67 days...

We're in the middle-double-digits now till we hopefully end the Republican tyranny. And I'm not convinced. Right now, I'm watching Barack's acceptance speech on CNN, drinking a really nice glass of Merlot and thinking how much this sucks. I'm out there every day, working to try to elect someone I'm not sure I believe in yet. 

I mean, I have nothing against the guy. He probably can do the job, and do it well. Or at least better than the Bush double the GOP in all their wise wisdom put up this time around. His wife is awesome, his kids are adorable, his VP choice in Biden was/is impeccable. He's progressive, pro-choice, pro-ending the Iraq debacle, has a pretty solid healthcare policy. But still... I am not convinced.

Oy vey.

Why can't I just get over it? 

s'il vous plaît ne pas me détester

Here's the deal:

I am a hooker. Prostitute. Hoe. Slut. Whore. Jezebel. Skank. Call girl. All of the aforementioned names and more. And that doesn't even begin to paint the picture of what really went on (and could theoretically still be happening).

A few short weeks ago, I checked my bank balance at the neighborhood branch in the hopes of having enough money to pay for groceries. Guess the Gods weren't aligning in my favor because my balance was $-331.47. Yes, you read that correctly. Negative three hundred thirty one dollars and forty-seven cents. And this was after I deposited my meager paycheck that can be seen as nothing more than a pittance for those crazy or dumb or idealistic (probably a solid combination of the three) to actually work for a campaign. 

What's a girl to do? I left the bank in a furious rage and went home to weigh my options. I knew I needed money, and fast (Ramen noodles and PB&J sandwiches can only last so long). Plus, as always, there is/was bills to pay. I had two options, viable ones-at least. One thing you have to realize about me (if you haven't already) is that I'm too proud for my own good. I could never ask for money from friends or family. It would be weak and I'm better than that. That gave me the choice of either leaving GCI which has become my new campaign family or obtain an additional source of income. So I started scanning Craigslist for odd jobs and noticed a couple enticing ads under the most sexually explicit of categories. Most were in search of a mere place for said male to stick his dick in, and...as grotesque as this is/was... I was/am interested. I know... I have no semblance of self-worth and don't regard sex as something special. For me, at this point, it's merely going through the motions towards an obvious end. 

And... fuck... I answered one. Only one. It was looking for a girl to pamper, if I recall correctly, and offered a substantial donation for services rendered. Just what I needed, right? Something I'm good at and an easy way to land some cold hard cash. So I exchanged emails at first with the guy (let's call him Patrick) and he seemed articulate and overall legit. After some desperate soul-searching, I decided I had no other choice but to see him, and off it went. 

After leaving the GCI office one day, I took a cab (how delightfully decedent of me!) to his office with one mission: do the dead and land some much-needed dough. But the second I saw Patrick, I kind of melted. He was hot. Not like Johnny Depp, wanna fuck your brains out in the middle of Times Square with my grandmother watching hot... but in a more complex way. He seemed almost desperate for me to just give him a blowjob. It was adorable, but pathetic. The quintessential dichotomy needed in my book to be able to manipulate someone. And manipulate away, I did. 

I feel like I should probably say that I didn't mind giving him head. In fact, it was the first time in a long time that I felt powerful. In control. Desired. And we all know what a glutton I am for that sort of attention (or any attention, nowdays).

So a few days later, I text him and offer up a more lucrative offer. He accepts. Same sort of situation, except this time Patrick took me out for drinks at a pretty swank bar. Nice of him. But... I guess that's when the trouble started. We started talking. Like really talking about our families and pasts. Things became real. He has a kid, a wife, a perfect upper-class life. And I don't. Nor is/was there a place for me in his, I guess.

Anyway, I got an email from him today that it's over. I guess that's ok. Except that in the email, he referred to me as damaged. I'm not. I'm perfectly aware of what I'm doing to myself, literally selling myself. 

And while I'm a little peeved at Patrick for not having the balls to cut it off face to face so I could see the crinkle in his eyes as he smiles in the most genuine of ways, or at least via phone call so I could hear his bell-like voice... I'll be ok. 

I'm a tough kid.

PLUS...

The way I figure, there's not much left worth selling.

And, I know you're going to read this and freak out. How could I do this? How could I let this happen to me? In truth, I always knew it would someday. It's the ultimate FUCK YOU to my past life, the one I've been running from since birth. 

Don't judge. You know you're not that shocked. And if you were me, you'd be doing the same things.

staplegunned

I went down the shore yesterday with mi madre. Girl time, much needed. An escape from living with a boy who's recently contracted a bad case of the teenager (I hear it's going around nowdays). It was lovely. I could very easily be a beach bum. 

