A few musings of questionable value

It's a very unbeautiful day in the neighborhood, but won't you be mine? I mean, won't you be mine? I am sitting in the horrifically compressed local library surrounded by the usual cast of bizarre characters, including one woman who looks like she just swallowed a giant lemon. I kind of want to bitchslap her, but then again, I am PMS'ing. You know the drill, fellow females.

Speaking of fellow females, I found out that a friend of mine has cancer. I don't know what to say, much less to do, other than to visit her soon and try to listen. She is very young to have this form of cancer, and it's obvious to me that life is, as usual, unfair as hell. I do not know if she will live, since it's in the late stages of the disease, but she is receiving chemo treatments. She's a wonderful person, and I guess Billy Joel had it right when he sang only the good die young. In this case, I hope that I won't have to sing that song at her funeral. God forbid! I curse the thought as I speak.

So, that's a very serious matter I cannot joke about. I can joke about other things, like being perpetually stressed, broke, and forever scrambling to get anything met. Like, you know, your needs and all that. There is actually some self-help book called Your Needs Met, and it's full of cheerful little prayers that seem to establish an unswerving belief in God. My belief in God has basically been run over repeatedly by a mac Truck, but hey, that's the case with many people. Mac understands, too.

Over the weekend I went to a very strange metaphysical church. At the end of the service we actually stood in a circle and sang a song about peace. I almost died laughing, but at least it wasn't Kumbaya, Lord. Then I would have dissolved on the floor, and been summarily kicked out.

Ah, well. My stress levels continue their toxic rise, but I have a joyous and forgiving heart, I am calm, and today, all my needs will be met! I have courage, strength, and wisdom. And God, I wish I had cable TV in my room.

May your day be very kumbaya-like.

The Healing Power of Adoption

A quick ramble through the toxic waste of my weary mind pulls up the following factoid: Angelina Jolie has adopted another child! This news is on par with many major historical events, such as the first coming of Christ and the day that the Beatles declared themselves to be more important than that erstwhile savior. Ah, Jolie, Jolie, we never knew ye.

Anyway, she appears to adopt children at the same rate that she gets yet another tattoo, and maybe the children will last longer than the tattoos: hey, you never know! I am kind of wondering how long this adoption frenzy/I am not married to the adoptive father of my children but damn, ain't he pretty thing is going to go on for, but you know, it's also kind of exciting to contemplate. The Pitt-Jolie splitsville major network event would be highly entertaining, and I don't just say this because I watched "Cruel Intentions" last night. That's the remake of the Victor Hugo book for the WB set, and stars Buffy, Ryan Witherspoon, and Ryan Phillipe, her former husband. It's a nice little distraction, although hardly weighty. But, I digress.

Anyway, the world of celebrity is weirder than the world of people who attend comic book conventions, and yet there is something similar between the two. Maybe it's that they're both shiny and colorful? I dunno, I'm just a peon in her thirties living in her hometown who daydreams obsessively about Jude Law. Oh yeah, and sometimes Alec Baldwin: an older man might be nice for a change! Or hell, any man, but I'll save that diatribe for my therapist when I find her. My old one went far, far away, leaving me to ponder the fickle perfidy of all human beings. Hey, I'm only human myself!

I leave you with these two fine thoughts: one, that nothing is so bad it can't be conquered by ingesting chocolate and, that human beings tend to survive. Oh, we do.

I wish you the healing power of resilience, and so much more. Adieu.

Oh yeah: I'm available for adoption, Ms. Jolie. If you're reading.

Lots o'pissing for the pot

Ah, blogging, blogging! My online journal has kept me sane for far too long now, but considering it's done in fits and starts, all is well, all is well.

I am insanely tired and stressed and ready to throw both of my parents out the window. Life lately is a school of pain, loss, rejection, fatigue, and other things that make up great novels by Charles Dickens. I am wondering when my husband will appear, or even if this man exists, which is doubtful. For those of you who are shy with the opposite sex, especially when any kind of like or attraction is involved, you will know exactly what I'm talkin' about, Willis.

