready to take off my soaking wet shirt and throw myself at him. I wanted just a taste.

He likes me because of the woman I pretend to be, which, at "Corporate," is basically the equivalent of a child. I never talk about the subjects I am passionate about. I use vocabulary that would make my parents buy me a new dictionary, and I keep all the most altruistic parts of me solely to myself.

I'm jealous because I know if he knew the woman I really am, he wouldn't care much for me.

The other night, he went to the bar with a co-worker of mine and my other boss. She told me that they were "swapping college stories" and the like. I've listened to stories from my co-workers. Their stories and mine are so different.

For instance, this girl was in a sorority in college.

I was busy running a television studio. When I wasn't doing that, I was living overseas becoming a socialist, rubbing elbows with bitter English professors, lamenting their own repression.

During MY senior year, I was facing the ethical dilemma of having my two friends' lives in my hands when the decided to use cocaine in the newspaper office, in which I was the editor. It was to look the other way, or basically have them expelled from school. I chose to look the other way, and yell at them constantly. I think I made the right choice, and I think they are better for it.

During the latter half of my senior year, I was waking up at 3:30 a.m. to catch a bus at 5:15, where I'd arrive in NYC at 8:00, intern at MTV from 10-6, and then arrive home at 9:30 p.m. I had to do this because my parents didn't have the money for me to live in the city, and the amount of free time I had wouldn't have been enough to work full time to pay for my bills.

I don't hear stories like that from those people.

He boasts that in his early teen years, he was moving about, sleeping with women. In my teen years, I was first trumpet in the marching band, an advocate for Autism awareness, dealing with a dysfunctional family, a brother with special needs, a father that didn't love me, and of course, eventually working full-time.

I don't really have stories that involve wild parties or drugs and sex. Sure, there was sex, but I wasn't having it. There were drugs, but I wasn't doing them. And while we had parties, the kind I was always around were brilliant planners, seeking to take over the world. Actually, to this day, they still pretty much are.

I find myself being jealous when I can't find anything to say to my boss that makes him pay attention to me. The only things that grab his attention are my silly flirtatious comments, which apparently he loves hearing. Yet, everything else does not interest him.

At my age, he was married and starting a family. I'm conducting a life-social experiment, while still dealing with stressors I don't even LIKE to talk about.

I don't think I'm ever going to be "normal."

I don't think I am ever going to stop being the girl who has been piecing broken people back together for years and years. I don't even know if I want to stop being the monkey wrench, but since I've moved here, I may have met two people who got to know that person.

I get the obvious truth to all of this.

"Why don't you just stop chasing this obviously "not your type" man who obviously is married and obviously is not deep and brooding and everything you want in a significant other?"

Because... I feel strongly for him because he pays attention to me. He is a normal, average, not too complex human being. He speaks about average things. He's average looking. He's an average conversationalist, and he sees things in a very average light.

He also smiles at me in an adorable way. He tells jokes that aren't funny, and he makes himself laugh.

And yes, that's so stupid, but I've never been normal. I've never been "average." I've never met someone so corny and so ... Alpha Male. And even though it's something I'd never be compatible with, just the idea that someone can come to me and tell me that when I wasn't at work the previous day, he spoke about me incessantly makes me feel strongly for him. Just the fact that my other boss came up to me and told me that the married boss became angry when the others made me upset last week makes me feel strongly for him.

I have this odd, strange need to feel needed, and feel normal. I don't feel normal, but this man is normal, and being near him makes me feel kind of average. And the idea that he lets down a little bit of his guard with me makes me feel, in a bizarre way, needed.

I know, in the end, that I will always be the screwed up, deep, intelligent, crazy, unconventional person I always have been. I know I'll just remain the lonely man standing on the corner, waiting for something he's not quite sure of. I guess I just need to play the game and get hurt, because it's the vicious cycle I live.

Like Joel in "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" says in a brilliant line-- "Why do I fall in love with every woman who shows me the slightest bit of attention?"

Garbage!!!! (Punchy Friday night rants!)

2009-07-25T02:14:00.002-04:00

Since I've made my BIG MOVE to New York a year ago, one word I seem to use more often than all others is "garbage."

"Garbage" seems to be the appropriate word to use in just about every situation I find myself in. Even tonight, I can think of about 100 situations where "garbage" was appropriate.

(Man projectile vomits all over the 42nd street subway station steps)
"Garbage."

(Trashy ghetto family 20 year old cannot produce ID for alcohol, and then tries to buy an appetizer and two entrees for herself, while spouting the most illegitimate grammar one can ever encounter and wearing no shoes. It's her birthday. She wants me to sing to her pathetic ass.)
"Garbage."

(6 dollars on 277)
"Garbage."

("I'm an actor, and I have to pay all this money for the cabaret, and I don't know anything because I act like a Jim Henson Muppet at the age of 24.")
"Garbage."

("Hey! Look at my new dildo!")
"Garbage."

(Someone bleeds all over the wall and floor of my bathroom)
"Garbage."

("So, I was having this orgy last night...")
"Garbage."

The list really goes on and on!

Everything here, it seems to me, is garbage.

Take people who provide irrelevant information in situations. They're garbage. (And they don't just have to be in New York. I just have to hear about them.)

My friend told me he heard a story on MSNBC about a cop being charged for racism. Basically, it boiled down to, the guy was pulled over for speeding. When the cop asked him for his license and registration, he told him he was a Princeton University Grad student. The cop gave this young man attitude, and thus is racist.

No, you fucking moron. You were pulled over for BREAKING THE LAW. Had you not broken the law, you would have not been pulled over. Providing irrelevant information is not going to get you out of a speeding ticket, and the police officer is not racist for dismissing your STUPID, IRRELEVANT INFORMATION! You broke the law by speeding. You could be a doctor or work at Burger King and YOU STILL are not above the law. Shut the fuck up, and put your ugly "black trump card" away.

You are garbage.

Another example of irrelevant information--

My friend was talking to our mutual friend and her new boyfriend. Said boyfriend was in a fraternity while doing his undergrad. Both my friend and our mutual friend both agreed that the "boyfriend" had paid dues to essentially "buy his friends."

He could not combat or rebut the argument in a manner that would win him the argument. He just changed the subject.

When it was said that basically, he lost the argument, he said "I'm going to law school."

WELL THAT'S IRRELEVANT AND DOESN'T MEAN YOU WON THE ARGUMENT!

You, Mr. Law School, are garbage... and you bought your friends.

Last Friday night, my friend and I went out, and that was garbage. Sure, when we ate dinner and when we had wine after with my friend Alex, that was not garbage. But then, all of a sudden, his flaming, annoying, over-privileged friend showed up.

They took us to a bar down on the Lower East side with a bartender who could not carry on a complete sentence, could not manage to give a straight look or use a word with more than three syllables, and served bottled beer that smelled of vomit and opened wine bottles by pulling the cork out with her teeth. Even for a free bar tab, that woman...is garbage. That bar...is garbage. Sorry.

Tonight, we decided to stay out of the bars and have ourselves an "adult" evening, which, by the way, according to Woody would not BE an adult evening, since we did not go rub elbows with famous people in some club while snorting copious amounts of cocaine.... Which, by the way, is garbage.

No, we went to subway, where the people barely speak English. I don't consider that garbage because at least they try. But what do you know, in walk four women, clearly from the south bearing crosses and speaking like true Dixies.

They gave my friend a "One Million Dollar Bill" with a picture of Michael Jackson on the front and a "million dollar question" on the back. Basically it said he was going to burn in hell. He wore a cross around his neck at the time. Damn, you have to have some nerve to do that. I think THAT is garbage.

We went and ate Coldstone ice cream in Astor Place, where the big "cube" is.

Firstly, Coldstone is good, but the prices? I won't go as far as to say THEY are garbage. I think PINKBERRY is garbage, though.

Pinkberry. Blah.

I went there with Michelle from work this past week. WHAT THE HELL? First of all, everything in there is neon plastic. Then, they made like an full 6 minute ordeal of her getting this yogurt parfait. I like lychee nut as much as anyone, but really?

These people had to strategically place every fucking raspberry and lychee and what the fuck ever. It took the longest amount of time and I swear, I have not heard someone go SO MUCH into detail about purchasing a product since I went to Turnbull and Asser in London with Mark to buy him some VERY dapper, VERY expensive shirts and ties. (He looked stellar in those, by the way.)

Where I come from, people go through the McDonald's drive thru for a parfait and eat it in their car while talking on the phone because they're late back to work from lunch. We don't have time for all that pompous yogurt bullshit. My verdict on Pinkberry: Garbage.

Anyway, Myles and I sat by the "cube" and ate our Coldstone, when out of NOWHERE, this rude black man comes up and decides to engage three enthusiastic thug-like creatures by saying "Yo! You know this cube moves? Would you all like to help me spin it?"

The two of the three thug-like people who were sitting all of a sudden jumped to attention, readily eager to spin the cube.

"I'd really appreciate you not spin it," I said. "See, if you do, it's going to hit us in the head."

The man passed me off as ignorant, and Myles and I were forced to stand while the four of them gave the cube exactly one spin. Then, the stupid instigator walked away. We saw him crossing the street WITH US as a cab nearly hit me.

"That man was rude!" I exclaimed. "AND SO WAS THAT CAB DRIVER!"

My verdict on the "cube" situation? Garbage.

After the cube, we went to see the movie Orphan. Literally, I think that whole story could have been told in 30 minutes. It was the biggest waste of 12 dollars and 50 cents I think I've spent in the past month.

I suggest if you really want to know what happens in the movie, read the spoilers. They're far more entertaining and are a fuckload cheaper. My verdict on Orphan? "Garbage."

And then there's other things...

There's a guy at work who stands too close to people when he talks to them. He also has horrible breath all the time, and EVERYONE notices it.

How could, after people backing away from you for years, could you not notice that there's SOMETHING WRONG WITH YOU!?

I used to like him, but since he does not carry Altoids, I think he is garbage. How could you not carry Altoids? I am a smoker who drinks coffee. I carry Altoids. I know that even though I do not get CLOSE enough to people, normally, for them to notice such things, on the occasion that I do, I need an Altoid. I also know WHEN my breath is not good. How is a person so stupid to not know they have bad breath? My opinion on people with bad breath who do not carry Altoids? Garbage.

I could really go on and on, but I suppose this whole blog is furthering the argument that I am, indeed, a horrible person. (This is according to my boss, Jim, who apparently is threatened and annoyed by me for targeting and hitting on married men. Really? I thought it'd be flattering to him. Heh.)

I don't know if that's the case. I just like things to be clean. I like people to stand more than 18 inches away from me when they speak to me. I like people who tip 20%. I like people to use proper grammar. I like movies that have well-written, witty dialog. I like people who are religious and are spiritual, so long as they respect that others too can have their own views. I like honesty. I like people who, when they make a mistake, they own up to it, instead of using "I'm a black Princeton University Grad Student" as an excuse. I like people who vomit in toilets...

I like people who have sex with one person at a time.

I like people who understand that MOST of us in our early twenties have sex toys. I do not, but many women have vibrators and dildos that they use. Guess what? Nobody wants to see pictures. Really. We don't.

I like to not be bothered for spare change or a spare cigarette. Most people could pay a mortgage on the money the homeless want us to give them. Get a job.

I think people are garbage who stay unemployed for extended periods of time.

I think people who live on couches and consume resources they themselves did not pay for are garbage.

And truthfully, I come from a very loving, albeit dry and dysfunctional family. We have not had it easy. We don't have much money. My brother has special needs. We don't go to church.

But I'll tell you, we're clean, honest people. We shower. We pay taxes. We take care of ourselves. We watch movies together. When people die, we send an appropriate sympathy card from the dollar store. We don't demand attention from neighbors or flag down people to discuss inappropriate anecdotes about our personal lives. We dress well. We change the oil in our vehicles. We don't do drugs. We are well-educated. We go to the dentist. We stand 18 inches or more from people when we speak. We carry gum and Altoids. We say "please" and "thank you." We hug. We generally obey the speed limit but when we speed and WHEN we get a ticket (I never have, but, you know) we pay the damn thing and treat the officer with respect.

