You, again?

I like to read the "Missed Connections" on Craigslist. Rarely is it ever because I believe I experienced a connection with someone on the subway or in a bar and now there's no way of ever finding them again. I actually don't like the idea of finding someone through "Missed Connections." I think it's a better story if two strangers just started up a conversation...on the subway or in a bar. Right time, right place. Some of the postings though aren't about connections missed, but rather connections lost. These are always sad to me, and what's even sadder is that a lot of times I wonder if someone out there wrote it about me. Is it someone's weak yet still endearing way of letting me know they still occasionally think about me? I doubt it, but it's a nice thought anyway. There are only millions of people who are feeling emo about what they lost or what could have been. Why should anyone take the time out to write one about me?

The past three nights I have had the same dream. In them I decide against better judgement to tell someone- who until these past three nights I've done a good job not thinking about-that I miss them. To do this in real life would certainly be a mistake, and either end without a response or start up that vicious cycle all over again. It's a thought I can't seem to shake at the moment. I guess what's bothering me is that I never had a chance. Through all that was said and done, I never had a chance, so I'll never know what could have been (perhaps that's the point...it wasn't in the cards to happen, ever). Or maybe, it's because I haven't heard from this person, and I guess I thought I would. A part of me wonders if I should say something, since I've got nothing to lose...just my self respect. HA. I suppose writing this is a way of saying something. Sure it's not "Missed Connections," but I'm still typing it out and putting it into the internet universe.

And of course I'm aware that there's a slim chance you might read this. So there you go. You still haunt me.

Tallulah Bankhead

Upon researching a character I'm in the process of creating, I came across the actress Tallulah Bankhead. And now I love her.

"...I've had many momentary love affairs. A lot of these impromptu romances have been climaxed in a fashion not generally condoned. I go into them impulsively. I scorn any notion of their permanence. I forget the fever associated with them when a new interest presents itself."


Yes.

Sweetheart you're so pretty, but you always make decisions like an ugly girl.

I'm done. It was funny for awhile but seriously, I can't anymore. If there's a reason why all this has been happening, then what is it? For me to focus on my writing more? It's hard to do that when I have this itch that has become impossible to scratch. Unbelievable. As silly as it is to dwell on, and really it's quite an insignificant part of life, I'm going out of my mind! On top of the frustration, which is one thing, I also get to feel stupid for wasting ten hours of my day today. That's what makes it worse, that I end up looking foolish for even giving you a minute of my time, let alone the whole day. All I want, all I need is that physical act itself. Keep your feelings away, I don't care. Why is it so difficult to seperate the two? And why is something ALWAYS getting in my way. Why is there always someone else there that is more important than I am? What am I doing that's so wrong? I know exactly what I'm trying to get myself into, I know the outcome, I expect nothing more or less than what I will actually get. But nooooooo. Something so simple has become so absurd. Obviously whatever it is that I'm doing, or not doing isn't working. Merely existing doesn't seem to be working. And this can't be the universe's way of protecting me or having me make the smart choice, because way back when it certainly didn't pay any attention to the choices I was making. Psh. So why now? I can't seem to get what I want. Someone may then ask, "Well what is it that you want?" I know what I could go for immediately, that's for sure. In the grander scheme of things, maybe not so much. Or maybe it's just my subconscious that is confused.

Good f-ing grief.

Am I a Clown? Do I Amuse You?

What's going to happen next? I can't think of anything else at the moment that could possibly make the wound that is my life sting a little bit more. Thank goodness I have a sense of humor. Someone without a funny bone would probably turn to drugs or therapy (or both) to escape. All I want to know is what's next. Even last night, mid-crisis in the middle of a crosswalk, arms flailing I listed the only plausible (not really) events that should follow scene one and two. And without missing a beat, the universe gave me that. Sort of. I got an e-mail from someone I said I would get an e-mail from, timed perfectly. "Here we go!" I said to my roommate. I had excepted the e-mail to read, "Dana, I'm engaged. " or, "I'm dead," or something else dramatic. When it rains it pours. Luckily, it was a simple hello. Whew. All that build up for nothing. Thank goodness! I would have lost it. I wasn't even upset over what took place, but one thing after another, in a half hour span is kind of rough. I'm convinced the earthquake in Chile messed with the Earth's rotation and my life and presumably everyone else's. That's when this all started, that Saturday. My entire world was literally shaken up. Yes that sounds absurd, but everything was peachy keen before then. Now my days have turned into nothing but shoulder shrugs. I give up! I surrender to you universe! I can't even think about things anymore without them coming into being. But they're never good things. Oh no. Maybe this is all happening to become fodder for my writing. Which is great and all but come on, a person can only take so much. It's long passed the point of ridiculous. At least these stories have amused others, and myself. So what if the joke is perpetually on me? The only good to come out of this earthquake (Life quake, perhaps?) is that Mr. Big has decided to e-mail me everyday, even just to say Hi. It's been a week already, and he hasn't missed a day yet. Everyone I told this to responded with a groan and/or an eyeroll, and that's fine. Just like everything else I'm not taking it seriously, I'm not even going to spend time thinking about it (except while writing a blog about it). It makes me happy to know that he has to think about me everyday. Has and wants to do so. I guess the earthquake shook things in the right direction, at least regarding him. Everything else, like those buildings, have collapsed abruptly, and without warning. Too soon for earthquake metaphors? Nothing has actually been as dramatic as I made them seem, that was my Carrie moment, because I felt like that's something lame she'd write. I think the fact that I still manage to reference "Sex and the City" is worse than my metaphor. I should stop typing now. The name Mr. Big stays though!

