waste my time...

Let me just say, legitimately, I'm dying. I've had my suspicions for a while, but now that it's official... I don't feel so bad. 10 years, said the Dr. maybe 15 if I'm lucky. I'm hoping for 20.

10 to 15 isn't enough time to accomplish what I want to. But I'm going to be a trooper and deal with it.

Firstly, I'm going to do this crazy diet the Dr put me on. It's super healthy (no white flour, no fish, no raw fruits or veggies, no booze- or at least only red wine- no cigarettes, no liquids except water). LAMETARD. That means no sushi. But, I'm going to be a trooper. As I write this, I'm eating oatmeal made with water and a little bit of brown sugar sprinkled on top. It's pretty yum, I'm just not a fan of the texture.

This diet thing is supposed to make my body super efficient so the meds can do their job and my immune system can work better.

I'm going to rock this. I'm kinda awesome like that. Obvs.

21

And not having fun...

I am so overwhelmingly sad right now. And it's my birthday. Fuck. I need help. I need to get out of here. I need to run.

don't look back in anger.........

As I sit here, with roughly three hours till my 21st birthday, I'm suddenly very pensive. Moreso than I have been in quite some while. It is a new year... 2009 is upon us and I do not feel as if anything has changed. My jelly beans still taste the same, as does what is probably going to be the last beer I imbibe underage (Heineken, if you must know). But I am starting, slowly, to realize that I am going to be okay.

It is with that spirit, that I have resolved (as per the New Year's tradition) to attempt the following over the course of the following 365 days:

-I need to start taking care of myself. That means seeing doctors, getting enough rest and start making better choices in all aspects of my life.

-Get my degree. I need to graduate... it does not even matter where from. Just that I do it so I can move on with this phase of my life. There is so much I want to do: work with State Committee or for the Party, sign on with a serious consulting firm, elect Democrats everywhere... none of which I cannot do without a degree.

-Work on being less judgemental. Seriously... I severly limit myself in regards to the people I assocate with based on my preconcieved ideas of their lives. Let's say, hypothetically, I'm at a bar and am approached by a guy. If he's ugly, I won't even talk to him, regardless of his personality. I'm exactly that vain. If he's drinking a girlie drink, I'll immediatly think he's gay. Just stupid things like that... I should stop.

-Stop keeping secrets from my friends and family. Not everything needs to be out in the open, but I feel as if I've ruined a bunch of relationships because I don't let people in. They deserve to know more, after dealing with the aftermath.

-Write more. I'm a FUCKING BRILLANT WRITER. But no one is going to see that if I don't expand. The crazy, confessional, Plathesque poetry has its place, but I can do more. I need to move beyond that. Find my own style witin the genre and roll with it.
And maybe publish something. I'm good enough.

That's basically it. I'm excited.

Here's to a nonsucky year.
Lilith.

fifteen seconds

One year ago today, I tried to kill myself. And now, I am ALIVE. Breathing, bleeding, performing all of the normal bodily functions. Still confused and slipping as ever, but I think I finally am going to be ok.

Tomorrow I'm doing an interview for a major news network and I'm scared shitless. I haven't done an interview like this in such a long time and I need this to go well. I need to get back into the mentality of a fighter, a writer, the next best damn communications rep on the East Coast.

I'm too distracted, though. It's Hanakuah. I miss my family. I miss my cousins. I feel like the ugly duckling, never included or whatever. As pathetic as it is to say, I miss my mommy. I haven't seen her in a week or two and I miss her hugs and staunch analysis of my life, no matter how much it may hurt. I miss my grandma. She's dead. There's not much I can do about that one. I want to go visit her grave though, maybe when the ice melts. I haven't been back there since freshman year of college, Thanksgiving I think it was. I miss my friends. I have no friends up in Jersey.. or only like three. And with the new consulting gig, plus toy Hell, I haven't been able to head down to DC or even into the city to see anyone. I'm going a little stir crazy. Fuck that, I'm crazy.

21 soon. 21 and free. GONE. I can't wait...

oh sweet child of mine

Bean and Kaylin did it so I guess I have to hop on the bandwagon.

A
- Available: I guess that's what one calls it when they happen to be single.

- Age: 21 on 2 January!!!

- Annoyance: Not being taken seriously. Imperfection.

- Animal: White tigers.


B
- Beer: Yuengling. Or Newcastle.

- Birthday: 2 January 1988.

- Best Friend: Luke. And I guess B, when he's not being a dunce.

- Best feeling in the world: The morning of Election Day, right before the polls open. Or later that evening, watching the returns come in, either way... it's what I live for.

- Blind or Deaf: Deaf. As a writer, I think it'd kill me if I couldn't read my own work.

- Best weather: Slightly cloudy with a chance of rain.

- Been in Love: No comment.

- Been on stage?: I did theatre camp for 12 years.

- Believe in Santa: No. Being a big ole Jew, we tend to shy away from old dudes in old velvet suits.


C
- Candy: Tropical Skittles. Yessss.