Personally, I think, since this "big move," that people are really scum. Truly...scum.

Maybe I'm too conservative... Or maybe I just like decency. Maybe I know that people don't have to put up a facade of a "purity" image, because no human being is without error. But maybe, I just like people to be respectful to others, and not to act dirty or slovenly.

Whatever. Humor should have resulted from this. If you are offended by it, take a minute to think about why it offended you? Do you exhibit such behavior? Do you think I think you are garbage?

I just may. ;-)

I have to remind myself every day... to love myself.

2009-07-21T01:40:00.003-04:00

It was a late early-August evening when Cara and I sat at Bar Table 1.

Everyone was on their way out, but we knew we'd be hanging around for some late night drinking, as we always did on Saturday nights.

The thing I loved the most about Cara was that we really appreciated one another. Nothing was ever juvenile or awkward, even though our behavior could have been seen as such.

Uncle Bobby, the bald 55-year old bouncer was, as always, clinging to me and hugging me, kissing my head and telling me how much he wanted to get me in bed.

Everyone around passed it off as commonplace, as I said "I love you, Uncle Bobby. You're just too old."

"Hey," he said. "I'm as good as I once was."

"Oh, so things don't improve with age?" commented Cara, without missing a beat.

We laughed and continued on with our libations. It was just an average night at the bar... at 3:00 a.m.

I've been missing my old friends, lately. Not just the ones who drank with me, but the ones who just accepted and loved me for who I was.

When I was the "Editor," they loved and appreciated my decisions. They loved me when I was "the boss," right down to when I flirted with the married man who printed the paper when he'd call us (tipsy) every Sunday evening.

They loved me because I was an obnoxious, abrasive, smart leader-type with a tendency to attract the strangest of suitors in a small city. They loved that wherever we went, there was some new, inappropriate weird fling that brought them free food or beer or what have you. They liked rubbing elbows with the smarter types, the affluent types, and loved the audacity of our circumstances. They loved the professor that sat next to us on Halloween, an infatuation of Cara's but one who clearly lusted for me, who picked up her bar tab as the Student Body President walked up and stated "you're a professor. It's OK, I sell drugs."

I think the best part about us was that we "got" the concept that people are people, and people do as people do.

Things aren't that way in New York.

People my age are awkward and strange.

When I speak about my "squirting" or something odd or taboo, they are repulsed by it, annoyed by it, or feel awkward by it. I don't understand that, really.

Anyone I knew from my old circle would understand any of the above anecdotes to be a time-passing activity, and would chime in with more audacious statements, until the entire scenario produced sitcom-worthy lines even the most brilliant writers could not dream to think up.

Every single friend I had was brilliant, motivated, moderately successful, and brutally honest.

Nowadays, I'm the only brutally honest person in my circle. People feel awkward around me, which I don't get.

I notice, though, that most of the people don't SAY much, here. They talk endlessly about movies and plays, and the like. People I know from "back in the day" only bring up plays or movies or books when they are relevant to the current conversation. We don't want to chat endlessly about such a finite topic. It bores us. "Who cares?"

I know this blog isn't my best of writing, or anything more than a rant. I guess it's just, I'm sick of not being loved and adored for the person I am in this city.

My boss, Jim, whom I care for, called me a "horrible person" the other day.

Why? Because I "sleep with married men."

I enjoy a good game with a married guy, sure. I've only slept with one, however, which most people don't know. I also saw that man exclusively for a year, and when our relationship ended, we were both better for having known and loved one another. We also only had sex once, and truly, I find the emotional ups and downs of our relationship to be so much more unsavory than the sex. We loved one another and learned a great deal from one another. I can't call it a disaster, because I cannot imagine my life being truly complete without it. It was what it was.

I hated that he called me a "horrible person." I hated it because he called a woman who has been an advocate for Autism Awareness all of her life a "horrible person," a person who STILL engages in activities that help people other than herself a "horrible person."

A month and a half ago, I wrote a letter FROM New York to a local paper back home because of unfair treatment for children from poor families and children with special needs. I had school board members calling my parents with accolades. I tried to tell people in the city and no one cared.

Is THAT a horrible person?

I love my family. I do what I can for them. I ask for nothing.

I genuinely care about a lot of things.

I'm musical and have a fond adoration for mellow folk music. I enjoy encouraging people to follow their dreams. I seek to support people from my home town, and am all in all a positive influence for people around me.

I guess they don't really see that side of me in the city, because they don't care.

Maybe he just feels awkward around me... Maybe, unlike Cara or anyone from my dearest circle of friends, he just can't differentiate one side of me from another. Maybe he doesn't care.

I miss having people who adored me.

I miss Andrea being in her cinnamon-scented office, and Andrew and I stopping by for ethical discussions. I miss her welcoming them and enjoying them.

I miss being respected and admired.

I miss a few late night friends who saw my soul as good, and spoke with me about the fate of humanity.

I miss a few cocktails and happy hour, and a group of 10 or 12 people that could say or do anything and nobody was the "elephant in the room." Everyone was who they were.

I miss those things.

I don't appreciate not being loved or touched, or desired. I don't appreciate speaking and three people blushing. I don't appreciate being called a "horrible person."

I don't think anyone from the city would get it, and to be honest, I find almost everyone I meet here to be incredibly awkward. It's like they all lived their lives in this bizarre cube, and have trouble not seeing things in black and white, wrong and right. They see no grey and for it, they cannot handle or accept a person like me.

They don't see much...

They wonder how I know an enormous amount of people in the back of the house at work, and how they all love me. They wonder, but yet they fail to notice that I am one of the only people who takes the time to talk to them, and sees them as "real people."

It always bugs me when I put into perspective that just a year ago, I wasn't "all that different" from anyone I knew. I was just another character in "Ethics."

It makes me wonder why I'm even here?

How much longer can I go without that true love I had just a short time ago? How much longer can I not have that beautiful man on random Saturdays talking to me about the things I hold dearest to my heart?

How much longer will it be before my friends are as fiery and witty as the ones I left behind?

How much longer before smart people in this city desire to have smarter people working for them to better their organization, rather than dim-witted people that will never threaten to take their jobs?

How much longer will it be before that happens?

How much longer will it be before people just accept that people do as people do, and there's no sense in trying to place it into black and white because we live in a gorgeous world of color!

They make me forget everything good I've ever done. I hate forgetting that somewhere, to someone, I mean a lot.

I'm such a nice person. People really don't treat me like they should. I wonder how long it will be before I take a hint and just leave this horrible place.

He doesn't know I write about him...

2009-07-19T04:20:00.006-04:00

It's a strange love...

He looks at her with love in his eyes. She notices the love because it hasn't always been there, and it won't always be. He smiles just a bit wider when she's near him, and fights with her passionately and intensively. He understands and fails to throw lines at her. He aches to eavesdrop on her conversation. When she flails, he moves to save her. She notices the love.

It isn't a traditional love.

They never touch, not even briefly. They make a point to exercise "not touching," but when no one is around them, he stands close to her so their shirts and elbows brush together. Then, they comfortably hold it until one moves away. They feel it passionately, but never mention it.

She knows that this isn't eternal love, or even romantic love. This, perhaps, is a soul-saving love, but not a soul-weaving love.

It's not the love where meeting one person changes your life... That the very instant you are privy to their conversation is the moment you thank God above that you have done something right.

It isn't the circumstance where the second you've seen their mind through their eyes, you instantly praise yourself for making every decision you've ever made. You pat yourself on the back for moving into the apartment you live in, and choosing the job you have, right down to putting on the dress with the flowered scarf and stepping foot in the bar that night.

It isn't the love where you'd consider leaving everything to begin a life journey.

It's a different love, a humble love.

It's a love that knows boundaries and aches to break them, knowing the only boundaries broken will be those in mind and spirit, never in body or reality.

He adored her enthusiasm and she his levelheadedness and simple demeanor.

She had never been simple and he was a good man. He enjoyed that she saw him for a good man, and appreciated the simple strides he took to preserve what was important to him, when those closest to him saw his behavior as "expected."

She didn't want to have sex with him, because she didn't care about it much. She lied, though. She lied all the time.

She'd lie and flirt shamelessly, and throw border-line explicit lines at him. He laughed at them, sometimes instigated them, but always acknowledged them.

She never felt uncouth for her actions, because she knew it was far better for him to think of her as a trollop, than to know of how she really saw him. She protected those feelings to everyone, even him. She lied for many reasons, but the biggest was that she could never promise him hope of obtaining any part of her.

Because, see, it wasn't a love that moved mountains or injected a muse into one's life to forever charm and inspire. It was a comfortable relationship of shallow nuances that would never grow. She created it to be such.

Some described it as love. Some described it as fire.

She found it to be minimal on all fronts, but had an aftertaste of love. They'd move to continue their minimal tracings of self-gratification, but when one moves on to another place, they shall never speak again.

The endless trials of the perpertuallty dissatisfied

2009-07-13T02:06:00.005-04:00

The most beautiful pieces of the whole are the missing ones... The forgotten ones. The unimaginable ones.

It's the rich professor sitting in his study on an idle Thursday evening, only dreaming of the life of the Bohemians, drifting aimlessly, dirty, through the random parks and alleyways and eating food made of secret ingredients and oils.

It's the serial monogamist, aching to taste the flavors of the diluted hipster, the free-roaming hippie, the candor and pragmaticism of the librarian, the suburban mother, the naive teenager, the alcoholic writer, the grace and flare of the dancer, and the dainty yet stern face of the microbiologist. For all smell so sweet when unclothed, and all love so drastically different.

And the sex you've had with each one in the catacombs of your mind far surpasses that in your memory, because those occasions were the ones meeting your every desire, and gratifying your needs at the time, when your thoughts were as was, and not as is.

And lonely, lonely is the life of the man who aches to tread a thin line of poverty in search of truth and goodness. We damn those corrupted, and absolutely flawed in their inability to see the world from either viewpoint.

The most desired part of the journey is the one right before the end.

Once we reach our ending, we want a better outcome.

And I have loved him in closets, and under blankets, and in golden chapels. I have loved him long and fiercely, and not touched his skin, or felt his hair, or walked along side him in a market at 3:00 in the afternoon. For having the reality is far less attractive than the fantasy.

Those of us who taste the true beauty in life are endlessly dissatisfied. We always want for more, and different, and soft skin and abrasive tones and memories we can place on the black market for stale bread and a pack of cigarettes.

We choose our lives for the journey, not the possessions. We are seen as failures for our unwillingness to stay stagnant, and collect paper that equates to value in a finite world.

It's the dream of chasing. It's the chase we're living. It's the pursuit that drives us, and drives us away. We can follow the charade endlessly, because the game is truly what we're playing for. We don't want to win.

###

The table that got lost at shift change....

2009-07-10T16:59:00.007-04:00

Everyone who has worked in a restaurant knows about "shift change." That's when the servers from the day shift go home, and the night time servers come in to work.

Of course,people need to eat during this time, and people are already sitting down to dinner as the servers have to figure out "who keeps what."

Sometimes, when the day shift leaves, certain sections of the restaurant change, and the servers responsible for tables during the day are not during the night, and vice versa.

There are all different kinds of rules for this time as well. Some restaurants say that if food is on the table at shift change, the server from the day must keep the table. Other restaurants have different protocol.

Sometimes, though, on rare occasion, a table gets "lost." This results when servers become confused as to who the table belongs to, and nobody ends up attending to the hungry paying customers. It doesn't happen often, but it happens, and when it does, the patrons are, to say the least, very unhappy campers.

My generation is like the table that got lost at shift change.

When we were teenagers, we grew up idolizing people in their early to mid-twenties. Everyone remembers Jesse Camp and Carson Daily on MTV. Everyone watched "the 10 spot" on MTV starting at 10:00 p.m. which aired programming geared for an audience 18-24. Of course, we watched it at the age of 14, and even though we didn't relate, we idolized the images and characters of an older age than we were.

