In Case I Stand One Little Chance

I haven't had a pathetic girl night home alone in a very long time. I'm sure many of you, including my subconscious would beg to differ and would say that every night (and day) of my life is a pathetic girl night. While this is partially true, I haven't sat around being depressed and drinking along since I lived by myself. The good ol' days. I'm actually not depressed, I got bored and wanted to take a break from writing my parent's Christmas presents so I decided to eat something. Then I realized I have a whole refrigerator full of beer from the party we had on Sunday. After popping one open I saw that "He's Just Not That Into You" had just begun on t.v. I forgot how I told myself I'd never watch that movie because I live it. So I watched it. And it was the most depressing movie ever. I'm surprised I didn't cry. That movie is my life. I am every single one of those women characters. UGH. It didn't help that I was already drinking alone. This is what suicides are made of. That movie made me never want to date again. Ever. Then I kept thinking about Mr. Big, and how I'm back to wondering when I'll hear from him. It was so good for a month and a half not to be waiting. Yet at the same time I rather have him in my life than not. Can I be an exception and not a rule? I always thought our entire friendship was an exception and not a rule and that's why I've known him for all this years.

Onto a completely random subject. I can't believe that Christmas Eve is in two days. Where does time go? I'm kind of dreading working New Year's Eve, for whatever reason I don't think it's going to be fun like last year. Plus I keep repeatedly playing Ella Fitzgerald's version of "What Are You Doing New Year's Eve," and it makes me wish I was doing something fabulous with someone wonderful. I haven't gotten a kiss at midnight since I was 19. Potentially I could make decent money though, and I'll be drinking while I'm there, so I guess it's not a total bust.

I wish I knew where my camera disappeared to Sunday night.

My Life Does Suck Without You

It's safe to say that I must have some emotionally manic disorder. I can feel so much one day and nothing at all the next. Maybe I've finally been able to cope with the reality of a certain situation and instead of wasting my energy agonizing over it for days or weeks, I'm over it a few hours later. I suppose that's better? Eventually I'll stop using my blog to bitch about men, but at least they've got me writing in this thing again. Something good come with something bad. I never cease to be amazed with how the universe allows for things to work out. Last week I was crazy about one person, then it becomes clear what was happening with that person is over. I was telling a co-worker of mine all about it. Afterwards she asked if I had heard from Mr. Big. I told her no, not in almost two months. That he never responded to an e-mail. She said she was sorry to hear that and that it sucks since we've known each other for so long. I then go to check my phone, who do I have an e-mail from? Yep. What were the chances that immediately following the unnravelment of my last, I don't know what to even call it, fling, I hear from him? I thought it took having him out of my life was what allowed me to meet new people and even genuinely like someone. (Then again, how much can you really like someone who already has a girlfriend?) It's strange how it always comes back to him. Even earlier that day I was thinking about how I have absolutely no one, not even Mr. Big, who was always there. Then poof, he's back. I have to wonder if he even received my last e-mail. If he did, then what took so long? If not, then I'm glad I inadvertantly looked like a strong woman who had had enough and ignored him.
I'm worried that things will go right back to how they were. Knowing how they were should make me prevent myself from feeling any frustration again. Argh. It always comes back to you, doesn't it? Your timing with this e-mail was eerily perfect. I had said that watch six months from now, after not hearing from Mr. Big the entire time I'll meet someone I'm mad about, and will have settled into some sort of relationship and that's when I'll hear from him and everything will turn dramatic like in a movie. And then I'd be forced to choose. And there'd be screaming and tears and kissing in the rain. Because that's what happens in movies! The likelihood of that actually happening in real life is slim, since it would take both me meeting someone who actually wants to be with me and is capable of committing, AND Mr. Big declaring his love for me. We're all allowed to have our fantasties, damnit.
So here I am again. I wish I could let go of this dream that one day we'll end up together. The past six months should have been enough for me to give it up. And I thought I had. But all it took was for you to be upset that I didn't want to talk to you anymore, that I've been out of your life completely for almost two months, to bring it all back. Of course now I'm waiting to hear back from you. And so it begins again. Good grief. I really need to stop switching between first and second person. At least my nonsense makes sense to me, that's all that matters anyway.

Kiss me just once more before we get there

Why am I okay with the prospect of never hearing from you again? You said you need time to think, but I was also really drunk and can only remember being dramatic and angry. I told you that you needed to leave so I could cry. You left for other reasons. But I still cried anyway. I haven't done that in awhile. It felt good in all the wrong ways but surprisingly it was cleansing. And I'm okay now. My roommate says that the minute I hear from you the cycle will begin again. He's right. And I'm an idiot. And I wish I wouldn't write about you in vague, meaningless blog posts. I wish none of this ever began. My life could have continued on and your only role in it would be to pour me a drink every now and then. I shouldn't want to be with someone who blames me for disrupting his life, his relationship by my mere existence. I think it's universally accepted that if you're completely happy in your situation you can easily resist temptation. One doesn't have to be miserable to throw it all away, but something must be missing. Why must we be afraid of taking risks? Now you're not talking to me because you need time to think. Something you claim you haven't truly done over the situation. Hopefully you ask yourself the question I've posed to you constantly. It shouldn't be as difficult to answer and you're making it be. You had your cake, you've eaten it. More than once. And now focus on the reality of what's happening. It's probably safe to assume you won't be coming to my party.

I'm going to look back on all these posts in a month, a year, and hate myself for ever thinking these things and actually putting them into words. So it goes.

Reading Hemingway at the moment. Not helping-

"You musn't. You must know. I can't stand it[You touching me], that's all. Oh darling, please understand!"
"Don't you love me?"
"Love you? I simply turn to jelly when you touch me."
"Isn't there anything we can do about it?...And there's not a damn thing we could do," I said.
"I don't know," she said. "I don't want to go through that hell again."
"We better keep away from each other."
"But, darling, I have to see you. It isn't all that you know."
"No, but it always gets to be."
"That's my fault. Don't we pay for all the things we do, though?"

You Really Got a Hold on Me

I'm frightened by how much I like you. What's even scarier is the fact that for the first time in five, six years, you like me just as much. Maybe even more. My usual tendencies of worrying whether or not you'll call never came to fruition. Even last week, when I did freak out, it ended up being for nothing. That's how engrained let down is in me. It's par for the course. But now, in some miraculous twist of, I don't know, fate? Is that too strong of a word? In the screwed up way the universe works I no longer feel doubt. While I'm extremely lucky at how things have been turning out, they're no where near perfect. With my luck always comes misfortune. I can never have it too good. The deeper we get into this the worst it's going to become. Either for me or for you or for everyone involved. That's what will happen. Currently I'm so happy that later the downfall will be more severe than it's been in the past. You're not another boy I randomly met and hit it off with immediately. Where we play phone/text tag for a few weeks before you decide you're still in love with you're ex-girlfriend or just not that into me. No, this is different, and that allows for a greater loss and a more difficult, albeit more obvious reason as to why I may eventually never hear from you again. I don't want that to happen though. This path only leads to two routes though, and you're the one who's forced to choose. Unless I choose for you, and that's when it will be me you never hear from again. But I don't want that. Every time I see you I hope I change my mind, I hope some lightbulb goes on inside my head or my heart that tells me, "No," and that's it. That hasn't happened yet, in fact it's been the complete opposite. The more I see you the more I feel for you and then when you leave I'm left with nothing but my thoughts of you. I feel sixteen again. And I like it. We'll figure things out. Eventually.

