Monday, December 31, 2007

last of 2007

So. It's the end of the year. Really, earlier today I think I came to the conclusion how dumb all of this New Year's hoopla is. Seriously. Time goes on. It's just what happens. If we're going to celebrate the new year, why not the new day or the new hour or even the new minute? Yes. Let's make mixed drinks, serve champagne and mini quiches to show our appreciation in honour of every passing second. 

I just don't get it.

New Hampshire is cold. Iowa caucuses are in three days and the NH primary is a week from tomorrow. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared. But it's a good scared. 

I really really want Hillary to win this.

Nick isn't coming back for Stender, round two. No reason given, he just dropped the huge bomb on me earlier. This is freaking me out probably more than it should. It's just that this is going to be my first cycle in NJ-7 without him. I don't know what I'm doing yet. Or I do, better than four years ago, but still not good enough to do it on my own. And Nicky was the guy who just got me. He'd tell me to go have a cig if I needed one and wouldn't take NO for an answer when I said I couldn't do something. And he is the only one who hasn't given me crap for only being 19. I don't know. This just kinda bums me out. 

Whatever.

Here's to 2008. Hopefully it won't suck as bad. 

Thursday, December 27, 2007

champagne

Christmas was amusing. It was the usual crew; me, my father and stepmother and their entire extended family. And a lot of alcohol. I personally, was fine. But that's probably because my nightly activity for most of last semester included at least one drink. My family, however.... let's just roll with me being one of the most sober people there. And I started out the night with 5 or 6 nice sized glasses of wine then 3 or 4 'holiday cocktails' i.e. a very potent mix of Grey Goose and Johnny Walker Blue shaken with a bottle of champagne, cranberry juice, lime and ice. Yeah... at least I didn't turn emo. My stepbrother, on the other hand, had his 14 year old butt taken to the hospital because he was plastered beyond all comprehension. Yeah whoops. I didn't give him the liquor though. Turns out, he and my little 16 year old bro brought their own. Meh. After a banana bag and some water the next day, all is forgotten though. 

I quit my job at the pet store. It was starting to become very apparent that a lot of the dogs came from puppy mills and the managers didn't really know how to care for the animals. This being extremely obvious when a dog had a massive heart attack and they decided just to wrap it in a plastic bag and toss it in the freezer because, as they put it, it was "too far gone". I'm not about to work in a place like that. So it's back to Hillarypalloza for me.

I'm actually heading up to New Hampshire to volunteer for Hillary January 2nd through primary day on the 8th. I am BEYOND excited. This really is what I live for. I love having the opportunity to effect change in such an important way.

This post I made on mydd.com made it onto HillaryHub.com.... the rapid response source for HRC's race. I guess someone sent them a tip or something. I just think that is sooo cool. Even though I don't really need it at this point, it's almost like validation that something I'm doing in the political realm is actually somewhat decent. 

The Benazir Bhutto murder this morning really jarred me. It is just so incomprehensible to me that something like that could happen. The murder and subsequent suicide attack of someone who is just trying to do what they think is right for a nation they love. It just shouldn't happen. Regardless of how you feel about their political views. It really doesn't solve anything.


Wednesday, December 19, 2007

under eather

I'm back in NJ now and working at a pet store. Yes. The girl who, just last year, cringed at the thought of being anywhere near animals is selling them 40 hours a week. And I love it... or rather I love the people (mostly). The job isn't that bad either. Its decent money and as much as I hate to say it, it does not require an exorbitant amount of brain cells. I think I am the only non-manager who has been through some sort of higher education and I think that is kind of humbling. To think, all of the times that I've almost dropped out, I've stuck with it and yet, I'm working right beside them. 

And living back at home in Jersey isn't that bad. I'm really never there. I leave around 7 every morning, come back around 10 at night then go write before passing out. I have almost no interaction with my family and I love it. I know it's not supposed to be this way, but this works for me. I don't like them and they don't like me. Except we need each other. They need to have me around as validation their lives aren't completely worthless and I need to put on the little Miss Merry Fucking Sunshine face around them so I don't have to sublet a place for two months.

Amusing how these things work, no?

Thursday, December 13, 2007

Happy Hour



The bar was overcrowded tonight. In twos and threes they came. Young men in overly starched shirts, ties ostentatiously selected in an attempt to compensate for their shortcomings and shoes polished by poor men just trying to get by in the middle of Penn Station. These men, the direct proof that some couples just should not reproduce, were accompanied by not-so-young ladies with emotionless faces and miniskirts shorter than an irritated boss' incompetence tolerance and tighter than an accountant's bottom line. Yuppiedom at its finest.