- Color: Dark gray. And violet.

- Chocolate/Vanilla: Chocolate

- Cake or pie: I'm not fond of either, actually.

- Continent to visit: Africa has to be pretty sweet, I'm guessing.

- Cheese: OMGSH cheese has to be my most favorite food ever. Ever ever.


D
- Day or Night: Just before dusk.

- Dance in the rain: Always.


E
- Eyes: Dark brown, almost black.

- Everyone's got a: secret to share.

- Ever failed a class?: No. But I got straight Ds through Maths in middle/high school.


F
- Full name: {redacted}

- First thoughts waking up: Oy vey.

- Food: Uni sashimi with a ginger miso emulsion.


G
- Greatest Fear: failing. I know it's cliche, but it's true. Oh, that and being forgotten.

- Goals: 1)graduate by this time next year, 2)have my own apartment in the East Village, 3)publish SOMETHING...ANYTHING... by my 22nd birthday, 4)write something so mindblowingly amazing, it's known around the world as one of the most thought provoking pieces, ever.

- Gum: I don't really chew gum.

- Get along with your parents?: Negatory, batman.

- Good luck charm: Play bracelet.

H
- Hair Color: Brown, soon to be dark brown.

- Height: short. 5'5" maybe?

- Happy: Happiness is a state of mind, not a state of being.

- Holiday: Passover for the tradition, Yom Kippur because Kol Nidre is beautiful.

I
- Ice Cream: Wine sherbert from Whole Foods, please.

- Instrument: Piano.


J
- Jewelry: Peace sign ring that was Chandi's.

- Job: Toystore. For now.


K
- Kids: Fun unless I have to keep them.

- Kickboxing or karate: Kickboxing is amazing for your ass.


L
- Longest Car Ride: Nj to NC.

- Love: It's the only thing to believe in.

- Letter: Q. It seems kind of lonley up there at the top of the keyboard.

- Laughed so hard you cried: Always. Laughing is fun times, son.

M
- Milk flavor: Soy.

- Movies: ANything Tim Burton or Kubrick.

- Motion sickness? Never. Thank God.

- McD’s or BK: Neither. That's grossness.


N
- Number of Siblings: One Brother, one stepbrother.

- Number of Piercings: Seven. Five in each ear, tongue, industrial.

- Number: 538.


O
- One wish: Go back to 2 November 2006.

P
- Perfect Pizza: White on a whole wheat crust with fresh basil.

- Pepsi/Coke: Diet Coke.


Q
- Quail: Like Quailman from Doug? He was funny, with his undies outside his shorts and a belt on his head.


R
- Reason to cry: Nothing is worth the tears right now.

- Radio Station: NPR.

- Ring size: 6, I think.


S
- Song: Wow. I can't choose. Let's roll with "Cath" from Deathcab for right now.

- Salad Dressing: Just a little lemon juice on the side, please.

- Sushi: Toro or uni if it's super fresh.

- Skipped school: been there, done that.

- Slept outside: All the time when it's not cold.

- Shower daily?: Twice a day.

- Sing well? No, but that doesn't stop me.

- In the shower?: Yes, till I start swallowing soapy water.

- Swear?: Yes. I cuss. Fuck.

- Strawberries/Blueberries: Strawberries!!


T
- Time for bed: After midnight, before One unless I'm out.

- Thunderstorms: Best weather ever.


U
- Unpredictable: Shock 'em like only the best can.


V
- Vacation spot: Jersey shore. I know it's cheesy, but I have a strange love for LBI.


W
- Weakness: Piercing eyes, Democrat, musical, animal lover, cynical, witty, has values and stands up for them, as smart if not smarter than me.

- Which one of your friends acts the most like you: Christine.

- Worst feeling?: Knowing, regardless of anything you could have done, he will never be yours.

- Wanted to be a model?: Absolutely.

- Where do we go when we die?: In the ground to rot. FUCK THAT. I want a party, with the most badass of playlists and my ashes shot out of fireworks, like Thompson.


X
X-Rays: All over, to the point where I should be glowing.


Y
-Year it is now: 2008.

-Yellow: lemon.

Z
- Zoo animal: Snakes.

skin and bones on prom night

Right now I'm sitting on my well-worn sofa, drinking a glass of ice water with fresh lemon, with one of my kitties swaddled between the cushions to my left. I'm watching the hideous film, Black Snake Moan, solely because Christina Ricci in it looks perfectly emaciated. Every rib, outlined expertly and showing the sharpest of constrasts to her babyface. She is eveverything that I want to be and will never be.

Fuck.

Oh. Ps. Bea died.

ad vitam paramus

Art is a fickle thing.

Constantly evolving, an effervescent accruement of flesh and bone casually tossed among veins pulsating with every single twitch, we are nothing more than the original instillation art piece.

Our venue: the chair I now sit in, the bed on which we made love, the now-dying grass flattened between your wandering toes, the grotesquely unappealing aisles of the corner market marred by sole marks.

It is (we are?) everywhere. It is (we are?) nowhere.