Mistakes I Knew I Was Making

At the moment I'm stuck somewhere in between caring way too much, and not caring at all. I haven't decided which is worse. Not caring at all is the usual route, and caring too much (or even a little bit) is stupid. Things have a very strange way of working themselves out. I'd like to say I didn't see any of it coming, but I did. I even came up ways to make sure it didn't happen, what I would say, how I would react. And I did try, believe me I did. But my guard was down and I wanted it to happen as badly as you made it blatantly obvious that you did. I shouldn't have let you be a gentleman and take me home. I wish you had been a gentleman by keeping your mouth shut. Now all I'm left with is words, so many words that you said. I knew what you had been thinking, you gave enough hints, and those hints were easy enough for me to ignore. Even when I started thinking about you differently, I knew my place and the reality of it and wanted to protect myself. Did you ever think about how this would affect me? Doubtful. It's easier to be selfish and say things you shouldn't say, do things you shouldn't do and blame someone else for them. I didn't ask for any of this, all I did was be there, be myself. I'm sorry for what happened, but I'm also not. You have no one to blame but yourself. You could have kept your honesty to yourself. That would have made my life easier, kept it simple. But no, now I'm stuck thinking about you and what happened and how things changed so quickly, so dramatically. Maybe it's time to look in the mirror, look at your life, and see what brought you to this, to me. A week ago you were nothing to me, I never gave a second thought to you and now you've cracked my shell that I've worked for years to build and protect. I wish I had another distraction, that's what usually happens. That's all they ever are to me anyway, pleasant distractions. And in a few days you changed that, made me think otherwise. You're still a distraction though, because I'm wasting my time and thoughts (and words) on you instead of something more productive. All I want is to see you, to talk to you and not pretend that nothing happened. It did, and why? Think about why what happened did. The connection was undeniable, and everything you said to me is impossible to ignore. I haven't been told things like that in years and it made me so, so happy and I couldn't believe someone out there was thinking about me in such a way. But all your proclamations were bittersweet, because they couldn't leave that room, nothing could come of them. So as I said, what was the point of saying anything at all? You should have left the conversation to books and beer.

Just Do It, You'll be Glad You Did

It's been months since I've last posted. In these past three months or so, I've seen that I'm still unable to change my font. Sadists.

I wish I could say that I've been going through a lot, or there's been drama, or at least a good excuse not to be writing, but there really isn't. The other day I thought I was beginning my quarter life crisis early, and maybe I am. It only last for a few hours, but it may have just hidden itself deep inside my mind, waiting for another moment to come out. I've been feeling insanely discontent and restless. This isn't a new feeling, it comes in cycles. Every time though I manage to feel utterly helpless and lost. When it had happened in the past I always had the motivation to change it, and get what I want. In high school my only goal was to get out and go to school in the city. Done. When I couldn't find a roommate to live with after my freshman year, I commuted to school for a year and a half. I got a scholarship and a degree. Then I moved to New York, and right away I got a job, a group of new friends, and a boyfriend. Fantastic. Now here I am, three years later. I know what I want-to be making money off of my writing. To write for "SNL." To get an agent. Yet I'm not making much of an effort towards it. Maybe it's seasonal depression, but I just feel off. And even the solutions I give myself don't seem to work out, and I only have my self to blame. I guess I feel perpetually frustrated, with myself, with what I'm doing. How certain people won't listen to me. That's always been a theme throughout my life so far, that I constantly feel like I'm not being heard...even when I'm being loud and clear. Maybe that's why I write or have always looked to other creative outlets.

Another part of this is that I've actually reached a point where I can honestly say I don't want to be single anymore. I continually tell myself that once I have the job I want and am happy with that, then love can come. Makes sense? That area of my life has never been easy. The guys that have meant the most to me I met in weird ways. So the idea of meeting some dude at a bar grosses me out. I've certainly dated enough people. It seems that when it comes to guys, they either adore me or could care less about me except for the possibility of getting laid. And with one certain person, who I've known longer than any guy, I recently learned that I don't know which category he fits into. And it hurts. And I wish I could be strong enough to cut ties. I never thought this would be how it ends though. But you don't listen to me. And you don't seem to genuinely care.

Ugh.

Today finally provided a small glimmer of hope for me. The noisy Mexican restaurant right below my apartment is up for rent. I've been waiting for this day since I moved in. I can only hope that something annoying doesn't replace it. Put in a boutique or something. Anything but a bar. The noise would be bad, as would the convenience. Yikes.

So what I need to do is write more. And this is my new start. A blog a day. A sketch a day. Anything, everyday. It's nothing but a step in the right direction.

Bohemia, Bohemia's, a fallacy in your head. This is Calcutta. Bohemia is dead.

This should be a short post, because I should focus my time and energy on doing something productive like drinking beer and finishing my application for a playwriting group.

Usually weird stuff happens when it's a full moon. Well really everyone, especially customers at the restaurant I work at act all crazy like they've just been released back into society. The full moon happened last week. I heard rumblings that a meteor shower happened last night, so I'll chalk what I saw and heard up to that. Hale-Bopp all over again.

A friend that I work with told me a bizarre story about a homeless lady pulling various items out of a newspaper stand. You know, the free newspaper bins lined up all over the place. I'm not even going to go into detail on it because it's not my story and a blog is nowhere near the ideal platform of which to present it. At one point she pulled out a plate of food and an unopened bottle of wine. Yeah. I swear it must have been some sort of performance art thing.

I got out of work around 10, which is early compared to the past month or so when I'm lucky to be out by 11:30 on a Wednesday. The ride downtown was uneventful. There was a large number of MTA employees waiting on the platform, waiting to clean (I think) staring at everyone, that was somewhat unsettling. Once I got to Union Square it got all old school New York. I had to pretty much step over a guy, laying on the platform, I think still alive. He couldn't have been older than 35, he had a cane laying ten inches away from him. His face was red and looked blistered. Two female MTA employees stood over him, indifference washed over their faces. I'm assuming they were waiting for paramedics to come...although I had to wonder how the paramedics would know to come since neither appeared to have a walkie-talkie or other wireless communication device on them. I've seen plenty of homeless people passed out on the sidewalk, but it's obvious that they're just that-passed out. This dude wasn't moving, but his eyes were open. I had a train to catch. Then, as I'm going up the stares there's a man in front of me. I just realized I typed "stares" instead of "stairs" which is what I did. Stare. One of this man's legs was wrapped around a cane-like device, but it was long enough to use as a crutch. I couldn't comprehend why he wouldn't amputate a leg that appeared to have no bones and just hung there...that it needed to be wrapped around a cane. The guy could move though, which makes me assume he's been dealing with that for awhile. The only reason I felt it necessary to write about it was that I witnessed to things I never had before, and I can only feel bad for the two men.