Happy hour had just began, but already there was a cloud of smoke emanating from half-finished cigarettes perilously resting in cracked ashtrays, sporadically interspersed amoungst the generic chipped Formica tables cast away from airport pubs. The smoke just about replaced the oxygen in the air and it was inhaled as if it were a suitable replacement. The mournful voice of Bruce Springsteen cackled itself free, by way of the antiquated jukebox in the corner by the out-of-order-since-1992 payphone. No one usually wandered over to that corner anyway; the patrons usually left it up to Sally to put on whomever she fancied listening to on that given evening. It was her place after all. Occasionally, when a new person happened to stumble upon the pub, they'd make the mistake of dropping a few coins into the jukebox and put on music more recent than 1987 and someone more familiar with the customs would either take them outside, or beat them beyond recognition right there…depending on their current level of intoxication. More often than not though, at least as of recently, it had been the latter.

The booths and benches fill quickly and by seven there is little standing room left. The stools around Sally, however, are left for the usual suspects. Hillary and her martinis—dirty and dry, Charlie's right hand clenched around a half drunken glass of whisky with a
morbidly obese prostitute named Wendy toying with the other, Ryan with beers one through three staring down his babyface right in front of him, Pete already six deep into his vodka on the rocks. As per tradition, the first toast of the night went to Sally and her bar for being their everything—therapist, home, escape, call-screener, mother. And the second went to the oak countertop that held their weary heads. A once-gallant piece of great New England oak, marred with cigarette burns, obscene phrases and stains from impolite patrons' glasses. Yes, this ancient wood now placed beneath scar-laden, liver-spotted forearms had seen thousands of nights like this before.

"Pete, honey", Wanda murmured tentatively, "darling. How did it go?"

"What do you mean?" asked Pete.

"Don't give me that crap. It's insulting. We all are simply dying to know."


"Ya? Well it's not your problem now, is it?"

And with that, Pete grabbed a Marlboro Red from the inside coat pocked of his pseudo intelligentsia standard tweed jacket pocked and proceeded to fumble around in search of a lighter.

"Goddamn it!" He mumbled under his breath, "Anyone got a light?"


"Here bro," said Ryan as he slid over his engraved Zippo.


"Thanks man."

Everyone reached for another drink, all with one common goal in mind: to surpass last night's level of intoxication. They were all well on their way, even Wendy throwing back drinks easier than water. Charlie glanced over at Wendy and the four empty glasses to her left and shook his head disapprovingly.

"Maybe you shouldn't be drinking so much. As soon as the blue and whites are gone, you're hitting the streets" he said.

"Fuck you! I am not going to do that shit sober. You all will be seein' me licking up spilt beers to keep my buzz goin' first." spat Wendy.

"Your dumb, fat, trashy ass will be dead on Sally's floor if you ever talk to me that way again."

And with that, Charlie raised his right hand and, without removing his numerous rings, brought it across Wendy's porcine face. His handprint was clearly visible, a sharp crimson contrast to her ghostly pale skin and thick layers of poorly applied makeup. She sat there stunned, mouth open…as if she was about to actually stand up for herself, then she just poured down another drink into her waiting throat.

Pete began to cry. Not just a tear or two, but the full-blown tears of an irreparably hurt middle-aged man.

"Why did you have to hit her? Why? She's an adult! A fucking adult for Christ's sake!" Pete choked, "if she wants another fucking drink, let the dumb cooze take as many as she fucking wants. They probably make it easier for her to fucking deal with belonging to your disgusting, disease-laden ass!"

Wendy, not quite sure how to take being called property, a whore and having her sense of autonomy defended within the same eighteen seconds, threw her drink on the floor and stormed out amidst a flurry of glass shards. Charlie chased after, with her cheap plastic purse, while casting the most spiteful of stares down Pete's spine.

"You stupid slut! Wait! You fucking left my Goddamn money right there!" he bellowed after her, apparently immune to the repercussions of making his profession very public.

It is time for another drink. Hillary, always the classy one, had moved on from the martinis to gin and tonics, just enough to keep her buzz going for a while. Ryan blushed a serious shade of rose. He had drunk enough of the cheap stuff to forget his money woes (not to mention what his wife would say) and started coughing up enough cash for the real good brandy. Pete, a purist, kept with his vodka on the rocks. For him, it's the only thing that works.

"And here's to life," Sally took a second from tending bar to toast.
"Bitch and moan all you want but it's better than the alternative. Or at least more expensive."

Pete picks up his head and glass, "nice gesture Sally. Really, it is. But death's better than some secrets."