The ultimate ashes-to-ashes; Alice sees the project and begins amalgamating herself to be the person SHE wants to be known as after death. Alice gives up everything she is for her contribution, if you will, to the work. But, by altering even one aspect of the predicated norm, she throws the whole piece off. Alice, instead of her normal quad-shot skim latte from the new swank coffee shop across town decides to make her own coffee this morning. Tom, her barista, doesn't get to finally spill his profound disgust to Alice-after having seen her weathered lips all over another man's dick at a film last weekend. And so on...

It is far too cliche to say our actions are interconnected, as is the contrite golden-rule.

I say, fuck 'em all. It's not supposed to be perfect.

hear me out

I don't know how long this post will be. See, I just took a sleeping pill for the first time in a while. I needed something to help me unwind, relax, pass out. And this was the way to go. As I type this, I feel my eyelids getting heavier and the weight of the day lifting off my bare shoulders. I miss sleep. I cherish it, the replenishment.

new commandments

- Worship the Goddesses wholeheartedly. If you fuck up, they WILL leave you.

- You've made your decision. If you stop, the pain will be forever.

- Emotion is against the rules.

-Perfection is the only thing left to believe in, the only thing left to obtain.

-Hate the present, love the future.

-There's always more to be done.

-Perfection is the only freedom left.

-Believe in control. It's the only force powerful enough to bring order to this chaos.

-QMNMD. Forever.

-Do not listen to anyone but the Goddesses. Everyone else is trying to destroy you.

-It's worth whatever it takes.

-Trust Polly, she had it right.


(IfuckingloveyouPollyandmissyousoGoddamnedmuch)
(ThnxforleavingmeherePollyIdontknowhowtolivewithoutAnaandMiaandmycoach)
(YoucouldhavetoldmePollyIwouldhavegonewithyouinaheartbeat)

Angels, press on.

love of mine, some day you will die

I'm not immortal. As much as I'd like to be, I will die. We all will. My death is your death is the death of our barista is the death of your attorney is the death of your teacher is the death of your lover is the death of us all. We are all dying, constantly. And there is nothing we can do about it. We solely live in order to die.

Mad, no?

My stepmother's grandmother is dying. Bea. She's in the hospital and has been since Saturday morning. On a vent and unable to come off, she is heavily sedated. Oh, and she's 99. I don't understand. She has gone from fairly coherent and mobile to lying in a hospital bed, unaware. It's sad. But, she is so old. She's lived through both World Wars and Vietnam, the advent of the automobile as well as electricity and telephones, voting rights for women and people of color. She is a primary source to the history books. That's mind-blowing.

Of course we're all hoping Bea will get better, but it really is the beginning of the end. If she makes it out of this, she will need a nursing home, of 24/7 home care. Plus, she has a DNR.

The stepmother doesn't quite know how to deal with this. It's not as if she was close to Bea, but it is her grandmother. I hate to say that I'm good with this dying thing, but I am. I've been through it times and times before with my grandparents. I know how to negotiate the system and when to say stop. Yet, I'm not allowed to go to the hospital with the stepmom. Because I'm not blood, I'm not going to be an affective advocate for Bea. Whatever. That's ridiculous.

I know when she dies, I'm not going to cry. Or maybe I am. I actually don't know and don't know why I just said that I know that I would not. I cried at my grandmother's funeral. Like an infant. I was inconsolable. I thought I was going to be ok... just sniffling through the ceremony but as we left the funeral home, I lost it. My cousin's boyfriend had to calm me down, it was kind of embarrassing. I was young then, though. 15, maybe 16. Not as cynical, jaded, dark and twisty.

Christmas won't be the same though, without Bea.

the weight of the world is love

I love that Ginsburg quote. Maybe the oversexed drug addict had something going for him... Such a profound statement "the weight of the world is love", with such a simple meaning. The world is carried by the most complex and in the same, simple, idea of love. If I had a soul, I may even think of that as a beautiful idea. But I don't. Whoops.

I love. I have love. There is a difference. A strong one. Love, in my mind is for more serious things... relationships, the Goddesses, my candidates, the few people I let get close to me. Whereas, I have love for much more; family, West Wing, wine, a good book, a great fuck. And it is the quiet dance between the two loves that make the world work.

As a little girl, I couldn't wait to fall in love. And now that I have, and have gotten hurt, I do not want to go back. I fell hard and I'm still working on picking up the pieces. And while I'm working on that, I can't wait to fall again.

Looking for love in all the wrong places doesn't even begin to describe the process, though. I don't even know what I'm looking for. I know. Pathetic. I want to be loved so badly I put myself through so many bad dates, on which I spend the entire time convincing myself that it's not as bad as it seems (when really it's much worse...). I sleep with married men to feel loved. Needed. Desired. Then try to convince them of my need for them in my life. Forever. Love will not come from that, I know. But on the off chance that it does, I'm willing to try anything.