This air in the city felt different to me tonight. No rhyme or reason for it. And to witness two seemingly insignificant things as I did, I don't know. There has to be meaning in it all, right? Or is the lack of meaning the point? Two other strange things that happened tonight, insignificant to everyone but myself...a found out someone's e-mail address appears to no longer exist. Would love to hear from you. And when all hope was lost, you actually did find me, now what to do next... Vague, meaningless, confusing, yes. That's what August 12th, 2009, was to me.

It's the same sorry story just the cast changes nightly

It appears that recently, the universe has been bending me over and making me take it from behind. Still no Courier New font. Sadists. On top of this, it, the universe, has also found old tricks to use in new ways to disrupt my life. Nothing huge, just mild mental/emotional abuse.

Today I saw a ghost. Not sheet over head, apparition of a former living human being sort of ghost. No, this one was much more frightening. If I wasn't already so pale, there would have been an obvious change in color when my face went white. Today I got a text from Him, the Aidan of my life. We haven't spoken in two years with the exception of the twice a year, obligatory "Happy Birthday" text or e-mail. His text, verbatim-"a cute old school version of you was my waitress today and it made me want to say hello and let you know im thinking about you. hope all is well with you"

!...!

After the initial shock, I told my gay I was with about it. I said, "old-school version of me? I already am old-school." Anyway. I couldn't believe it. You couldn't have waited two weeks until my birthday? I've seen tons of guys that look like you, and I don't text you. What do you think of me? Am I the girl you knew two years ago? Or do you have an idea of who I am now, through MySpace? And I really wish you didn't think of me, don't think of me. Maybe I've become jaded enough that I've decided that you don't deserve to think about me. You have her.

I dreamt two nights ago that he called me to tell me he had broken up with her. And I got angry because that wasn't a good reason to call me.

I was nice in my response, told him I'd love to catch up. Protocol. I can't decide within myself whether or not that's true. I think it is, but why? Hearing from him, and realizing that, and almost being annoyed at this, felt good. I guess. I think I could see him, and be...emotionless isn't the right word...hm...just knowing that talking to him will only be talking to him.

This all comes in the midst of Mr. Big and I not being able to talk. Nothing about us...for reasons known to me he's hard to get into contact with. And this is a kind of situation I could have used instant access. Ugh.

The thing is, after the idea of "catching-up" entered my head, I loved the idea of telling Aidan, Well I'm not seeing anyone per se, but there is someone in my life, he just lives in a different state. You might remember him..." Aidan and Mr. Big have met. once. Aidan's best friend is Mr. Big's former best/really good friend. Oh yeah, nothing involving me. Just chance employment at the same place. I love stuff like that though, even if it's weird and not good. Seriously, what are the odds??? So yeah, I'm head of heels about someone else, someone who's been through my past, is in the present and I see a future with. That feels damn good. Aidan has no reason to care, but I hope he does. And I hope he's the happiest he could ever be with her. I'm not sober right now and I have to leave to meet a gay at a bar. That's the only way I could think to conclude this. I'll take it.

Nothing Glitters When You Litter*

*BAM! I'm trade marking that right here, right now. It just came to me, as genius usually does. Ah yes, sobriety.

Since I no longer go out on Saturdays, I find myself writing in this blog before I go to bed. At least something "productive" comes out of me being anti-social. Saturday nights are unbearable both in Manhattan and Brooklyn. I'd rather go out Sunday or Monday, when no one else is around. And I do. And then I drink too much and regret it. Perhaps anti-socialism (sketch idea!) and writing is a good thing. So here I am, once again, forced to type in a font other than Courier because the universe is against me. It's the little things, right? I write for this women's blog website about living in the city. Today I realized I haven't submitted anything in a month. Woops. The last time I contributed I did submit two different entries to be posted on different days. After mentioning twice that only one had been posted, I gave up. The women of New York did not get to read about my experience throwing up all over the city. Oh well. I was going to write an open letter to Katy Perry, and everyone in the world, about how I don't look like her and to stop telling me I do-but decided that might be a little, well, much. I'll save that for another day. This past week though something inspired me. Finally.

(This will be the rough draft of what I eventually submit.)

It was last Thursday night. I had gotten off of work around 12:30, and it took almost a half hour just to make it downtown from 42nd to 14th St. Luckily, I only had to wait thirteen minutes on the L platform at Union Square for the Brooklyn bound train. If anyone else lives off the L in Brooklyn, late nights can be rough. Thirteen minutes is nothing. Anyway. A bunch of MTA workers got off the 8th Ave. bound train to wait for the Brooklyn train to come so they could hop down and clean the tracks. As they stood around waiting, dirty, with tons of lanterns and other equipment, I realized I should never, ever, complain about my job. My day doesn't begin at 10 p.m., and end at 6 in the morning. I never risk my life by walking around dark subway tunnels. I genuinely feel bad for these people. I don't know what MTA employees get paid, not enough obviously (there was that strike a few years ago), but it has to be lucrative enough for anyone, meaning the thousands of people employed, to do it. Rents need to be paid, families fed. Understandable reasons, but still.
I was really affected while standing close to the edge, waiting to see the headlight of the oncoming train, and MTA worker two feet away from me was staring down at the tracks, watching a rat run around. The tracks were covered in garbage, and that guy has to clean it up. Sad face. That fact doesn't occur to those who pollute. A week or two ago I witnessed three twentysomething girls toss the remnants of their Happy Meals onto the tracks, with a garbage can only a few feet away, and then look around to see if anyone saw (I doube out of guilt). I saw. And I quietly judged them and hoped something horrible would happen to them. Karma ladies. Why make someone else's life more difficult because you're lazy? That's one thing I constantly find myself saying-"Life is hard enough, why make it more difficult for a stranger?" I think that's really why I wanted to write about this. I can't grasp why people do the majority of things they do, like litter. What gives you the right? What makes you think it's even acceptable to do that? The MTA doesn't work to clean up your mess, it's there to get you where you need to go. Some people would probably argue, "I pay $87 for a monthly pass, I should do what I want." I pay that amount every month too, and I always manage to find a garbage can. Is it really that hard to hold onto a piece of trash for an extra second until you can find a garbage can? In the words of Jack Donaghy, "What happened to you as a child to make you like this?"
I'm by no means a tree hugging enviromentalist. This actually has nothing to do with the enviroment or Mother Earth...although not littering does help the world and everything. It's all about life and helping each other and human kind out. That comes out rather hippy-dippy too. Oh well. I'm not asking anyone to recycle or give up their subway seats to children, just don't throw stuff away on the platform or the subway tracks. Okay? If you worked for the MTA, how would you feel?

I've Been Looking so Long, at These Pictures of You

I'm on the brink of an aneurysm because I can't change my font to my usual "courier" setting. I can't change it to any font or text size for that matter. PERFECTION CAN'T BE REACHED grrrrrrrrrr. I will have to overcome this, and forge through the river and write in my blog anyway. Annoying font and all. Sigh. Why must life be so cruel and difficult? Universe, what did I ever do to you?

