less than a week.

i was going to write about how i'm still not over my ex.
i was going to write about how i think about him more now than ever.
i was going to write about how i know it's going to be a while before i get over it.

but in my procrastination and ritualistic web-surfing, i ended up here.
a place i find myself quite a bit.
and as i read, i got teary eyed.
not because i felt bad for myself.
not because i felt lonely.
but because i felt happy.
a happy that only one person has ever made me feel.
the happiness of knowing that he cares.
he cares about everyone.

i haven't written anything about the election.
i feel that my political opinions are transparent.
i am your text book case liberal.
but i've always been somewhat apathetic.
apathy that is understandable.
it's been 8 years of falling down a flight of stairs.
it's been 8 years of slipping on rocks as you try climbing up the hill you once played on.
it's been 8 years of shit.

when i believe in something, i believe in it.
it has been 8 years of not believing.
when i like someone, i like them.
it has been 8 years of not liking.
when i trust a person, i trust them.
it has been 8 years with no trust.

when he speaks, i tear up.
when i think about him, my heart skips a beat.
and when i am standing in grant park on election night, i'll be proud.
proud of what he has done.
proud of what he has said.
proud of what he will do.

we are on the brink of something big.
it's hanging in the atmosphere.
and it smells like dead leaves being blown by fresh-air.

fighting against nothing while watching court tv.

this is my mom.
circa 1989.
which puts her at 27.
which puts me at 4.

we have the same "drunk face."
the open mouthed, look of surprise.

i am the age my mom was when she had me.
when my mom was 23, she was married with a kid living on an army base in massachusetts.
when my mom was 25, she was divorced with a kid living on the top floor of her mother's home in massachusetts.
when my mom was 29, she was divorced with a kid moving to st.charles michigan to live with my future step-dad.
when my mom was 31, she was married with a kid living in a house that her husband's grandfather built.
when my mom was 33, she was married with two kids.
when my mom was 36, she was married with three kids.
when my mom was 46, she was divorced with three kids living in a house that has wood paneling, shag carpet and pink bathroom fixtures.

i don't want to be upset with my mother.
i've never been upset with my mother.
i hope to stop being upset with my mother.

my mom works 50 hours a week in a kitchen in birch run, michigan.
my mom loves football, baking and her three girls.
my mom cries every time i leave.

when she gets mad, her new england dialect resurfaces.
when she laughs, she puts her hands on her thighs and belts out a "HA HAAA!"
when she goes to bed, she rubs her feet together.

on it's way

my mom is sending my christmas present early.
she said it was okay.
she didn't question why i wanted it.
she mentioned that she did all her traveling when she was 23.
my mom gave birth to me when she was 23.

my grandma always tells the story of my birth.
how i was three weeks overdue.
how my mom was on bed rest.
how the doctor came out of the emergency room, 26 hours after my mom went into labor, to tell my grandma that either her daughter or granddaughter was going to die.

we both made it.

now my mom has a myspace page.
a page that says the type of people she wants to meet are "other HATERS!!"
i don't know what this means.
but she asked me to be her friend.
on the phone.
on myspace.

i just don't know if i can do it.
i just don't think i'm that cool.
i just don't feel like doing it.

this is me, being a brat.

last night i drank hot apple cider and spiced rum.
last night i carved a pumpkin for the first time since grade school.
last night i got a text message saying i was "50000 x adorable."
even the bad days aren't that bad.
because days like that one,
and this one,
make it all worth while.

thank you.

i am home.

more on this later.

it was a good night.

this is me, getting off.

let me hit this before i start.

i wish i didn't put myself out there so much.
not because i'm afraid of getting hurt but because i'm afraid i'm going to hurt others.
creating intimacy that is not unique to them.
and when it is unique, it feels fake.

let me hit this before i continue.

i fear i may have jumped the gun.
that i am perceiving things wrong.
the way i see us isn't the way it is.
the way i see him isn't the way he sees me.
that somewhere, along the short line, i misread.
i've never really liked to read.

someone asked my to name my top five books and i couldn't.
because i don't think i've read enough to make an educated response.
i've never liked uneducated people, which makes me a hypocrite because i am not that smart.
but the glasses give people a different impression.
people read me wrong.