"Why babe? What the Hell really happened? Just let it out."

"It's not that. I swear. It's just that you're so delusional and try to solve all of my problems. But Sal- hate to tell you- but your solutions are useless right now."

Hillary began to drink, but stopped. Her ice blue eyes looked glazed over, but still pierced a hole in anything they touched.

"Stop being an attention fiend. If you wanted to tell us, you would have already. Either 'fess up now or quit acting like my toddler and stop whining. It's starting to bring me down."

"You drunk bitch," said Ryan. "When are you not at least somewhat tipsy?"


"Dude!" chimed in Pete. "Lay off. For once, she's right."

Hillary finished her drink and looked up. "So then. How about it?"

"Whatever. Fine. Ok." Pete says. "That bastard showed up at her funeral. He looked so Goddamned slick; I almost didn't recognize him without the splatters of blood on his hands. I didn't want that jacka-"

"So why did he get an invitation?" Ryan interrupted, only to be the warranted recipient of condescending looks from Hillary and Sally.

"Go on," Sally urged Pete.


"He had no right to show up. He put her in the coffin. He took a baseball bat and slammed in into her skull seventeen times- one for each of the years she wasted on him. Doctors told me that the first blow knocked Dana out, the second killed her."

"At least your wife didn't suffer, darling." said Hillary, in a timbre uncharacteristically soft.

"He killed her and came to her funeral, trying to play Mr. Nice Guy." choked Pete. "The cops say they don't have enough evidence to charge him-- no prints and no one saw him or nothin'... but I know it was him.

"How?" challenged Ryan.

"I I I I I" Pete stammered, "I just do. Who else would have the evil in them to kill like that?"

Hillary, Sally and Ryan looked down at their drinks and simultaneously finished them in one gulp. Hillary began to cough and spilled the rest of her gin and tonic all over the bar.

"Oops." Hillary laughed, with a touch of sarcasm. "Sally- throw me another. I'm not quite drunk enough after that one."

Sally obliged. Hillary always got what she wanted.

By now, Happy Hour was long gone. With it have left the college and after-work crowd. Sally was glad to see the yuppies go. They all only had one thing on their mind and she hated that her place was nothing more than a spot to throw back a few drinks and maybe get lucky. It was not exactly the clientele Sally craved, but their seemingly bottomless bank accounts and carefree attitudes helped pay the bills, so she was not really in a position to complain. She did, just once, after one frat boy emptied his stomach contents all over the pool table in back. Turns out he was underage but had a really good fake
ID. The police weren't too keen on Sally kicking him out with alcohol poisoning when he was only nineteen. She almost lost her license after that one, some garbage about it being illegal to supply liquor to minors.

"Such is life." said Sally, as she poured another round for the house.

It's time for midnight shots. As per tradition, every night at midnight, anyone who had been there since 8pm and is still able to go through the alphabet without confusing "L, M, N, O, P" got a shot of whisky on Sally. Tonight, aside from herself, Ryan, Hillary and Pete, only three men passed the test. These men have been around for nearly five hours now and are still talking shop—something about bonds and equities and other Wall Street jargon Sally cannot understand (and hoped like hell she never will need to). But regardless of the number of participants, the instant the second hand on the classic neon-rimmed clock hanging over the door strikes midnight, the glasses were raised and emptied.

"Cheers to not being dead, motherfuckers!" the bar cried and then settles back down in an instant, as if nothing had happened.

All the while, Bruce Springsteen is still singing his melancholy head off.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

jumper

i am so ready for finals week to be over.

i feel like i have nothing left to give, in every sense of the word.

i can't write and that's becoming more and more apparent as this week progresses.

all i really need to do is talk to them, but they just do not care enough to even make an effort.

i just need it to end.

last night i snorted vicodin and i liked it. that scares me. but i am not going to stop. it makes me happy. and i need that right now.

either that, or validation.

the latter of which is really hard to come by nowdays.

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

gonna be ok

I think I'm coming to the realization that I may actually...maybe... have this life thing down. Kinda.

Granted, I am not especially happy with the way things have been going. Of late, I have found myself seeking comfort by any available means. Whether that means amalgamating myself to a certain person (or group of people), smoking way too many cigarettes, writing what I want to write and what I should be writing for class... it's been happening way too much. And I guess that's ok. I mean, I would rather be able to just live in my own skin and be somewhat content, but I'm just not there yet.

