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??
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Monday, February 19, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, February 5, 2007
The Prescience of the XANAX
I am now in the updated land of blogginghood. Blog, blah, blog away. That kind of suits my mood at present, because it is colder than that alleged stepmother's tit and I have pretty much had it with everything. Breathe, little camper, breathe. That is my mantra today, along with my newfound friend. My newfound friend's name is Xanax, and thank God, because I have been having panic attacks (the really bad kind) for a few weeks now. They have abated somewhat, and those of you prone to these fun little things will appreciate my prescription. I used to decry the use of drugs beyond the occasional popping of an aspirin tablet, but now strongly agree that some of us do require medication. It's not that I suggest abusing said products, simply using them judiciously to help control symptoms that might be causing you major, horrible distress. I seem to fall into this category but whoever said life was fun, dear Virginia? FUN, with all caps. I think I need some, soon, lest I fall into that black land of despair. A hole it is, but there are other holes I can think of that would be nice. Like ones filled with chocolate truffles, all wrapped in nice shiny silver paper. That would be a great hole to fall into for awhile. Eventually, of course, I'd want to get out, but that's another story for another time, my sweets.
What else is there to say? Gawker.com is my latest rancid website of choice, and I mean that in the best possible way. Rancidly funny, hilariously lacking in all compassion, yet with an eye towards the absurd that makes me think that the writers are probably not all that bad. We live in a rude crude age, where people confuse comedy with shock value, and where true wit, elegance, and style has gone the way of annoying technological devices, a seemingly anything goes mentality, and the Oprahizing of America. But I will take her, even with that Dr. Phil creature, over George W. Bush any day. The man has, simply stated, ruined this country, and funny, most of us like living here because there are no dictators about. Except for him and the CEO's of companies sucking up profits through their underpaid minions and giving themselves generous Christmas bonuses. My friend said that the CEO of Home Depot paid himself 250 million sweet ones. 250. Hmm. Are you sure that was enough, sir/ma'am? I mean, it would not allow you to buy that many third world countries and install your own dictator. One with a well-built home, naturally.
Geez. I'll stop the pissy ranting in a moment, rest assured. Today, you must know, I drank coffee at our local Cosi's and listened to the insanely loud chatter of about 15 well-fed and dressed children sucking down food of some kind. I would never think to bring kids (maybe sixth graders, as I could tell) to a place like Cosi's. What happened to Chucky Cheese?? That was good enough in my days, kids! But now children demand lattes and cellphones at increasingly young ages, and will soon have their own stockbrokers into the bargain. Starting at the age of 12, or maybe even younger. Whatever allows them to have the appropriately keen investment portfolio by the time they retire with a Mercedes Benz rusting away in a garage somewhere. You know, these values are important. That, and plenty of Cable channels. I lied about the pissy stuff!
Yes, the world is a strange, sad place these days, but not devoid of its amusements. A recent AP article made me laugh because it stated that a guy dressed up as Chewbacca was apparently "head-butting" tourists in Hollywood. Something to do with harrassing Japanese tourists. In the past, the guy dressed up as the "Scream" character (the baddie) has also had issues with harrassing innocent people. There is something about this that strikes me as insanely hilarious. Soon they will be joined by the Little Mermaid and the entire cast of the Incredibles. That was a nice little movie by the creative folks at Pixar. Pixar sounds like something you'd name your goldfish, the one that can't get along with the other fish in your well-lighted aquarium. I now descend into the black hole, the one not lined with chocolate truffles. Xanax, anyone?
So I sat in Cosi's and wrote a poem and ate a banana, which I dragged as obscurely as possible out of my leather purse. There is something about the obvious phallic imagery here that makes me wince, oversexed and underfucked thirty-something that I am. Sorry about the underfucked thing, Sister Margaret Mary. My first grade CCD teacher haunts me still. It's hard to be a recovering Catholic.
Lately, with that in mind, I've been attending a Universalist/Unitarian church. I really like it, although all churches give me the heebie-jeebies. So, I attend basically when I feel like it, which probably pisses off God but allows me to function at a vaguely credible level. The kind that does not involve jumping out of windows like Richard, the sad AIDS-ridden poet in The Hours. I just finished that book and found it quite moving, although not the wunderkin thing the critics said it was, I'm afraid. It's not that I don't trust critics, although I guess I really don't, since hyperbole is probably what they are paid to dispense by major publishing companies. Still, it was a very fine book, and I could do no better. The movie was good as well, although I am starting to feel like Meryl Streep is far too pristine an actress (that is, perfect in all her thespian executions) for me to feel very hospitable towards her any longer. She's so good you feel somehow mediocre in comparison. It's like she's the third grade teacher you desperately wanted to like you, but knew, somehow was far too detached to ever really like you. She has a lot of reserve, Ms. Streep does, but I guess that's because she's always channelling brilliance. Great actresses are like that!