At any rate, the world is becoming, according to our 24-7 media, a far more scary place than previously glimpsed in any movie by Joel Schumacher. Just kidding! I have nothing against the man, but he's always being beaten up by the very critical movie press. I guess they're jealous of the dude; I can surmise nothing else. People who inspire such jaundiced, bitter, awful criticism must be inciting and/or stirring up some kind of envy.

In other rivteing news it is warm here in ye olde New England today, and I am still enjoying the viewpoint of the folks on gawker.com My older brother, who is an asshole most of the time, failed to recognize my birthday, as did my Aunt, who has her own emotional issues. I will retaliate through the power of pure, sugary-sweet kindness, and thus make them both feel like asses. You can see my Catholic school upbringing has stood me in good stead.

I am almost done with my book. Yay! Yay! Yay for me! I am very excited and pleased and proud although at this point I think it's the worst fucking crap ever written. I would also like to sleep for five days, although my father believes that grown children who live in his house should be gone as much as possible, which makes it hard to rest. It's hard to rest in general, especially when everyone seems afflicted with post-traumatic stress disorder and you live in a country where introverts are regarded with the same general suspicion levied towards the tax man. Ah, it's hard to be alive, but a good healthy existential crisis is invigorating folks, really!

I would like to audition for another play. I did this recently and really enjoyed it, although I didn't get the part. I miss having my own space in which to write songs, like I used to when I lived in Maryland in a scrubby apartment where many mice (ugh) liked to nest in the walls. My landlord was a completely horrible Dickensian like creature. You haven't seen ugly 'till you've seen him.

Well, I must flee. Be well.

Spew, coffee, the demolishment of the senses

Life right now, my dear ones, is about as fun as an aortal hernia. At least, this is what I suppose, although I have never had one myself. The other day a friend of a friend was discussing hers with me, and I decided that, judgin from her description, it would be better to have your toenails removed by a pair of rusty pliers. But again, folks, that's just me!

It is less cold here in oh so friendly New England, land that I love, and due to the demolishment of a prior roosting place I have descended upon a church library. It is a nice, generally quiet place with employees with only minimal attitude problems: I am learning to let other people's stuff be just that, THEIR stuff. It's SO heartwarming, my friends! At any rate, I was in the mood to blog, while I watch the assistant efficiently clear away the coffee. I wish she would be of sound mind to simply leave it there, but alas, some people are so very intent on their tasks! Alas and alack. I suppose that's why the work ethic was invented, so that idle hands would not become the devil's play, or whatever cliche I'm mangling. When coffee is involved, I think a fresh pot should be kept forever brewing. Just my opinion.

I have signed up with a website devoted to helping people with depression find other people with which to talk to about said depression. Forgive me; I was an English major. It's called lonelynomore.com and it's really a rather nice website. There are people with all kinds of mental illness on there, actually, but also people suffering from "simple" anxiety and depression. If you are of like mind, I do recommend it. One c', two mm's? I can never remember.

I am also suffering from something besides lack of coffee, namely with living with my parents, which means that I leave the house every morning wishing I had a set of explosives and a considerably less moral viewpoint. On blowing up houses, naturally. I'm $#*$# pissed in general these days, and could use a long, carthartic session of screaming at the top of my lungs in my car. My mother's, of course -- mine went the way of the dodo a few years back, but I really don't mind taking public transportation. Screaming on a bus is just a tad different, but of course! Although it might be quite fun, actually. Heh, heh, heh.

Ah, life. Converting pain into humor, darkness into light, a never-ending, very tedious process at times, but that's OK! It keeps us busy, it does.

And have a good day, all.

Bunch o'Junk

Well my kitties, I am more nervous than a bridegroom on his wedding night in the good ol'days. Whether they were truly good is anyone's guess, but then again I have a Xanax prescription in my purse. It's for the good people, it is.