Somehow, though, as we entered college, there was a shift. All of a sudden, America wasn't paying attention to people in the age group we idolized and were moving into. America was idolizing people in their early teen years, people like Miley Cyrus and other talentless hacks.

Music, too, suffered a loss. Every era was defined by a particular kind of music. Whether the beats of the 50's, to the folk and psychedelic of the 60's , to the disco 70's and synthesizer 80's, following through to the grunge 90's, every generation had a defining type of musical art... every generation but mine.

Technology plays a huge role as well.

My generation, for example, was too young to create "MySpace." We were just entering college when Mark Zuckerberg created Facebook. We were too young to play a major role in the shaping of the digital age, and thus just learned to use it, albeit poorly.

It was a big deal, back in 1998, that my best friend and I knew basic HTML. Now, knowing basic HTML is kind of like knowing Latin. It's a dead language.

Like my best friend says -- "I know how to build a TABLE!"

And my reply: "And what are you going to DO with that table? Put it on your Twitter?"

Every aspect of us dreamers of Generation Y is lost and floating aimlessly. The music we listen to is outdated. The music we as a generation create gets lost in inner city bars, because the mainstream media just isn't interested in it.

The television shows we grew up on are gone. The focus of networks we watched religiously went from 18-24 to 12-24, focusing mainly on the younger age groups. Only the very childlike-minded individuals can succeed in reaching the audience that now consumes the media, because the rest of us are too busy wondering what the point of it is. We can't get how SO many reality TV shows can make it, because when we were growing up, people would have outright rejected it.

We don't even use the social networking communication sites of the digital age.

We use Facebook to keep in touch with those we once knew, rather than using it as a means of primary communication. Those younger than us and those of Generation X and older use it more exclusively, partaking in all the new services it offers, including Facebook chat. We don't see a point in Facebook chat, because we grew up using land line phones, cell phones, and clients such as AIM and MSN to supplement (not monopolize) our communication.

We, Generation Y, see no point in Twitter. Those older AND younger than us tend to find it useful, but we find no value in it.

Even with Blogging, we see no point in linking our blogs to a hundred and five other sites, and putting feeds on other sites. I cannot even be sure what any of that means, because when I was growing up, people used Livejournal and Xanga. You posted something, and people read it for what it was. End.

Because of our absence in the digital age, and our clinging to the time when things seemed to make the most sense to us, we are virtually lost when it comes to "keeping up." We, as Generation Y, are not connected to hundreds of people on Twitter. We don't partake in the virtual games and nuances (or should I say nuisances) of Facebook. We use the mediums primarily as supplementary.

For this, our creative processes and ideas are virtually ignored. Our ideas for television shows, movies, books, magazines, and even the internet are dated and not easy to relate to. We do not control the mainstream media. We cannot even try to control it.

Those behind us will improve the system. Those older than we control it now, and appeal to those behind us. However, reaching us is impossible, because we're lost.

We even see people's behavior on social networking sites as inappropriate, because when they first came around, there were norms and unspoken rules one followed (being the communication was solely supplementary.) Those rules have since changed, and without our knowing.

If you speak to members of generations before and after mine, you will find communicating with them extremely difficult. They rarely phone one another. They solely use text messages as a means of communication. They find entire conversations in text to be acceptable. They can talk for an hour on G-chat but cannot find conversation topics to bring up at the bar, face-to-face with another individual.

In New York, it's more so seen in my generation. Those in New York are hipsters and yuppies, all trying to keep up with the latest trends. Even members of my generation have managed to slip into the frenzy of cutting off all communication face-to-face. And those people, those are the ones creating the media and the publicized nonsense that is not relating at ALL to generation Y.

From all of this, a few things are happening. I've already shown the breakdown of communication.

Picking up the phone and making a call is rare. I receive hundreds of text messages per day but rarely receive a phone call from anyone. I think phone communication would be far easier, but others think differently. In addition, I also see larger conversations with self-disclosure taking place on Facebook, and not in face-to-face interpersonal situations. People are beginning to see what goes on in the digital domain as real life events, and are truly confusing the two, and confusing themselves.

The second thing that is happening is the "quarter-life crisis." It's being seen more in the larger cities, where people in their early twenties are being seen as "old" and "washed up." In New York, I at 23 am "old."

In the 70's, my stepfather graduated from college and instead of going to grad school, went to live at a camp for over a year. He did nothing except run the camp, live in the woods, smoke weed, drink, and write sermons for church on Sunday. This was seen as a free act of youth during that time. However, my moving to New York City and trying to "find myself" here is seen as a frivolous waste of time for someone my age. Also, according to society, I should have done something to "blow up" already, and have some sort of substantial wealth.

Starting your life in your early twenties is now seen as "failure," because your life should have started way before that.

Thus, many of us are experiencing this "quarter-life crisis," and are feeling we are useless and unable to succeed. We feel that the next step is death, which is why many of us are just waiting for that time, not realizing that we may IN FACT live another 60 years. We can't even imagine living another 60 years since we're "old" now.

It isn't so prevalent in the suburbs, since people in the suburbs tend to take a job doing some task that affects America in a minute way, and afterward, start families and die. People in the suburbs tend to have the same goals always... and they're easily obtainable. Marriage. Kids. A house. These are all things that have always been obtained the same way. People with those goals scarcely notice the changes in the media they're consuming, or the changes in the people that control what they are forced to believe to be true.

However, it's really apparent when you've decided you want to be a part of the larger picture, and have dreamed forever of that, and now are seeing you're far too old to compete, and can't relate to current times.

We're like the table that got lost at shift change, desperately trying to flag down the server, because we're hungry and unnoticed... and nobody cares.

Fin.

Sad stories and unhappy anecdotes.

2009-07-10T01:27:00.006-04:00

It's been a weird few days.

I have a lot to write about, but really no ambition. That's why the last you've all heard from me was my incessant ranting about my father, which I am now over. I guess we all feel things strongly in the moment, but they fade away with time.

I think a big part of my past is biting me in the ass right now, and I feel tremendous guilt for it.

A friend of mine, his wife is dying. She has a stage three malignant tumor in her brain that has manifested itself in four places. The tumor is virtually inoperable, and with treatment, they've given her 2 years, 6 months without (based on averages, naturally.)

The background of me and this friend is a bit complex. Drew and I became friends when I was living overseas back in 2007. He was going through a rough period, and I seemed to be available for him when he needed an outsider's perspective. (You see, Drew is a pastor, and I am without religion. During that time, his problems were with his job... problems I do not remember much about except that they were tumultuous and unnecessary. We bonded because of my zesty "different" secular personality, and my ability to see him as a man, and not a preacher man.)

When I got home from the UK, we got closer. I too was going through my share of problems, and he was comforting.

We started taking our relationship discourse to an unhealthy level, breaking some boundaries we shouldn't have. To make it worse, his poor wife found out. I felt enormous guilt for it, and still think I took the brunt of the punishment for that one. My conscience never really let it go.

Now, she has a very serious terminal condition that I know, despite his strong exterior, is really tearing him up inside. To make matters worse, they have a young son.

I claim to not support the institution of marriage, but a family like that does not deserve this. Also, Drew is a good man who touches many people in a VERY positive way. He does not deserve this. And his wife, whom I don't know but have heard a great deal about, has lived a good life and done the "right" things. She isn't and was never an alcoholic smoker who dates married men for fun like me. She wasn't a "stay out 'til 6 a.m. and play mind games with unsavory characters at after hours bars in New York City" girl in her early twenties like me. She's just a good person and a good mother, and is faithful and with faith. Truly, she doesn't deserve this.

I'd like to be present in Drew's life right now, but I know in my heart I cannot be.

They have a web site they use to inform friends and family of the wife's condition, which I read daily. However, I don't add comments to the guest book, and provide no encouraging words in that domain.

On Facebook, I've added one brief line, and no more.

I truly feel much empathy for this situation, but I am making myself scarce. Some would see it as cold, but I do not want any trace of "me" to be present anywhere for this man's wife to see. I want her to NEVER be reminded that I still exist, even though I care very much for my friend, and want for his life and family to be preserved and happy and healthy.

I know, truly, that things will worsen, even if they improve. They will worsen before they improve, and I will not be able to offer any words of comfort to my old friend.

It's within my nature to "be there," and want to offer the best words I can to friends in times of need. In this situation, I cannot offer anything. The only thing I can offer is a continuing beacon of hope and subtle prayers only loud enough for God to hear. I cannot do more than that.

I suppose I am happy Drew has a very large body of friends who are offering their endless support.

I'd have liked to be one of them, but I am not. Thus, I shall keep old bad memories away from the bubble of love he's creating for his sick wife.

And as for me, I am making my own personal changes, taking lessons away from this tragedy.

I'm no longer pursuing married men, which will prove difficult since there has been a heightened level of tension between myself and another individual; one I'm feeling very strongly for.

I feel this tension because we've been more open with our conversation, and I cherish that. I'd like for him to remain in my life in a positive fashion, and keep that conversation flowing. Thus, I'm going to end my advances toward him on a sexual horizon.

And, I'm really going to make an earnest effort to quit smoking.

I don't want the family I have to have to sit near me and watch something so tragic. My brother Louis's life is hard enough. He wouldn't be able to handle it... not at any age.

And as for Drew, I'll have to care for him and pray for him from a distance. Maybe in the future, long from now, I can be his friend and support him in some way, like our mutual friend Andrea is doing right now.

I'm really going to be better at seeing more in people. I'm going to try to see value in people's choices and relationships...and lives for fuck's sake. I haven't respected that in the past, and that's something I'll have to live with always.

Fin.

I got soul but I'm not a soldier....

2009-06-28T09:24:00.002-04:00

So, I've been putting off writing this blog because I'm not exactly sure how to write it.

Even now, I'm not exactly certain what to say, but I know I want to say something.

I guess the point of it is, people really don't realize how their actions affect the lives of others. People just go through life, thinking all they do only affects their immediate circles. Nothing can be further from the truth.

This all spurned from my father's visit last Thursday...

To preface, you all know my father and I do not have a good relationship. I don't know why. I attribute it to my father constantly having new children. My brothers were little kids when I entered junior high school, so he was doing "little kid things" with them. And then, as they got o0lder, he adopted my youngest sister, and engaged in "little kid things" with her. Now, she's 10. So, basically, my father's experience as a parent is solely with "small children." He is just now getting to know his daughter that is 5 years older than I am, and has never got to know me as an adult.

Hell, I was a registered democrat 4 years before my father found out about it. He truly doesn't know much about me at all, how I am, or how I interact in society.

I never really cared, but somehow this bothers him, and instead of taking the simple approach and fixing the problem by, oh I don't know, calling me once a week to talk about my life and what I'm doing, he just dwells on the guilt he has for not doing it sooner. Basically, it's an annoying cycle.

However, having all of that said, I was raised by my parents (meaning my mother and Ron) to do for others, and to be a good human being.

I was taught, by living with a brother with Autism, and seeing my mother's struggles, to do for others and to do for family, even if it is not always pleasant.

So, when my stepmother (who is a wonderful woman, by the way) told me they would be coming to New York City this past Thursday, and they were planning on eating dinner at the restaurant I work at (their favourite, may I add,) I was all about going along and having them save a little money with my discount. Ha.

This is the part where people's actions play a bigger part than they make think.

My father was brining his daughter Amanda, her husband Jeffrey, and their daughter to the city with him. Amanda and Jeffrey planned their vacation to go to my father's where he did many activities with them, including taking them to Atlantic City, a concert, an amusement park, and NYC.

Cumulatively, my father spent more time with that family than he has with me in the past 2 years in one week...maybe even 3 years if you really want to get technical.

This did not upset me... I was perfectly fine going about my life. After all, I am extraordinarily close and comfortable with my mother and stepfather, and have trouble warming to additional "family."

What did upset me was my brother, Louis.