this is not art.
me sitting in the corner with nothing but a desk lamp glowing.
smoking american spirits while wearing american apparel.
hunching over my macbook, typing on my blog.
this is not art.
this is me.
this is me typing.
this is me banging my unmanicured fingernails on and off the home row.
this is me listening to sigur ros.
this is all cliche.
this is all the same.
this is me typing the same thing over and over.

i am not a writer.
if i were, i would have slightly worse taste in clothes and music.
i am not a poet.
if i were, i would have a boyfriend but he'd probably be more talented than me.
i am not an actor.
if i were, i'd fucking go on an audition.

this is me typing.
about nothing.
about myself.
about someone i don't really know.

i'm not talking about what matters.
i'm not talking politics.
i'm not talking about the economy.
i'm not talking about the economy.
i'm not talking about the economy.

i'm not talking about the sisters i never see
or the present i never sent my dad
or the lunch with my ex-fiance
or the fact that lunch was so i could rub in his face how great my life is.
maybe i did mention that.

this is not art.
this is masturbation.
this is me, getting off.

day for libras. day for births.

today is james's birthday.
so, in honor, this is for him:

i wrote this in my head on my bike ride home.
i thought of all the things i could have done.
i peddled through potholes and red lights.
this is the best i could come up with.
this is the best i have.

in honor of you, in loo of me being there.
in honor of you, in memory of of the few days we've had.
in honor of you, i made plans.
plans to go to hollywood beach.
to get a cupcake from tweet.
to light a candle with a real zippo.
to blow it out while i listen to you birthday gift.

but plans change.
and they were vacant, in the first place.
anyone can relive a few moments.
anyone can sink into the quicksand of nostalgia.
anyone can blow out a candle on a beach.

instead i stayed in bed until until 2pm.
i rode my bike half an hour.
i ate fried chicken.
i watched fresh prince of bel-air.
i smoked my last cigarette.
i talked my one of my best friends on the phone.

today will not be a special day for me.
because today is not a special day to me.
today is your day.

i hope your mom made you a cake.
i hope your friends take you out.
i hope today is a very good day.


it's also my friends hillary and dannielle's birthday.

i have sex in the city, but bite your tongue before you compare me to her.

everyone i talk to has this to say:
"i don't know what the fuck i'm doing with my life."
everyone i talk to has this to say:
"i'm not doing what i thought i'd be doing at this point in my life."
everyone i talk to has this to say:
"i'm doing nothing with my degree."


i find comfort in this.
i don't feel alone.
it's nice to know that my friends are going through the same shit as me,
even if it is shit.
no one tells you how lonely being in your mid-twenties is.

you get this impression, or i did, that this is the exciting time.
this is the time you can do what ever you want.
i suppose this is true.
i suppose i am doing what ever the fuck i want.
unfortunately, i'm not really doing what ever i want.
because if i was doing what i really wanted,

i'd be playing the ukulele.
i'd be driving across the country and writing about it.
i'd be writing a book on my step-dad.
i'd be talking to my family more.
i'd be going to bed early and waking up with the sun.
i'd be positive.
i'd be working on my one-woman show that will debut next summer.
i'd be mass producing handmade stationary and selling sets to oprah and her book club.
i'd be on oprah.
i'd be telling boys that i'm not really dating and mean it.
i'd be taking showers more than once a week.
i'd be online for only an hour a day.
i'd be eating at home.
i'd be returning my movies on time.
i'd be careful how i treat my friends.
i'd be a good friend.
i'd be a good friend.
i'd be a good friend.

instead, well, does it really need to be said?
wasting time, i suppose.
wasting days.
wasting weeks.
aging myself with packs of cigarettes, gallons of alcohol and piles of weed.
it could be worse.
i could be addicted to coke.
i could be shooting up in a bathroom.
i could be sleeping in a gutter.

the idea of getting into a relationship really scares me.
i get jealous of people that are okay being single.
then i wonder, are they really okay?
or have they just done it for so long that it's what they are use to?
i think single people are more evolved.
or really good actors.
what does that say about me?
and why do i sound like carrie bradshaw.
please, don't let me be carrie bradshaw.

i have heard people make comparisons with me and the sex and the city character.
even the star that plays her.
this was long before i even started writing.
this has never sat well with me.
maybe because she is the exact opposite of how i see myself.
or maybe because i never thought she was a good writer.
or maybe, just maybe, because she has a horse face.

nobody really cares about my dating life.
if you do, you're kind of sick.
but i'm even more sick for broadcasting it over the internet.
and even more sick for getting weirded out when people tell me they read it.
it's not a secret.