Saturday nights have become my "stay at home" time. After working three long, late nights in a row I want nothing more than to sit on my couch and watch movies. Which for the past three weekends I've done. It's wonderful. Although I should be productive and write or clean up my room or something else less wonderful like that. Hey, at least I haven't been drinking! Just saucy and sober. Bam! Now that I've watched three movies in a row I figured it would be a good time to do something on my computer. Not write, not look at porn, oh no. First I had to catch up on the news (i.e. gossip blogs), and then look through all the pictures on my computer to pick out my favorites. I remembered to buy printer ink, so I can continue my soccer mom project of printing out pictures to frame and cover my living room wall with. Old lady-hood here I come! Not only am I lame, but I border on mild/raging narcissist, so I like to be able to look at myself as much as possible without having to strap a neck brace around my neck with a mirror attached to it (Sketch idea!).

There are so, so many pictures saved on my computer. Six years worth of drunken nights, parties, holidays, random get togethers, impromptu photo shoots and everything else. There are a lot of wigs too. Which makes me happy. I started young. There are tons of pictures I completely forgot about too. Some featuring people I completely forgot about. I have Mr. Big shots from four or five years ago, some I took and others he must have e-mailed me...before cell phones had camera capabilities I suppose. He looks the same. Seeing pictures of myself when I was 17, 18, is so strange to me. That was the very near past, yet I feel as though I can't relate to the person in those pictures. At the same time though, the only thing that truly changed is my hair and style (to an extent). Meaning I finally learned how to look good. Yikes. I wore red lipstick back then like I do now, I pose that same. I was as much as a camera whore then as I am now. Seeing the progress I've made as a human being is satisfying. I don't look at these pictures and realize that I haven't done anything with my life (not yet at least). Where I'm at today is a lot better than where I was three years ago, and I think things will continue to get better. My hair used to be so light! Progress! And I have pictures of most of the guys I've slept with. Which is hilarious and weird. I guess that's what happens when you're not into picking up strangers at bars. I should make an album so when I'm old I can look back and not only remember how, er, awesome (yeah, that's the word I'll go with) I was but I can show my daughter, Stella/Darla, the pictures and she can judge me. "Ew Mom, how could you!" or, "Wow he's hot, I bet he's a DILF now." I'd like to think it'll be the latter, because my daughter will obviously be cool and open to such a conversation since she will inherently have the slut gene herself. Or she'll be a raging lesbian and dispise me her entire life because I forced her to wear dresses as a child and I'll never get to share with her all the people I shared my body with. I'll have to get a cat. That's neither here nor there....ANYWAY.

How did people live before digital cameras? I remember it then, developing film, taking only 12 at a time. Now I can't keep up because I have thousands of pictures saved on my computer thanks to my own and all my friend's digital cameras. Good, bad, embarassing, all those pictures get uploaded, and I'm lazy and don't delete any of them. That's probably a good thing. Although the thought of, "What if I die tomorrow?" occasionally pops into my head and I think of the proverbial "people" going through all my notebooks and reading what a twisted individual I am. And then "they" (as if the "they" isn't my family, but strangers) go onto my computer and look at all my pictures and laugh and laugh and laugh because I look bad in a lot of my pictures and they think I'm ugly. Meanwhile I'm dead and can't do anything about it. In fact, maybe they'll be glad I'm dead because of the weirdo faces I've made. I'm only human! These are the thoughts that plague my existence for seconds at a time. I've also decided I'm going to grow my bangs out. I saw Zooey Deschanel on the cover of Self magazine, and her bangs are kind of long, and I'm impressionable when it comes to hair, so that's why I'll stop trimming my bangs. Worse comes to worst I can cut them and everything will be Katy fucking Perry again. Ugh.

Everything's Coming Up Roses

At this moment that I am typing this, I am happy. I've felt this way since Monday night and the feeling keeps on going. I was terrified that once back at work today the happiness would be ruined. Anger and bitterness would return, and I would start drinking again. Nope. It was funny too. Before our shift started my co-workers were making fun of me, all making guesses on how long it would take me to get into a bad mood, since I was in a good one. Well they must have reversed-jinxed me, because I had a great night at work. Now those last four words very, VERY rarely exist in the same sentence together, at least when said (typed) by me. All my tables sat for hours, ordering constantly, and tipping 20% if not more. That means little work for Dana, but a nice pay out at the end of the night. Not one single person annoyed me while there. Not one. I thought I was going to get hit by a bus as soon as I left because it was that easy of a night. Sure everyone on the sidewalk on my way to work was in my way, but that was nothing more than an itchy mosquito bite. One more to add to the numerous ones covering my legs. Even the bites aren't getting me down! Until I find out I have West Nile or some other headline disease. I really am trying to keep the happiness and positive energy going.

Why am I in such a good mood? Well for starters I got laid, after a month of nothing. It's amazing how that one act can change your entire mood. It only does it to such an extreme though after I go without it for a long period of time. A month is a long time. I went to New Jersey for a few days too, and it was great getting to see my family and to get a break from the city. Mr. Big visited on Monday, which I know had the biggest impact on my newfound mental and emotional state. Yes, I can thank him for the sexy times, but see him was so much more than that. While he was there I almost convinced myself I would have been okay with hanging out with him and not sleeping together. HA. We were having that great of a time talking and just being with each other. I won't go into details, because there's way too many, but I honestly had one of the best times I've ever had with him. Everything was different. We've been building towards "this," for a year and a half now, and Monday was the first time everything seemed to be coming to light. I feel like I'm in high school again, when you find out the guy you've had a huge crush on forever might like you back. Except we've done everything backwards by being friends, sleeping with each other most of our friendship, and telling each other about the other people we're sleeping with. Oh, and only seeing each other once every few months. Yeah. After years of this, I think things are changing. And I'm so, so, so happy. I only hope the feeling lasts and everything continues to change for the better. Right now, I feel like nothing but good things will happen, and that goes for every aspect of my life. Who knows what will happen tomorrow...

It was the Summer of '09

Around this time every year while in high school, and my freshman year of college, my family would rent a house in Lavallette, New Jersey for two weeks, or a month. Lately, I've grown incredibly nostalgic for that time. It most likely has to do with the fact that I have yet to go to the beach this summer. My parents live down the shore now, and unfortunately I haven't been able to make it down there. I went in the middle of June, but it was raining, so the closest I got to being on the beach was at a boardwalk bar overlooking the ocean. And it rained. I used to always be super stoked for the shore vacation, with the exception of the last year. Horribly depressing. Back then we had to sneak alcohol into water bottles and try to stay out on the beach as late as possible before my mom would call me, screaming. I used t work on getting a tan back then. That was when we would lie to the boys we met about how old we were. Making up stories about how even though we were "17" we didn't have our licenses yet. That's something I forgot about! I lied about my age A LOT. My height and the way I acted always helped, but wow. I guess this is why my boyfriend in high school was 22 when I was 17. And Mr. Big still talks to me even though I met him when I was 15 and he was 22. They found out my real age eventually, when I got my license. That's when the shore sucked, we were old enough to drive, but not old enough to go to bars. That's when there was nothing to do. Up until you're 21 you can't wait to be older, than after that all you want to do is stop growing up. Milestones happen more frequently when you're young. After 21 all you have to look forward to or fear is each new decade you hit-30's, 40's, 50's. Ugh.

