I blog elsewhere.

No more of this. If you want the digs on the new blog Facebook or IM me.

blahblahblaaaaaaaah

hearing skateboards. people holding hands. sunny days. all this crap makes me wonder why there were weeks of perfection followed by isolated days of turmoil.
why was it so easy for him to move on?
when will i?
im going to stare at the my clothes tumble in the dryer. premediation before my bikram.

psht.

fuck it

i cant sleep. i cant believe that girl from home is already coming to visit him, which makes me think this relationship was more fucked up than anyone could have ever thought. he gets his chance to be free and woah there, he takes it all the way. get over lindsay? fuck that, just fuck some new girl on the sheets we used to sleep in. will lindsay care? fuck it, doesnt matter, she fucked me over so many times, let me get my last revenge with curly blonde cutie. im so angry, so sad, so pissed off, so fuckin hurt, so confused, so hopeless, so furious, so weak. im so sad. it hurts so bad. i cant believe that. i cant get to sleep. i wish i was ten years old again and i didnt have to deal with all this shit. i hate debt i hate boys i hate crying i hate all this shit. its too hard. i just want to go home and hug my dogs. :(

eh.

i need a tennis buddy i need a wine buddy i need a safeway buddy i need a walking buddy i need a lip buddy i need a sleep buddy i need a butthead buddy i need a coffee buddy i need a burrito budy i need a cheese steak buddy i need a book buddy i need a library buddy i need a camera buddy i need an art buddy i need a couch buddy i need
to
stop.

siiiiiiiigh

Today is one of the hard days. It's been a week, that's probably why I'm feeling emotionally sore. I just want to heal. I want him to heal. I want us to help each other heal. We both know that can't happen. We've got to untangle ourselves and become separate. He said he lost himself in us. I don't perceive that as an insult. I feel the same way. Things between us became really intense.

All I did today was sigh thinking of everything that held us back. This, that, the other thing. I wish I hadn't, I wish he did, I should have, I shouldn't have, we could have. It sucks.

He left me with a lot more to ponder aside from our relationship woes. I have to think about myself and learn to step it up a notch. Like a leaf in a lazy river, I'm just floating through my life. I don't know why I can't snap out of this stupid daze I'm in. I know I'm in it- why can't I change it?

There's a lot of negativity stirring throughout my body, most of which I collect by myself. No one ever said I couldn't do anything except myself. It's so hard to convince myself of what I can do. It's so easy to tell myself what I can't do.

It will seem so trite when I write, life is weird. Life is so fricken weird. The swervy road I've been on this entire year continues to throw sharp curves without warning. I just want a straight path to peacefulness, to contentment. Now I have to do it alone, without a passenger. Is it better to be solo? Or have a backseat driver? I don't know. I guess time will tell.

How are things on the west coast?

They suck, thanks for asking.

His aresnal of back up girlfriends was loaded and ready to go. First one, his precious one, is already coming out to visit.

I've got no back up plans. Except Mackenzie and the Orticellis. Maybe a bear will eat me when we go to Yosemite. The luck.

I guess I'll go to work. Then do some yoga. Gotta do something crazy like go find a hobby now that I'm lonely.

Bah humbug.

Insanity

For once in a blog insanity will not refer to my fluctuating mental state. This time I'm referring to Bikram Yoga, which some people call hot yoga. After today I think I'll refer to it as hell. . .and I mean that in the most spiritually endearing way possible.

My first yoga class was freshman year of college. My friend Megan and I signed up with a plump, flamboyant Los Angeles boy, Andrew, from my dorm floor. Being only 18 at the time, and rather inexperienced sexually, post class I described it as better than sex to curious floor mates. Megan and Andrew disappointingly agreed. Yoga better than sex? Was that possible? Everyone always described sex as a heavenly activity, how could stretching and breathing and balancing prove to be a more ethereal experience than bumping and grinding with someone you were attracted to? I don't know, but at the time I was 18, very single and very desperate. So instead of getting on the cock, which had been so disappointing in the past, I got on the yoga mat. For three semesters I stretched and balanced and laughed, laughed a whole lot, while in class. It was a great release. But then I stopped going for whatever lazy reason I had and sporadically tried to sign up which I always ended up dropping. I even bought a yoga mat for motivation, but the only thing noteworthy that happened to that was the forest green nail polish which spilled on it in my dorm room. Oops.

Last October Jimmy and I hit up a yoga class one early weekend morning. I was discouraged at how stiff I felt and how the instructor kept prompting my postures. The feeling I got from the yoga was not better than sex (although after that class. . .)but it was disappointment. I felt shy and wary of my next encounter with flexible people who chant OM.

While searching for jobs last week I found a posting for a Bikram yoga studio seeking a front desk attendant. I figured Bikram was just another yoga term I and millions of other Americans had heard of and tied to yoga, but unsure of how they were connected. After completing a wonderful resume and cover letter I googled Bikram and learned it was an intense yoga workout in a room heated to 105 degrees. No sweat, right?

Upon handing in my resume and cover letter, the yoga school invited me for two free weeks of classes. With fear in my inflexible loins I dragged Patty along for 90 minutes of moist hell.

The instructor, Tim, was genial and encouraging throughout our workout, pushing us beginners to make it to the end of the class without leaving the arid and odorous room. (who thinks to carpet a room that will eventually be drenched with millions of sweat droplets. . .?) Five minutes into class I was already reaching for my towel and water bottle. After a half hour I had to sit because I Was light-headed, but eventually I pushed forward, mentally congratulating myself every time I held a stretch for the full 30 or 10 seconds. I thought I was hallucinating when I saw people melting before my eyes. In actuality my 30 odd classmates were sloughing off pounds in the form of germ laden sweat. Gross. A very muscular man in front of me wore grey cotton sweat pants which from the waist down gradually turned a darker shade, until finally droplets of water fell onto his yoga mat. His armpits were a human sprinkler.

I followed the school's website instructions to dress like I was going to the beach. Underneath my white tank I wore a bikini top. The tank top stayed on for about ten minutes before it became a soaking mass of fabric. I noticed sweat beading down Patty's legs, then noticed it beading down my legs, my stomach, my fingers, my toes, my ears. Every so often I would turn to PAtty to make sure she was still alive. Sure enough, red faced and breathing heavily, she was firming her poses, pushing through like a champ. The 90 minutes, which seemed like 3 hours finally ended, everyone making a mass exodus to either the air condition or to the showers.

Will I do it again? YES! Do I recommend it for everyone? No. I don't claim to be in good shape, not even decent shape, but if you have trouble running a mile, I don't recommend taking Bikram. It's intense and friggin' hot. Yet, despite the brutal heat and tough poses, I found myself smiling towards the end of class. Maybe I was becoming delirious, but I actually think it's because I was so proud of my physical and mental ability to push through something so difficult. It wasn't better than sex, but it was definitely a rush of endorphins I want to feel again!

Ugh.

I'm going to be that crazy ex-girlfriend he talks about now. And it won't be an embellishment.

Good one.

When did I get so fucked up?

Do I need to be committed?

Who I think I am, who I think people think I am, who I want to be and who I really am is all nonsense.

I think I am weak.

I think people think I am a push over and unworthy of attention. I think people think I am dumb and incapable.

The person I want to be, will never be. Because I have no real sense of values. I have no confidence. My goals are unattainable because my bearings are not straight.

And it is clear my recent events that I have no clue who I am. I did something so out of the character I thought I was that I am still in shock from my actions. The details are of no importance to readers, but let me just say I never thought I would do what I did. Until I was in the moment and mindlessly reacted.

All I can do is replay the event in my head with my mouth open wide in shock. I keep thinking, What the fuck? If I told anyone, they'd be shocked. But then I guess no one knows me that well, not even I, because apparently I am capable of things I never thought possible. Horrible things.

Depression is anger turned inward. That's what "experts" say. Since starting my prescription for mental and emotional stability a few months ago, I've immediately seen positive changes. Unfortunately the medicine's assistance has made me neglect my counseling, which I now realize is an essential tool in maintaining a positive mental state. For a month I've neglected my therapist and psychologist's phone calls checking in on my progress. "I'll call them tomorrow" has turned into I don't need them.

But after last night I realize I need them to sort out some things. My medication has been a cushion, but it won't make things comfortable for ever. I need extra padding. Therapy for a month has scratched the surface of a few issues I have, but last night I realize isolated incidents I brushed over in therapy might actually be slowly killing me and simultaneously ending important relationships with others.


This 'depression' I am dealing with, or however you want to call it, is strange. For me it started with extreme sadness, feelings of worthlessness and constant lethargy. There was lots of complaining and lots of frustration, with a few isolated incidents of anger. But now that the feelings of unnecessary sadness and the subsiding of worthless and lethargy have somewhat subsided with the assistance of medication. Yet frustration and anger still are sifting within me.

A lot of times I think it's wrong for me to get away with being angry and sad by saying I am someone who suffers from depression because everyone suffers from some sort of mental instability. Yet, when I take an inventory of my thoughts and behaviors I realize something is not right. Definitely not normal. Unstable at the least.

How did I get this way? How did things get so out of hand? How come people think counting to ten before reacting in a situation that angers you will actually work? How come it works for some people and not me? Where does this fury and fire within come from? Why is it so sporadic? When did it start? When did I become a crazy person?

What's going to happen to me?

How is it almost september?

It's only been a week since I returned to Berkeley, yet somehow it feels likes my trip home was months ago. Returning to work was less harmonious than I expected. It hasn't been unpleasant but it's been frustrating. I think my managers and I have very different views on the value that I am and could potentially be. It's unfortunate because I love my co-workers but I hate that this is my job. I don't hate the job, but I'm left with a daily "This is it?" taste in my mouth. I want more. Now.