i have been censoring myself lately.
not really writing about what's going on.
writing around what's going on.
not mentioning every guy.
not mentioning every date.
not mentioning every mistake.
because when i read it, my heart breaks.
and i think about my mother.
and i think about the years we spent sharing a bedroom.
and the guys she dated.
and how she was always dating.
and how she never seemed happy.
and when i was 19 and she cried in our kitchen telling me she didn't want me to make the mistakes she did.
and when she told me she was getting divorced again.
and how the first thing she said, through her tears and the background noise of the kitchen where she works, was
"i don't want to be a disappointment to you."

she lives with a guy that has no job and neck tattoos.
he moved in before the divorce was finalized.
i love her but i have to listen to her.
i can't make the same mistakes she did.

is there a ghost in my house?

i punish myself because i think i deserve this.
underwear say sunday on the morning of wednesday.
my hands are ink stamped versions of my mothers.
it's fifty degrees.

i ride home in shorts and no sleeves.
to a room filled with the cries of polish workers.
lump of coal burrows in my chest.
faces from vietnam line my streets.
i race the suits so i can get some sleep.

not much.
just enough.
to get by.

laying under the blanket my mother brought me home in.
three days after they told my grandmother we were both going to die.
i don't need it for comfort.
i need it for warmth.

and today is the day
i notice cellulite on my legs,
as i peel off the pants i've been wearing since may.

i can't seem to break the cycle of:
-going out.
-getting drunk.
-sleeping two hours on a couch across town.
-riding home drunk at 9am.
-writing down poems on the back of overdue bills.

i've never considered myself a poet.
i've never liked poetry.
i've never really read it.

when i look at it as though i'm writing a song, it just happens.

last debate tonight.
get ready to watch mccain kick obama's "you-know-what" tonight.
his words.

and thanks brian for making me look like someone that takes care of themselves.

in the morning i'll be with you.

your birthday is soon.
a week from one hour ago.
you will be 25.

i can't wait to be 25.

25 has always been an age i looked forward to.
maybe it's because i can rent a car.
maybe it's because i can get a pell grant.
maybe it's because it's just a nice number.
and quarters are my favorite coin.
next to wheat pennies.

the reason i called you at midnight is to find out what size shoe you are.
because i found a pair that i think would look awesome on you.

the first night we hung out, i commented on your shoes.
i don't even think they were yours.
but i commented still.
and you tried to buy cigarettes, but you left your wallet at your friend's.
and you left your wallet at your friend's because you jumped out a window.
you jumped out a window to meet me when you didn't know who i was.
and you scraped up your arms and sides.
and you met me on the corner by the 7-11.
and i rode my bike 15 miles out of my way to sit on a couch with you.
and you didn't kiss me goodbye.
and for the first time in my life, i didn't care.

i had fun with you that night, and that's all that i wanted from you.
you must have known i liked you because i watched a dvd on the chicago bears.
and i didn't complain.
at least, in my memory i didn't.

i'm sorry i can't come visit you but maybe it's better this way.
seeing where you grew up is a big step.
but, in all honesty, i just wanted to go to the apple orchard.

"you don't have a drinking problem. you're 23."

the world has to even itself out sometimes.
yesterday, i was evened out.
and everything that happened was the direct result of me acting my age.

the following things will happen when you stay up until 4:30 am getting wasted with some guy from some band you just saw:
1. you will wake up an hour late for work. waking up late with result in you rushing out the door and thinking it's okay for you to allow a stranger to stay in your apartment while you are not there.
2. you will let a stranger stay in your apartment, with your roommate mind you, and not realize it's a bad idea until your roommate sends you a text message letting you know that it is fucked up.
3. you will show up late for work which results in you not being there when the milk order arrives which will result in your place of business not getting one of the most important things it needs to run.
4. you will be drunk until 12:30.
5. you will piss everyone you know and love off.

it was just one day.
it was a learning lesson.
it is over now.

i didn't have sex with the stranger.
that's the only good thing that happened.

big breath in.
big breath out.
let today begin.

all my time, i spend it with you now.

i tried really hard to get someone, anyone to watch the debate with me.
but the rain kept everyone at bay.
and the rain allowed me to stay in and cook.
i made rice and beans.
i chopped garlic while talking on the phone.
i boiled brown rice while inviting people over.
and as i scooped the concoction i just concocted over local torta shells i thought, "i'm happy no one would brave the storm."

