snowday!!!

Ok. Maryland people are whimps. I don't mind having a second snowday in a row. Not at all. But seriously. It's WARM out. I went out in flipflops and a tee earlier. Whatever.

I got roped into making a trek down to Florida to visit the grandmother over spring break. I dont know how I feel about that one yet. After the last visit, I've been trying to isolate myself from the entire situation. And now, having to go back... it's just gonna suck.

At least I can work on my base tan and maybe take the boat out.

remind me to never have offspring

sinister sister

I can't sleep. It's after 3am and I can't sleep. Last year, this wouldn't have worried me... but now it is. Because last year, I stopped being able to sleep a few days before I slid into a hardcore manic phase. I'm talking hardcore along the lines of not sleeping at all, not eating, existing off of coffee and cigs, bounce from class to class with hitting the gym and cleaning my room like there's no tomorrow between...that kind of manic. I don't know. I should be able to embrace that this is how I am at this point, but I don't feel like it. I knew I was gonna hit a manic patch at some point... but now. COME ON! I'm just starting to get my routine down with classes and consulting and such. I liked being able to kind of know what's coming. It was disgustingly monotonous and I hated it, but at least I had control over what was going on. Now...as soon as I get into it... I know it's gonna be bad.

I was able to find Polly's obit. Here is the link. Check it out if you want. Or not. I don't think it's that good of an obit. It doesn't list the cause of death. And I mean, when a 33 year old dies, people wanna know that. Not just the goddess obsessed. Plus, that's a really shitty picture of her. I think Polly looks too cooperate there, like she's trying to hard to conform to adulthood. I mean, I guess it makes sense since she was working as a lobbyist and such. But still, for her obit, I would have liked to see a pic that captured who she really was, in all of her fucked up glory.

Valentine's Day is Thursday. This is gonna be the second year in a row that I'm alone on a completely manufactured holiday. I'm not entirely bummed by that, though. I just don't think I actually care enough about other people (even my friends... sorry guys!) to have any desire to engage in meaningful adult relationship. Aside, of course, from my desperate need for attention. Actually... that's not a bad reason to get involved in a relationship. I mean, I know I'm bloody insane for being able to justify wanting to be in a relationship for purely personal gains. But isn't that why everyone gets into a relationship to begin with? It can't be just sex. There's no law you have to be seeing someone for that to happen, or for it to even be good. Some of the best fucks I've had have been with one night stands. But, I digress, there really doesn't seem to be a need for me to be in a relationship right now. Nor are their any half-decent prospects around here so whatever.

I've been toying with the idea of doing something drastic to my hair for the past few weeks. It's so fried to the point where my split ends have splits. Gross. I originally wanted to shave it all off but then I realized that's probably not a good look for anyone. I know, if anything, I'm just going to end up hacking off an inch or so over my sink. Especially since summer is coming up. There's something poetic about being tan, rocking a white sundress and having long brown hair.

I absolutely cannot wait for it to be warm enough for spring/summer clothes. Since I know you all really want to help out a starving writer, let me know if you **want** to make a donation to the "Let's get Lilith a fabulous new wardrobe" fund. I take cash, personal checks and of course, gift cards. I even have an awesome wishlist set up at Nordstroms, Sax and Neiman Marcus and I'm more than happy to send them over.

I'm not even kidding. Buy me things.

how bad do you want it?

I'm not pro-ana... but. God. This vid is amazing.

Polly, from the HBO documentary, THIN died. I don't know exactly when it happened because I can't find anything about it on googlenews or tmz or whatever. But that's the buzz going around. One of my friends who's also mia told me and she heard from a pretty reputable source. I don't know why that scares me so much. I don't know if it was her ed or other health issues that killed her...

I know what I do is dangerous. But it's such a big part of me now... I love Mia. I really do. Her and Ana have always been there for me regardless of how bad things get. They're my constant reminder that no matter how happy I am, I'm never going to be good enough. They keep me grounded. They remind me that I am imperfect and and imperfect person is a reminder of an imperfect soul. Mia punishes me for engaging in gluttonous behaviour that is not befitting of one with my talents. Ana is the reward. Ana only comes out when I've proved myself worthy of her control. I really do love them both.