I have had another marginal day from hell, culminating in the realization that my password for my FAFSA online thingiemabobber is gone because government fuckers won't supply me with one. Of course, anyone with a passing brain in her noggin might have written it down, but I guess I wasn't really thinking that day. Happens to the best of us. In the meantime, my superlative need to control every aspect of my compulsively driven existence has landed me halfway to madness land. Here, Anna Nicole Smith hands out Xanax prescriptions, and abusive fathers and religious fanatic mothers are forced to toil for the rest of their lives as Walmart greeters to cruel biker gangs. It's a fantasy to me, folks, it really fucking is!!

I am still happy that Britney shaved her head, and still upset that the blue-eyed doctor will, alas, probably never be mine. In the meantime a good friend of mine continues on her YAHOO quest to meet a soulmate, which culminated in a strange evening spent with an incredibly effiminate straight man. If he wasn't a closet homosexual, my name isn't Mr. Rogers! Well, you get what I mean. The man was definitely not on the female train, but rather riding the caboose. That particular description is as crude as you want it to be.

So that's that. What a strange, maddening, irritating, violent world this happens to be. I will be much happier once I am out of the parental abode, working, and no longer maddeningly anxious due to close proximity to said parents and a complete lack of change in my pretty little purse. Speaking of birthdays (was I? oh, sorry) I had a cutesy card from an cousin of mine showing a fireman holding an extinguisher. To put out ALL the fucking candles! Ah, how subtle our relatives are. He's just mad because I refuse to bone him. Sad, but true. He likes to hit on me, and I like to pretend that his face is melting into his soup when I am forced to interact with him. You know, like the poor bastard in Poltergeist (kinda).

What else to say? I loathe cellphones and have decided to get rid of mine. I agree that we need to get rid of our cars to save the planet. I think the world needs a lot of help, and I cried buckets a couple of nights ago when I saw a methadone baby in its bassinet with the shakes. That is the kind of thing that makes me think we are past all hope, all redemption, all light up Virgin Mary statues that sit on your dresser in the dark. You get the picture. Speaking of religious fanatic mothers who want you to speak to your abusive father, it is funny how you are always a frightened child in your parents' house. It never changes, those who know of what I speak. And it's funny how guilt plays such a huge role in it still.

Tennis, anyone? Oh, to not get a box of creepy truffles from your father, and if only love would find me.

I hope it finds you. Until we meet again, my pretties.

Where was I again??

Stuff, Britney, the perfidy of life

Once again my tepid yet undeniable genius is denied a viewing audience! Alas, to be me.

I am not in the greatest of moods, being very anxious and unable, at present, to work on the formatting of my book. But self-centered yet oh so charming bastards such as myself do crave our creative outlets, oh yes we do. So here I am, musing on such important topics as the baldness of Britney and why America cares so much about these idiotic celebrities. I guess it's pure escape. In the meantime, I swill down chamomile tea like there's no tomorrow, as I recently read that Xanax is more addictive than HEROIN. You read that right, kiddies! Thus I will probably pop some again in, say, August, when I'm having a truly bad day from hell. I do not wish to end up like Anna Nicole Smith, although it's nice to think her hangers-on -- er, loved ones -- will be financially sound for all eternity. They're all set, people, is what I'm saying.

This is a week full of things, namely my mysterious volunteer work with an organization that does not allow me to speak about its work (i.e., The Good Samaritans). I am also celebrating my 35th birthday, which makes me feel as though someone should finally put me out of my fucking misery. If you asked me if my life would be like this, namely living in my parents' house, being stone-cold broke and recovering from a serious depression, I would have told you to fly a kite. The good thing is that my life is getting back on track. I am formatting my book, I am applying to graduate school, and I worked a seasonal job that allowed me to lift myself out of the doldrums. I am hopeful of a permanent job soon, and am working harder to establish myself in this regard, although those who have suffered from serious depressions know how hard it is to feel motivated to do absolutely fricking ANYTHING. Any small result is a good one, however! I also continue to beat back the recycling co-dependent blues (see: Melodie Beattie) with a giant stick, dipped in plenty of chocolate and laced with free DVD's from the library. How I love the library. If only my parents were not psychopaths! If only it really did rain men! If only my dog was still alive! You can see I'm having a year.