i've been staying in more.
i go out a lot.
but i've been staying in when i can.
my roommate has been house sitting.
it feels like i've been living alone with two cats.
it feels like something i could do.
everyday.
i admire those who can take time to just be alone.
with two cats.

i think i own every devendra banhart album.
i don't think i spelled his name the way it should be.

i forwarded an email my step-mom sent me.
i feel a little bad about it.
that's a weirdly personal thing to do.
but i'm a weird person.
i think there has been a misunderstanding and i was looking for a second opinion.
the way in which she responds to my comments of travel and current stress levels proves a fact i have known for a while:
we will never see life with the same set of eyes.
it has to be a misunderstanding.
she must think i want to travel for months on end.
i'm just looking for a two week vacation.
she likes telling me that i'm an adult, while talking to me like a child.
i don't blame her.
i'm not even mad at her.
in the past, an email like this would send me into an unjustified tantrum.
huffing and puffing.
calling my mom.
returning what i felt were electronic sucker punches with pouty rebuttals.
maybe i'm still doing it, just in a secret "tell the world, but not them" type of attack.

if i can get the day off work, i'm going to drive south.
for about 2 hours.
i am delivering a birthday present.
i will see more than five stars.
i expect to pick apples off a branch.

the debate got to me.
but i don't talk politics because i really don't know anything about politics.
i make snap decisions.
from the moment i became aware of barak obama's existence, i was aware of who i would vote for.
it doesn't help that he is a babe.
our jfk.
maybe i shouldn't compare the two.
but i don't wanna talk politics.

watch the movie surfwise.
please.

do you remember when we met?

my left hand says 2020 n oakley.
my right hand has a faded stamp that reads "chicago."
it was a long weekend.

i am about to ride my bike to the cell phone store.
so they can make me feel like i'm stupid.
because they always do that.

sometimes i like not having a phone.
it gives me a break from the text messaging.
i don't think i've made an actual phone call in a month.
and if i have, its only lasted five minutes.
if i was stronger, i'd give up text messaging.
a friend of mine did it.
she did it for four months.
and i never told her this, but i was envious that she could do it.

i always prefer calls over texts.
and i prefer letters over calls.
but no one writes anymore.
the written word of corresponding is dying.
or is dead.
the fact that i will settle for a message over facebook or a two line email as an appropriate response to something makes me sad.
but it's better than nothing.

my phone choosing to dive into my whiskey ginger saturday night messed up my plan.
i had a plan to call james.
up until this point, we were operating on a text/facebook messaging regimen.
up until this point, it was okay.
but since his last visit, i have wanted to actually talk to him.
i want to tell him about things as oppose to sending him drunk pseudo-letters over a social network that facilitates stalking.
i don't enjoy forgetting the way people sound and i'm forgetting.
i miss my friend.

tonight is a night where i watch two movies, back to back, in the comfort of my own home.
it would be nice to watch them with someone.

check out my friends, they are talented photographers that are really good at making me feel beautiful on days i don't.
becca.
brian.

dry, awake, and obviously fucked up.

he never gets enough.
if he could rub his tiny neck across every part of my body, he would.
i suppose this is why we like each other.
we hate each other equally.
i don't let him do what he wants to do.
he's always in the way.
i never know when he is sleeping on top of my portable, canvas closet.
but he lets me know by swatting the top of my head when i enter the room.

i hope that is the only thing i ever write about a cat.
ever.

it was apparent after i ate my pita sandwich that it was more than hunger.
when i left rei, the only thing on my mind was food.
and making it through my shift at work.
i never imagined that it could be something more.
something worse than the hunger pains that were turning my stomach into a ball of twine.
my skin has been dry.
my lips have been chapped.
i've only been drinking coffee to keep myself awake.
today, i easily consumed a pot of dark roast before 10 am.
along with orange juice because i can justify the lack of breakfast with a bottle of oj.
i should have known sooner.
i should have known when i was putting on chapstick and expensive facial moisturizer.
i should have known when my muscles tightened as i got on my bike.
i should have known while i was eating and my hands were shaking.

dehydration affects three kinds of people:
a. people that don't have access to clean water dehydrate.
b. people that are uneducated or uninformed of the good water does dehydrate.
c. people that are fucking idiots and think they can survive on coffee and beer dehydrate.
take a stab at where i fall.