I need my world to bring me back down.

undeniable

I messed up. B, I am sorry. I fell for you. I know I wasn't supposed to get attached. But I did. Tonight was supposed to be perfect... video games and booze. Except little miss bulimia here didn't not purge today. Yup. I had soup and purged around lunch. And that was what I wanted to tell you all day, B. That's what made my day horrendous. It wasn't the boss yelling at me. It wasn't having spawn bite me. It was failing.

Yet another nail in the coffin of goals and such. I'm probably not going back to school next semester, B. Too damn scared.

I AM SCARED OF EVERYTHING. EVEN BREATHING. IT IS GOING TO STOP ONE DAY AND I DO NOT KNOW IF I CAN DEAL WITH THAT.

I need this to not be happening. I am extremely unhappy. I am extreme.y on the brink. After tonight, for the first time in a long time, I am scared for myself. Not to the point where I should check myself in.... but pretty close. I know what I need. It's CJH. It's P. It's Michael. It's Maceo. But of those four things.... I can have exactly zero.

(Screw drowning, I'm capsizing....)

B, I'm sorry for dragging you into this. Whenever you want out, just say the word. You don't need a reason, I'll understand.

another sunny day in hell

I am not quite. Not quite anything, actually. Blurring the fine line between sanity and not, with just enough disdain for both options to continue toeing the line.

And I want to leave. Head far, far away and begin anew. Except that I tried that once and it did not work out so well.

I don't know what I am doing.

what i see

Secrets, secrets are no fun. They just are not. And it is with that in mind, I spill...

-I am withholding. B, I know I told you that I am not. I lied. Sorry. I'm not going to tell you everything outright. That would leave nothing to be discovered. Just ask. Be specific. I'll disclose.
-I love drugs. Always have, always will. But that does not mean I will always abuse them.
-2398439752 times a day I think about purging.
-I truly believe that I am the next great American author.
-I'm scared. Of everything.
-I haven't been to the doctor since my physical before college.
-I still sleep with a stuffed animal. Or three.
-Bipolar, I'm not. But I am manic. Very.
-I never learned how to properly spell.
-Same goes for math.
-I don't know how many people I've slept with. I stopped counting after high school.
-I've never used needle drugs. Only because track marks are kind of cliche.
-I belong on Height-Ashbury circa 1960. I think I'd work well there, no?
-I still listen to the Spice Girls.
-My favorite color combination is plum with dark grey and muted turquoise.
-I broke a mirror in 9th grade.
-My luck didn't change.
-No candidate I have worked for has won. Ever.
-I dislike most people.
-I quit riding because I was afraid of being anything less than the best.
-I think I would have gotten along really well with the Beats.
-If you don't read, you can't be my friend.
-I hate my cousin and stepmom for having taken the two careers I wanted (communications consultant, photographer).
-I left Hood because I couldn't deal with living in the country anymore.
-High school was Hell for me.
-Actually... all school was.
-I don't want to finish my degree.. but I know I have to.
-People I date have a bad habit of trying to fix me.
-I'm still in love with Michael. But it's ok. I'm not going to marry him.
-I love running. Take that as you will.
-I can't sleep. Ever.
-Thinspo gets me through the day.
-I ran away in high school.
-Morbidly obese people scare the living Hell out of me.
-I want to fuck the living daylights out of David Duchovny.
-I think Tim Burton is a genius.
-I'm immune to violence.
-"Full Metal Jacket" didn't bother me. At all.
-P makes me feel more relevant than you ever could.
-J just makes me feel sexy.
-I can't parallel park.
-I have no idea why, but I don't feel bad.
-CJH saved my life. Bitch.
-I made out with my swim coach in middle school.
-99.9% of my scars were my own doing.
-I'm falling for you.
-I love grunge rock.
-I want to be the intelligent Courtney Love.
-Bleached out hair and all.
-I love getting inked.
-I wrote a novella in high school.
-I'm too scared of rejection to actually submit anything I write except to bullshit publications.
-I'm friends with a publisher at S&S and plan to use his friendship solely for connections.
-I don't feel at home anywhere.
-I've never been fishing.
-You keep me going. And that's amazing.

That's all. For now.

cold and broken hallelujah

Selfish, lost and unable to see the consequences of anything I have done or am doing. As I am typing this, a marriage is collapsing (possibly two...) and I am to blame. Little children cannot keep them hands to themselves, I suppose, especially not in a toy store. It is as if I ran through the store playing with every toy, and when I bored of their plastic, left them for dead in the center of the aisle. No matter if they happen to break or if one happens to trip over them, I have rid myself of their manufactured juvenility and thus hold no responsibility. Except that I am to blame. Of course. It does not matter that J and P have (had) the dream; wife, house, 2.3 brats to look after. One glare that lingered a little longer than it should have and they were mine... sinking into the abyss. I am where normalcy goes to die.