Louis is nearly 18 years old. He attends community college and drives. He also works and just graduated from high school. He functions quite well, but Louis has Autism. Emotionally, even though he does many things adults do, he is about 11 or 12.

When he heard of my father's trip to the city, he became VERY upset. He was afraid that I would like my estranged sibling and her family "better than I'd like him." He cried and carried on at my mother's house for 3 solid days, claiming he was going to "quit his job and school to go to the city to have dinner with me."

Louis is very protective of me and almost sees me in a maternal light. He misses me terribly, and asks about me every day.

When he learned my father and his family would have the opportunity to see me, and he wouldn't, he became worked up, often to the point of hysterics.

The evening before my father arrived, I received a text message from Louis saying "I hate you," and went on to say I won't see him again.

The text was unprovoked.

I know my brother. If he sends random things to me, it is because he's at home, in his room perseverating and upset.

That day, I was working a double, and went off the floor to call him, where he was crying. I reassured him for 10 minutes, doing what my mother calls "therapy." I had to reassure him that he was carrying on over an hour of the following day, and that I could never love and adore someone as much as I do him.

I later learned from my mother that Louis's hysterics lasted several hours that evening, and my mother had to simply go to bed because he was following her around, screaming.

That was the final "blow up," but for 3 days Louis had been sending me messages threatening me that I better not like anyone more than him. When he feels overwhelmed, sometimes dealing with him is like dealing with a small child.

Either way, we got through it.

The next day, my father and his family was due to arrive.

I took the entire day off from work so if they needed anything, like help getting around the city, I would be available. I even sent Amanda offering my Times Square Alliance 10% off discount for the sightseeing tour bus.

I thought they'd want to meet up, since, hell, I live here. They were here. It made sense.

Apparently not.

I knew they were on the tour bus, but seeing as I live downtown, and they were following a downtown loop that mainly ran along Broadway, it would have taken me anywhere from 5-10 minutes to meet them at ANY location they went to.

I tried a few times, and was dismissed.

Then, I got a text message from Amanda, stating that her husband wanted to eat at a famous deli that was in my neighborhood. I once again offered to help them get there, but nothing.

I went to lunch with my friend Woody, who found it odd that they wouldn't want any guidance from someone who lives in the city, or any contact with me whatsoever.

I felt terrible, because Louis was so upset. All he wanted to do was come and see me, as we miss each other terribly. Yet, this family apparently had no interest in seeing me at all.

I asked what time they wanted to meet for dinner, in which I got the "I don't know" response.

A few hours passed, and Myles came over. This was the day Michael Jackson died, and he and I spent an enormous amount of time observing the sights. Oh, it was incredible.

There's a small store opening on 3rd avenue, right on the corner by where I live, that plays loud hip-hop music all day, every day. When Michael Jackson's death was confirmed, it switched to his music, and people stopped in the street to sing and stare. People were crying.

Myles and I went to Kinko's, where my father told me he was going to the doll store... still not giving me a time to meet. Then he said he was at some other store, and AFTERWARD would be heading to my restaurant.

"You're a better person than me," said Myles. "I'd never meet them after they blew you off all day."

I should add that Myles and I spend the night together every Thursday. We couldn't have our night that night because of my father's visit.

Myles and I went to Times Square, where we starred at the Panasonic Jumbotron. People in the streets were crying, stopped dead, starring at the Michael Jackson coverage. It was truly an incredible experience and tribute, which I'll get to in another blog, perhaps.

I was to meet my father in about 5 minutes, so Myles left.

I went into the restaurant, where I asked the host if there was a wait. He told me there was, but obviously not for me.

Finally, 10 minutes later, my father and stepmother showed up, along with their daughter and Amanda's daughter. Amanda and Jeffrey apparently had to change at the hotel.

My stepmother wanted to sit by the window, and I asked my friend Mario who was running floor that night if we could have table 511, 521, or 501 when it opened. They were the best tables in the restaurant. My stepmother said she didn't mind the wait, because we had to wait for Amanda and Jeffrey anyway.

I was OK with this, despite the fact that so many of my friends were stopping by to say hello. I had trouble introducing my "family," because we are not close. Also, it was hard to me to introduce Amanda's daughter, since I had only met her twice before. Still, I managed to do it, knowing even if it felt awkward for me, it wouldn't seem it to my colleagues.

My stepmother kept conversation with me about the restaurant, and the nearby establishments in Times Square. She was truly a gem, and very nice about it. I apologized about the wait, because the kids seemed tired.

Servers at the named tables came over to me, asking if I'd be at their table. They knew it would be a fat tip, and genuinely, they liked me. I spend well over 40 hours a week with these people. They're like my family, and they know me well. I cared about how I appeared to them, and felt uncomfortable bringing people I barely know to meet them, but I played it off well.

I finally asked what was keeping Amanda, as we'd been there for about 20 minutes.

My father said "Oh, well she has to look GOOD for Andee."

"I don't think it's that unreasonable," I said. "I mean, she's only met me twice. When you're first getting to know people, you want to look good. You know..."

And then, my father started raising his voice at me, yelling how he DIDN'T understand.

Now, because I have a perfect memory, I can firmly tell you that his next words to me, moderately loudly and in front of my colleagues, were as follows:

"NO! I don't understand! You want to meet her, then meet her yourself! Don't meet her with me! I'm sure everyone here already thinks I'm mentally ill and whatever other things you told them about me! We don't like each other. We don't have to pretend we like each other! I don't like you and you don't like me and that's just the way I feel."

Now, this was happening as my stepmother was patting him on the shoulder, trying to tell him to calm down, or whatever.

And I like, stood there.

I don't even have a good way to write it. I just stood there, incredulous. I took a fucking day off from work. I offered to help them with more than one thing! I introduced them to my colleagues, and had my friends offer to take care of them and give them good service. I waited ALL DAY LONG and told my friends we wouldn't be spending time together to HAVE DINNER with them, and for THAT?

"Why didn't you walk out," said Woody when I told her. "I would have been like 'fuck this.'"

"Because," I said. "Where was I supposed to go? After all the trouble I would just leave them there, and have my bosses and 29 servers and my hosts just stranded with them?"

So...I just stood there.

My father got up to use the restroom, and I kept talking to my stepmother, who was eagerly trying to keep a conversation going. That's when Jim walked over.

Jim is my married boss who I care about very much. I hit on him, but mostly, I think I like him because he reminds me of my stepfather. He's level-headed and treats me with respect. He also genuinely cares about me, and has exhibited this many times in the recent past, from getting me to go home early when I was sick to yelling at me about entering a "corrosive relationship." Jim and I are somewhat friends.

He started talking to me and my stepmother, and the sight of him was comforting to me. I was standing with family and having feelings that simply, I just didn't want Jim to walk away. I wanted him to stand there and talk to me forever. I just wanted him to stay right where he was, because he was safe, and I didn't feel safe right then.

Unfortunately, he did leave, but we sat shortly after, and thankfully, got a server who not only had a trainee, but was VERY good with people.

10 minutes later, Amanda and her husband arrived. Now, that was awkward.

I like Amanda very much but she seems to have issues talking to people she doesn't know well. I, on the other hand, can talk to anyone. I don't feel closeness to many, but I can basically carry on a conversation with any person about anything.

Dinner was very good, and as my father began to see we then had the best table in the restaurant, and how much everyone respected me, he then told me he was an asshole, and tried to be friendly with me. He also tried to tell me he admired me.

But see, I'm not OK with that....

I'm not OK with "I'm sorry," and I don't accept it after years and years of this. I'd accept it from my mother, who has been nothing but a loving, caring supporting person for years of my life, who cashed in a small retirement policy so I could move to New York, who has always supported me emotionally... I'd accept it from her.

And now, I may try to eventually get over this, and I'm already doing better...

But for three days I worked to calm Louis, and rearrange my schedule, and I went OUT OF MY WAY to do everything in my power to give them a good evening, and in a restaurant that does 2,000 meals a night, they got the BEST treatment in the house.... So no, sorry wasn't enough.

And now, today, I see Amanda's Facebook status stating she is going back home, and "what a wonderful family." I wish that was my perception. I do think my stepmother was wonderful that evening, but as for my father, that is not my perception.

So, he was "impressed by me," he said.

Well, good. He damned well should be. He should be impressed that I am good and decent enough to know how to hold my own in public, and that I am a good enough person to have enough respect and decency for family that I sacrifice my own comfort for theirs. He should be fucking ecstatic that I am good enough to tolerate an outburst from him such as the one he had. I have never tolerated anything like that from anyone other than my brother Louis, who with his AUTISM would have the decency to wait until we got home to "blow up irrationally."

He should be impressed that despite him ignoring me for the past 10 years of my life, and me having grown up in small town repressed America with a brother with special needs and few people who understood me, I somehow managed to become a great person who had at LEAST 20 people go OUT OF THEIR WAY for me that evening.

And he should be impressed that I didn't right then tell him he was an ungrateful son of a bitch for making me feel like utter garbage when all I did was put up with his negligence all day, when all I really wanted to be doing that night, on my DAY OFF, with a cold after working a 14 hour day the day before, was standing in Times Square watching the Michael Jackson displays with my friends, seeing people pulling speakers around and blasting music.

All I REALLY wanted to be doing was having dinner with my best friend, and maybe a drink with my friend who didn't work the next day, followed by going home happy and texting some of my random male Thursday texts.

But that night, all I did was go home and cry... and verbally abuse some of the more annoying of the people I speak to. I couldn't even call my mother because it was so late... but the next day I did, as I still felt beat up. Sorry doesn't work.... It doesn't. It's not enough. It's never enough. It doesn't make up for your actions. It doesn't make things better.

It doesn't make me believe one actually understands just HOW their actions can affect so many people, and how GREATLY they can affect others.

So, so much for that one.

The sad thing about this is, now nobody is going to read the blog I posted before this, which I think is some of my better writing.

Whatever.

And if you'd 'a took to me like a gull takes to the wind...

2009-06-25T15:46:00.005-04:00

Every now and again, in the midst of steps and footprints and dust unsettled from passersby, life stops briefly.

Everyone remembers when it happened to them, if it's happened. It's a moment that can literally transform a person into their very core being; a moment that makes one hungry for more, hungry to allow themselves to escape their monotony, even briefly.

It happened once to a man, mid-forties, walking through a shopping mall in a small northern city. Searching for trousers, and running late from his lunch hour, he walked briskly. And then, the sounds traveling through the air stopped him dead in his tracks. He, at that moment stopped dead in front of a music store, then called "The Wall."

The sweetest sounds played from the store, a female vocalist and music so strong it seemed to pour directly from the earth to the speakers.

All life stopped as he walked inside, completely unaware of the current time, or his current outfit, or whether or not he'd eaten, and purchased the album containing the sweetest music on earth. To him, nothing else could have taken more urgent precedence at that moment.

He was free with the music, even briefly. Even for just a second, he found it.

Everyone remembers when it happened to them, if it happened.

Everyone remembers being there, in the darkened room, with the hardwood floors, and the way he smelled, and the way she walked. Everyone remembers the way she slid across the floor with no shoes, and how witty their body language was, and how it thrilled everyone around them as they wished they could only be so lucky...

But they remember, because of the sweetest sounds playing behind them... the soundtrack to their lives, the wooden floor, their stage. Their motions, an act. But the music, the music wet their souls 'til they bled purple, smearing it across the walls.

Everyone remembers when it happened to them, if it happened.

A white office is where it happened to me last, last before my eyes turned blue for a moment, my big brown eyes squinting to let in the light.

People sat on calculators, punching numbers, and I was counting money. Twenty after twenty, counterfeit marking every hundred, marking scribbles on paper. Numbers and letters and names, and 14 hours of work and 2 hours of sleep, the process was tedious.

And then it happened to me. The sweetest sounds playing from the computer speakers behind me.

This time it was "New Slang" by The Shins, which means nothing to you, because it didn't happen to you. You didn't escape for a brief moment, when the numbers danced on ecstasy on the page, and the bodies around sat silent, stopped speaking, stopped typing, just to hear the sounds.