i had one of those dreams while i was napping where you are crying uncontrollably.
you are partially lucid, being able to pick up things in the real world like music and outside noise.
you don't know why you are crying but you can't stop.
and then your mom walks into the room, or the voice of your mom, or just the presence of your mom and she says, "why do you do this to yourself? why are you so happy being sad?"
you wake in a tiny puddle of spit that has formed a man-made lake on your tacky, second-hand pillow cases.
you don't feel groggy like you usually do when you wake from naps, but you can't breathe.
in fact, it takes you a solid five minutes to catch said breath.
but you're not groggy. just awake.
not really refreshed. just awake.
your feet sweat in your clean socks.
you search for your glasses.
you try to remember what made you cry with no success.
all you remember is your mother, or the voice of your mother, or just the presence of your mother saying, "why do you do this to yourself? why are you so happy being sad?"
my "understanding dreams book" that i bought in a bargain bin when i was 19 can stay in storage for this one.
you can't get anymore direct than that.


i'm having dinner with friends tonight.
i need to get ready.
i think i'm going to wear a skirt.

it's 11:32 in the morning...

and this is what i've already accomplished:

6:15 arrive at REI


6:20 unload car


6:23 call the REI project manager


6:25 watch people line up for REI grand opening, in disbelief


6:37 finally get into REI


6:45 begin brewing 202 cups of coffee


6:53 search for project manager begins


6:57 search for project manager continues on loading dock, meet REI employee


8:15 find dead bird


8:27 get breakfast at whole foods


8:45 begin shmoozing


8:47 search for project manager ends

i have to be to work in 45 minutes.

good night goodnight.

i wake up.
my room is pitch black as i hear the red line head south to 95th.
it is much later than i want it to be.
four hours later, to be precise.
i took a five hour nap.
i am pretty sure i'm fucked.

a pet peeve of mine is when i mess up my sleep schedule.
i'm not sure if "pet peeve" is the correct way to describe it.
another pet peeve; not knowing the true definitions to words i use a lot.
can you be the cause of a pet peeve, or does it have to be something that someone else does?

i'm happy that my sleep schedule will be fine.
because it's 2:30 am and i'm tired as all hell.
i should be wearing my glasses while i type this but, for fear that i may fall asleep half way through, i took them off.
but i can't see.

that's better.

i have three new text messages when i wake from what some people could call a full night of sleep.
all from boys.
two trying to hang out.
one letting me know, in very few words, that the cubs are doing well.
go cubs? i guess. i don't follow it.
i just avoid the area on game days.

i printed 120 copies of the program while interning today.
that is 119 more copies than i needed.
hello rookie. you should go stock the fridge.
i got my intern folder.
inside are sheets of brightly colored paper.
each with a different purpose.
info on the theater, info on the show, contact info and comps.
i get a free t-shirt.
and two tickets to see the show i make the program for.
i'm saving the tickets.
i'm saving them for the farm hand.

we make some kind of contact every two days, roughly.
with technology these days, it's difficult to ignore people.
or to use the excuse that you are too busy.
although, being busy has always been my fall back when i get a call from someone i don't care to speak to.
i guess i just blew my cover.

he's right.
if the situation was any different, we'd be more than friends.
i think of him differently than a friend.
i suppose the only difference is the sex.
which really shouldn't be a factor since sex can be really empty.
not to say it was with him, but for the most part.

i look forward to his text messages and comments.
i smile when i read his blog and he mentions me.
i always want to invite him places, then i picture him placing a pumpkin on railroad tracks and think, "he's having more fun there."

if he ends up being the one that helps me see what life is like when you are single, i'll be okay with being single.
because knowing that he thinks about me enough.
because being thought about by him his better than any date i could go on right now.

i always think about the last time he was here.
when we woke up hung over.
and he kissed my stomach.
and my chest.
and my shoulders.
and my neck.
and i wanted to have sex with him one more time before he left.
but i didn't want to ruin what was happening.
i didn't want the only good thing about laying in bed with him to be that we had sex.
and i didn't want to say anything because he looked happy.
his head on my chest.
his feet off the edge of the bed.
his head in my armpit.
his thigh on mine.
in that moment, he was my lover.
and i've never look at people that way.
even when i was in love, i never thought of that person as a lover.
there is something different.
there is something exciting.
there is something reassuring.


i have to model underwear in a cemetery at 9:00 am.
i do a lot of favors.
wanna do me one?