The thing is... for me at least, it's not about a 'diet' thing. Because it's not a diet. It's not a lifestyle. It's a disease. Yes, I know this is a monumental step in me admitting that I have a disease... but I'm not ready to recover from it. And I'm ok with that. You can't become bulimic or anorexic. You just are.

It's a control thing. I have absolutely no control over any other aspect of my life except what I put in my body and what comes out of it. And as long as I can control that, than I'm good.

Recovery is just not an option for me right now. And I don't really think I need it. I mean, I can function. And I'm not dying. Which is basically the two things you get thrown in recovery for... the whole not being able to function thin and about to die. They don't like that.

I can't stand it when I feel like Mia and Ana have left me. I need to take some time tomorrow and devote myself to getting back to the goddesses for good. Hardcore. Because true perfection is reached, not when there is no longer anything to add, but nothing left to take away.

And I am going to be perfect or die trying.

Constant.

Palm fronds traipse the toxic breeze,
vicious strands of kindergarten crayon green tangle
in the sea-spray scarred updraft.
Thunderclouds mark the horizon and I am
transfixed
to the balcony.

Young love, motionless, below me.
His cautious hand hesitating to grab her perfectly manicured fingertips
in a testament to chivalry,
protecting her from the storm.

Last night's now-neglected beer cans,
haphazardly left just beyond the dunes
now tango with half-smoked cigarettes and stale gum
twirling to crashing waves and lightning strokes.

I remain frozen. So
small.
Insignificant.
Against the one constant
during the summer,
down the shore.

lose control

Things you don't know about me and probably don't really care to... but are gonna find out:
-I love my eating disorder. There's something powerful about being in total control. Purging water after a fast and knowing you're completely empty is the best high I've ever tried.
-Doing drugs makes me feel sexy. Especially acid.
-I can't produce when I'm happy.
-I tried to kill myself for the first time when I was ten by overdosing on cold meds. All that happened is that I threw up all over the place and got to miss school for two days.
-My scars are the only thing on my body that I'm not repulsed by.
-I really hate most of the people in my family.
-I buried my best friend last year.
-Freshman year of high school, in a freak accident, a tree fell on a table of kids, killing one. I was supposed to be at that table with them during break except I was in the bathroom throwing up my breakfast.
-Being in crisis is the only state I feel even somewhat comfortable in. I cannot simply tolerate being normal.
-I'm still in love with him.
-I have serious father-figure issues.
-The evening before the New Hampshire primary, I slept with a married Secret Service member.
-I was drunk or high for the entire first month back here last semester.
-I resent my friend for asking the right questions.
-I want to run away to Africa and start over. I'm seriously considering it, actually.
-Even though I've been hurt so many times, I'd take any of them back in an instant, just to be held again.
-I couldn't care less about a majority of the people I hang out with at home.
-I only smoke because I look like a smoker.
-Quod mi nutrit, mi distruit. Forever.

FUCK YOU ALL

VOTE for HILLARY!!!!!!!!!!

Please. Everyone. Vote for Hillary Clinton tomorrow.

Tested. Ready. Hillary.

Why am I voting for Hillary? Well...
-Sen. Hillary Clinton's plan for shared prosperity will help strengthen the middle class and make sure no American is struggling to keep their family afloat. A strong middle class is a strong America.
-When she was in the White House, Hillary pushed the Republican Congress to fully authorize S-CHIP- the State Children's Health Insurance Plan- that gives affordable healthcare services to ANY child in our nation who's parents for whatever reason cannot provide it for them.
-Hillary believes that women's rights are human rights. She's been a steadfast advocate for full global equality for women, from equal pay and shattering the glass ceiling to protecting Roe V Wade and making sure Plan B is available over the counter, Sen. Clinton trusts women to make decisions on their own terms.
-Hillary is the only candidate who understands the struggle our troops are dealing with in Iraq. It's time to bring them home. With Sen. Clinton's plan of phased withdrawal, every single American servicemember will be back home safe within 10 months.

And aside from that... it'd be so cool to finally be able to say Madam President (and not have it be one of the chants we use at rallies to get the crowd pumped).

So if you live in Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, Georgia, Idaho, Illinois, Kansas, Massachusetts, Minnesota, Missouri, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Dakota, Oklahoma, Tennessee or Utah and are registered to vote, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE make sure you get out there and vote tomorrow for Hillary Clinton.