My roommate situation was reconciled and I think I know that communication is essential, even if it causes unpleasant feelings to surface. Better to have a little tiff than a two week silent treatment tiff.

Jimmy and I have been together for a year (give or take a cumulative few months of break ups). In hindsight, I would change certain things, but our journey has taught me a lot and opened my heart in weird, uncomfortable, but satisfying ways. To think- this time last year we were eating falafel near UPenn after a crazy rainstorm and catching Little Miss Sunshine. Fast forward to this week- San Francisco fog, vintage Polaroid cameras, Indonesian food and buzz induced make outs. I love my boyfriend.

Square 1, third time, last chance, etc etc

I guess I'm excited to return to Berkeley tomorrow. My two weeks of time off started out a bit rocky but gradually turned into what it should have been all along: a relaxing vacation. I suppose all the activities that make up a vacation have distracted me from the realities I will be facing when I step off the plane tomorrow; I'm still broke, I've got more than one relationship to resurrect and I'm still unsure of whether I want to stay in California. These troubles are minor to outsiders and I'm sure I have the power to squash them as soon as I get home so they do not turn into the humongous drama I allow to keep me up at night.

In November I flew to Berkeley and with high hopes began a new life. What transpired was less than perfect, it was nightmarish. Personal battles permeated into one of the most important relationships of my life and because it was so powerful it then trickled into a few friendships as well. In May I returned home for a wedding, but also made time to continue recreating a close relationship with my family, especially my mom. During that time I was intent on staying in Pennsylvania. Boarding my return flight I was filled with regret, sadness and dread. There was some hope, left over from emotional pow-wows I'd had with my mom, but I mostly wanted to throw open the emergency exits on the plane, glide down the inflatable slides and start all over again, even if it meant living with my parents again.

Third time's the charm, right? Tomorrow I'll sadly board the plane bringing me back to Berkeley. Yet as sad as I will be leaving my family once again, there is some excitement. Maybe two weeks has made the good ole' "absence makes the heart grow fonder" adage work. Two weeks away from my job and my apartment and my bills and my sour roommate situation has made me antsy to get back and ameliorate every part of my life- as soon as I get back.

Is my eagerness just one of those things? Kind of like reading a fitness magazine in a waiting room. In those five minutes before the doctor, dentist or whomever calls you into the examination room, you breeze through the pages and make yourself believe that once you get out of there you'll go straight home, lace up your running shoes and jog into your new life as an exercise fanatic. I mean- don't all those smiley, shiny, barbell wielding models look so happy?

But we all know what happens when you get home. You open the fridge, see the Olive Garden leftovers, slouch on the couch and lie to yourself that you'll lace up those running shoes tomorrow, when it's not so hot, when you're not so full, when your I-pod is charged.

I can't make a promise in this blogosphere that once I get off the plane I'll run to my roommate and try to make things right. That I'll spend the entire night of my return editing my resume and cover letter. I know I won't do it. My relaxation while on vacation has strangely and unexpectedly brought matter-of-fact clarity about certain situations in my life. I'm in love with an amazing patient man and I feel blessed that we've overcome so many bumps and take it as a sign we can get through anything. I realize that I have to get a second job, even if it's at Safeway. I have to quit avoiding problems and instead need to become more proactive and use the voice I have to express myself even if I'm wrong. I have to take help that people give me without feeling guilty but instead expressing gratitude. And I have to do what I love- which I'm not sure what that is, but I'm getting closer.

Again, these realizations may be a product of a stress free and love filled vacation. Once I return I may just fall back into old patterns. But I look at it as my last chance in California. If I want to make it fulfilling there are things I need to do. If I want to be lazy, I can remain broke and return to Pennsylvania to start at square one, except this time living with my parents.

I'll keep you posted.

hey y'all

There are many things one might assume would eliminate the pain, accentuate the positive. For example, floating underneath the warm Isle of Palm sun rays on a hot pink raft- a beautiful contrast to the chlorine blue waves beneath. Or perhaps lounging on a plush suede couch sipping on red wine before bed after a long day of swimming, sunning and tennis. Maybe even being surrounded by the family you haven't seen in months, all in the best of spirits because it's vacation silly.

But I'm sad. Because I don't know what I did wrong. I never get an explination I always get the blame. I know I've done wrong a thousand times before, but not knowing is frustrating and it leads to failure. I mean- I never understood biology and I had to take it three times! I didn't know anything! And until I had a teaching assistant who coached me through the entire course, I had no idea what was going on, therefore I couldn't succeed. the same goes for relationships. When you have no idea what's going on- you have no idea how to ameliroate, how to progress. . .how to end?

My mom confinscated my phone because it was making me cry. She has hid it and I won't get it back until. . .I don't know. I'm glad because it's been easier to focus on my tanning and tennis schedule. Yet the questions I have in my head are undying and unanswered- haunting. At times I want answers, other times I think maybe no answers will make it easier for both parties involved to realize what is best for eachother. I'd like to say staying in love, but, apparently we have nothing in common.

Who knows? All I know is I can't sleep. I can't focus on anything else right now except my Coppola Malbec and him. I know if I drink one more glass I'll pass out, but I'll surely wake up, wondering what he's doing three hours behind. Then I'll give myself a mental wrist slap and try to think about something else, something that doesn't cause the wounds in my heart to throb and once again let tears wet my sun kissed face.

Tuesday was better than Monday and today was better than yesterday. Tomorrow hopefully I won't think about whatever happened at all. Hopefully I'll be able to think more seriously about the pros and cons of moving back east and fixing my resume and renting kayaks and drinking beer with girlfriends who are in similar situations as I. Comisserating on the beach with booze will last for about five minutes and quickly segue into a good time. And that's what vacation is about.

Same ole.

I need to sign up for direct deposit because otherwise I end up eating boxed Indian food with eggs and a hot-dog bun. Talk about scraping the bottom of the barrel. Checks weren't delivered today, therefore I have to wait until tomorrow and until them pine for the gourmet meals I waste my money on. Like last night's Serrano pepper burgers with brie, raspberry and spinach with red wine. Delightful but now I'm broke.

This is a direct result from my low paying job. Despite falling in love with all of my co-workers recently, I still hate that I get paid poorly. It's not brain surgery, but as I've grown with the company I've begun to embrace it, therefore working harder and caring more about the quality of not only my work, but everyone else's. This must account for something monetarily. Right? I mean, ice cream scoopers make more than I do! I overheard that the people who sweep on Telegraph make $13.75/hr! Och!

Next Friday I leave for a two week vacation which will leave me relaxed but severely crippled financially. If things do not get better I will probably be packing my bags for Pennsylvania in the coming months. Oy vay.

Fake it till you make it. . .and I'm making bad art.

My recent old boyfriend (ex is so harsh, no?) and I talked today after days of me ignoring him, selfishly to get over him as soon as I could. Though I knew bottling things up was probably detrimental, I continued to do so. Masking the pain would make it all disappear, right? I realize now that I was wrong and I'm so grateful for the emotional and comforting talk we had today. I still hurt, I still wonder and I still cry, but I just feel better. I guess that's what people who love one another do for each other. Thank you.

In other news, I've felt a surge of creative energy wash over me in the visual arts realm. While I have been writing more frequently I've also been trying to properly document my move, or "extended trip", to California properly. I've always felt that writing was like putting a puzzle together- stringing words along so they lock into each other tightly, creating a neatly put together form. When I was younger I used to be more adept at drawing and painting and collages, but grew discouraged when an art teacher questioned my skill. Dabbling in the visual arts realm is a trickier puzzle. But this past week I've been bored, but instead of wallowing I've been itching to make crap (um, er, I mean art?) like I used to. Take a crack at this new puzzle. On Friday nights I used to hole myself up in my room and make collages and homemade stationary and paint water colors while gaggles of my friends were out learning how to smoke joints and shot gun beers. It's the same sort of avoidance tactic. Hopefully the results are gratifying.

But don' confuse this preoccupation with giddy happiness. I'm still sad and hurt and heartbroken, as expected after a break up. I mean, c'mon, should I think that no one else goes through this? No. But it's hard to feel solidarity in a situation like this, because it's unique to me. I suppose I should just fake it till I make it. Right? Yeah. Fake happiness. Fake being an artist. Maybe one of them will actually happen eventually.

Who's that lady? (sexy lady).

When we drove into a thick sheet of fog this morning I almost cried. A series of disappointments was supposed to be ameliorated by a trip to the beach. I didn't need another disappointment. We stopped for a beer and brunch at a local Stinson Beach roadside cafe and for everyone's sake the sun began to shine and beckon us towards the sand.

After a few tall ones and a few dunks into the ocean, I spread out on my towel, sand creeping into the crevices of my skin. It was no bother. Nothing was a bother. Not even being poorly employed or single. I began to think back to the days of when I was single. Though the functions of a relationship were fun and though I still suffered from mental instabilities, I just remember being less stressed. For sure I still had my problems, but they weren't as looming. I had a better sense of my self when I was single and hopefully I can remember that when I embark on my next relationship(s?).

I've been doing so much to get over his race to another which has inflicted so much self doubt and wonderment about our relationship and myself. But it's been healthy stuff. I've been painting. I've been reading. I've been writing and writing and writing. I've been searching for grad schools. I've been researching language lessons. I've become excited about my possibilities, not the possibilities of someone else or the possibilities with someone else. It's me. All about me.