And the ubiquitous "what is that" followed, and an answer, and I hummed the melody of the opening riff for the rest of the evening.

When I left the building, on my way to the bar, I hummed it in the street aloud. I hummed it walking, neglecting my freshly charged iPod in my bag.

I hummed it as I sat near my friends at the bar, as I watched two of them grow nearer to one another. I heard it as they spoke, and loved one another's faces, as I did in the room with the hard wood floors so long ago, and as he did standing outside of the music store.

And as it repeats, now, my words seem to flow from my fingers. My thoughts are so clear I wish I can drink them, just to relive each one.

It repeats now, as the homeless people outside don't matter... or the ugliness of the buildings, or the muggy, sweaty bodies of so many congested souls. This is the most beautiful place on earth... and I live there, until the sounds wear their welcome in my soul, and slip into comfortable, like all new love eventually does.

But I'll remember when it happened to me, because you remember when it happens to you, if it happens to you... If it happened to you, you remember it happened. And if it never happened to you, then my love, I am so sorry....

"And if you'd 'a took to me like a gull takes to the wind
Well I'd have jumped from my tree
And I'd have danced like the king of the eyesores
And the rest of our lives would've faired well..."

People cannot change

2009-06-24T06:05:00.002-04:00

I don't believe people change.

Truly. People never change.

There are few facts I will dispute, but the notion that people will change throughout their lives is one I find extremely inaccurate.

While we may experience changes in our lives that shape our character, all in all we are one person, and we are given one chance... one life. Throughout that life, we associate ourselves with one image, and we carry that image throughout, until the moment we take our final breath.

I said to my mother one day, "Mom, I'm deep and brooding."

Her reply was "oh yes, like the ocean. Even as a child, you were always too deep. You were four years old and bothering me constantly about death, and afterlives... You wouldn't even allow yourself to believe in Santa Claus."

"Well, you and Grandma used the same wrapping paper for presents when I was 5 years old. I couldn't believe after that."

"I know. I held enormous guilt over that for years. I'd even tell people at work and ask if I did something wrong. They'd say "what kind of child notices that?! I've been using the same wrapping paper for years!""

I've never changed. I was never really a child... I was just a smaller version of myself. I find, also, that people around me have always been the same. My friends who perpetually lie still perpetually lie, despite their awareness of its damaging after-effects. My friends who enjoy playful, youthful activities always have, even from young. I, on the other hand, have been sitting down and writing books since I was in Kindergarten.

People don't change, and for this, people experience tremendous unsettling feelings throughout life.

Lovers will always be lovers. Unfortunately, sometimes lovers decide their lives must take different turns, and they must be apart. But should you have had a lover in another, despite whatever rocky ending you inflicted purposefully, you will always be drawn to that former lover. If it was a true passionate affair, such feelings will always be there. This is because lovers bond spiritually, and those bonds are made through our inherent, unchanging souls. People don't change.

I don't believe people can change, and for that, a lot of questions come to mind about my relationships with others... and a lot of answers as well.

I knew a man several years ago, and by several, I mean 8.

He was my first soul mate, and a person from whom I took a lot of knowledge from. He taught me about love, and faith, and understanding. He knew what I was before I did, and for that, I appreciated him and loved him. However, for some reason, I was a just a stupid kid, and maybe created a bitter ending for us.

Now, years later, I no longer have blue hair and acne. I'm a woman, with nice legs and a nice education. I've traveled more than he has, and know more people than he does. I think my life has taken turns that make me aware of so much more than I had been at that time.

Yet, I am still the same, but I think now that I am older, our friendship can really blossom as something "worth it."

I looked for him for the past 7 years, because I always wanted to keep that bond I had. Finally, a month ago, I found he'd created a Facebook page. I sent a friend request, which he blatantly ignored.

I wonder, often, why?

I think it's because people don't change. Whatever we had was so powerful to him, even with my being 16 years old, that he is unable, even now, of being my friend.

I don't know why. I attribute it to the fact that people don't change.

And a woman, a woman who taught at my high school saw me at my brothers' graduation. She wouldn't so much as glance at me. She always disliked me years ago, and since I have become an articulate woman with a new life.

I wrote a letter to the local paper criticizing a policy that almost prevented my brother with special needs from graduating. The woman, who I will merely refer to as a "fucking cunt," bashed my letter to my other brother, and then refused to make eye contact with me at the commencement ceremony.

She always disliked me and was threatened by whatever personality traits...people are threatened by. And, she always will be...because people don't change.

I'm not saying people will always dislike people they dislike, or love people they love, but I'm saying when two people repel or attract one another by some force completely intangible, they always will... This is because... "people don't change."

And this is why, this weekend, when I attempted to see a show a band from NEPA was playing in my neighborhood (which I missed, by the way,) when I saw the lead singer, one of the first sentences he said to me was "my girlfriend's here." He was a flame of mine about a year ago, and since I've kissed many men and done many things. But, somehow, he felt the need to outright point it out. Maybe it was because he thought I'd attempt to make a move on him? Possibly, I may have. I cannot per se predict how I would have felt had the situation been different, but his knowing "people don't change" obviously led him to make the comment. Had I not changed, and had he not changed, the comment was probably warranted. Of course, we didn't speak nearly enough to determine if either of us changed. I just assume, somehow, that he has not changed, as I have not changed. But, one can't ever be sure.

And this is why people who claim that "relationships take work" are full of crap.

Because any relationship, whether friend or romance or anything of the sort, that doesn't outright work never will.

My best friend and I fell into our relationship. We never worked at it. It works comfortably and neither of us change to please the other. Things he does that I hate he does not change, and that's true for me.

...and in love, I tend to stray from compromise, and tend to believe that we fall into things.

...and something that doesn't outright attract me, or move smoothly, simply never will. Because people don't change. I never changed. I am the same. I will always be the same.

So my final parting words for this rant, are basically "be who you are, and if someone can't love you for that, stop caring. Move on. Stop trying to force people to be OK with the person that is you, because you're not going to change, and they're not going to change. And, anyone who acts like they constantly change is lost, and should be avoided. And, anyone who cannot embrace their true inner self should be avoided. People don't change. They never change. Take a moment to remember who you love, and remember why you love them. Find someone you distrust, and picture why that trust simply cannot exist. Think of the time spent. Whether two years or twenty, I bet the reasons have always been the same."

Fin.

49th street.

2009-06-12T07:21:00.001-04:00

So here I am, sitting at the 49th street subway station. I don't know how much longer it will take before an R train appears, but I know the N is running express, and thus serves me no good.

I'm crying tonight. I've been crying about 3 hours, now, and I don't exactly know why.

It started a few hours ago when a man named Justice started talking to me about sex. He asked me how I felt, and I said I could never sleep with him because he was too young. When he prompted me for his age, I said he was 30, in which he corrected me and stated he was 29.

This angered a man I've been seeing, who is Latino and takes such advances as serious "come-ons."

We fought... for a while. He told me he never wanted to see me again, which I ignored, since in my deranged mind, I wanted to believe he saw more value in my than the cheap floozy women who wanted him only for sex and drugs. I wanted to believe that despite my pushing him in the other direction, he really valued what we had. Alas, I was to learn otherwise.

In the interim of the fighting, I received a text message from a man I slept with last Friday. Every Thursday for as long as I can remember, he has texted me drunk out of his mind. Every Thursday, we talk filthy to one another.

For some reason, I slept with him. I was hammered, and while my drunk sex isn't terrible, it's nowhere near good.

I wanted us to speak, just to know that things had returned to normal. But, alas, he spent the afternoon with a woman he fancied, and thus had no desire to speak to me.

I knew all along my body and soul were nothing but cheap garbage to him, but I suppose in a way I wanted both to mean more. Somewhere, with someone, I wanted them to mean more... And even though I knew my Thursday sexting partner was far too humble and young for me, I secretly wanted to believe our relationship had more substance. Apparently, today, it didn't even possess what it once had.

It's times like these that I wonder why I even bother. I know, truly, that the one I love is not these men. I know I hold a great passion for another; one I'd lie down my life for.

But yet, through it all, tonight I'd hoped that from the random Thursday sexting buddy, I'd receive a bit of priority... I wanted just a random flint to rub against the dry wall of my life and light it, even for a brief moment. I wanted a shallow reason to believe I was better than a meaningless fuck... I needed to believe I was, at the very least, a friend.

And from the unsavory man next to me, I needed some understanding. Yet, all I got was him viciously pulling down the front of my dress, while his enibriated friend tried to teach me Spanish vernacular for social bullshit.

I stayed at the bar until the sun shone bright, and the tourists were out on their merry daytrips.

I overstayed my welcome so my train ride home wouldn't be as frightening, and as cold.

I stayed so I could go home alone tonight.

I know where my heart is. It's where it has always been-- with the one who loved me immediately, and unconditionally. I know tonight it sleeps with him.

But upon a search for some strange validation and compassion, I have failed miserably.

I have been told "fuck you" by a narcissist. I have been threatened by a Columbian. I have been rejected by a pathetic white boy, who wouldn't know how to romance a woman (or know a good woman) if one allowed him to penetrate her without a shield. (And I treat this with the utmost honesty, for that's all I have.)

I'm hammered, currently. The R train has come and gone. I got off at my stop and purchased 2 bottles of soda and some cheese at the store, where I was yet again humbled by the 19 year old clerk, V. I am home, undressed and redressed, and am about to climb the ladder to my loft.

Tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow is a better day.

But maybe, maybe someday, someone new will come along and see value in me for WHO I am, and not what they want me to be. Maybe someday, someone wonderful will see a glowing beacon of light stretching from my horizon...

Apparently today was not that day... So I'll cry until tomorrow... Until Cara comes home... Until Myles and I move in together... Until next week when I go see a show that's damned overdue... Until September when my applications are in for grad school... (God willing.) Until I become an advocate for something bigger than I am...

Until tomorrow, I'm going to go cry in my bed, because I remain the one and only true crusader... the last living fan of Andee. I am the last and only true fan of myself... The only one pushing myself forward... The only one holding myself at night.

I'm the only one who cares enough to say "Oh Andee, I love you."

Thank God my ego is big enough.... Thank God that ego is enough to remind me to keep pushing forward... Sometimes, I think weak people truly do have the upper hand.

Fin.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Everyone knows I'm in over my head...

2009-05-29T19:33:00.003-04:00

I am truly in over my head these days, with everything.

I read the things my friends write, and hear things they're going through, and fuck, half the time I'd almost rather trade places.

Right now, at this very moment, I am not at work.

I'm not at work because for about two weeks, I've been sick. At first it started as a bad cold, but then my ears started hurting. It went away for about 2 days until foolish me decided to stay out all night in the freezing cold, and now it's back. This time, however, my throat looks like it has a nasty infection.

I know I don't have a throat infection, because my throat doesn't actually hurt. It looks like it's inflamed from my sinuses and all of that nastiness from the post-nasal drip and whatever. Basically, I know I have a sinus infection...and basically, that isn't going away until I get an antibiotic.

Now, here's the "Oh Fish, this is your life" fun part of the mix.

I got health insurance two months ago. They never took money out of my paychecks for it. I assumed that was because I didn't have an insurance card.

UH HUH.

This past weekend, I received my insurance card. They got my name wrong. MY FIRST NAME WAS WRONG. My 10 character last name was DEAD ON. Of course, they haven't been taking money from me because I don't HAVE insurance. Their mistake.

I informed a person at work on Tuesday (the first day back from Memorial Day weekend) about the card.

...over the weekend, the fucking home office flooded.

...the next day I got sicker.

Basically, I can use the card with the wrong name, but then I am going to owe about 200 dollars in missed payments...200 dollars I don't have. The other option is that I can not use it, stay sick or get sicker, and never have the pay the money because technically I never had insurance.

So, there's that.

Next order of business- my rent.

My landlord, the cunt that she is, decided to renovate units in my building. She is renting them for over 300 dollars LESS than I pay.