And it is not as if I intended it to get this bad. J and P were both something to do, nothing more. I was bored, they flattered me and I went with it. Do I regret having that last drink, grabbing his hand and letting him take me home? No (maybe?). It was fun, each time. I felt amazing, free, everything you are told not to feel because it is dirty and wrong and shameful and all of those words used to scare little girls into chastity... I felt it. Sorry, Mumsie Dearist: your little girl wasn't spending time drawing inspiration (ok, so maybe I was, in a way). No, I was too busy using my knees for what the Good Lord intended. Oops?

But now, J and P and the others... all of the others, I have lost track to exactly how many... will not leave me alone. Why is it impossible for men to see me as a one-night stand when it is clear that I have no actual interest in anything other than their cock? Why must they see me as something to be fixed? If I wanted to become a clone, I could. But I am having too much damn fun figuring this out on my own. I do not need their help (but of course, if the help comes in monetary form... or shoes... I will be happy to take it off your hands) nor do I really want it. J and P, however will not leave me alone. They intend to break me of my evil ways. Reform me, if you will. Despite they have their own lives to fix. With P, I do not matter as much. He is a great person... fucking brilliant and his connections are priceless. I can use P. But J? There is nothing there for me to even take. He does something with computers. I do not know jack shit about computers or technology or anything in the related field, nor do I care. He is not attractive. At all. And he is not fun to go out with. Why bother with him, I do not know. But he sure wants to be part of my life.

I use men. I am very aware of this. It is fun for me to see how much I can get away with. I will be the worst brat and still J and P keep coming back. If I actually had feelings for either, I would not use them. I would not want anyone to be on the receiving end of my manipulation.

I am just that damn good.

love is not a victory march

I am on the brink. Of what, I do not know. All I know is that I am there and I do not like it even in the slightest.

Danger, Will Robinson. I cannot stop moving. For the mere seconds I stop shaking, my mind is racing... so there really is no point in even attempting to stop.

This is not healthy.

I am completely sober and I feel like I have done a bad speedball. I hate speedballs to begin with. There is no reason, in my mind, to mix blow and speed. For me, whenever I had done one, I would have panic attacks not even an overdose on Xanax could quell. And I am not in a panic right now. But it could very easily become that. Just one thing could set me off and then BAM!

I am not healthy.
This is not right.
I should not be feeling this way.

This was my first Thanksgiving where I did not purge anything. I want to just shove my fingers down my throat and do it, but now there is no point. And, I do not really want to. If I did, it would be out of sheer habit.

By all accounts, I should be having a great evening. I had a fairly good day, baking with Lesley then doing the Thanksgiving thing; after which I watched movies and talked with B. But I am not.

I do not think it is the B situation. He is not a situation. I should not say that. But I am going to, for lack of better terminology. I know he is going to read this and I do not care. [B, if you are reading this right now, feel free to ask me about it later. I am an open book with you, punk]. He is good for me. He is nice, genuinely so. For some reason, I can trust him. I do not do not do not do not do not trust people. Ever. And he could fuck me over in a heartbeat. But I do not care. Maybe I am being reckless in taking down the wall with him. I probably am. B could be a psycho who is using me, just as I use everyone else. But I truly do not think he is. And if he is, he is better at it than me, so Mazel Tov. I am not good at talking to people. And I can talk to him. About everything. We have at least touched on some of the big ones: blowsmurfy, Patrick, my (hopefully, and I really do mean hopefully) former propensity towards attempting to out myself. And he is still here. This has never EVER happened before. I am a little thrown by it. This is so new for me. I feel like I am taking a major risk in doing this but B and I have only known each other for a month and we are close. Legitimately so. And we have fun hanging out, which I think is important. It is not always the serious stuff... Prime example: earlier on the phone, we were talking about Mumbai how atrocious it is that humanity still permits said acts to occur and I somehow jumped to Rubber Duckies (like for the bath). And it just made sense. He permits this... I do not know why. But it makes me happy and stuff. And last evening, just hanging out with him. We watched this great film that I had never seen and then just talked. And it was kind of perfect... I kept catching myself thinking "so this is what normal people do in the evenings... cool" and I am serious about it. I am being normal. And that is a little scary for me.

I am very discontent. I am holding my breath then gasping. I have forgotten how to breathe.

How can I forget how to breathe? It is the most basic of human actions, without breath... nothing. I am not intentionally trying to stop breathing but something in my head is keeping me from doing so and I have to remind myself to inhale/exhale. Sad. Pathetic, no? Perplexing, more so than anything else. Worrisome, obviously.

Patrick is taking off for LA Wednesday. Maybe I should go with him. The thing is, I know if I went with him I would not come back and nor would he. I do not really want to run away with him, I do not think. I just, right now, am so scared.

This is the first time in a long time I have not been in some sort of a relationship. WEIRD. Sucky, but needed. I need to work on being ok alone. It is not the end of the world to just be. It is actually healthy.

FUCK why can I not stop wigging? Fuck it. Fuck fuck fuckidy fuck fuck. Fuck it all.