I am really frustrated with a lot of my friends. I think I realized how petty they are. I just feel eons away from them. I'm over juvenility, in every sense of the word. I'm sorry if we go see a play and the only thing you get out from it is the constant sex references and you completely miss the larger social sentiment being made. I'm hideously sorry if you find it appropriate to text message your friends all through a small class where the entire class, including the professor, can see and hear you. Do you see the tear running down my face when you come and complain to me about your professor making your paper a "D" because you have no thesis statement?...Whoops...I misspoke... you DO have four statements of what could be considered a thesis, however they are so poorly disguised in your pathetic excuse for grammar that I think your professor was being extremely generous by giving you a "D". If I had been the professor, Hell... I would have failed you outright. I'm even more sorry that you find it amusing to think someone is weird because they are of a different ethnicity than you, without even the semblance of an attempt to understand their customs. I'm sorry if I don't halfass my schoolwork, especially for classes within my major and that means I may not have time to like, go, like to the, like mall and like oogle the like hell out of like those boys who like work at like Hollister cuz they are like OMG soo super like hot. I'm sorry if I work for a campaign and actually give a rat's ass about politics. I'm sorry if I vote. I'm sorry if I actually can conceptualize what having another Republican president would do to the nation and, because of this, am doing everything in my power to make sure that does not happen.

The conversations I have had to endure so far today have included:
-In regards to overhearing someone mention the country Macedonia) "Wait? Macedonia? Is that like a guy or something?"
-"Can I like have chicken fingers without the chicken?" (Lady at the snack bar)"You mean just the fries?" (Next member of Mensa) "NO. Just the fried shell." (Lady) "So just breadcrumbs, fried?"
-"George Bush isn't that bad. I mean, he named himself after vaginas so I guess he likes women."
..and the winner being (so far)
-(In response to a class discussion on global warming) "If it's too hot, then why don't we just fly the Earth further from the Sun."
OY VEY

In other news, my ex-fiance is moving across the street from my mother with his soon to be wife. I don't really have feelings for Alex anymore... but it's still going to be extremely awkward. I actually can't even recall the last time I spoke to him. Oh wait... yes I can. It was when he told me it was over after I tried to kill myself. Seriously, I was laying in the hospital bed with both arms stitched up and just had my stomach pumped. And the jackass thought that would be the most perfect moment to tell me that I was impossible to love and reach over to take the ring back. Let's not forget that one of the main reasons I sought an out (that time) was because I knew I would never be good enough for him and I was doing a disservice to the man I loved to make him trade down to make me his wife.

That is just going to absolutely make my winter vacation. Having to not only exist at the same residence as my mother but also see Alex and his perfect fucking wife every day. Seriously... I know I'm not good enough for him. But nearly two years after the fact, I just think it's another way for him to tighten his grasp on me.

Cuz obviously the scars are not enough.

je vous déteste. me part s'il vous plaît seul. vous avez essayé de me tuer et a fait presque. vous êtes un rappel constant d'haine. plaît. est cela pas assez ?

Sunday, December 2, 2007

Hillary Clinton: Caucusing is Easy

Hilarious and very pointed. With a month till the caucus, it's great that HRC's campaign is doing everything they can do encourage voter turnout.

Saturday, December 1, 2007

not gonna get us

The LILITH List Aka.... A Compilation of Various Items That Are Currently Occupying My Mind But Are Not Substantial Or Important Enough Of Which An Entire Post On Each Is Warranted:

-- My friend was released from the hospital on Wednesday. She spent roughly a month in the ICU for anorexic/bulimia related issues. As much as I want to support her, I feel really awkward about it. I am tormented by many of the same demons as she, but I choose to embrace their powers. I am not ready to turn my back on the Goddesses right now. I still believe it is a lifestyle, not a disease and I am very much a follower of the lifestyle.

--Hillary's Rodchester, NH office was taken hostage today. Even though Phil and Kimmy were safe in the Manchester office (roughly 30 minutes from Rodchester), I still freaked out a bit. Even thought I don't know anyone who was in the office, it's still my people. Campaign staffers. We have this unbreakable bond and one one of us is threatened, it effects all of us. We work for barely minimum wage 15-20 hours a day for 11 months a year then wait a month and do it all over again. It's the hardest work you'll ever do but also the most rewarding. And for some sicko to come in and threaten to blow himself up and kill us.... it's mad. All we are trying to do is create a better vision for the nation. Idealists through and through.

--George. I don't know if I like him or not yet. All I know though is that I want him...but that's not really good enough.

--My cousin thinks I can't write and thinks I'm wasting my life trying to be a poet. Screw her. I am somewhat talented and seriously...who cares as long as I am content.

--I love my friends. They basically save my life every day, multiple times over.

Jersey in SIX DAYS!!!!!!