I saw a great play last night, incidentally, entitled Fences by August Wilson. I had seen it done before at a community theater, but never by professional actors. The community theater version was actually outstanding, on par with this one. I cried at the end, because it's the kind of theater that is so powerful you feel riveted to every word. What an amazing playwright. I definitely recommend seeing it if you ever get the chance. A staggering accomplishment, and a very sad one in many ways, as well.
Well, I am beginning to tire now. I wish you adieu, and plenty of rest. Remember: prescription pills equal good! In moderation, my dears. In moderation.
What else is there to say? Gawker.com is my latest rancid website of choice, and I mean that in the best possible way. Rancidly funny, hilariously lacking in all compassion, yet with an eye towards the absurd that makes me think that the writers are probably not all that bad. We live in a rude crude age, where people confuse comedy with shock value, and where true wit, elegance, and style has gone the way of annoying technological devices, a seemingly anything goes mentality, and the Oprahizing of America. But I will take her, even with that Dr. Phil creature, over George W. Bush any day. The man has, simply stated, ruined this country, and funny, most of us like living here because there are no dictators about. Except for him and the CEO's of companies sucking up profits through their underpaid minions and giving themselves generous Christmas bonuses. My friend said that the CEO of Home Depot paid himself 250 million sweet ones. 250. Hmm. Are you sure that was enough, sir/ma'am? I mean, it would not allow you to buy that many third world countries and install your own dictator. One with a well-built home, naturally.
Geez. I'll stop the pissy ranting in a moment, rest assured. Today, you must know, I drank coffee at our local Cosi's and listened to the insanely loud chatter of about 15 well-fed and dressed children sucking down food of some kind. I would never think to bring kids (maybe sixth graders, as I could tell) to a place like Cosi's. What happened to Chucky Cheese?? That was good enough in my days, kids! But now children demand lattes and cellphones at increasingly young ages, and will soon have their own stockbrokers into the bargain. Starting at the age of 12, or maybe even younger. Whatever allows them to have the appropriately keen investment portfolio by the time they retire with a Mercedes Benz rusting away in a garage somewhere. You know, these values are important. That, and plenty of Cable channels. I lied about the pissy stuff!
Yes, the world is a strange, sad place these days, but not devoid of its amusements. A recent AP article made me laugh because it stated that a guy dressed up as Chewbacca was apparently "head-butting" tourists in Hollywood. Something to do with harrassing Japanese tourists. In the past, the guy dressed up as the "Scream" character (the baddie) has also had issues with harrassing innocent people. There is something about this that strikes me as insanely hilarious. Soon they will be joined by the Little Mermaid and the entire cast of the Incredibles. That was a nice little movie by the creative folks at Pixar. Pixar sounds like something you'd name your goldfish, the one that can't get along with the other fish in your well-lighted aquarium. I now descend into the black hole, the one not lined with chocolate truffles. Xanax, anyone?
So I sat in Cosi's and wrote a poem and ate a banana, which I dragged as obscurely as possible out of my leather purse. There is something about the obvious phallic imagery here that makes me wince, oversexed and underfucked thirty-something that I am. Sorry about the underfucked thing, Sister Margaret Mary. My first grade CCD teacher haunts me still. It's hard to be a recovering Catholic.
Lately, with that in mind, I've been attending a Universalist/Unitarian church. I really like it, although all churches give me the heebie-jeebies. So, I attend basically when I feel like it, which probably pisses off God but allows me to function at a vaguely credible level. The kind that does not involve jumping out of windows like Richard, the sad AIDS-ridden poet in The Hours. I just finished that book and found it quite moving, although not the wunderkin thing the critics said it was, I'm afraid. It's not that I don't trust critics, although I guess I really don't, since hyperbole is probably what they are paid to dispense by major publishing companies. Still, it was a very fine book, and I could do no better. The movie was good as well, although I am starting to feel like Meryl Streep is far too pristine an actress (that is, perfect in all her thespian executions) for me to feel very hospitable towards her any longer. She's so good you feel somehow mediocre in comparison. It's like she's the third grade teacher you desperately wanted to like you, but knew, somehow was far too detached to ever really like you. She has a lot of reserve, Ms. Streep does, but I guess that's because she's always channelling brilliance. Great actresses are like that!
I saw a great play last night, incidentally, entitled Fences by August Wilson. I had seen it done before at a community theater, but never by professional actors. The community theater version was actually outstanding, on par with this one. I cried at the end, because it's the kind of theater that is so powerful you feel riveted to every word. What an amazing playwright. I definitely recommend seeing it if you ever get the chance. A staggering accomplishment, and a very sad one in many ways, as well.
Well, I am beginning to tire now. I wish you adieu, and plenty of rest. Remember: prescription pills equal good! In moderation, my dears. In moderation.
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