Anyway, I could also be feeling this way because I haven't gone on vacation yet this summer either, nor is there one planned. Week after week it's the same thing and I can't seem to change it. Time sure does fly. Being broke it the main cause of this. Before I know it Summer will be over, and it'll be Fall (even though I love, love, love Fall in the city). While I'm keeping busy and trying to be creative, I feel like I'm wasting my life. That I'm currently not "making the most of it." A day at the beach would probably cure this. It would be a nice little escape. Then after a day or two in Jersey I can't wait to get back to the city. Vicious. I don't know where else to go with this. My weekends are booked until August, I have no plans for my birthday yet, and hopefully I can make it to Jersey one Monday? Good grief, I have to figure something out.

Dream a little dream of you. But I'd rather not.

The past two nights I've remained alcohol free. I'm doing this Shotgun Theater Festival that required me to write a 10 minute play in 24 hours. Well I have to work so I really wrote it in three hours. Talk about satisfying. I needed my mind to be in pristine condition to let all the creative juices flow, and it worked. But because of it I had two nights full of really depressing dreams. Ugh. And now, due to my past few entries and talking about these dreams it's going to seem like all I ever think about it boys. Really, only half of my thoughts are dedicated to thinking about boys. I'm not going to go into detail, just a short summary of the dream and how sad of a reflection they are on me.

The first night I dreamt about Mr. Big*, and how we're supposed to go to Atlantic City together. He arrives at my parent's house, says he too tired to go and doesn't really feel like going with me anyway. Frustration ensues. I don't know why he bothered driving there to begin with then, to just lay around on the couch.

Second night, I dreamt I was at Berger's* friend's house, for a party. At one point we were being all cuddly, and then he pushes me away. He says something like, "I don't actually want to be with you." I'm confused, since we had just been all cuddly. Then he says, "And I do have my beautiful, but spoiled, girlfriend. My suicide girl Lucide." (Pronouced Lou-cede. Which is weird in itself. It sounds like lucid...dreams...yeah.) I freak out, per usual, because I don't understand why he wants to be with someone spoiled and why there was no meantion of her on his Facebook (ugh). And that he's capable of being in a relationship. Really? I think the dream ended with me screaming "I hate you. I never want to speak to you again!" Or something to that extent. I probably cried too.

Hi self esteem, it's me, Dana, where the heck did you go? I woke up both mornings with the sads. I quickly got over them, but still felt it necessary to write about these dreams. Both dreams are somewhat based on truth and reality. Mr. Big having a tendency to be tired a lot, and Berger not wanting to be with me (circa 2006). I can understand why I had the Mr. Big dream, but the Berger one? Not sure. Merely talking to someone makes you have frustrating dreams about them? I guess so. But really, who dates a girl name Lucide? Who's a suicide girl...how 2001! I can't believe I'm judging dream girlfriends. Why couldn't either of these dreams involved said guys and had been happy? Or at least sexual? You know, the fun kind of dreams. I would have taken one good dream with Mr. Big and one bad dream with Berger. Thanks.

Actually, I know why this happened. I'm annoyed with both of them at the moment. Maybe even always. Our relationships with each other is always frustrating and annoying and difficult. Fuck. (Well, that's generally being the only good thing to come out of them.) And they have the same name. Go figure. What a cruel world. So this all has to do with men being lame and making me have undesirable dreams and my dryspell and that I hate everyone. AHHHH. End scene.

Seth Meyers, when are you going to sweep me into your nerdy arms and take me away from it all??? We can go on dates, and then write about it! And you can confide in me that you're the rumored "SNL" sex addict. Weeeeeee!


* Even I am not immune to comparing my life to "Sex and the City." The Mr. Big in my life has had that nickname for years, used mainly in the blogoshpere. The Berger comparitive came into realization this past weekend, because this person both looks like Ron Livingston, and acts like Berger. Thank goodness Adian is long out of the picture.

Memories, All Alone in the Moonlight

For some odd reason (sobriety), I had a random sequence of thoughts happen tonight. It involved me hearing about something and a person I hadn't talked to in years being part of it. There's no need to go into details, I know what I'm referring to (but in two months, I wont') and that's all that matters. It was one of those, "I totally forgot about that person," sort of moments. A person who years ago I cared reseasonably about. Strange how things work out I suppose. It made me wonder if people who were once part of my life, and I theirs, ever randomly think of me. Perhaps a memory is brought back by seeing something that remind them of me, or the thought of me randomly popping into their head. If it happens to me, why not them? I wonder why it happens to me. A lot of times no outside forces play a part, only a little thought, a snapshot of them and who they once were to me. I guess I find it strange, but in no way shocking, that someone who once played a huge role in your life can years later be obsolete. As if they were never there to begin with. There was once a time when I couldn't remember what life was like before I met my ex-boyfriend. When we finally broke up, for real real, I was devastated. This devastation lasted for a year and a half or something pathetic, I mean calling my mom at 2 a.m., hysterical because I would never have another him, blah, blah, emo girl crap, blah. And now, three years after everything I'm fine. Finally. Yet he still manages to pop into my head at least once a day. For no reason. WHY? Residual thoughts? My brain is now programmed to allow one millisecond of him thrive in my neurosystem? The problem is there are days I realize I haven't thought him yet that day, therefore ruining the little bit of progress made. This is getting completely off topic...AND I PROVED MY OWN POINT. That I'm both slightly insane and sad because I started writing about that. Ughh.

So think about the people you've slept with. Can you remember all of them? Remember what it was like? Does that person ever think of you, even if it was only a one time thing? Do you wonder if that person ever thinks of you? Do you even care? That person was inside of you...or you inside another person. Seems like a name meant remembering right? Not always. We are all that insignificant. You are not a beautiful flower. Seems as though there's no need for names or identities, right? Now I'm beginnning to sound like some liberal arts college chick. The horror. This must be why some people want to become famous. Your name, nay, your existence, will be remembered. And not only by family members, but by many! Why do some people stick in your life, and others unadhere so quickly? Why does the universe even throw them my way? Most of them don't serve a purpose. My conclusion is that everything must happen for a reason and have some meaning, no matter how small, to it. People come and go in and out of out lives for a reason and why their existence remains in our memories I don't know. They're just pesky little reminders of people who once annoyed us, or people we once loved. Or sort of liked.

People are so Fickle

Last night something odd happened. For the first time in a very, very long time, an overwhelming feeling of loneliness came over me. It hit once the fireworks started. It seems completely silly but even once the celebration ended I couldn't shake that feeling. Everyone I was with on the hotel rooftop had someone, and when the fireworks started going off they got all cuddly and what not. Of course I've been in that position before, and it's nice. It wasn't so much me feeling jealous, it was more so a reminder of something I had once I guess. Deep down I probably just wanted to make out with someone. A fifteen year old emo girl all over again. At least I didn't cry.