...I'm stuck in a lease I signed BEFORE the recession, a lease SHE refuses to send me a copy of.

This means THIS week I have to call her and a. see about renewing my lease and b. fight with her about paying lower rent, which she probably won't budge on, so I'm going to need an attorney. IF I get an attorney, I will win. However, I have a feeling that will be a forceful eviction if I win and I'll be looking for a new place. Did I mention I have no money to LEAVE the place I currently reside in? ...yeah.

Third order of business- the man in love with me.

There's a man with an unsavory occupation. By unsavory, I mean I'd probably be better off dating a garbage man. The man is absolutely in love with me, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't care for him. However, what he does for a living breaches every branch of my ethics, and thus I cannot be with him.

This man has "let me in" so to speak. As a good Libra, I know parts of him people who have known him for years don't know, and I have deduced he is a genuinely good, kind-hearted human being. He's a loving father, a smart man, and has absolutely no intentions of hurting me.

However... I cannot date this man. Extricating myself from the situation is seemingly hard, and I'm unsure how to handle it. I care about the man and want to remain friends, but I feel he won't be able to carry on a platonic relationship. Adding to that, I think he's dirty. He suggested we go get STD tests together, but I DO NOT plan to do this with THAT man. I would do it alone for peace of mind before I'd go with him... I want to take NO FURTHER steps to make this man believe there is a future for he and I. However, because not many people see him for the man he really is, and because I have, he has love for me I am afraid he won't be able to ignore easily. I dislike the entire situation.

Fourth thing- my father.

I have decided to finally disown my father.

For years, his childish actions have driven my stress level to an unhealthy elevation.

I don't have enough blogs and enough days and enough words to describe the mentally ill MESS that is my father. All I can say is that he has never, not once, been a father to me. My father doesn't know anything about me.

He doesn't know my favourite food, or drink, or stance on social issues. He doesn't know who my friends are, or anything that I ever did in Europe, or NYC, or anywhere. To be fair, there are people who read my blogs that are more infatuated with my life than my father has ever been.

For the past decade or so, the only thing my father has ever been able to talk to me about is a. how he hates paying child support, b. his insecurities about the past, and c. his obsession with food. Truthfully, we have never build rapport with one another.

Actually, my father is getting into his sixties, and for the first time ever, he is raising a child. Literally, he has 8 kids, and number 8 is his first experience "sticking it out" as a father. Mainly, I think this is only happening because he resides with his child.

Even recently, when all I have asked of my father is to get to know who I am, all he has been able to do was rant on and on about the past... He's crazy.

For 23 years, every time I've spoken to my father honestly about something that was bothering me, he has "disowned me" for a few months. It's predictable, childish, and extremely annoying. When I was a child, it actually bothered me quite a bit, until I realized he was simply mentally ill.

I kept playing the "good person" card for the sake of my brother Louis. It would have devastated him at a younger age if his whole family couldn't celebrate holidays together, etc. However, Louis is older now, and he's... "just gonna have to deal with it."

And my father gets angry... He was "upset" because he wasn't invited to the PLCTA dinner last night, where my brothers received awards. Of course, he wasn't upset that for the past year when they were doing all the work for PLCTA, he never knew about it. He wasn't upset to not know ALL the people there, who have known Louis and Louis's case for YEARS, via my mother. He wasn't upset or interested in any of those people AT ALL, but was upset he wasn't invited to something our family has been immersed in for an extended period of time.

Or when I wrote my letter, the letter that spurred MANY accolades for me last night with two school board members, he was interested in "how I got in the paper." He wasn't interested for the past entire YEAR about the battles my mother and stepfather were fighting with the school district about ON THAT VERY SUBJECT. He could care less.

He just loves short cuts. Always has. This is why I hold concern for my "half sister," who is trying to get to know my father. He claims to "care about her." Psh. He had 27 years to do that. He is just the type who needs something new and interesting to occupy his time. He doesn't actually want to know the more significant parts of her life. He doesn't ACTUALLY want to be a father to her, because being a parent takes WORK.

Being a SISTER takes work. Even last night at the dinner, the woman speaking said that siblings of children with Autism do have to grow up probably "faster than they should," but they hold the most sincere love for their siblings, a love stronger than any you will find.

It's easy to stand there and be proud of the boy with Autism making an impromtu speech on the fly...

What isn't easy is when he can't handle the stress of his life, and punches himself in the face 30 times a few hours earlier. What isn't easy is trying to calm him down and do therapy when the emotions push him into sensory overload, and he"forgot" to take his medicine.

17 years of some of these things aren't the reason I was proud last night. They're the reason when Louis assured the room people with Autism would have good lives, and he was proof... they're the reason tears fell from my face.

But my father hasn't been there for that.

I am disowning my father. I almost wish my brothers would do the same, because I think interaction with him is unhealthy for them.

For example, Louis has an unhealthy obsession with food because of my father, and his being overweight often drives him into crisis.

Whatever. I'm finished ranting. Unfortunately, I have had more exposure and probably am slightly brighter than his other children. I should hope that the others do not immerse themselves in a relationship that will cause them inner turmoil.

Fifth thing- I need to go back to school.

I need to go so when people ask what I'm doing, I can say something other than "waiting tables." I probably won't use my next degree either, but it will sound better when I talk to people. Truth be told, I never want to work a 9-5 job. I never want to be trapped anywhere.

I am disgusted by the thought of working in the media. I hate pop culture, and generally hate the mollycoddled rich pieces of shit that work there to begin with. The only reason they made it to NYC is because their parents paid for it. At least, that's the case 95% of the time. Rich people have no sense of definite self, and bore me.

So, no media.

But what to go to school for?

I don't want to keep waiting tables, but I don't really want to pursue anything else. Sometimes, I just want to run away.

Oh, I'm so in over my head.

"...and give me the number if you can find it so I can call just to tell them I'm fine."

2009-05-19T02:53:00.003-04:00

"Miss... we just need the bread. Just... the bread is what's important. Please... We need the bread now."

He sat at table 206. The server was standing up, screaming, playing games with the other 50-60 kids in the group. They were yelling, screaming in the game, joyous, awaiting their food. But he, he rocked back and forth, screaming about anything he could.

"I'll punch them. I will. I need the music off!"

"Miss... please. The bread."

I knew it instantly. I could see it from a mile away. The general manager was busy. The other servers were avoiding the table.

"OK..." I said calmly. "OK... We're getting the bread. OK."

I walked toward the kitchen. I was not involved in the large pre-paid group. I had no attachment to the table, or the screaming teenager. I saw the general manager.

"Hollie... 206 is a little overwhelmed. I'm going to get them bread. He seems..."

"He has Autism."

"I know... If we could just turn the music down a little bit, because he's in sensory overload and the screaming is really bothering him... I'm going to get the bread."

I brought him the bread. He looked at me in tears, angry.

"Ma'am," he spouted. "The music REALLY bothers me. I NEED them to turn it off. Or I'll have to get up there and PUNCH the radio off! I have to punch it!"

"James..." his therapist said.

"OK...James, we're going to lower it. Calm down. They're going to stop screaming any minute... OK, any minute they're going to stop screaming," I said. "Go ahead, here's two kinds of bread. Have some bread."

He sat and ate his bread. I stood close by, watching him. I knew New York City was overwhelming for him. The disruption of one's senses is extreme and unpleasant, even for me at times. He as tired and hungry, I could see. They were screaming, playing trivia. He just wanted it to be quiet...something that wouldn't happen.

After he ate some bread, he was able to speak calmly to me.

"Ma'am... I really need the music OFF. I'm going to have to call the cops and have them PUNCH all of them."

"James.. stop," his therapist said.

"Honey," I said. "No, you don't want to do that. That wouldn't be a good thing."

His therapist tried to give me an out, but I didn't take it. I'd been in her shoes more than once. I've calmed someone down more times than she had in her life, I was certain. I wasn't taking the out.

"It's OK," I said. "My brother has Autism."

She quieted down as I looked at the boy.

"Why can't it just be off?"

I spoke slowly to him, careful not to touch him in any way.

"See James... this is a big restaurant.. That whole side over there is FILLED with people, and if we turned off the music...all you'd hear is ALL those people talking. It's almost over, honey. You're going to have food soon... Just a little bit longer."

He didn't ask me about the music anymore. I brought him his food and made sure he has enough to drink so he didn't want for anything.

We never did turn the music off. Children with Autism can't have that reinforcement. They can't just be allowed to think the world is going to adapt to them, or they will never develop the coping skills needed to adapt to the world.

On the other hand, they can't be negatively reinforced either. If we were to yell at James when he threatened to start punching people, he would only have seen it as a personal threat, and yelled and threatened more. Truth is, he never planned to hurt anyone, nor would he probably have tried. He would have said anything to get that music to be turned off.

I've lived this a million times. I looked at him and saw my brother, many years ago.

Louis, my brother, has come very far since those days. He can now cope with his disability and sensory overload in public. He works, drives, and functions very similarly to many 17 year old boys, but not without years and years of therapy, guidance, and a loving family to support him along the way.

As I stood there at work, a girl approached me.

"Andee, they're talking about 206 in the pantry. PLEASE go in there and explain it."

I walked in to hear a server, yelling and screaming about the boy, displaying him in a negative light.

"STOP."

"What?"

"He has a disability. He is in sensory overload. He's not hitting anyone. He just can't handle the noise. Stop talking about this."

I gave the group stares of disgust, and they knew instantly, for once, they'd touched a subject I wouldn't mock or laugh about. They knew they were wrong. They stopped talking and walked away.

James left the restaurant smiling, albeit before the group. He didn't say goodbye to me, but then again, I didn't require a goodbye. I smiled as I watched him say goodbye to his class, and leave with his therapist, presumably to wait downstairs with less stimuli.

Everyone needs someone to fight for them.

My brother had a loving family who fought for him...for years. He is who he is today because of his family.

Recently, when the insular school district of the high school he attends implemented policies that would hurt him, my parents stood up and fought for him...

...and then I stood up and used the power of the pen to publish a letter to the editor of a local paper, because I knew there were others this was happening to, and they needed a voice to fight for them.

And when my letter was published, my parents were proud of me for caring about someone other than myself, being a crusader for people who didn't know better.

My entire life, I've been accountable for more than just me. I've always been a fighter for those I loved, many I loved even more than I loved myself.

Yet, I don't see this in New York City. When I told the story of my letter to a friend, he only responded with four "OK's," not understanding why I was telling the story.

When I tried to "talk" about my attachment to "table 206" tonight, nobody cared or understood.

I don't understand the complete and utter selfishness of New York City. I blame it on rich families, most of the time.

I just know that I'm different than most of them, and I've always cared about more than myself.

I have a hard exterior, truly. I'm seen as one of the most rigid, unfeeling people out of everyone I know in the city. However, I truly believe the reverse is true. I just don't fit well with many of them, even though I love my dear city.

I don't know why I wrote this blog.

Maybe it's because I'm angry that someone called me negative and mean at the bar the other night, and I cried for two hours because of it.

Maybe it's because I'm angry at people who don't try to understand kids like James and Louis.

Maybe it's because my baby boy is graduating in two weeks, and I am going to be the proud sister watching them flipping their tassels and throwing their caps in the air.

Maybe it's because my stepfather read my letter in the paper, and told me how proud he was of me, and how truly incredible it was for me to have the integrity to do what I did. Maybe it was because I gave my family a gift that meant the world, and others a means to start a conversation, and the people I know in the city didn't give one shit about it.

Maybe it's because my own father can't get to know me, and instead does nothing but whine and carry on about the past, when in all honesty, I could really care less about the past. I have a wonderful present and am a great person...who he refuses to know.

Maybe it's because this week, I blatantly refused to start a relationship with a man because of his unsavory occupation, and people around me couldn't understand why my life and family were more important to me than sex and free booze.

Maybe it's because people here DON'T care... That man, who claimed to care, didn't know my name even. I found out he had to ask the bartender what it was every night.