Except **somehow** my tanning oil got swapped with baby oil. If this has ever happened to you, you know how much it sucks. Because instead of laying out for four hours and ending up a plesant shade of bronze, I look like a lobster. 

So not sexy.

still so glad

I'm back in the realm of completeness, while not quite sure what my next move is. But that's ok. It will all be ok, I'm sure. It always is. It has to be. How horrible would life be if we, as humanity, didn't at least have that little glimmer of hope of a better tomorrow to hold on to... regardless of how fleeting it may seem? There would be no reason not to stick a gun in your mouth and end it right now.

And, truth be told, suicide is not as sexy as it seems... regardless of how psuedo-Plath we all seem.

Speaking of the Goddess, Ana and Mia have made a triumphant return into my life. I love that I finally have that normalcy, the control I've been yearning for of seeing them every second of every hour of every day. 

I shan't fail them. I can't do that again. 

dashed to bits on the reef

I feel lost. I used to be addicted to the spiraling out of control that had become my life. I was 18 and invincible. Punch drunk on nothing more than teenage beauty and an unhealthy obsession with The Virgin Suicides. But now. Now, I feel as if the spiraling is no longer intoxicating. Or... maybe it still is. But it's a different intoxicating. If we're still working with the alcohol metaphor, I've moved beyond a few Long Islands to throwing back 40oz beers with no abandon and drinking cheap vodka from the bottle, only to have to ungracefully empty my stomach contents into the nearest bin. 

Or, if that doesn't work for you.. try this: I'm perpetually trapped in a game of Chutes and Ladders, except I'm just going down the chutes. Sliding down and down and down and when I feel like I can't get any lower, I roll the dice and hit another chute. No rewards this time, Hasbro, just consequences. 

I'm completely vacant. This isn't the first time I've been this way, though. Around the spring of my freshman year, I woke up one day and just wasn't. I was a shell, merely going through the motions and doing the mere minimum to get by. Now, that's basically where I am, except that the motions are much more violent. It's live hard, play harder to the ninth degree. I don't want to make it seem like I'm unhappy, because I'm tragically content with causing my eventual demise. But, I'm recognizing now that what I'm doing is not even close to what can be seen as acceptable behavior for an adult.

Maybe I just don't care. Or maybe I do, but I'm in too deep and can't even begin to climb out. But, I think the real question is... 

even if I could get out of this, would I?

Methinks not.

I enjoy being reckless. I relish in being able to make some not-so-wise decisions. Do I know what I'm doing is not exactly legit? Of course. Do I care, kind of. Am I going to change? No. I'm a complete creature of habit. I'm no longer 18 and invincible. I'm twenty-something and pretty damn shattered. 

Maybe it's time to sweep up the wreckage and begin fresh.

Or not.

I don't know.

Whatever. 

Fuck it all.

recapture

I can't sleep. I feel like I'm dying. I know I say this at an alarmingly frequent rate, but I'm unaware of an alternative way to verbalize how I feel. But, for the sake of clarity, I shall try. 

Head- hurts. Aches. I've taken enough Advil and Codine over the past 24 hours that I shouldn't be feeling anything, but I still do. 

And I'm stressed. Work is a bitch and I've decided the commute sucks so I have to find a place in the city. Preferably Manhattan but if I can't find anything reasonably nice, I'm going to look in Brooklyn. Truth be told, commuting from Brooklyn will be the same time-wise but so much less stressful. I just need to get the Hell out of my house. It's just really weird living at home. I'm not around enough to appreciate my family so it's creating a lot of unnessasary tension that I just don't feel like having to put up with. I mean, it's not like I'm avoiding them. I leave the house by 630am and I don't get home till usually around 9 or 10pm and by that point, all I want to do is have a shower and collapse into bed. 

Work isn't a big as a bitch as I make it seem though.  The people, for the most part are pretty rediculous. Just this one girl, A, I don't know about yet. I can't decide if she's just a snob to everyone or what. But it's ok, only disliking one person out of 60 or 70 isn't too bad, I don't think. As the cliche goes, we're one big happy family. One of the directors, L, is having a party at her apartment on Saturday night. I'm excited to hang out with everyone somewhere other than Ginger House. I mean, it's fun that we all go out after work but we really haven't been anywhere other than the office, the roof and Ginger. And  even then, the director's usually don't come out because they're still finishing up things for the nightcrawlers. So I guess it'll be fun to hang with them, because no one really knows them that well, especially since we have a bunch of new directors. 

Payday tomorrow! Finally. I need to pay my credit card bill. They tend to appreciate that being paid off, no?