Later on in the night I was on a rooftop in Brooklyn. This rooftop was huge and four different parties were going on simultaneously. There was a DJ, people were dancing. The view of the skyline was insane. I couldn't stop staring at it. That's what happens though when I see the skyline, I always know this is where I'm meant to me and that's really reassuring...to have one definitive thing to know and believe in. Everything else is always so unclear and up in the air, but I have and will always have the city. It was there for me in high school, to give me something to aspire to. And now it's there to remind me of that teenager, still filled with hope and dreams and ambition (cue the music). I remember my freshman year of college thinking that even being surrounded by a million people you can still feel lonely. I guess that's what made last night so strange to me. The feeling is usually brought upon for a specific reason, like breaking up with a boyfriend, but not last night. It just happened. I suppose I'm really curious to know (as seen in my last entry) when everything will finally come together. In every aspect of my life. And when it does, am I going to wish it didn't happen? That the chaos was a little bit more fun?

Oh, since the day I saw you, I have been waiting here for you...

This is something I've been meaning to write about for almost two months and for some reason I can't bring myself to do it. My friends and I talk about it ALL OF THE TIME, sometimes to the point where it borders on sad and we sit and sigh quietly to ourselves. After talking in circles about it forever blogging about it seemed unnecessary. But I want to write about it. And it's 2 a.m. and the Mexican restaurant is doing what it does best-annoy me with loud Mexican music. I already wrote five pages of my pilot (only 22 more to go! Sad.). Why not delve into this?


All we* do is talk about boys. It seems weird and silly to ever talk about marriage or who we're supposed to end up with, but that's what we do. Often. And it seems a lot of us think we know who that person is. That's what's freaking me out. Not so much that I think I know whom myself, but that others can relate to my experience with their own. Okay, it probably sounds hokey and ridiculous for me to believe there is this person in my life that I should be with/end up with. At the same time it's hard to ignore all the little things that add up making it seem right. This entry is so vague. A lot of this stems from one of my super close friends getting married this summer. She's the first person I know, in my age range, to get married. There are also a bunch of people I went to high school with who are now engaged (the boy who took my virginity included). Aren't we still too young for this? I think yes, but given the opportunity, I would totally be with this non-descript male entity I speak. It's as though the universe is saying to us that we are indeed too young. Not we, me, I'm too young. He's 30. That's also young to be married. I wouldn't dream of being married until at least then. Apparently most of my friends see me getting hitched sooner than that. UGH.

*It should be public knowledge/obvious
that 98% of my friends are gay men and girls.

The thing that is probably bothering me the most is the concept of being with him is so far implanted in my head now, and has been in certain variations for years that what if it doesn't happen? He was around to hear about the few boyfriends I've had, while in the relationship. I'm aware of the women in his life. Nothing is ever serious though, in either of our cases. The idea of him being romantically involved with someone else bothers me to no end. As though all these years meant nothing and that after waiting for him to be close enough physically (location wise), mentally and emotionally to be with someone, he chooses another girl. I feel like everyone I'm with is there to pass the time. Have some fun with and further prove that there is someone else out there I'd rather be with. Fortunately I know who that person is.

Only time will tell what will happen. On the other end of the spectrum how weird will it be if everything works out? That this person I randomly met when I was 15 was the person meant to be in my life forever? Stranger things have happened I suppose. Although our whole story is pretty odd. I'll look back on this entry and not understand what point I was trying to make. As I finish this I have no idea. It felt necessary to put it out in the universe though, more so than it already is.

Hanging My Head in Shame. Sigh.

There's nothing worse than the feeling of utter embarassment after you've come to the sober realization that when you've been drinking, you should not have a cell phone near you. Alcohol does indeed cloud my judgement making brain cells, and while I'm aware that I shouldn't text someone, or that after a certain point I should stop texting someone, I still do it. At least I don't drunk dial. The whole buzzed-texting thing hasn't gotten out of control, I just feel dumb the next day, or an hour later. This happened yesterday while at the outdoor bar at Bryant Park. I had few beers, no big deal, but then I'm proceeding to text a handful of friends about stupid things. Blame can be given to the fact that the friend I was with left me to go to rehearsal, and I couldn't leave a full beer there un-drunk. What would Jesus think? There was also a group of married 40 year old men who decided to talk to me. The hilarity of the situation had to be shared, but texting also allowed me an escape. Long story short (too late), I want to put an apology out into the universe. I don't want to look back at what I sent. Too embarassing. I don't think I did anything to really annoy anyone. Please don't hate me. It's just myself and my own insecurites (yes, I have a few of them)that make me feel like I'm being that kind of girl. Oy. I don't know where this is going. In that state of mind what I say seems like an okay thing to be telling someone, when it actually makes me look needy. Maybe I am needy. Fuck. I should do a week of sobriety again. Don't hold your breath.

Hi, Lloyd. Little slow tonight, isn't it?

It's always fun to find new places to hang out at in this city. I'd be denying all three of you who read this information on the new NYC hotspot if I didn't tell you all about it through this blog. This past Wednesday night my friend/co-worker and I were going to get a drink after work. After walking in and out of one place hosting a "Broadway Bares" party, and then another (a Japanese karaoke restaurant), we realized there are a handful of hotel bars in the surrounding area. En route to one on Park, we passed the Madison Tower Hotel (I think that's the name of it) which was advertising its since passed "Jolly Hour" at the Whaler Bar. OBVIOUSLY we had to go in. The hotel is empty, the front desk people don't even blink an eye to the two people awkwardly walking in, giggling. It took us a minute to find the door to this Whaler Bar, but when we did, oh boy. This place is not so much a bar, but more so a huge living room/cigar lounge filled with couches and tables, a piano, and an odd portrait of a dog in a general's uniform. There's no one in there except the bartender. It was like the bar in "The Shining," but instead of Lloyd the bartender's name is Dan. Even in its absurdity we still had to get a drink there. After one round we talked to Dan for about five minutes, listened to him berate the bar and then he gave us free drinks. We got there at 11:30, it closed at midnight. At 12 Dan closed do the bar, packed up his stuff and left, shutting the doors behind him...with us still there. Not only did we get free drinks, but now we get to sit in this huge, creepy room unattended! Excellent! Nothing exciting happened, we had another coworker meet us in order to experience this with us. But think of the possibilities! Even Dan said we could do anything, watch porn on the televisions (Then he said, "Or make our own." Which was creepy.)Next week we're going to do a photo shoot, the week after? Who knows! Guerilla theater? Orgy? Tea party? I kept expecting the hotel's cleaning staff to come in and kick us out. Never happened. So for all of you in need of a new hang out, check at the Whaler Bar. It's hilariously bad, but I'll take hilarious over loud, crowded, and obnoxious-meaning 95% of bars in this town.

This entry was in no way entertaining, rather educational. I am learning you on new places to go in this city. I think all the dye currently on my hair messed with my wit too. Oh well. I can't be "on" all the time. If ever.