As much as I miss my former I'm slowly getting over the hurt of someone not wanting me or needing me. I'm realizing the importance of reacquainting me with myself. Though being single in a household of couples magnifies the fun of showering, sleeping and canoodling with another, I understand my current heartache will pass and pave way for a more stable and self-assured future. It sucks though. The functions of a relationship made me forget a lot of how to live freely.

I want my heads fastened securely on my shoulders again. I want my heart in the right place again. I want my abs strong and my lungs healthy. I want my family close. I want my friends near. I want a future of fulfillment. If love decides to cross my path again, so be it. Right now I'm ready to get to become enamored with myself. I'm excited. I'm ready.

I'm so sunburned.

Just.

Why do I submit myself to 2am torture? Even after sleeping less than 4 hours the other night I am up again wondering if I made the right decision last week. For some reason, this time it hurts even more, more than all the other 5 bazillion times we broke up. Maybe because I know it's forever. Forever and ever and ever.

Last week it was easy. I worked and played and was tired and didn't have time to think about what had happened. Especially since it's practically routine; Get back together for a few days, break up for a week. I thought it would resolve itself. Or I thought that the turmoil we put each other this time would be enough for me to hate him. But when you become accustomed to certain slander you develop a certain resilience. Don't confuse this resilience with acceptance or pleasure, but just a thick skin to handle it, to take it, to overcome it.

He doesn't want me to ever write about him again, but how can I not? He was my existence for an entire year. I'm not slandering him, I just miss him. I miss him so much I go online to see if he's online. I check his MySpace to see who he's missing. And it's not me. And that's ok. I wish I could get over him so quickly. Then again, he was probably over me months ago. Detached from my mental instabilities and my scolds on how to live his life. Because I was so perfect. So perfect I didn't need to love someone else.

Sunday I was supposed to have a date. I met this boy at a bar and he called me two weeks later. He's getting his MFA in Creative Writing. Very handsome. He never called. He was going to be my Knight in Shining Rebound Armor, riding up on his horse named Distraction. I wasn't looking for sex or kisses or good conversation or a connection. Just a temporary distraction from all things "him." I hate this boy for not calling. Not because it was a blow to my ego- because it really wasn't- but just because he made me dwell on "him" all day.

A few years, maybe even a few months down the road I will see this week, these past months, as no big deal. Just a man I loved and a relationship that just didn't quite work. The blame will pass, the "we should haves" will disappear and hope for someone new will return. But.. . .It's weird how things can hit you so quickly, so forcefully, so unexpectedly. Like that earthquake last week. 4:42am and shake, rattle and roll. And all I wanted was "him" to hold me. I just want to forget him and stop aching.

Oops.

Someone got a little too drunk at the gay club. My roommate's boyfriend works at the White Horse so we headed over for a few drinks and a lot of dance moves. "Incorporate water" is what my mom always says, so I did, but it didn't help. Those L.I.T's were lethal, but then again, so were my dance moves. Oh god my head hurts. Never again, she says, never again. But we know how that goes. ;)

My head is pounding. I wish I was at the beach.

I always feel unfocused but I feel particularly lost at the moment. Things are not hopeless, but they are very unclear and I'm too afraid to commit to any sort of decision. One decision being moving back home. At this moment I'm torn 50/50. If I move I leave my loved ones but will be welcomed back by other loved ones. If I stay I continue to glide through life without being forced to make commitments. I need to start acting like a grown up if I want to be a grown up.

I guess I'll go read. I love that I've returned to pouring over pages and pages, even on Friday nights. Reminds me of when I was younger and would stay under the covers of my bed for hours reading as much as I could until my eyes wouldn't stay open anymore. I was kind of chunk then. I guess I need to start that running thing again. Bah.

Crazy lady.

Tonight my writing class found out I keep a secret, though they aren't entirely certain it is I who owns it or if it is my character who does. Though it seems glaringly obvious that I am the character, therefore I own the secret.

The class concentrates on fiction writing but my imagination is more comfortable buoying in familiar waters. I've taken to embellishing my Bloomingdale's chronicles which I previously posted on MySpace. My dedicated MySpace blog readers were entertained, yet they never critiqued my journals as my writing class has. I've been presenting more polished versions of my chronicles to a more attentive audience who isn't reading my 'blog' to pass time while at work. This class is trying help me with my craft.

After today's reading in which I compared Bloomingdale's to a prison with no escape, my class mulled over my hyperboles and personifications and imagery coming to a shared agreement that my character is "crazy", "mad", "depressed" and "lazy." Quizzical looks accompanied the question, "Well, why does the character stay there if she hates it so much?" They all chuckled at my story. At my real life story. Based on a true story.

That was me! That is me! I'm the loony who got stuck working in a store. Was my depression that apparent? Did I really think I could fool everyone? These people who didn't even know me could read it all over my face in only two typed pages!

I'm tired. I'm going to go read The Brooklyn Follies. The desire to read was the only success of tonight's class. My character flaws were pointed out and discussed. It was like a group of surgeons standing a patient just beginning to feel the affects of the anesthesia. They don't realize he's still awake and begin diagnosing him as not having much hope after the operation. That's how I felt. They had no idea I was still awake.

But I cant try to unravel my foibles tonight. Maybe I need to keep writing my story in order to figure it out. . .

This sidewalk's mine, bitch.

Apparently my exotic French Canadian, Polish, Irish and Welsh Euro-mutt heritage tricks the residents of Berkeley into thinking that I do not understand English or American customs. I am highlighting the absence of manners and the word, "Excuse me."

My exotic heritage belies my grasp of English and my tolerance for rudeness. Since moving to Berkeley I have observed this liberal enclave as a home to a strange breed. Entirely unrelated to each other, yet having an underlying connection.

No one moves for oncoming pedestrian traffic while on the fuckin' sidewalk. Every time I walk down Shattuck or Telegraph or Channing or Durant or where the fuck ever, no one ever moves. It's as if I do not exist!

Does the West Coast discriminate against French Canadian, Polish, Irish, Welsh people? Are my people invisible? Confidently I answer that question with a 'No.' Reason being- I've walked with people who do not share my ethnicities and the habit remains. Wordless and uninvited walk-offs. And since they're uninvited and I've received no invitation citing the whereabouts and time of the rude shoulder rub that leaves me off kilter, I am left with my mouth agape, incredulous to the cantankerous rudeness endemic to this little city. But instead of fellow sidewalk patrons soothing me with an understanding, "I can't believe what I just saw! Not even a verbal acknowledgment!" they stare at me as if I were an annoying crack in the sidewalk. As if I should have moved.

The immorality that no one but myself and a few other East Coasters recognize which is deemed as even more contentious than the shoulder jolt is the lack of the phrase, "Excuse me." Berkeley is home to a large international population, yet "Excuse me" is a two word phrase in the front of every pocket dictionary for foreigners. And even if you don't know any English there are cognates close enough, such a "Excusez moi" for Pierre et Elodie and "Scusi" for Roberto e Antonella. Aside from that, the international symbol for anyone foreign needing any sort of assistance, whether it be the Heimlich or asking for the time, is a smile. A simple smile will wipe away any ill feelings I incur from the omission of "Excuse me" or the lack of recognition noting someone else (me) would like to walk on the sidewalk with the same luxurious strides other people are privy to.

Berkeley's Rude Walker epidemic is a daily struggle. Some say, 'if you can't beat em' join' em.' So I tried to join them. I walked down Shattuck the other day ignoring oncoming pedestrians. At first I felt rude. I mean, even in New York City people say 'Excuse me', even if they add an expletive to emphasize urgency. But the more people I forced onto the road and into bushes the more the feelings of remorse subsided. Take that, JERKS. This is what happens when you mess with Mapes. Watch that shrub, sucka!

From a short distance I saw a stroller and that's when my moral judgment was tested. A cute couple taking a leisurely walk. They never did anything to me- but wait, it's not about them or what they did- this is about the greater good- this is about taking back to sidewalk, for myself.

Thorns in my forearm and branches licking my neck. I moved aside for the couple and their stroller, right into a bush as they walked along, unaware of the rash I would receive from whatever plant I was just choked by. I couldn't do it- I couldn't ruin their walk.

In the end, I can't ruin anyone's walk. Is it an East Coast thing? Morals? Laziness? Politeness?

No. Just the ability to let people walk all over me and my friggin' sidewalk.

Mmmm mmm good.

I definitely just ate a huge custard cream puff, a large slice of homemade quiche, a heaping portion of broccoli zucchini soup (also homemade), some strawberry shortcake and another homemade treat; apricot almond tart. We do not play in the household. It's gluttonous. It's enviable. It's delicious.

Goodnight.

MishMash

It wouldn't be a generalization if I stated all libraries have at least 3 crack-pots employed in their establishments. Today, after much delay, I went to sign up for my Berkeley city library card. The young woman at the information desk pointed me to the check out desk where a man resembling Rip Taylor if he were a truck driver was busy fiddling with a computer. After clearing my throat I waited until he decided to abandon his important library science tasks and assist me. When he finally did he ignored when I clearly stated I needed a library card and asked me to annunciate. Fortunately for me, speech challenged that I am, the rest of the process was done on paper and through the computer.

I left the library satisfied that my yen for reading has returned. After I finish Me Talk Pretty One Day I will either begin Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil or The Brooklyn Follies. This return to reading combined with my writing class has spurred a desire to go to grad school and pursue an MFA in Creative Writing, my concentration being non-fiction. I've looked at a few schools and the requirements are a bit daunting. 10 pages of poetry, 20 pages of fiction and of nonfiction, and 30 pages of a children's book! I love to write, but thinking about creating all those pages makes me apprehensive!