That being said I caved when my mother asked me if I wanted to do a birthday lunch. Initially I resisted and then, like the guilty sap that I am, told her it would be fine so long as it did not FALL on my birthday. I also admit that this was motivated by the prospect of obtaining a decent meal and of having something constructive to do. The less I am in the house, the better. Still, I feel like I failed the "set a boundary" thingie that all the self-help books exhort you, ad nauseum, to do, and caved into the guilt bullshit. The guilt and fear and need for approval emblazoned with a big ol'pot of ink onto our susceptible little souls. Someday that ink will be invisible, though. It's all I can hope for.

There are some auditions I am pondering attending tonight, just for the sheer hell of it. It could be fun, is what I'm saying here, folks. Unfortunately I have no real way to attend rehearsals if they actually chose me to work in their production. But maybe I could paint sets or something. The theater is a fun, if demanding, world, and my forays into said world have always been productively fruitful and interesting. Even inspiring.

I must go, my dear ones. How serious I have been. Think: Bick! And be glad you're not a Britney. Thus endeth my mixed message for today.

Be ye well.

Whatever you like

The new blogger seems much like the old one, but we live in a society that demands that things be updated every three minutes. Or, three seconds, whichever you prefer.

I have come to a point in my sad, overmelted, underachieving little life in which I realize that the worst thing you can do is compare yourself to anyone else. Occasionally I mistake the tragic mistake of googling old classmates from my alma mater, all of whom seem to win the Pulitzer prize on a weekly basis. Christ in a handbasket, at least I didn't go to Harvard. Failure there must require jumping off a tall building, although I bet many rebel from the institution's rigid ways and graduate to become goat farmers. In Vermont, where they drink milk they gather themselves from the willing teats of their loving animals, all of whom are named after characters in Greek tragedies. Medea, darling, what a bad goat you've been today!

Yes, I continue on the twisted path to absolutely nowhere. However, God loves me unconditionally, and positive thinking, according to Joel Osteen, will get me to where I need to be. Where I need to be is underneath the warm soothing hands of a really good masseuse, but maybe once my birthday money comes in. I love birthdays, because gullible relatives are oh-so willing to send me cash. Not a lot, just enough to sustain me. There's nothing like crisp bills in your faded red wallet with the yellow flowers on it to make you feel happy. Then, I can buy all the cups of coffee I want. I have found that buying a cup of coffee is a very grounding act, even if you have to sit inside a Cosi's full of screaming children (see: prior post on the new breeding ground de google). So is washing your hair, or watching The Sound of Music. Like I said, it's vaguely erotic, really. Then again, I am so lonely, and 34, and still dreaming of blue-eyed doctors. In between dreaming of Mandy Patinkin (sp), who was oh so hot once upon a time. Yentl is such a good movie, although it's hilarious to think of Barbara Streisand actually cooking and cleaning for her Papa. She looks more like the kind of woman who gets her nails done every day. I mean, can you see her as a common laborer of some kind? She'd be screaming at everyone like she was the boss. Barbara baby, you are the boss. It's why we love you.

Oh, the perfidy of everything! Alas, alas, alas. I am looking at the diaries of Courtney Love with the obligatory preface by a famous person just like Courtney, in this case Carrie Fisher. They both like to swear, I have noticed. I am tired, finally, of people using the word "fuck" and have decided to herewith ban it from my vocabularly. It dilutes the beauty of our language, adds to the general brutal crudity of our culture (don't believe me? watch a game show!), and in short makes me feel worse than I already do. And I am really am on the path to a better life now, so wish me much luck. I wish you all that and more.

Until we meet again, random stranger.