Yay Sobriety.

Thanks to my recent bout with food poisoning, alcohol hasn't touched my lips in almost five days. Five. Sadly, this is the longest I've gone without the stuff in oh, I don't know, five years? I usually get to three days then my thirst gets the best of me and I have to have one. Or four. Or seven. I work in a restaurant, my soul aches, therefore as a coping mechanism I am forced to drink after work. Or before work. Or during work. Drinking on the job does make me one delightful waitress, but it's WRONG. Drinking that much, that often, is BAD. The worse part of the whole thing is that while I'm trying to lift my spirits (with spirits) I'm killing a little something known as thoughts. I have millions of genius thoughts skipping around my brain, these thoughts only like to come out to play at night time though, as soon as I lay down to go to bed. Well, usually I drown these thoughts Hurricane Katrina-style with booze and just pass out. But when hitting the sack soberly, they're allowed to live and thrive! I went to bed around 1:00 last night and didn't actually fall asleep until almost 3:30 because I had to keep getting up to write down dialogue and ideas for my "30 Rock" spec script. Oh yeah, that's my new ridiculous thing to add to all my other ridiculous things that I started and never finished. Now maybe they will be finished! Three cheers for temperance!

Now I don't think I have a problem with alcohol. I think I have too many friends who I enjoy spending time with and unfortunately in this city one of the main components to socializing happens to be alocohol. And complaining. But there's no such thing as too much of that! I guess it's scary to think that if I stop drinking, or get a grasp on it, not only will I save money, I might actually propel myself closer to succeeding as a writer. It's amazing what can be accomplished when you're not drunk, hungover, or even mildly buzzed! Maybe only allow myself only to drink one day a week? I can still have fun even when I'm not drinking, right? RIGHT? We'll see how this actually goes, but it would be nice to churn out a script or two of something, anything, and not completely waste the summer, let alone my life, drinking.

On a completely random sidenote: While watching an old "30 Rock" episode, with David Schwimmer on it as Greenzo, I realized I onced dated (?) a guy who looks like him. It was kind of sad, because David Schwimmer? Aw, bless. He's trying. I also wondered if said guy knows he looks like him. Yeah. End random sidenote here.

Upchucking While Heading Downtown

For years now I have lived in fear of one thing. Well one thing of many...but this thing actually happened to me Sunday night. There have been numerous times in the past that I've gotten on the subway, into a car, onto a bus, hungover and nauseous. Somehow, I've always managed to hold back the urge to purge. I'm not sure how, self control? Strong will? It was really just the fear of the humiliation that goes along with public vomiting. I don't get embarassed easily, if at all, but the thought of being on a packed train and SPLAT! I instantly make everyone else's lives more miserable because I was the drunk chick who couldn't hold last night's liqour makes me shudder.

Sunday night I was at a friend's place on the Upper West Side. I hadn't been feeling good all night, sure enough, I end up kneeling in front of her toilet. And this was in no way alcohol induced. Which is surprising, I know. After that I felt better. I drank a lot of water and decided to leave. I need to get to 14th St. from 86th. I made it to 59th street before running out of the subway car and throwing up into the nearest garbage can. Thank goodness I'm so tall that I didn't have to touch the can, just leaned over, and held my hair back. Everyone must have thought I was some drunk chick from Jersey (okay, that's partially true) or a junkie in need of a fix. Nope. Just food poisoning. I walked down from 59th to 42nd, thinking my stomach would calm down and I could get on the train again. After waiting for 10 minutes in the 42nd St. station I broke out into a cold sweat and decided it wouldn't be smart to get onto the train whenever it decided to come. So I walked to 33rd, hoping the fresh air would help. Even with my disheveled hair, smeared lipstick, and sickly complexion I still managed to get hit on. I guess I reaked of junkie hooker. Understandable. I kept thinking, "Watch this be the night I get attacked and I'll be too sick to fight back. Great." I didn't get attacked, but I made the mistake of buying a bottle of water and drinking that, because once in a cab on 33rd I only made it down to the West Village before the driver had to pull over for me to stick my head out the door again. I said to him, "I ate something that really messed me up." He probably thought, "Yeah, drugs." It was truly one of the worst nights I've had so far in my life. At least no one had to clean up after me, because then I would have felt truly horrible.

This happens every time I tell my friends, "Gee, I haven't thrown up in awhile." Every time I say that I always end up vomiting that night or sometime in the very near future. I was telling people that Saturday night. Go figure. Thanks to the food poisoning, which is the only probable diagnosis I can give myself next to cancer/death, I lost two days of my life being couch-ridden. It's amazing how something that starts in your stomach manages to mess up your entire body. I felt like an old woman in a hospital bed over all the moaning and crying I was doing because my back hurt so much. I was in so much pain I kept thinking, "I need a boyfriend so he can rub my back for me." Yeah, it was that excruciating. And I hate massages. Then I realized Advil works just as well. So I hope no one out there ever has to experience puking in public. The actual act is bad enough, and trying not to touch anything doesn't help. Eck. I also never realized how far Brooklyn is from the West Side when you don't think you can handle being underground for more than 7 minutes without an escape.

Three years later and I still wonder what would have happened if you had chosen me over her.

Is this how quarter-life crises begin?

Lately it seems that everyone around me is trying to make some sort of change in their lives. This change mainly relates to finding a new or second job. While I desperately need to find another job, I don't know how to go about it. Not in the sense of “Where do I look for job listings?” but rather, “What do I want to do?” I know that don't want to work in a restaurant anymore and I know that I want to make money off of my writing. The problem comes in with making that happen.
I only work three nights a week and I like that because it allows me to have fun and work on my writing. I won't look back on my 20s and wish I had worked less. I might look back though and wish I had made more money and saved it. I can't win. I've been wondering if I should give up on New York and move somewhere else. But to where? California perhaps? Or should I try to get more involved here...I mean if I can make it here I can make it anywhere. Moving means escaping and I’ll have the same problems no matter where I go.
I think that I need to start doing something everyday that will help me work towards what I'd like to be doing. I've been talking about getting into pin-up modeling since I was 18...why haven't I done that yet? (Since writing this, I joined the Pin-Up Photography Meet Up). I have an idea for a television show along with episode outlines...why haven't I started writing it? I have ideas for plays, a burlesque act and writing shows for friends, and I don't know why I don't do this. The more material I have while I'm young, the better. I can’t figure out why I lack motivation.
I just finished reading Steve Martin's "Born Standing Up," and from childhood he's always been interested in performing. So what did he do? Perform! From his pre-teens he was working on magic tricks and comedy, and look at what he’s accomplished. It makes me think about when I was a kid. I always enjoyed writing and entertaining and making people laugh, and I still do today. That’s what I want to be doing, and eventually get paid for it. There are enough free ways to get myself out there; internet, amateur nights at comedy clubs (for both sketch comedy and stand up), yet I’m not taking advantage of it. Writing this provided me with no answers or insight to my dilemma, other than what I already know-Stop fucking around.