Despite the recent upswing of my mood, I've been having some rough patches, today being one of them. And it's weird how just some random man at the library knew that I was incredibly hurt today. Though he looked like a member of Hell's Angels, he was rather sweet and told me to "Smile Big" because it would make me look beautiful. Someday I want to be beautiful.

Sicky poo poo.

I've always known that my blog is insignificant and goes unread, but it just hit me that it is really insignificant. Kind of like those moments when you realize the coffee at Starbucks is mediocre and overpriced however you consistently return. Similarly, I will continue writing know there is better use of my time. . .like. . .organizing my sock drawer. . .?

Tomorrow is the Fourth. Big BBQ and boozin' day and I'll be stuck at my un-air conditioned job with a sore throat due to the stagnant air at my hopelessly vapid retail job. Yes the highly profitable chain retailer where I work has a broken air conditioner. Wah, poor Lindsay, right? If it were a day-long inconvenience I might not spend much energy babbling about the sweat dripping from every crevice my body with only a few fans to ease our heat exhaustion. However, it's been three weeks without and will probably be three more weeks before our air conditioner is installed and functioning. It's a crowded store, with high traffic and poor air flow. The affects are cranky customers, cranky workers and poor sales. In addition I've been fending off a cold and sty in my eye for about two weeks. I'm pointing my fingers at the heat and germs festering on every counter top. That and the redundant customer complaint that, "Gee, it's hot in here, can't you turn up the air conditioner?"

Hopefully people take hints from the industrial size fans in the store and my scowl, and spare my fun holiday from being completely ruined. Sick and hot and not at the beach watching fire works. Exactly what I want to be doing.

Being sick in Berkeley is tough. Actually being sick any distance from my mom makes recovery long winded. Moms have that magic touch. Gaging your body's temperature with just one gentle touch on the forehead, whipping up miracle soup that rids your body of every toxin within hours ignoring your urges to bottle and market the stuff for a lucrative cure-all, and ordering a thick coat of Vicks on your chest and throat draped with a hot towel. They're miracle workers.

Since my Pennsylvania medicine woman can't cure me when we're 3000 miles apart, I've resorted to Berkeley's homeopathic remedies. So far, so good. Rare teas and 8-syllable vitamins can't compare to my mom's curing powers, but it will have to do if I want to make it to work on tomorrow's holiday. Which I don't want to do, but I have to.

My lazy competition.

Monday morning after a crazy weekend. Groggy with a side of mussed up hair. Work at 4. Myself and my two roommate's boyfriends are in separate rooms on our respective laptops, sipping our coffees and searching the internet for jobs. One English major, one Anthropology major, one Sociology major. We're all content to squeak by at the end of each month, hoping our rent checks don't get cashed until we get paid. But we've all got the hopes for something better. A salaried job with health benefits. Ahh, to be young and partially employed. Here's to Monday mornings; a fresh start from the alcoholic haze of a weekend, a new week to lazily search for jobs. Cin cin!

This week.

Things that happened this week with accompanying thoughts:

1. Interview at aquarium for marketing position-
A very young and excitable blond woman led me to a small room where she and another young woman conducted a very relaxed interview. I felt confident and I think I might actually have a chance. After telling me I would hear about the position Friday (today!) they gave me a free pass to use at the aquarium. Though I wanted to stay and stare at the fish, blisters from what I thought were a sensible pair of shoes pushed me towards the gift shop, frantically looking for Nemo themed band aids. No luck.

2. I acquired mammoth size blisters-
The outfits I choose for interviews always include a pair of wide leg trousers. They have an amazing fit, and if not awarded a job for my aptitude I should be for the way my honey looks in those trousers. But I digress. In choosing a pair of shoes I had three choices: open toe wedge which says 'I'm trendy and sophisticated.' Low heels with subtle white piping, very plain and unnoticeable. They say, 'Hire me or else I'll end up working in a library.' The last choice, which was were the shoes I wore on this week's interview, are black round toe flats. Very simple, very chic and are accessible to all potential employers. They say, 'I look nice but I'll turn on the heat.' Heat on my foot, from a nonstop burning sensation the rubbing of fake leather and bare skin on my heels and toes. I walked a mile from the interview to the BART station looking for a Walgreens. After finally finding a Walgreens I proceeded to attach melon sized bandages combat soliders use for gun shot wounds in the entrance way where svelte businessmen from the neighboring Financial District walked over me in pure disgust. I didn't give a shit, I was dying and debating surrending a pair of shoes based on the ungodly pain I was suffering through. Finally I made my way onto the BART, limping and cringing the entire way. I was in no hurry to get off the BART but soon had to leave the comfort of my seat to galumph another mile in agony. I can barely wear any shoe thanks to those damn interview shoes. I hope I get that f-in job.

3. Yesterday was the first day of my fiction writing class-
And let me tell you, I'm intimidated. It's not that anyone proved themselves to be the next Flannery O'Connor to make me feel insecure, but everyone seems to have an eloquence to their quick responses. The responses they nonchalantly blurt out always appear in my head three days after the fact. I just feel slow. Despite my few insecurities I'm quite pleased to be in the class and volunteered to read next week. I'm not nervous yet, but I'm sure I'll find myself toiling in front of this very screen next Wednesday with knots in my stomach and succumbing to a nail biting buffet.

4. Tonight we have a party-
Unfortunately I feel sick. My head feels heavy, there's a sty in my eye and I'm achy and feverish. Not a great way to go into a night of drinking and dancing. First party since we moved in. . .

5. I'm me-
Since beginning my medicine I feel more like myself. Do I sound like a commercial? I don't care if I do. My emotions and reactions for more stable compared to a few months ago. Nothing is perfect and I haven't been privy to any life changing epiphanies, but everything seems normal and the way it should be. I have hope and I have sadness, I have happiness and I have worry. But they're normal feelings and they go away when they should and linger when I let them.

It's a natural part of life. Everyone does it.

Yesterday at work I had to go to the bathroom. Like, go to the bathroom. As in not number one, but the other number. So, I went. It wasn't the first time I had to, you know, while at work. I did what I had to do, quickly mind you, and flushed. While washing my hands and making sure there wasn't anything stuck between my teeth, I noticed the toilet water was rising. . .not draining. For a girl who hates to even say the 'p' word and despises, ahem, 'fart humor' (an oxymoron if you ask me), I became frantic. Everyone at work was going to know that I. . .POOPED! Unless of course I could switch to plumber mode- ASAP. I abandoned my hand washing and teeth primping duties, grabbed hold of the plunger and pretended I had my ass crack hanging out of stone washed Levis instead of being hid underneath the adorable purple dress I was wearing. The plunger splashed into the polluted currents, but failed to make the, uh, soiled, water dissipate. My efforts as a drain doctor failed. I was sweating profusely, not from my forceful plunges, but from embarrassment and worry. I could feel my face turning bright red.

In this moment of ire, I remembered my dad hunched over the toilet. Not like that. He was my dad fixing an unclogged toilet. I must have been 8 years old. We were still living in Connecticut where my siblings and I shared an entire floor to ourselves. The bathroom we shared holds many memories, including the unlicensed cosmetology school my brother and I started where our younger sister was our first and last hair cut victim. However, the day my dad fixed the clogged toilet is insignificant in every way possible except that he took the top off and fiddled with some fixtures inside. As I leaned against the sink, not really paying attention to his method, I waited for my turn on the can. He fixed it and I enjoyed many more moments on that fine flusher.

Taking the very little that I learned that day in Connecticut, I frantically tore off the top of the toilet seat and looked dumbfounded at the two fixtures sticking up at me. I lifted and pressed and simultaneously tried to plunge. I was moist from sweat and the splashing of dirty waters. It was futile. Whoever used the toilet next was going to get an awful surprise. It only looked bad because my attempts to plunge and flush pulverized and pressed my. . .droppings. Combined with water and toilet paper. . .well. . .gag.

After putting the top back on the tank and covering the toilet with an empty box signifying "Caution Hazardous Waste" I made a rueful walk to the manager's office to notify her of the faulty toilet. Fortunately there were three people to embarrass myself in front of, Christine my store manager, Crystal my fun loving and favorite manager and Lucky, my intimidating peer who works in the receiving office who by the expressions on her face doesn't seem to have much luck concerning anything. But alas- who doesn't like an audience when the discussion of bowel movements are involved?

I cowered in the corner while waiting for the three to finish their discussion.

"Uh, so, the toilet, is clogged," I mumbled with a nervous smile.
"Yeah I know it hasn't been working lately," Christine said unaffected.
"How do you know?" asked Crystal.
"I went to flush and it just didn't" I answered eliminating any details.
"You go number two?" Crystal joked.
"Actually. . ." I said between pursed lips.
Lucky, who had her back to us the entire time, burst out laughing.
"Oh my god, I can't believe you just admitted you clogged the toilet with your shit. . .That's awesome!"
Christine was in hysterics and Crystal was shaking her head with a smile. I felt like a 6 year old among a crowd of adults laughing at a joke I didn't get. Pretend you get it, pretend!
"Whaaaaaaaaaaat? Soooorrry, I just didn't want to leave it for someone else, don't you think you should call a plumber?"
Their eyes were all tearing.
"Why didn't you just leave it?" Christine asked matter-of-factly.
"Ew!" the rest of replied. She shrugged with a grin and ended the discussion, "Well, can't do much about it, just put a sign on the door." I turned on my heels and sheepishly walked out still hearing their chuckles.
When I returned the bathroom, the box was still atop the seat. I removed it, Lysoled the scence of the crime, and flushed. Some water went down. I attempted a plunge. More water went down. I imagined it exploding back into my face after a few more successful plunges and flushes, but I was relieved, five minutes later, to clearly see the bottom of the toilet bowl.