The Ghost Who Comes and Goes

I shouldn't bother writing comedy anymore, because my life has become one ongoing sketch, never short on punchlines and one-liners. The universe never ceases to amaze me and make me laugh. Whenever I start feeling a little emo about one thing, something else comes along to take my mind of off it. I swear I think things and then they happen...but only things I don't want to have happen. Maybe it's a sixth sense, maybe people are predictable. While everything that happens to me ends up making a wonderful story later on, I'm still the one living through them. It's gone past the point of absurdity. Maybe the only people for me really are the mad ones.

I don't get it. At all. What do you want from me? Why do you even think about me?

My life story should be written into a movie, nay, a musical. Consisting solely of songs from 1960's girl groups. Excellent.

Jeff Buckley might need to be thrown in there too.

S.

You were in my dreams last night. I'm always shocked, both in my conscious and unconscious mind when you appear. After arriving at my parents' former house at the shore, one you've never been to, my mom calls me to the front door, saying someone is there to see me. Her voice sounded shakey and uneasy. "Who could possibly be here to see me?" I thought, "No one I know lives around here." I come to the door, in my pajamas, hair a mess, and there you are. Even though this all took place in the present day, I was so happy to see you. (Now, this all actually happened in real life, years ago. But we were still together and I had just gotten home from a cruise. It was Easter. It was Easter in my dream too.) Your first words to me were, "I read all the nice things you wrote about me." (You wouldn't tell me where you read this), and then you said, "It's over." Every time you appear in a dream of mine, which isn't often, that's what you've always come to tell me. That you've broken up with her. And every time I hear that, I'm always so ecstatic and throw my arms around your neck and start kissing you...no questions asked.

I kind of wish I didn't have these dreams. I would like to know what's going on in my brain that allows for me to have them. I wonder if I ever show up in your dreams. Every time I have these dreams I wake up right afterwards, as though my brain won't allow them to continue. And everytime I wake up I'm kind of sad. I don't like feeling sad over a dream...especially one I was so happy in.

I saw this on Post-Secret this past weekend, and I hoped that maybe you sent it in...the first part certainly, and unfortunately, rings true.

I wish we could be friends, beyond wishing each other happy birthday, and see each other once in awhile, even though I don't deserve that at all. My mom always said I met you at the wrong time in my life. If only I had been 25. I hope you're truly happy with her, and haven't stayed with her this long because it's the easy thing to do.

Mr. Sandman, Stop Bringing Me Dreams.

Every time I decide to sober up for even a few days I forget that it means I'll start dreaming again. So here I am, three days on the wagon (and still without the slightest desire to drink) I've suffered from three nights of bizarr-o dreams. I also think I've been sleeping later because I'm so deep into my dream world. One night I was a kindergarten teacher, because, "All you need is a B.A. to teach." Then last night I dreamt my bank account was cleared out, not from rent being paid, but because someone somehow got access to my information. What was purchased was all this strange clothing and shoes, from Asian stores. After repeatedly calling Bank of America without getting an answer (This happens all the time in my dreams, I'm freaking out trying to call 911 or something, but no one ever answers.) a ban representative finally picks up and I tell them the situation and how I know it's some Asian girl who bought all this stuff. Weird and pointless. All of these dreams started off when I dreamt I was dating this really tall dude with some germ disease that made him hairless and have to bath in bleach. He was also kind of verbally abusive, and even in my dream I thought, "Am I that desperate and pathetic that I'm dating this guy?" He was gross and I woke up feeling gross because of him. THANKS. Even dream boyfriends aggravate me.
I'm surprised how vividly I can remember these dreams, I guess it's because nothing really happened in any of them. They're more repetituous than anything, but they still leave me waking up feeling anxious. This doesn't deter me from my mission of sobriety. I need to keep my mind clear so I can write. While I'm awake I've already been more creative and clever, writing down tidbits of dialogue or sketch ideas. Something I haven't done in awhile. Aside from not dreaming nothing else good has come from alcohol, and I believe I've finally realized that. It's taken long enough, right?