Walking on sunshine, whoooaaaa

I feel as though I've been on vacation for the past three days, even though I never left the city. I was lucky enough to be able to spend my weekend outdoors, with some of my favorite people. The entire time I was living it, I couldn't believe it. 85 degree weather in April, going on its fourth day in a row now, and me without work or any obligations besides hanging out. Life ain't too bad. I even managed not to get sun burned! I hung out mainly at Central Park and one day in Tribeca, two areas I rarely visit. Last night when I finally made it back to the Union Square area reality hit. Famililar places! Familiar streets! I guess the whole weekend seemed odd to me because while it was insanely great to relax, and I kept saying I needed a break from the city, I didn't need to go anywhere to do that. After I'm done typing this up I'm heading to Mccarren Park with my roommate. This is why it's so difficult to leave the shit show that is my three night a week job. Four day weekends? Come on. On Friday I had began writing up an entry about how I needed a change in my life but I wasn't sure what that change was. I guess I needed a day in the park (or three). By tomorrow afternoon I'm sure I'll be back to my grumpy self, as I walk through those white curtains into work. At least I have 24 hours of my psuedo-vacation left.

One death, on the rocks, with olives please.

Last night at work, my friend/co-worker randomly brought up the subject of death. Out of no where he asks me, "Do you ever think about what happens when you die?" I only responded with a look, before he said, "I used to never think about it, but now I think about it a lot. You probably don't." I told him that I actually think about it all the time (He never read any of my plays to know this), and that when I was five if you asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I said, "a grave-digger." As a child I had envisioned myself shoveling dirt to make a six foot deep hole. That was my dream. Now the thought of such physical labor disgusts me, I'd rather die than do that.

I couldn't tell you why, at five, that was what I wanted to do. Cemeteries always fascinated me, especially the really old ones from the 1700's. Thinking about how there were tons of decaying bodies underneath the ground; that all those tombstones represented a life once lead. I suppose growing up in an Atheist household also aided in my literally morbid curiousity. I never heard my parents say, "Uncle Joe is in Heaven now," when someone died. They simply weren't at the table anymore for Christmas and Easter. And that's what old people did anyway, die. So when my friend asked me what I thought happens when you die, I couldn't give the simple answer of, "If you're good you go to Heaven, and if you're bad you go to Hell." Thanks Mom and Dad for letting me decide what my own fate could be, as opposed to what some work of fiction says it should be.

I'm not going to sit here and type out what I think happens when we die. My hypotheses range from we simply cease to exist to other planes of existence. I find it hard to believe that we are the only living things out there. If that ends up being the case, then what a waste of time. My roommate always says that he thinks we're all already dead, and that life itself is purgatory. That whatever we did in past existences led us to this place...and that he hopes beyond hope there's no such thing as reincarnation. I wouldn't necessarily mind reincarnation, but then it's the same thing all over again, even if you come back as a cat, you're still waiting to die.

I've talked about this with friends numerous times, who hasn't? Such discussions usually involves alcohol, psuedo-epiphanies, and a lot of arm flailing. But every discussion goes around in a circle. Each statement contradicts the last. I wonder if everyone thinks about death as much as I do. How could you not? Yet I guess people don't, because when you think about all the idiotic things people care about, and place importance on, it's just not possible. If life is so short, then who cares about designers bags and money and treating you waitress like shit, etc? How did it start that this is what shows your worth, this is what matters? Why are there wars? Why do people kill other people!? Whatever happened to seizing the day and all those quotes people put in their profiles about living life to the fullest and to tell people that you love them, you have nothing to lose. No one follows those. I hate it, because I try to think that way but it's difficult when no one else does. The idea that I could die tomorrow and have nothing to show for it terrifies me.

I thought it was somewhat amusing that we started discussing this while waiting for our mojitos to be made. Maybe that's why I'm always thinking about death, because between living in the city and waiting tables I'm constantly surrounded by humanity and how miserable it truly is. I guess I can only hope that whatever happens when we die is better than life, or is at least a means to an end, and that everyone can try to be as happy as possible while we all are still here.

Slosh, Slosh, Slap

Once again I have proven to myself that alcohol is pure evil. While I do enjoy Satan's nectar on an almost regular basis, last night was a new low for me. (Everytime I think I reach a low point I always manage to sink beneath it six months later.) I believe that last time I got so intoxicated was at a certain Christmas party back in December. Endless bottles of red wine left my teeth stained and me stuck in Queens, unable to figure out the way to get home. Not since then have I gotten that messed up, until last night. I started drinking white wine around 4:30. I went through five bottles with two other ladies and ended up at the Bryant Park cafe with a martini in front of me. Well, three to be exact. We all get drunk, who cares, but recently I've developed this horrible habit of slapping people across the face. I'm not sure why I do it...some people ask for it, others ask me not to do it. It's as though when I'm drunk the area of my brain that controls my right hand shuts off and I can no longer control my movements. I feel absolutely mortified the next day and I can't apologize enough to my victims. It makes me feel like a child. I'm pretty sure I never hit anyone as a child, so maybe I'm going through my "hitting phase" now.

Also embarassing was that after we left Bryant Park to head uptown to a friend's birthday party, I couldn't keep my head up or my eyes open. I spent three hours laying on the couch staying awake enough to ensure no one would draw on my face with a Sharpie. Pathetic. Of course I only get this drunk when I'm hanging out with people I work with. These are people I don't see outside of work on a regular basis, so for them it looks like I'm this huge lush who can't handle her liquor. The problem is I can handle my liquor, I can handle way too much of it.

So for those who witnessed my drunk fuckery last night, I'm sorry. And ask any of my friends, I'm usually the one babysitting the drunkards, not the one needing to be babysat.

Here's to new ramblings

I consider myself a writer, therefore, it would probably be a good thing for me to write. Okay, I do write, but not as often as I should. Writing needs to become part of my daily routine. And even though I beg to disagree, writing ideas and short dialogue down all the time in my Moleskine doesn't count.

While I prefer scripts to novels, a blog is something different. I had one back when I was 18 and 19. Those entries consisted of me complaining about my boy du jour, complaing about my ex-boyfriend, and complaining about living in New Jersey. Now, three years later, I'm living in New York City, and have tons of new things to complain about! Isn't life grand? I have not started up blogging again just to air my grievances thoguh, instead I did it to, as I said before, write. I need to kick my ass into writing on a daily basis, even if it's on this thing just to get my brain working and my fingers typing. Too much of my life is spent socializing, I'm a freakin socioholic (I just made that up, excellent). Then again, great friends provide great material for my plays and sketches. It's a vicious cycle. I'm also a raging narcissist (Virgos usually are), therefore I feel that everyone in the world should want to read what I have to say in my blog. YES. So now, not only will this make me feel more productive and help me explore my random thoughts, it will also entertain the masses. Is there anything more fulfilling than that? Don't say motherhood. No.

The next time I open this site up I should have a more focused topic to write about, that topic will typically be myself. Is there anything more masturbatory than a blog? Next to actual masturbation itself of course. Enough with the rhetorical questions that I won't even attempt to answer. I feel more fulfilled after typing this already. Pat myself on the shoulder, and I'm done.