As soon as it was cleaned I announced to all the other associates and my managers that the toilet was fixed. No one cared, in fact I don't think the managers even remembered that it was clogged considering they had a huge merchandise shipment to place. As a result, yesterday I learned that no one gives a shit about anyone else's shit. Like that bumpersticker: shit happens.

And for once, I'm comfortable with that.

I should be paying you to read this drivel

Updating hasn't been a priority, unfortunately. I wish I had the same desire to blog these days as I did last year. I guess I've been busier and not having more of a structured forum for blogging as I did last year makes it less appealing to broadcast sentiments. Maybe that will change when my fiction writing class starts on Thursday. I'm so nervous! I haven't written fiction in so long and am hesitant about sharing my writing in front of people, rather than the internet! Hopefully it will be worth my while to bare all in front of a wide eyed and critical crowd.

It's sad to feel uninspired. It's a different type of sadness compared to the self-loathing I usually subject myself to. This is probably what it feels like to watch yourself to progress with a debilitating disease, like Parkinsons. It worsens and worsens without your control, people stare at you, shake their heads with pity and say- Remember what she used to be capable of. . .

Ahh, hopefully this writing class reignites some passion and sparks some skill. Because you probably enjoyed this post half as much as I did, and that's not saying a lot.

$$$$$$$$

The fancy pumpkin seed cilantro pesto my parents bought me when we were visiting Sonoma wineries perished in the refrigerator despite being contained in a lovely glass jar. I wanted to marinate my chicken in it, but I ended up using months old Cajun marinade we had lathered up some pork tenderloin with in April. I'm thinking it was just as expired as the pesto, but didn't have visible signs of poisonous decay.

Why does this matter? Who should care I'm throwing away a mostly full jar of fancy pesto and instead using an old jar of marinade? No one should care, but I'll tell you why it matters to me. Ever since I've become a fiscal paraplegic throwing away food is no longer a blase activity. At home I could stand in front of the fridge and find food shoved in the back, teeming with mold. No problem, just throw it away, replace it with the abundance of new groceries and left overs provided by mother and father. Now that never ending influx of food is gone and now are the days of twice monthly grocery trips where I carefully pick out the most cost effective items to add to the refrigerator. It's a difficult task, especially when you try to avoid starchy and carb laden foods. Fruits and vegetables are expensive and require the most preparation for meals. I lost two tomatoes and a spaghetti squash in addition to my pesto this week!

I can't afford to waste food. It's made me more creative with my cooking (which doesn't always garner gourmet results) and more appreciative of the food I do have. But it makes me realize I do not want to live like this forever. I do not want to pinch pennies forever. My financial woes seem to be never ending and increasing exponentially. It's frustrating because I know I could have a better paying job but. . .I don't. And I don't know why!

I suppose if I really wanted to I could take a sales job, I could take a job I won't enjoy temporarily, just so I can have my head above water. So my parents don't have to pay for some of my expenses still. So I can pay off my roommates, so I can pay off my credit card. It's frustrating. I could get another job, but have two jobs? I've done it before and it sucks and I feel the vein in my forehead pulsate with frustration every time I think about it, however it seems like that's my only option at this point. Keep on applying and continue to get better at pinching pennies.

Easy does it.

Somehow last week I pulled myself together. After being dumped in a cruel, arguably deserved, manner, I managed to live unencumbered. I went to the park with work friends, I went to brunch with my roommates and I tanned solo under the sun at Stinson Beach. All of this I did without feeling like I should be somewhere else.

Last week I realized how I much I suffocatingly needed my boyfriend. My routines were planned around his routines, my emotions based on whether he satisfied my sometimes superfluous "needs". My love for him turned intoxicatingly pathetic. When he made it so easy for me to leave him based on his supposed actions (think: other woman), I felt lighter. I went to a few parties, I signed up for a writing class, I stopped wondering what I was going to do that day based on what he was going to do.

But why can't I be independent when I'm with him? Why did it become so harmful for me to be with him? Why did I lose myself in his world? When will I find a balance?

It's not easy being without someone you were a constant companion to and loved very deeply. It's not even enjoyable and that's why I wonder if this is right?

In other news. . .I went to a friend's party this past weekend. It was nice to get out and drink a few beers with a new crowd. But with new crowds are new conversations. Mixed with alcohol it veered towards sex. I was surprised by the nonchalance that everyone spoke about their escapades and especially shocked when there was casual kissing in front of a captive audience who threw their astonishment aside to continue rooting the couple along. It wasn't classless, per se, it was just so long since I had been in a similar situation. In college, I had been in that situation, I mean- I was even that situation. Perhaps even more surprising was I'm not that situation anymore and that I realized I had matured, even at the risk of being deemed a modest prude. However, aside for the brief awkwardness I encountered, I was having fun, watching my past follies being relived, maybe even relishing in a pseudo-pat on the back for calming down and finding joy in a fulfilling relationship. Who ever thought?

W-e-i-r-d

I don't want to jinx myself. . .but somehow I feel. . .lighter.

And I'm seeing possibilities.

And I'm feeling. . .hopeful.

And just lighter.

psht.

I got dumped again.
He called me a psycho bitch.
And he said he met someone two weeks ago.
Stupid me. Stupid, stupid me.
For trying.
For caring.
For whatever. For fucking whatever.

This has no point.

Remaining in retail isn't a long term goal of mine. It never was and it's even clearer to me now that I am a retail associate it's precisely where I don't want to be. Sure, I love I clothing and fashion and trends, but customers? Customers ruin my day everyday. They are both the bane of my existence and the payer of my salary. A necessary evil. They come in five minutes before we close the store to mess up the piles of shirts we've carefully folded. They want to return items without receipts. They want us to call another store and search for a sale item that's been off the shelves for weeks. They want us to spend 20 minutes looking for a lost SKU for the most atrocious clothing item known to fashion. They are annoying. They are endemic to a retail environment.

Last year working at Bloomingdale's was fun, but it was slow. My fellow associates and I were stationary, leaning against counters for most of the day, listlessly waiting for customers to abate our boredom but silently berating the first customer who interrupted our superficial conversations. My fellow fashion accessory workers and I, we had fun, despite most of us hating our jobs. What else were we going to do?

Things run differently at Urban Outfitters. We don't have any down time to bond with our co-workers. We're only allowed conversations in passing. Everyone has a station, a position, a task. There's always cleaning, there's always tidying, there's always restocking. I used to hate it. And I still really don't like the tasks I'm assigned, but I'm finally fond of the people I work with. Though I'm disappointed I am a college graduate and working a menial retail job, I'm beginning to make the best of it. And thinking more about it, work is the only thing making me sane these days. It's an escape from my head, from my worries, from my troubles. I guess you could classify it as preventative medicine. The best laughs I've had lately have been at work. In fact tonight I laughed myself to delirium, to tears almost! I may not be connecting with these people outside of work, but I'm going to take what I can get. It is what it is. Laughing my head off at work is better than not laughing at all.


It's weird to experience such highs and such lows. Yesterday I had a really bad day. I was rock bottom. I'm lucky to have some good friends who validate my feelings and assure me things are going to get better, it's just tough when they're 3,000 miles away. It's tough when you live paycheck to paycheck and eating is no longer an option. Maybe today's sudden love for my co-workers was spurred by my manager giving me a coupon for a free burrito, making two meals a possibility for today. I guess it's not important. Today I ride the high, hope it follows me to tomorrow.

ho-hum.

Ten years ago this is not how I would have imagined my life. But then again, ten years ago I wasn't dealing with half the shit I'm dealing with now. I was happily working at a movie theater, happily volunteering on the weekends, happily playing school sports and happily living at home with my parents. Now I'm miserable at my retail job and miserable living in California. There is nothing distracting me from those two facets of my life. This is not the life I imagined I would be living and what's worse is I can't remember the happiness I imagined when I was 15 years old. I can't remember how I imagined my life's happiness.

All of my relationships are suffering.

My desire to write is suffering too. When I write I can only seem to detail my latest sadness. My vocabulary is limited to negatives. My sentences are fragmented, half-assed. Kind of like my life.

I want to get a grip, but I just can't. I feel everything falling down on me at once. I can't see the surface. I can't see the light at the end of the tunnel. It's so frustrating.

Sigh.

Physically, mentally and emotionally tired.
Facing lots of decisions.
Realizing I don't handle stress very well.
I don't handle much very well.
Wondering how I make it so easy to avoid thinking about my own problems.
Worrying about this interview I have tomorrow.
Hoping it goes well, but not caring if it doesn't.
Testing my strength.

People are mean.

I have short hair.

I used to have thick, long, frizzy brown hair that weighed about 30 pounds. Just like my height, it was always a target for loving jabs. Those jokes never bothered me, they even gave me two long-standing nicknames; Schlinz Boofonts and Big Bird (trademarked by Mike Davidson.)

When I was twenty-two I studied abroad in Florence, Italy. I look back at it with only fond memories. Four months spent in a beautiful, historical and relaxing country alleviated a lot of the depression I was feeling while at Syracuse. A completely foreign environment was aesthetically and mentally stimulating. I used all of my senses to soak up the language and culture. My goal was to depart in December as an honorary Italian. And what better way to jump start the transformation than chop off all my hair?