...and at home, there was a man who'd announce my name to a bar full of people... and smile.

And while I don't long for the past, or home, or people long gone, I do know that they saw in me some good... They saw me for who I was, and they would have stood with me and fought for that boy. They stood by me and encouraged me in every fight I'd ever taken on. They understood how great my love was for my brothers, and they told me it was OK when I needed to hear it.

I'm not upset, or depressed, or angry. We have to live in darkness to see the light. We need to feel pain to appreciate pleasure. We need to have sadness to drink in euphoria.

I just needed to tell this story... for one of the above reasons... or maybe because of all of them.

"Isn't that the way they say it goes, but let's forget all that
...and give me the number if you can find it so I can call just to tell them I'm fine..."

5 hours of life.

2009-05-08T15:13:00.003-04:00

I never want to be married.

Furthermore, I never want to stay in one place.

Some people desire big houses with yards, and libraries and horses. For me, I just want an apartment small enough that I can pack it up in a day's time and be gone with the bat of an eyelash.

I don't ever desire the same companion, the same lover. I don't even desire the same friends. Every few months I recycle the friends I have, trading them for new. A few hang on, but most don't. Most stay stagnant, while I keep moving.

In men, I love to see and touch and taste all they have to offer. Granted, I don't sleep with them, but I hold them, kiss them, hear their beautiful stories.

Here's a story--

He stared at her, intensively. She had been flirting with him for months, but only recently did he take the time to see her for the curves she possessed and the mind that carried them. He knew he wanted something from her, albeit he wasn't sure what.

He loved her motions, and her words. He would catch her alone and speak to her, truthfully, when none of the others were looking. He'd never sought anything from a woman before, not like her He wasn't even sure he wanted to sleep with her, but he didn't want her to venture too far from him.

He mentioned he'd memorized her scent, in the square way an alpha male knew how. He was straight as an arrow, a family man with children and a beautiful wife, but there were poisons in his life that he knew were too much reality to lend to her.

He constantly justified his married status to her, and she felt relentlessly fatigued by his obvious inner turmoil and outward rejection.

She turned to the Dominican, who smiled at her with little boy eyes. She sat near him as he told her of the concerns in his family life, ones he didn't make public often. He put his arm around her, and she stroked his curly hair. It was then the alpha male appeared, becoming increasingly jealous. She didn't care.

The Dominican desired her, and followed her as she was changing into a dress. He approached her and held her,sliding his hand up her dress, up her thigh, up her back. She kissed his neck and pressed herself against him.

He left, and when she was fully dressed, they sat together, he confessing his life was not perfect, and relaying many of his problems onto her. She became confused by him, he also being married. The alpha male stood a short distance away, watching them, hurt by her lack of advances toward him, and instead toward the Dominican.

She was confused...

She left for the bar, and sipped silently on Stoli, sitting near a few acquaintances she could scarcely call friends. She tried to express her inner monologue, but instead, she could only mention the Dominican putting his hands on her, and the obvious mental masturbation with the alpha male. She knew the discourse and disclosure of too much would send the environment south to an unhealthy heated climate. She wanted none of it.

And then he saw her, the Columbian from a family of infamy.

A few hours prior she was stoking the phallus of the alpha male's mind, and tracing the line of the Dominican's penis with her ring finger. She was confused, and he was handsome. He offered a drink, and she accepted.

He told her her mind was beautiful, and she listened to stories of a family life so potent they could turn waters red.

He touched her face and advanced upon her, when she was taken aback and pulled away from him. But her abstinence from the act was short-lived. She found him too charming, and for once, once in 5 hours, it was about her.

"It's because of what I do for a living, isn't it" he asked.

"Truly, yes," she said. His occupation was unsavory.

Everyone around was drooling over the thought of cocaine and cheap liquor. Everyone but her, who was just patiently sipping Stoli, not desiring anything but peace of mind.

They were running from him, running from the addictions and demons they'd put up their noses so many times before. Yet, she found no pleasure in those addictions. He loved her for it.

She pressed her lips against his, as he held her face.

"Where did you learn to kiss like that?" he asked her.

"Not something you learn..."

The chemistry between them was radical. She thought of her mother, and the disappointment he would bring to her life. She wouldn't commit her soul to him, or any piece of herself. She may not see him for a week, or more. She may not kiss him again.

She starred into his eyes as the wafting scents of marijuana flowed through the air from the back room.

Her friend was high, and it was time to leave. She knew the obvious scents of his final nightcap.

"I'll see you again," she said, kissing the Colombian. And then, she was gone...

And it was then that 5 hours was complete... five hours of life she couldn't get back, but yet five hours that would last for the remainder of the night, and into the following days.

None of it made sense, and it may never. Such is the life of a vagabond soul.

Tuesday night in paradise

2009-04-22T05:04:00.000-04:00

I've watched the same shows over and over so I decided to read...

As I read, a large fly flew to the light near my bed, eerily moving inches from my face. I slammed the fly with my book, killing it, fusing the remnants of its body to the light.

I looked for a piece of paper to scoop it up with... I found one behind the bed, crumbled. I opened it, seeing your e-mail address... in your handwriting.

You gave me the e-mail address because you didn't want my phone number. You said you didn't like to talk on the phone, and you'd prefer to e-mail.

It was then that I asked, after a month of sharing beautiful conversation with you, and flirting intensely with you with much reciprocity, if you had a girlfriend. And, of course, you told me you did.

And it was then, after many cocktails, that I began yelling to everyone who would listen, about how angry I was that you had this girlfriend, and how annoyed I was that you tried so desperately not to share that detail...

And it was then that I began to drink more, and afterward, I can't be sure what happened.

And so, even though I did not use your e-mail address to scoop up the dead fly from my light this evening, I am unsure of what purpose your e-mail address would serve for me.

I'm also unsure what reason I'd have to contact you after I behaved so erradically and terribly... and after you did not share with me a very important piece of information that contradicted much of our discourse.

Perhaps, it's because you understood "that" part of me, and perhaps it's because you are only the third to have done so...

And perhaps you remind me so much of the other two that I became angry at you for all they did, and all they were, and various and a sundry other factors...

But if I were to write you an e-mail, I'd probably say everything I just wrote here, for no particular reason.

Fuck that fly for being in my apartment, and landing on my light when I was trying to read.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Brooding.

2009-04-17T03:18:00.002-04:00

I believe, truly, that only brilliant people recognize their own insignificance. Adding to that, I believe said people are incredibly unsettled by it.

I always realized this concept, but it came to fruition in high school, when I realized that nobody beyond the microcosm of our small town knew of me. When I would die, nobody in any part of Europe would know, or care. Furthermore, beyond my family and friends, nobody in America would care. Nothing about me would become immortal.

I also realized that nothing I said or did was benefiting the human race at all. My job at a fast food restaurant did absolutely nothing for the community, or the world. The music I listened to did not travel beyond my ears. They conversations I had did not impact the greater good with any magnitude. I became very unsettled by my existence, and to some degree, still am.

There are certain people who come into this world and do not wish to simply bide their borrowed time, but desire something greater. My best friend says he wants to "change the world." I say I want to "aid humanity." Neither of us know how or why we want to do this, but we cling to it. It seems we are strikingly unsettled when we do menial tasks that amount to nothing. We also do not desire traditional roles in life, because we are quite bored with them.

I find that truly brilliant people often do desire this. Truly brilliant people see marriage for what it really is-- an outdated ritual designed to fill ones brain with the illusion that their life has shared meaning with someone-- their their life is significant. It really just aids in procreation, but that, to me, is one of the most senseless, frivolous acts.

I don't see a point in procreation. The notion of it does not satisfy me... But I know, and am fully aware, that beyond procreation, I cannot serve this planet.

I find a lot of things unsettling.

The things people often see as important I tend to shy away from. When I was in high school, I was a big believer that anything going on in the immediate social circles of others around me did ABSOLUTELY NOTHING for the human race. In college, I found the grades I received would die with the passing of yet another semester. Now, I see many of my friends with one foot in the chapel, and people I know from the past with changed surnames on Facebook.

I write a lot about my hatred of the ritual, because unfortunately it is thrown in my face all the time by friends, acquaintances, and co-workers. All of these people have been serial monogamists, ultimately working toward the end goal of "finding the one they were going to marry."

I've been single for a long-ass time.

I'm not single because I am hideous, or not open. I had a boyfriend Iloved in college, but when he mentioned he wanted a wife and kids, I ran in the other direction. I made a habit to date married men ever since.

I don't desire to ever be with anyone. I enjoy my gay best friend. We share our lives meaning together, but both of us agree that waking up next to another human being for the rest of our days would absolutely suffocate us. We decided if we ever wanted to enter a relationship, we'd have to make the men go home at night, because we both loathe waking up next to people. Believe me- I've woken up next to people I loved right down to blatant strangers. I hated it always.

I also desire to taste and touch and experience as many different souls as I can before I die. I don't want to limit myself to one. How can I then better understand the human race? Bollocks.

I always tell Cara, who is apparently a millimeter away from being engaged, that I don't see the point. She said we just have different goals in life. She desires to be married, and she knows one day in the future I'll come over and share all of my ridiculous anecdotes about "John" and "Joe" and "Fred" and "Sarah," (lol) while she will relentlessly bitch about how dumb the students are at the university she teaches at. I'll tell her when I was "here" and the "job I'm currently doing" in "this state" with "those people," and how I "published this," and she will be married and have kids.

But I do not desire those things, because they do nothing for the human race. They do not change the fact that unless I work extremely hard, I shall not be immortal. I shall live and die without anyone knowing I ever existed, do I not do something extraordinary.

I think only truly brilliant people see this in life. Only truly brilliant people realize that talking about celebrities you have never met is pointless, because you don't know them, and you don't know anything more than what the media wants you to know.

I think only truly brilliant people are not satisfied with boasting about an artist, until that artist has changed society for generations.

I think this is why I stray toward the musicians and the actors, and the writers, dreamers, and journalists. I think I enjoy them the most because they have the constant, burning desire to spread a message, and they live with the audacity that if they are not the brightest, the sharpest, and the most svelte with their actions and handshakes, they shall not become immortal... and they shall not change the world.

I think the only way I'd ever consider being married is if the person was willing to allow the relationship to be "open," and they were willing to be a vagabond spirit. But even then, I cannot consider wanting it, because while I am used to cycling through friends and places and people, others tend not to be. I also have my own commitment to family, which outranks anyone else's. Truly.

My said ex boyfriend from before is getting married very soon. He's been with his fiance for over 3 years, I believe. She's 26. That means when she was my age, they got together. I'm halfway to 24. When she was 24, they got engaged.

Since the time they have been engaged, all of this woman's MySpace postings and surveys and WHATEVER have been about having a "wedding,"and buying a "house," and I know once the damned wedding is over and the pictures are taken and the cake is in the freezer, they'll be talking about the only goal people SEEM to HAVE these days-- procreation.

And then, then after that, they'll live together and become dull and boring, and they will serve no purpose except to nurture their offspring until they die... And they will not have changed the world, and when they die, nobody will know they have died except their offspring and living relatives and friends... And that depresses me, and leaves me unsettled.

That WHOLE concept leaves me unsettled. The ENTIRE thing leaves me sick to my stomach. That's the reality of life. THAT is what it is. THAT is what so many women dream of having.

And then the men-- they do it because it's the "thing to do," and most have affairs with people like me in their forties, confessing that they wish when they were younger, they'd "done things differently," and they'd "made more of the time they were given," and how they "love their children but they yearn for so much more," but they "can't have it because it isn't possible."

And they confess this with dying souls, being held by a pair of young 21 year old, "old soul's" hands...

And that leaves me unsettled...

Even my own mother, who loves her husband dearly, yearns for something more... and he's her SECOND husband. I've experienced and tasted so much more than she has. She holds joy for me in that regard, but I know she wishes she'd been more like me. She always tells me I'm smarter than she was. I always tell her I'm smart because she was the best mother in the world. She didn't lie to me.