I fucking need to get the fuck out of fucking here. Go underground for a while maybe? Figure out what I need and where to get it and just do it. No, I know what I need and I am not going to do that because I am better than that. But I need a replacement. And fast.

freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose

I'm kind of dying. The mind games, they're getting to me. I don't know how much more of this I can take. I'm too damn strong to let some washed-up pseudo publisher with a big dick and an amazing smile to get inside my mind. I'm doing no one but myself harm by dwelling on him. I can't have him and that is (or should be) that.

I don't like not getting what I want. I'm actually rather poor at it. I'd work on it, but who has the time?

_________________________________________

The semester is almost out. Hoodrats want me to come for a visit. I know I should... I just don't know if I want to. It shouldn't feel like an obligation to go see friends. I want to see Luke. I miss Luke. I miss Bean. And Mike. And Christine. And that's about it. I like other people there. I have friends there... I just don't really miss any of them.

Mike wouldn't be fun now, though. He has a legit girlfriend and loses all control around me. He'd refuse to see me, or he'd see me... we'd party... and there would be drama.

I'm kind of on a drama-free diet right now.

________________________________________

I don't feel well. I want to purge but I have nothing but tea in me. And I know I'd feel worse after. Shit.

At least I'm being somewhat rational.

I'll purge when I can swallow. Yes. Perfect.

tea and tears

My congressional candidate lost. Again. I feel like I'm in the same place as two years ago, except back then I had something to return to. Now... nothing.

So what if Barack won? Yes. A Democratic presidency. It's a great thing. We'll be able to acomplish so much legislatitavly, like SCHIP and inreased funding for public education.

I'm not excited.

_______


I'm actually really confused. I don't know where to go from here. No school. No job. I'm a glorified bum. If I had money, I'd be down in Florida with Michael. In my mind, I know he wants me. I know the second he sees me, he will fall in love with me all over again and will beg me to never leave his side. He will be my Knight in Combat Boots.

Except the second I step back from that dream, I know that I'm nothing more than a fun fuck to him.

And that's all I'll ever be.

and we lost... my thoughts on NJ-7

In the tidal wave of hope and change, we got lost. Confused. Scared. The mistakes made by Linda Stender's campaign last cycle were exposed and maybe even magnified in this year's go-around. And what do we end up with, after 2+ years of blood and tears for the 7th district...

nothing but a damn lot of should have, would have, could have.

Kudos to NJDSC for running a very comprehensive field program, capitalizing on Obama's focus on grassroots. It brought in volunteers for Linda, under the guise of helping the top of the ticket. Once they were in, we helped them fall in love with her, cleverly pointing out that there's no point in having a Democrat in the White House if we don't have a Congress we can work with (i.e. SCHIP). The field team was composed of the most talent I've seen in a long time, with Jorge Santos and Travis Levitt at the reins. Sold red towns were canvassed (Clark, Warren) with the sole purpose of maintaining a presence even in areas that had no hope. Each organizer, responsible for their towns, created a comprehensive plan and established a volunteer base previously unseen in the district.

And now for what went wrong...

Emily's List. Two words to fuck a campaign sideways with an ice-pick. Yes, they enabled Heather DeJong to raise ridiculous amounts of money, but that came with a major caveat. They controlled the message. In a year when the economy was the number one, two, three & four issue for a strong majority of voters, the last six weeks were spent talking about reproductive rights. Unacceptable. I'm just as pro-choice as the next person, but when you're running against a candidate who successfully played himself off as a moderate on choice... not a good move. In addition, E-List pushed very strongly for the hiring of Irene Lin as communications director. Lin came with an impressive resume but not much to back it up. When you're given full control over a campaign's message and you turn the focus away from what the rest of the candidates are talking about, you don't deserve to cry as the returns come in.

Mismanagement and fear perpetuated by the broken wheel in the finely tuned machine is purely what E-List has become for Linda.

She deserved so much more than a second chance at failure.

You Just Gotta Do it!

liquorology

I'm in love with David Duchovny. And now that he's back on the market, I think I may have to have him. Those eyes are absolutely smothering. I'd give anything to just be that girl... to have him stare at me in that way and make love to me like a hurricane. He may be as fucked up as I am, and I'm ready to find out. 

I've also come to the conclusion that I'm a liquor-fiend. But it's ok, because now I'm a whisky girl. I go for the things that are like me. I basically am the human whisky. I'm raw. You know exactly what you're getting. I let you hurt and warm you in the same moment. I burn. Either that or I'm vodka... able to amagalmate to everything. Classless and classy in the same moment. 

I'm thinking of dropping off the grid after the election, for a month or two. Any ideas as to where I should hide out? Spain, maybe. Or Brazil. Maybe somewhere in Africa or the Middle East. 

I just have to get out of here. Preferably with David. 

what don't you know

would shock you. 

27days

i want to win. i need it to be election day already. i'm already living off caffiene, cigs, booze and hope. with some change.

linda's gonna lose. barack's gonna lose.

and i'm going to cry. perhaps die.

who knows?

injection

I'm really depressed. Depressing. Sad. Saddening. Over the past few days, I've managed to regress from the uber-confident pseudosocialite that I'd become into the scared little girl of my past. I don't know what it is. No. I do. This time of year is always hard on me.