After all, every Italian girl was doing it. Choppy, spiky, sophisticated short hair crowned the olive skinned natural beauties from various regions of Italy. If I couldn't afford the Miss Sixty jeans or the knee high black leather boots, a hair cut was in order. On a train ride to Isola D'Elba I was feeling particularly bold and declared to my female contingent of travel companions, "I'm chopping it off!" Theresa, Nika and Margot were completely supportive and even pushy about my decision to buzz it. Liz and Deb were wide eyed and hesitant about supporting such a rash decision. After returning from our trip to Elba I promptly chopped my hair, telling the multi-lingual hairdresser, "Cut as much off as you can without making it look stupid." Her English was very good because my hair looked fabulous and I felt the most beautiful I ever remember feeling.

That feeling ended when I returned to America. Instead of having Italian professors at my school tell me how wonderful I looked, instead of having my host mom whisper "Bellisima" instead of garnering stares and compliments from foreign friends and fellow Americans I was asked "Why" and called "Dyke-y" and stared at.

While at Syracuse people stared at me in line at the post office and whispered. In Charleston a homeless man told me to pour Miracle Grow atop my head and children audibly whispered to their parents, "Is that a boy or a girl?" In Berkeley, a city that is supposed to be so liberal, I've received some of the worst and most cutting insults. From a parked car, a loud shout, "DAMN IS THAT A MAN?" and the worst today. . .

For about five uncomfortable and excruciating minutes I was followed by three thugs. While wishing my grandfather a happy 80th birthday I heard yelling behind me. I was engrossed in my conversation, which switched over to a two-way call with my parents. Suddenly I realized they were yelling at me, just a girl walking down the street, inoffensively and modestly.
"Dyke, I bet your girlfriend has got a bigger booty than you."
"Dyke I bet your girlfriend would make out with my girlfriend."
"Dyke I wanna see your titties."
"Dyke, lick my girlfriend's pussy."
"Dyke" "Dyke." "Dyke."
I tried to ignore it. All I wanted to do was talk to my parents, walk to the BART, get to a museum and de-stress from my recent broken heart. How embarrassing to walk down the street and have everyone else hear you being verbally abused? How embarrassing to have your parents hear you being assaulted? How awful to feel so helpless and so undeserving?

I like my hair short. Maybe one day I'll grow out it, right now I don't have the patience. Frankly, I don't have much desire. But the comments hurt. People going out of their way to make someone feel so horrible? To yell so loudly and so ignorantly and so emphatically? So offensively! I'm not a lesbian and the comments still cut so deep.

I ducked into a bookstore and tried not to blubber on the phone to my parents, telling them I couldn't decipher what the three guys were saying. Fearing continued harassment I busied myself in the bookstore, upset that three guys ruined my day, made me feel unsafe and unable to continue to my destination.

How can someone go out of their way to yell at someone they have never met, who never even looked their way, and make them feel so violated? And how can someone so publicly slander someone without being reprimanded by a bystander on the street? How was I so helpless? Why wasn't I strong enough to turn to them and tell them to stop? To tell them to 'Fuck off'? To tell them anything to stop?

So next time I just want to step outside to take a walk, do I hang my head and avoid any confrontation? Or do I walk proudly and stand up for myself? Unfortunately, I think the latter would be accompanied by tears. Even more unfortunate is that this will probably happen again.
What do I do? I just have short hair. I didn't do deserve what happened today.

Simma down-na

Ugh. Again. Limb torn off. But this time, it needs to stay off. And as hard as it's going to be to resist the urge to clumsily and half-heartedly reattach it, I must.

I haven't broken up with someone since high school. Somehow this relationship didn't just end seamlessly and naturally like those of the past. This was disastrous.

I take a lot of the blame, but I don't take full credit.

It sucks when you want something to work out so badly, or think that something should work itself out and it doesn't and shouldn't. Acceptance will come eventually, though currently it seems like never, because right now it's just a bunch of "Whys?" "Hows?" and "What the fucks?"

I'm trying to tell myself that some things aren't meant to be. I'm trying not to think about his smell right after he shaves or his hands on my waist when we're jumping over the waves. Look at that torture I submit myself to. I guess it's natural.

Love translates to hurt so easily. And hurt, for me, evolves into hatred. This is tough, suppressing the hurt. I need to feel my feelings. Be strong. Because hurt and hatred will eventually become tiring and healing will begin. I guess I have to remember Donna Summer and her simplistic yet truthful prose, "I will survive." Hey? Hey?

raw.

I'm annoyed.

Well, let me push my annoyance aside for a second exclaim my happiness for my friend Megan who was married this past weekend. I hope I look as beautiful and elated as she did. I also hope that my friends bring jello shots to my wedding.

But now back to my annoyance. . .I'm annoyed that I'm placing conditions on my happiness. That tiny word, if, catalyzed every tear, every worry, every regret.

If only I moved to Charleston, I wouldn't be so lonely, I wouldn't feel the pressure to get a "real" job, I wouldn't have to work so hard to make friends.

If only I stayed at home, I wouldn't have trouble saving money, I would be able to find a permanent position, I wouldn't be in such debt, I wouldn't be so sad, I wouldn't be so lonely.

If only I moved to San Diego, I would be so much closer to the beach, have so much to be happier about at the beach, would be so much more relaxed.

I have a disease. People call it laziness, ungratefulness, weakness. They call it a lot of things when they don't want to understand that someone's mind is constantly cloudy, constantly riddled with run on sentences and unfinished paragraphs. Or they call it nothing and avoid it, avoid the listlessness I so effortlessly embody.

I call it depression. I've just recently begun to admit to myself that I have this disease, but hesitate to mention it to others. But surely, it must be obvious.

• Loss of appetite. Check.
• Feelings of hopelessness. Check.
• Withdrawal from activities and loved ones. Check and check.
• Changes in sleep pattern. Check.
• Low energy. Check.
• Wanting to disappear for a long time. Check.

Perhaps you feel some of the above symptoms occasionally. What about every day? Does it affect your existence? Does it affect your loved ones? Does it affect your health? I'll naively guess that it doesn't. I'll naively guess that you don't cry yourself to sleep or shy away from co-workers or resist applying to jobs because of detrimental thoughts about yourself.

So, I'm annoyed that my depression caused me to make a rash decision. Move to California! Run away! Certainly yes, it had been a dream of mine to move to California since I was in high school. And of course I was looking for adventure. But I didn't stop to think if it was the right time. I didn't stop to consider whether I needed more time to get better. See, before I left I was told by a health professional that I was depressed. I treated it half-heartedly with a month of therapy, then decided moving away from my problem would be the best long term medication. How silly of me to think that. How ridiculous of me to not realize the problem is myself.

And now I'm annoyed again because the grass is always greener, especially sprinkled with some hindsight.

So what do I do? Do I complain to you reader that you don't know how tedious and unrewarding it is to rifle through job search engines like CareerBuilder all day and not hear back from any of them? To work an unfulfilling job as a retail puppet? To have no money to escape from my ever growing list of regrets permeating through my brain cells?

How do I assess what I want from what I want to escape from?

I wish I could sleep but there are too many questions

I used to be a good sleeper. When I was in college I used to sleep more than necessary. Instead of working hard and playing hard, I studied for midterms and finals if I felt I was at risk of failing, drank a lot of Starbucks and generally hid under a few pounds of unruly boofont. Sure, sure, I had some good times here and there, but some of the fondest memories that remain are the times I spent under my covers hibernating through unbearable college life. And while there still remain aspects of my life I'd like to hide under the covers from, my ability to nap has dwindled while my insomnia has only been magnified.

There's no use in trying to deny the ticker tape of worries and thoughts that fall through my head during the late evening hours when my body is physically exhausted. Though my job is sedentary and monotonous providing little stimulation except the need to have an arsenal of quips to retaliate my co-workers with, I come home tense. I run, hoping to tire myself out, but sometimes that proves to be more mentally agitating. When running I try to focus on anything but the mileage ahead. So I focus on the unpleantries in my life.

Current tracks on that playlist include: 'To Move Home or Not to Move Home.' 'Another Internship- TRY A JOB! 'Health Insurance NONONO' and 'Why.' The last track is also the title of my disappointing album. Why did I move here? Why did I think anything would be different? Why am I the way I am? Why am I so stuck?

Stuck. My head on my pillow, my eyes closed and my imagination in overdrive. I envision myself stuck in glue, stuck in plastic. I can't move, I can't speak, I can't get the help I need.

The moving home thing is what has been keeping me awake lately.
I moved out here because I wanted to be an adult and so far I've failed. Do I move back home in order to recuperate although I'll be almost 26 and without a job or really anything to show for myself? Or do I continue to stay stuck in California? Do I pull myself up from my bootstraps and try to better myself against all odds (see: worries, laments, complaints, regrets, troubles)? That would be what someone stable would do. Someone strong. Or is that what someone stubborn would do?

Moving so often, especially this past move to California, has shown me your problems follow you wherever you go. That's common knowledge, folks. It just resonates so much stronger when it actually permeates your existence. . .for more than 5 years. I'm not sure if staying here I will fix the problem or just encourage it. Will going home just make me feel like a failure? Or have I learned my lesson, have I realized I need to seriously regroup and refocus with a strong, unbiased support group backing me? I don't know. I need to stop asking myself questions, especially questions I can't answer.

I don't know what to do.

I was dumped, in case you didn't know. You probably didn't, because no one reads this, and you probably also didn't know, because I didn't tell you.