Only truly brilliant people realize their own insignificance.... and this leaves them unsettled.

When they enter jobs, too, they look for life-altering possibilities that will help them change the world. When they don't see them, they become alcoholics, smokers, and unhappy. They leave their homes in search of more.

...and some never find it.

I'm not sure there's an ultimate "zen" to where we need to be. I know a few people who have the same desired ending as I do, but I don't know if any of us will ever get there, because NOBODY has seen the "promised land." It's like heaven-- you don't know it exists, but somehow, you hope it does. You have to hope, because otherwise, what is there?

I'm not upset about much... But I do realize my own insignificance. I realize it, and it leaves me unsettled.

It's also annoying when you are subjected to the real world. I always had to hear about the "grades," and the "trivial conversations." Now I'm hearing about the "weddings" and in a few years, I'll be subjected to the "babies" conversations. And then I'll probably hear about "mortgages" and "houses" and "high schools" and "college tuitions." Maybe I'll get lucky and get to hear about the "divorces!" (Hey, we have over a 50% chance, here.)

I don't have the heart to tell people that they scare me... and I never, EVER want to be them... ever. When I do, I just come off as insulting.

I've never been a serial monogamist, or an avid fan of sports. I've never been one who finds enjoyment in watching the same game played by the same rules over and over again. I find no enjoyment in a repetitive cycle. I've never been a fan of game shows, or board games, or religious dogma.

I'm glad I have friends who side with me on this... but those who see the WHOLE big picture on my views on the "lives" we have... I can count them on my one hand. It's disappointing, but it keeps me going back to the bar.

Thanks for being the one to hear me.

2009-04-15T03:06:00.002-04:00

I've been saying it for months, but they never heard me.

They fed me lines about "relationships" and "happiness," and garbage I didn't care about. I listened to their mundane stories from my very dark place. I was so lonely, and so unhappy, and all people could do was insert the "I'm sorry" platitude, which just scratched and clawed at my nerves.

They didn't understand the deeper spiritual connection I was looking for, because they are not one of us, and they will never be.

And you, for some reason, you knew instantly. And I've looked for so long to find another one of us, thinking for certain they did not exist.

I said to you "you're one of us," and you knew what I meant. "Yes I am," you said.

And I don't ever know what's going to happen tomorrow. I can barely remember yesterday. I know it gets a little better every day. I know the sun shines brighter. I don't have to wait for the thaw. I never lived through winter.

They stopped listening to me. They stopped because they no longer understood the void I had in my life. They never realized how much losing him and her hurt me, and how hard it was to be "heard." The two of them gave me so much joy. I talked to them so differently, but so much the same. They are gone. I loved them so.

The others never realized what I was saying for a long period of time. They made me feel insane. I told you this. I told you I felt insane. I've only said this to two others before, and all of you replied with the same line. "No, you're not. They just don't know."

And they do not.

So now, people smell better, and I smile brighter. And the friends I have, I can lean on them, and they lean back. And when we hug I feel joy, and when we drink I can be uninhibited and free, and nobody cares, because we have love again.

And in the morning, I want to see another day, but no thanks to any of them. All of them just wanted to see me stand still and fall into the traps presented by their own negative minds. They wanted to cage a hummingbird. She didn't appreciate it.

You said we don't have to explain any of this, because there is no point in putting it into words. Putting it into words takes away so much from the grandeur of it. We know what it is.

I don't think we'll ever be lovers, and we may not even be friends.

I like you for making it easier to replace my memories of the other two. I also like you because you remind me of them, which makes it difficult for me. But most of all, you give me a glimmer of hope.

I don't know if we'll ever speak again, and I'll probably never tell you this, but thank you for knowing me. Thanks for hearing what I said. Thanks for understanding every word of it.

You make me want tomorrow...

Easter Sunday

2009-04-12T13:02:00.002-04:00

My Mom sent me a card for Easter. Inside, it said "Dear Andrea, I know it is somewhat of a relief to be away from NEPA & the "forced" celebration of a Christian holiday, but you couldn't escape totally. Here is your "Easter" gift."

She then wrote that she loved me and enclosed 20 dollars. The gift was moreso just to be nice since I'm away from her on a day of celebration, but she was completely correct.

For years, my family has forcefully celebrated Easter to placate my Catholic grandmother. In addition, my mother's two obnoxious, self-centered brothers continued to practice religion, while my mother abandoned it long before I was born. They always showed up at my grandmother's house, boasting about whatever and making outlandish statements, while my family quietly sat and dealt with their audacity of their absurdity.

I've only escaped it one year prior to this one, and that was when I was in London in 2007. It was an incredible relief at that time to not have to pretend to celebrate a Christian holiday, and it is again today.

Where I come from, people somehow cannot believe that I do not celebrate Easter. Well, I do not. Muslims and Jewish people do not celebrate it either. However, instead of having another faith that celebrates a holiday, I just do not celebrate.

I don't like when ignorant people like my friend James call and say "everybody celebrates Easter!" No... everybody doesn't. Everybody doesn't celebrate it. Few people in the UK celebrated it, and as evidenced by NYC this weekend, there are millions of others who do not celebrate it.

I hate Easter... I always have. I think what I hated the most was the swarm of Catholics badgering me about it. Where I come from, everyone is Christian, and EVERYONE is appalled when one claims NOT to celebrate Easter. It's annoying.

In previous years, I'd always post blogs about hating Easter, and I always got my ass handed to me. This year, I'm just relieved to be away from the forced celebrations. Instead, I'll be working with others who ALSO do not celebrate Easter.

I think it's quite amusing how this city turns into a cracked out crazy fest on Easter weekend.

Firstly, there is the gang violence in Times Square (where I work, by the way.) You can read about that here.

I thought it was an urban legend, but according to people I work with who experienced a few years back, this is a very real thing. People tend to come into the restaurant wearing gang colours, making spectacles of themselves, and requesting window seats so that fat black hoodlum mommies and their 6 kids can "watch daddy stab some people outside." This was directly overheard by my manager more than once.

Working where I do, I see my share of ghetto trash that can be unfathomably cruel and rude to others. However, on Easter, the restaurant turns into a sea of disgusting gangish ghetto fabulous garbage, and we're all so excited about having been drafted to work that day.

Another thing people in all-white NEPA don't get-- the reason for racism. When they think about racism, they think about people disliking President Obama because of his skin color. They conveniently forget the disgusting mess of garbage that flows from the ghetto, disrespecting everything in its (yes, "its") path. They also forget Bill Cosby a few years back scolding and lecturing black people on their poor behavior, claiming those individuals are the lingering reason for racism.

All of the servers where I work have been encouraged to take cabs home tonight after work, and I will be one of them. However, a cab for me is only about 10 dollars, whereas some will have to spend 20-30, perhaps even more, depending.

This is just another instance which feeds my ever-increasing racism.

I want to know why if this is the Lord's day, people feel they can march around, destroying property, and stabbing one another. It's garbage.

I hate them for infringing on my right to be happy and safe, and thus they have helped breed hate. It's disgusting.

In addition to the gangs, Easter weekend is "the busiest tourism weekend of the year." At least we've been told that in the tourist district. I've seen at bars and just about everywhere fights breaking out, and disoriented homeless on the street.

This city is on crack this weekend. You can tell on the subway, and in the stores. You can tell everywhere you go that the entire city is blatantly "on something." I don't know what that is, or if it's just a bunch of insane folk flowing into the proverbial crossroads of the world, but this city needs Valium.

Myles and I went out Friday night and we KNEW instantly that everyone we would encounter would be insane. Sure enough, it seemed like the world just took one big E Pill.

I can't say any of this has strictly to do with Easter, but I think it's amusing to take it from a different perspective, as opposed to looking at it from a set of eyes that looked at the back of a church pew all morning, followed by seeing a desolate town where everything has closed out of respect to the Lord.

I thought I could escape the nightmare of Easter, but apparently in the city, I've just been given a new nightmare.

Instead of being forced to celebrate a holiday, I am forced to deal with garbage from the ghetto, toting their weapons and proudly displaying their gang colours. UH huh.

I sincerely hope everyone had a good day today, for I know I'll be spending my evening waiting on ghetto trash and getting annoyed, badgered, abused, and not tipped by them.

What a fucking terrible day. I wish I could go back to bed and wake up tomorrow.

Happy Easter.

Contrary to popular belief, I am very happy.

2009-04-09T10:36:00.002-04:00

OK, so apparently after I wrote my last blog, people got the distinct impression that I am unhappy. Actually, the contrary is true! I am very happy.

The last blog I wrote was simply to make my mind stop moving so I could go to sleep. It's very common for me on nights that I do not drink to think outrageous rants in my head like that. I actually wrote the blog for a friend, who asked me "what do you THINK about that keeps you awake at night?" It was more of an experiment.

I'm starting to learn that people don't get that self-deprecation and ranting is part of my humor, and also part of what keeps me going. Stuff like the last blog wasn't to be funny, but rather a catharsis.

Having that said, I have to share my "yesterday" story.

So I hadn't paid my student loans for April. I still haven't paid one. The reason I hadn't paid the first is because I didn't have the stupid password to get into the damn web site. Lovely, right?

There were all of these security questions to "retrieve" my password. One was "what street is your favourite residence on," and another- "what is your favourite band?"

Well fuck... How the hell would I know what the answers to those questions were. I clearly made those up YEARS ago, and apparently my favourite band and residence have changed dramatically since then.

Anyway, after 6 dollars at Kinkos and some correspondence with my stepfather, who has HIS email listed as the primary e-mail address, I finally had access to get my invoices for my loans for April AND May. UH HUH.

I printed those out and sent April's on its way.

I had enough time, then, to get to the bank and deposit 600 dollars, so I could pay my other loan and phone bill. Sweet, right?

Apparently not.

The fucking bank burned.

That's right. It burned. Stupid me never switched banks when I moved to NYC, and one of the FEW branches of MY BANK in the city BURNED.

I didn't have enough time to get to another branch before work, so I had to TRUCK home to leave the 600 dollars behind, and then get to work.

I e-mailed the anecdote to my mother, who responded by telling me that she burst into laughter when she read my e-mail.

We find this stuff funny.

In my favourite movie "As Good As it Gets," Jack Nicholson's character Melvin Udall repeats the line "never a break" at least twice. I say this line a lot in my life, and now, so does my mother. Because of the way I grew up, and the tribulations with my brother having Autism, and ALL that was encompassed in that and being poor, and blah blah, we've learned to laugh at the audacity of some nuances in life that do not work in our favour. It's FUNNY.

People sometimes think I m complaining, or that I'm unhappy. I'm actually NOT unhappy. I was unhappy in January and February. I stated such. Now, I'm mildly amused and lucid.

Stuff like the BURNING OF THE BANK is a pain in the royal ass. I'll probably get a 3 dollar late fee from AES, and Verizon will continue to call me daily until I pay them. However, the audacity that I planned my errands with "x" amount of time, only to find the bank had caught fire and was boarded up is fucking hilarious.

You can do two things when life goes awry-- you can fall apart, or you can laugh.

My mother said "only you" to me. I loved it. I told her the story because I knew out of everyone, she'd laugh in joint misery with me.

So, when you read things I write here, don't take them for misery. Stuff is what it is.

I needed to say some things in my last blog, so I said them. Just because I said stuff that was on my mind does not make me unhappy.

I am quite happy! I'm well-fed and social. I have friends and booze and a new life plan. I think that's something to be happy about. All of that garbage was just stuff for me to put out there.

And stories like the "bank burning," those are just for fun.

Monika at work told me that in the beginning, everyone thought I was a complaining, heinous bitch. Now, I'm one of their favourite people. I guess it just takes time for people to "understand" that I am not an unhappy person-- I just have a different approach to life. Why should we take it too seriously? Why take life with more than a grain of salt?

Sometimes you don't get the best hand of cards. So what if you have all 3's of clubs in your hand? Draw phallic symbols on them and throw them back into the deck.