If anything... I feel very September. The month of the slowly dying sun, where the incessant cries of summertime morph into the dronings-on of the 40 (or in my case 100) hour work week. Flowers brown and die, along with the feelings of a future I've tried to force on myself for the past months. 

(Please pardon my emo-ness... I really can't help it.)

I miss school. Not college, but the clusterfuck of high school where I knew walking in every day... I'd be nothing more than a no-name. No expectations for someone with no backstory. I hated high school... hated it to the point where every day was a bloody struggle, but yet I want to go back. I miss no one knowing. Now everyone knows. I miss being invisible. 

I don't want to have to walk into the office every day and put on my happy face. I've been doing it since July and I don't know how much longer I can. I'd rather be invisible than fake. Because that's all I am at GCI. To my coworkers I'm the slutty, outgoing ditz who just happens to be good at this. Nothing more, nothing less. I've mentioned numerous times that I write, that I actually give a shit about policy, that I legitimately think I can save the world one day. But does any of that matter... nope. I'm just the girl who walks in every day, looking put-together with a huge smile on her face. I'd love to be able to walk into work, just once, in comfy clothes. I'm not talking scrubby sweats or anything. Just a tee-shirt and nice jeans and tennies. And having to put on such a farce, day after day, I think has finally gotten to me. 

For the past few days, I just haven't been able to bring myself to go into work. I've laid in bed, watching Mark Harmon's ungodley sexiness on NCIS and cried. Cried for what I've given up to work with GCI... the start of my junior year of college, South Africa, Omri, Linda's race. Cried for giving up Linda's race... how could I have been so stupid?... Nick, Jorge, Heather... my REAL campaign family. Cried for how much I could have... love, a book deal, the Goddesses.

But they're all gone.

Instead, I'm stuck in a job I've committed myself to till at least after the Election (lest a two week break for a return to Linda-land for GOTV). I've given up writing. I've lost my chance with the campaign family (I will forever be known as the one who left). And I will never be loved.

I think, more than anything... I just want someone to hold me and tell me it will be ok. Preferably Michael. GOD. Michael's mad at me. I don't know what I did, but I can feel it. I miss knowing he was always there for me. I need that assurance, that gratification. And now... I'm drifting.

I feel so isolated from GCI. Right now, the social butterfly said she'd attend a party in Brooklyn tonight. But instead, I'm at home in my safe, little apartment. I'm too scared to go. 

I can't let them get close to me. It already happened once... and I have to start weining myself off them. So when it happens, it's an easy break.

I miss Nick. I saw him the other day at the mall and he was disgusted by me. Absolutely repulsed. I need him to tell me it's going to be ok. And I couldn't even get a sense of awknowledgement. 

I want it to all be over. September is always hard... I'm not good in these in-between months. 

catapult

The past few days have been maddening. Everyone in the GCI office has a cold, is getting over a cold or is getting said cold. And that's just really no bueno for two reasons; firstly, even though I've cut down my schedule a lot... I still spend a lot of hours a week either in the office or out & about with the officefolk. Therefore, it's just natural that we share the same germs, transmitted by sharing the same plate of awesomely greasy vegetable fried rice, the errant cigarette, et al. Hence, it's only natural that we all get sick together. 

Secondly, we only have 40 days left till the election. I honestly was contemplating not working today because I feel so lousy but I know that if I don't work a day when I theoretically could have sucked it up... and we lose this baby... I may actually die. This race is too damn important to not just pop the extra DayQuill and get over it. 

I don't knowww... my throat hurts a lot though.

Today is going to be an angry bitch. =( 

first time

I'm an escape artist, I've come to realize. When life throws me under the proverbial bus (or so it seems, even though most situations I get myself in are purely a result of my own selfish needs) I run away. Leave everything behind and try to begin anew. It's very immature of me to believe that wherever I run off to this time, my problems will remain behind... because they don't. I can't just escape and put a band-aid on the ouchie that moment of my life has become. 

I went down to Hood for a visit earlier this week and it was... surreal. Nothing had changed, whatsoever. Yes, the influx of bratty freshman and the destruction of all traditions that held the 200-year old school together remained intertwined amongst the pathways I wandered for the better part of the past two years. My friends were the same. Completely. Lily is still the overachieving, people-pleaser who's just too darn (because she would never grow the set big enough to allow her to say damn) scared to tell people how she really feels. Darrell is the male version of Lily, but he cusses like a sailor and still resents me. Logan is still my counterpoint to the ninth degree. And Mark... just laying there with him made time stop. I know it's the biggest cliche in the book but despite all the drama  we caused each other... I'm still sort of majorly in love. 

Sigh.....

one more taste of gin and we're intact...

There's a fine line between being secretive and being completely hidden. And right now, I'm toeing the line. The really sick thing is that I don't hate what I've become... I'm thriving off it. I love leading multiple lives. I'm no longer the boring, slightly conservative girl from the suburban hell of NJ. 