So here's the update, basically now I'm alone and it feels pretty crappy. Like I lost a limb. I'll have to learn how to function without something I took for granted for so long.

And yeah, it hurts a lot too. That limb was just torn off. But I treated it pretty poorly, so it's like, you know, eating fatty foods every day of your life until one day your arteries get clogged, and you're like, you know, shit, i should have eaten more vegetables.

But let's stick with the limb analogy for now (forget about the arteries), there's always the option of reattaching it or finding a replacement, a prosthetic. The thing with investing in a prosthetic is that it's artificial, it's fake, it's never like the one you were born with, the one you were meant to have. However, you can learn to live with it, function with it. That too may end up needing replacements. It may be that instead of replacing the limb immediately, you choose to live without one. For now or forever. It may be more difficult, but it could also prove to be rewarding. Wow, look what I can do with one limb, when I used to do it with two. Things are still possible, things are still achievable.

Reattaching though. . .that's the trickiest procedure. Gory. It may take more than one surgery. And after surgery, there's always recovery time. The scars are a constant reminder. A reminder of, oh shit, look what I almost lost. It may bring emotional hurt and it may bring enhanced appreciation. Nerves may be severed, things may never be the same, and you may wonder if you should have just gone for a new limb, or no limb. But is it worth it to wonder?

Is it worth to wonder anything? Is it worth it to wonder what happened? Should I just move on? Should I just forget? Just erase? Move back home? Start new? Or do I beg? Plead my case? Promise on top of promise? Or do I wait? Which is the most lugubrious of processes, the most unrewarding, time consuming anxiety ever.

No one has an answer, everyone has advice, but no one is an expert, I wish I had been nice.

A haiku?

What goes around comes around.
Karma is in fact, a bitch.
I hurt.

Dear Diary, Where are you? Where am I?

I must have been 9 or 10 when I started recording my best friends full names, sloppily written in purple ink. After I read Harriet the Spy, I started spying on my neighbors with my brother. We hid behind bushes and trees. He held rocks to throw and I clutched my notebook to jot down their reactions. My journals give clues to who I am, but they do not explain me in my entirety, in fact, they miss a lot of the good stuff, the happy moments. There are holes. If you read my journals and if you read my blog, you do not know me. You know about the things I feel on a certain day. You may surmise after reading a collection of my blogs about me and that is okay. You learn about me from my blogs, just as I learn about myself when I take a peak at my old journals.

I usually scan my old journals when I'm bored and searching for a sense of worth or a sense of who I am. Today I was struggling, feeling a bit confused about who I am and what I've become. It's evident through my actions and my life in California that I'm not happy and I'm not good. In fact, I'm angry. I decided to dig deeper. I read my journals from when I spent a summer in Charleston. Reading them I found myself blushing, my stomach churning. A summer spent vying for the attention of boys? A summer spent wondering what boys wanted me? Let me make it clear, however, that I had the best time in Charleston; I laid in the sun all day and made friends who I had fun times with at local watering holes. But my mental well-being was obviously not at it's prime. And continued reading to old journals continues to paint a picture of depression and insecurity.

The most important journal that is missing is the one I kept while working with Americorps when I was at my happiest. When I wasn't tired from working 10 hour days I would sit at my computer and write about serving my community, building connections with my teammates, and the at-risk I worked with daily. I wondered if I was making a difference, if I was wasting my time, wondering what solutions would solve child abuse or poor education and fretting about the teammates I would leave in June. Real problems. Problems outside of myself.

My family moved and those journals from 2002-2003 were lost in the move. I swear they're up in an attic someplace, but I fear they're stuck on my old computer that was given to an ex-boyfriend through my brother, who claims that the ex is holed up in somewhere in Vermont.

So now what? Do I track down my high school boyfriend someplace in the woods? I think I'll pass. Do I sit on my bed and try to remember my emotions and frustrations and triumphs from that year? That's impossible. Do I reflect on that year and try to figure out the formula for happiness? It's a start.

I love writing in a journal. Is is immature for me to do it? Does it hold me back? I don't know. I think from reading past journals that the only thing holding me back is myself. I've taken one crucial step to mend some trauma from the past, but there is a lot more that I need to do. I'm just not sure what. My journals, missing or present, unfortunately do not have that answer.

In other news. . .

How does Trader Joe's manage to make quality grub for people who barely manage to live paycheck to paycheck? I just devoured a goat cheese and garlic personal pizza accompanied by a glass of flat coca cola, and damn, I'm marveled by the quality of cheap packaged food and the nastiness of flat coca cola. Ek.

Some other things I've marvled by at the current moment:

• The massive bruises on my knees. What was SHE doing? they all stare and wonder. Not what you think, but I can't remember how I got them, so maybe that IS a possibility.
• A former roommate and high school buddy is getting married in a few weeks and just bought a house. She's really short. But I'll keep that marvel for this bullet point as well.
• That I live paycheck to paycheck. Today I had to return $50 worth of nonsense to Target in order to make rent. I think I have $4 left over for milk for my cereal this week.
  
• I get paid little over minimum wage and am a college graduate. This is not such much of a marvel as it is a serious PROBLEM.
• My dad asked me to do some "freelance writing" for him.
  

That last one is pretty marvelous, isn't it? I've always wanted to get paid to write and here I get my chance. Write about 20 architectural or design wonderments in Chicago for a cell phone tour. Easy, right? Of course not. I've never been to Chicago, I barely paid attention in any of my art history classes in college and am so overwhelmed by the thought of having 100s of people actually hear what I've written that I spend more time pulling my hair out. Fortunately for me my boss is my father and he understands my ridiculous insecurities and hasn't put the pressure on. 10 blips instead of 20? That's fine. . .

But c'mon. Shouldn't I be using this as a test? To see if I can really do the whole freelance thing? Don't I want to have a "book" of writing samples to further my desire to become a writer? Shouldn't I prove something to myself? Show myself that I can do it? And do it well!?

Yes. I should. I should stop worry and just do it. No one is an expert. This is my test and I can pass it. The results will be. . .marvelous.

Unexplainable bruises.

Last night was bizarre. I broke up with my boyfriend out of frustration that has been building since January. It wasn't really planned, it was spontaneous irrationality. Constant arguing, perpetual reading between the lines and suppressed insecurities mounted to a tipping point. It wasn't even in person. When I called him and flatly told him my decision he asked me if I was on something. My voice was so toneless, so emotionless that I could have been flat-lining. If I checked my pulse I probably was flat-lining. My heart was breaking. Why are relationships so difficult? Is anyone's relationship without tremors?

I hung up after my eerily calm complaints and arguments for disengaging our relationship. After sitting for a moment I immediately regretted my decision, I called him back masking my pleads with frustrated desires. I'm not sure I even made sense. But I hung up on him after more static communication. I shut my light off, curled up in my bed and waited for sleep to comfort me. Five minutes later I decided to drag my roommate to a work party down the street.

We made it to the "party" when it was breaking up. My gangly manager was swaying back and forth with a lukewarm Natty ice as his pseudo-gavel. He used it for emphasis during his lengthy diatribe about our new manager who he can't stand. A few of my other co-workers were nodding and smiling at our manager's goofy display, but kept hinting at their desired departure. Mike and I stood disappointed that we weren't drunk and that the "party" wasn't much of a. . .party. But after a few beers on an empty stomach and a dance party, Mike was passed out and I was spray painting my frustrations away in the cold, letting the fumes and the artistry take my mind off my aching.

I came home and passed out. He came to me. Was I still drunk? It was dreamlike. I wanted him to stay forever. I wanted him to go away. I just wanted everything to be back to normal, whenever that was. . .was it ever? He was so warm. He's always so warm. I'm always so cold. That's an analogy for the way our hearts are too. He's so good, I'm so awful. It's makes it easy for me to hurt him.

And now I'm awake. Somehow I have bruises all over my legs. Big, plum colored, plum sized bruises. I've got a pile of dishes in the kitchen, a big assignment due for my father, a rent check i cannot afford and a wall of laundry with a smell that will haunt me until Thursday when I can finally afford to wash it. And then there's that hole in my heart that I'm not sure is repairable overnight. Does it require mending of a relationship or coming to terms with past trauma from unrelated situations? It's all too much to think about on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

Let's just start all over.

A visit from a dead friend

Two nights ago my dead friend, John, came to me in a dream. My boyfriend claims someone dead cannot be your friend, but I disagree. I suppose "friend" is a verb and since he is dead he cannot act a friend, I still hold John close to my heart. And I cherish the dream moments when he and I surprisingly reunite, for those odd, unlikely and unexplainable scenarios dreams create.

This dream came after a day of contemplation and a nightcap of tears and Nyquil. What happened to my life? Why hasn't anything happened in my life? What am I going to make happen? Why is everything so fucked up? Why can't I just start over? WHAT AM I GOING TO DO? Sometimes the questions become too much and instead of ignoring them, I answer them with tears. Ineffective, self-loathing tears.

John's appearance startled me even in my dream. He appeared as a ghost. In my dream I was so happy to see him, it had been so long. He told me to quiet down, no one was supposed to see him. His human like presence disappeared and he became a voice. He was warning me, saying, "Lindsay, I have something important to tell you." Then I woke up. Why didn't I get to hear his warning?

My dead friend took his life. It was completely unexpected. He hid his unhappiness with cynical jokes and outrageous goofiness. I had just come back from Italy and was getting my nails done with my sister and our friend Catherine. Megan, a mutual friend of John and I, called me to tell me he died. I didn't cry. I called my brother who loved John almost as much as I did. He was also shocked. Rumors of suicide were heard days later. A speeding car, a stomach full of pills, a note to his sister. I hadn't seen him in months. And I was never going to see him again. I had no idea he was in pain.

Maybe John was watching me from his perch in heaven, or wherever he is. I imagine when you die and are in the afterlife you get to watch whomever. . . He probably saw I was moving into the bathroom, naked under my robe, and assumed I was going to shower. Instead I hid in the bathroom and cried, maybe as he did in his latent unhappiness. Maybe he was familiar with my cries of desperation and futility. Maybe he related to my worry and my hopelessness. Or maybe he just saw his friend struggling and lonely.

I don't understand dreams. They are not logical and they cannot be used as predictors of the future. They seem to bridge the unconscious with the conscious, like a Tim Burton movie or a Salvador Dali painting. John's unfinished omen is a reminder of what I have and what I would lose if I don't take control of my self and my real life dreams.

I'm back.

I haven't written in a while. It's tough to censor what I write. I want to be able to write freely but I have learned just because I cherish writing as a cathartic hobby does not mean I can slander and disseminate private information on a whim in order to free my demons. As important as journaling is to me I know that not all worries or complaints or frustrations can be for the general public. I need to save those raw sentiments for my personal journal, which needs to be my own.

I miss writing daily. I miss writing about my mundane days. I miss writing about my insecurities. I miss writing about my wonderment of the future, my anxiety for the future.

When I was single I could write whatever I wanted because I was a loner. I was able to examine myself inside and out with no consequences. Now I have a boyfriend, who is more than just a boy friend. He is my partner, my mate. . .my soul mate. In a way, he is an extension of me. And because I had no problem critiquing myself, I had no problem critiquing him. The disdain for myself and my lack of respect for myself spilled over to my perceptions of him. I never gave him a chance because I don't even give myself a chance.

To some people that might not make sense. But when you have no love for yourself, how is it possible to love someone else? There is glimpse of a heart of gold within me, but it is crushed under emotional rubble. There are times when that rubble shifts and there is a glimmer of the person I once was and the person I can be.

I've wanted to write about the journey I am on with him, but I'm not sure why. Do I think it's juicy? Do I think it may be of help to a reader? Is it for venting purposes? Is it to try to push my pain on him? I don't know the reason. Even if it's helpful for me to let it loose, it's still harmful. My slanderous drivel is still etched in his heart.

I still feel very uncomfortable writing at this time. It's a combination of worry. I worry I may say too much. And selfishly I worry it's been so long since I've written anything I write will be, gulp, BAD.

But all I can do is try.

This journey is uphill, downhill, sun filled, rain drenched, treacherous, slow, fast. It's without a map, without a plan, with an elusive destination soaked with love, passion and understanding. It's frustrating, it's hard, it's hurtful, it's unhealthy. It's beautiful, it's untouchable, it's so worthwhile. It's everything love should be for him and me. Today it's getting better. Today the journey is easy. Maybe tomorrow I will write that it's too hard. Or maybe I won't write at all.

Estimated Prophet

Monday I bounded to The Looking Glass to drop off my film for developing. I was so excited to spend my enormous government return on having my memories of my time in California become tangible. Saturday I picked up $90 worth of crisp corners and glossy surfaces. I shocked myself with some of my artistry and congratulated myself on exploring a new area and actually documenting it instead of relying on friends' doubles.

Friday I flew to San Diego to surprise my mom who I hadn't seen since November. It was a happily tearful reunion. Though it has been almost 6 months since I moved, it seems like it's only been a week. It's strange the way time can play tricks on your mind. . .

Anyways. . .in San Diego I realized that the beach was too far from me here in Berkeley. It's an hour to Santa Cruz, just as the beach was an hour from me in New Hope. But I'll always revert to the summer I lived in Charleston and rolled out of bed right into my bikini and after deciding on the best caffeine depot, landing in prime sun tanning and ocean splashing mode. In San Diego though, my proximity to the beach would be even closer. As we drove down Highway 101, I stared longingly at the beach bum apartments with wet-suits dangling on the ramshackle porches neglected only because of their owner's water sport obsessions. I want to sit on those porches at night with sore muscles that wouldn't succumb to the waves, but became a part of the powerful arcs of the water, staring onto the Pacific with awe despite my immersion into it daily. I want to wake up and stretch on those porches and thank Whoever decided to grant San Diego with glorious weather and magnificent views, shaping a lifestyle the entire nation is crazy to not be envious of. I mean, really. . .who wants to live in Syracuse?

Tomorrow I'm going to Lake Tahoe. That government return and quitting my internship has lead to an increase in money and a decrease in responsibility, a detrimental combination that I'm ignoring right now but am anticipating will somehow screw me over in the next few weeks (stay tuned for that rant). Still, I figure I might as well take advantage of this for the short time that I can. I'm not even sure what is in South Lake Tahoe, but I hear it's beautiful and I hear it's one of those places you're "supposed to go to". . .But people said that about me going to college and look what that did to me. . .

I digress. I have to find stuff to do in South Lake Tahoe. I need to figure out how many rolls of film I will need and what kind of weather I need to dress for and what sort of footwear will be required. In the words of my boyfriend, "OMG, like shoes!"

Again, I digress.

Help me.

I used to write all the time. I used to complain about my days, ramble about momentary life changing epiphanies, question social norms. . .all through the lens of a cynical young women, feeling through the darkness of adulthood, searching for answers to lead her into brightness, sanity. . .happiness. Then I stopped writing. Even though it's all I ever wanted to do, even if I was never that good at it.

Someone suggested my writing was bringing me down, keeping me down. When I slandered a day or a person for someone inconsequential it fed my depression. But wasn't writing supposed to be therapeutic?

What I feel right now is severe sadness and writing about it, that's what is making me feel better. I am calming down. Tears are not being rationed. My emotions are flowing. Even if you aren't paying attention, someone else might be.

Lately everything is a reminder of how stagnant I am, how negative I am and how it blocks any progress. I hate my job working in retail. I make no money as a clothes folder. I clean up after people who can afford to dress in fun outfits to go out and socialize in. I hate my internship where I've made no connections and have been very minimally inspired. And I get no compensation whatsoever.

So, do I quit my job and replace it with another menial job? Do I quit my internship and replace it with another lackluster internship in hopes of building my resume?

What hurts a lot right now, which I'm trying to get past, is that I had an opportunity, that I researched, but I passed it up and someone else took it. Someone else completely qualified and completely worthy. And I have to sit and watch them reap the benefits, glisten with happiness. It hurts because I keep sabotaging myself. It hurts because I know I'm supposed to be filled with joy for someone else who has a chance to do something so great. But I can't stop kicking myself. I can't stop wondering when I'm going to take a chance. I can't stop wondering when something is going to bring me joy again.

It hurts really bad and I don't know how to stop this slow this mind numbing defeat. The future looks so dim.

I miss them.

The weather has been beautiful the past week. Sunny days, despite acute allergies, can make any person smile. The only thing I'm missing are those $350 Chanel sunglasses I had last summer. I realize returning them lessened any potential financial burnouts I might have encountered beforing moving, but still, they were so hot, so classy. . .soooo essential for the sunny weather.

Reintroducing myself. . .

It's been so long since I've posted. It's been even longer since I've posted something good. And I suppose you will have to wait longer for something good, but at least you get something today. A mish mash of sorts.

Today during my internship in SF I took my lunch by the bay. I sat wearing a jean jacket and a blue scarf, the book Wicked opened to a page I'd already scanned 4 times and an empty Jamba Juice cup guarded from the breeze between my two feet. I slouched, which is guilty pleasure I allow myself during my lunch breaks, and stared out at the sail boats and sea kayakers. Treasure Island was visible across the expanse of the calm waters.

And it struck me, as it has many times before, I live in California. It's not just a geographical change or a evolution of my identity, but it's just WEIRD. I'm waiting for my epiphanies that others would appropriately deem inconsquential to become more frequent, because I think then reality would set in, that the excitement of living in a warm climate with exotic foliage, the wonderment of being enraptured by a town of hippies neighboring a city of hipsters. . .This is my life now. This is my life today.

Sometimes events and feelings and moments and interactions become so overwhelming. Things become so difficult in my mind that I want to start over. I want to move to Providence, I want to move to Florence, I want to move to Charleston, I move to Berkeley. . .But I need to learn to how to become part of this community like I learned how to cross the street. I need to Stop-look-and-listen. Pay attention.This week was difficult. My ego that I confused as strong showed it's actual weakness when it was prematurely pruned by some unwelcome pruners (aka jerks). With an already unstable mental and emotional states I took a few more hits all in the name of self-discovery. What did I discover? Everything every grandmother, teacher and After School Special has already told me: Be yourself, you're special and 'sticks and stones. . .'

Paying attention and restoring my self confidence are goals I can't seem to attain easily. And while some outsiders may criticize my attempts at resurrecting a lost soul, I think that I've been trying harder than usual. The results might not be seen by the naked eye, but the progress I can see is something I'm proud of. The progress I want everyone to see is something I still need work on. One thing you don't that I've learned is, I need your help too. Realizing that is a big step on my endless journey of self discovery.

Interestingly enough. . .

You can't take back what you write. And sticks stones hurt, just as names will hurt you. The grass is always greener. You always regret what you don't do.

And I just didn't love him enough. I overlooked anything good he ever did for me. Simply because I am a negative person.

What's that other one?

Oh yeah, you don't know what you have until it's gone.

I think I had dreams about owning cats last night. In my early 40s. I was wearing a mumu?