I'm that girl, plus:

~the 20-something glamazon with the perfect life

~the tortured writer-artsy type

~the heartless bitch who will do anything to get ahead

~the constant flirt

 (Because all of those things are mutually exclusive.)

And... there's so much I just want to scream. I just want to let go... let it all out. I'm not far from drowning in the secrets I keep. But I'm swimming and it's getting harder and harder to throw my arms out of the waves as they pound against me. I just need to let them go. Let go of my secrets and finally begin to LIVE. So here goes... I'm in love with a guy that I effectively know nothing about even though we've been together forever. I'm not over Hillary not being the nominee, as much as I deny it. I believe that torture works. I'm not as broken as I come off, but nor am I as happy as I seem. I love money. I love having things. I'm extremely reckless because I'm constantly waiting for someone to tell me that I"m worth fighting for. I'm probably going to be an addict when I grow up (if I'm not already). If given the chance, I'd publish my full memoir and full collection of poetry under my true name, not for the exposure but for the chance to shock the living fuck out of my parents. I revel in being a slut because I love the attention. I get very, very jealous. I know I'm at risk of breaking up Patrick's perfect life, but I'm falling for him in the worst way. I'm bailing on Hood, not because I got into Columbia but because I can't hide there anymore. If I'm not in a constant state of crisis, I start getting panic attacks. I despise pretty people but wont associate with the uglies, unless they're gross enough to make me look amazing. I don't trust anyone anymore. I love playing guys... it makes me feel so powerful. I am a total power trip addict. I live for politics not because I love it, but because it's the ultimate pool of power, sex and scandal. I'm pretty hardcore bulimic. I think I'm going through withdrawal from God and I'm not necessarily upset. I know I'm going to Hell... even though I don't really believe in anything anymore. I do most of what I do just to shock people. I can't go anywhere alone... or even be any place alone without panicking. I want to be Sylvia Plath and have found my Anne Sexton, but she's not as fucked-up as I need her to be, yet. I'm manipulating Patrick... but I really like him so... SHIT. I've found an agent a publisher but am too scared to actually publish in anything other than the anthologies because of the attention I might get. After the election, I plan on running away if we're not together (you can guess who the other half of the equation is... and if you do, tell me... because I don't know). 

Wow. I needed that. 

comment puis-je pas?

I think I'm having 2006 regrets all over again. I regretted going to school in Fall '06 because I wasn't able to live, breathe Linda's race. But now, I'm not in school... I'm somewhat working for the party, for Linda. However, she's not my first priority when she should be. 

I walked into her campaign's new diggs Saturday morning... and something just clicked. I miss it. I miss the excitement of the 7th district, where four years ago it was unthinkable that we'd have a viable candidate now. In a woman, nonetheless. I'm all for female candidates, don't get me wrong... but the 7th is about 50 years back in terms of female equality, or any equality for that fact. This is a place where the three-letter f-word gets thrown around, often in the same phrase as the n-word. I miss walking into the office, every day with a big cup of coffee and just pounding out issue briefs and speeches. Talking to the press, no problem. Spinning a story, I'm on it. I miss having the opportunity to control the entire message of a congressional race for a candidate I adore. 

That's really what I'm good at, not this grassroots thing. I don't know how to do canvass, have people open their checkbooks and minds to a scrappy kid from Jersey and have them give a massive contribution to the DNC ($28,500 please). Yeah, I've done somewhat well. But somewhat doesn't cut it, especially not in an election year. 

And, maybe more than anything, I miss the campaign family. Saturday was really hard for me, being in the office. The new kids have their own banter and I'm on the outside. At least Jorge and Heather were there. Jorgie... what is there to be said about him? He's known me for 4 years and basically talked me through running Jardim's mayoral in '05, not only saving my tush but the entire campaign. (Who the HELL was I to think I could run a mayoral- or any- campaign at age 17? Seriously...) He's been the one to pick me up on my worst days, throw me a cigarette and make me come back the next day. I think my favorite memory of him was, Election night '06, we were outside the hotel where Linda's losing victory party was being held. Of course, we were having cigarettes and were slightly drunk... despite getting a solid majority in the House. 'Cause, fuck. When your candidate loses, that's what you do. Anyway... Jorge and I were just sitting on the curb outside when he made it very clear that I can write a damn good speech. From him, the one who taught me basically everything I know about campaigns... I don't know... it didn't suck to hear.

And Mrs. Heather. During '06, she was Linda's finance director. For a while, it was just me, her, Jorge and two other staffers so we became pretty close. And she's tough as nails. I don't think I'd be as tough as I am without her. When Michael went back to Iraq, Heather called me at 7am, asked why my ass wasn't in the office doing press work. That's just the kind of person she is... she knows when you need a distraction and will make sure that you will be focused. 

Anyway... it was great seeing them both. I miss my loves. It's so weird, not being there. This is the first cycle in four years that I'm not working the race in the 7th full-time. 

I guess I could always go back for GOTV. 

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.