It's not just a vote, its your life.

www.hillaryclinton.com

let's just blame history...

I really... I don't know. Do you ever get this feeling that everyone else is miles removed from you? Because I guess that's kind of where I am right now. Everyone here is either decades behind me academically and maturity-wise or centuries in front of me. It's like I'm in some sort of weird limbo. And I don't like it. For once I would just kill to be generic. Just for a day, I'd love to not care about the Presidential race or be able to differentiate between early and mid 18th-century American literature. I'd love to wake up, be able to throw on a hoodie, jeans and flipflops and go to class like that. Seriously. That'd rock.

I think my English professor thinks I'm insane. Erin and I basically sit in the back row and make snide remarks the entire time and occasionally say something of substance. I'm sorry. But some people in that class really piss me off. The three adult students sit together and nearly every sentence out of their mouths begins with "I think I can relate to this because when I was your age..." to which, I roll my eyes and pretend to stick a gun in my mouth. Then they need to ask what a foil is or to once again define the very obvious ways the piece we're reading can be classified as a cautionary tale, perfectly set to be the next Lifetime Saturday night movie. And it's not like I'm bored in the class. It's just mundane. I feel like I've sat through so many of the same lectures on the same overall sentiment from the same piece that I have to be going insane.
It really isn't my fault that I'm then spurred to write my daily one page paper on topics of my amusement, not a character or plot analysis that I could do in my sleep. So my one page paper topic turned into that of "male impropriety and the assumption of the female gender as a mere vessel for the undertaking of carnal desire" as shown through the piece we're reading. Much more fun now, no? At least my professor seemed to appreciate it. She used it in every bloody example today on how to write a one page paper. So either that, or chica can write...

I'm more than slightly bummed Edwards dropped out of the race. Basically, I think my worst fears of Obama sweeping the Super Tuesday states is going to happen. And then I'm going to cry and be utterly depressed, almost inconsolable and feel like I've wasted a year of my life. Again.

Yup. That's exactly what's going to happen.


FUCK.

Georgetown

((work in progress))

You never see it coming. You're secretly a little embarrassed because you pride yourself on reading people, on knowing and understanding the human condition, the male condition. You chalk it up to being distracted with your family, with your career, with how insanely happy and self-sufficient you were before he came along. Your roommate tells you that you have your head in the clouds. Your brother tells you that you ought to know better. Your best friend keeps quiet. She knows better than to give you advise on your love life. He blows into your life like a heavy storm, pounding at your resolve like the rain does at old paint. He tells you thins that you know you shouldn't dignify by believing.

"I was hurt before."

"You are unlike anything I've ever known."

"You are beautiful."

"Elusive."

"Incredible."

You are an educated woman. You did the dating circuit in your younger years and you know better than to believe a man. Men lie. Men are only interested in one thing. Don't be a dumb bunny. Remember what the good Lord gave you knees for. Look, but don't touch or taste. If you know it's fire, don't let it burn you. Just say no. Stay in school. Don't be greedy.

You know.

You've always been the one to warn others about getting too caught up in a man... and yet...

"You are unlike anything I've known."

Your paint is chipping. You're shaving your legs every day now, just in case. When you get out of the shower, you put on Victoria's Secret lotion so that you smell like a high class underwear store. Yes, that's exactly what you want him to see you as... high class.

Feminine.

Bold.

You were a smart woman before he came along.

You were a free woman before he came along.

You were independent.

Strong.

In control.

And now... now you are melting. Before him you could have taken the wold on with one of your perfectly manicured hands behind your back, and now... now he is wrapped around every part of you, and you can barely stand upright.

You give in, It's winter which makes it easier to give in. It's always cold and at the first sight of Christmas decorations you run to him. You tell him all the things your roommate told you not to.

"I need you."

"You're all I think about."

"I love you..."

The last part you whisper a little, because that's the way women in the movies always do it, and because you are so exhausted with the strain of wanting him. He stands up and you want more than anything to just bury yourself in him. You aren't free. You aren't independent. You aren't strong. You aren't in control. You are...

You are...

Melting. Melted. You are the seven-year-old girl watching Snow White and dancing to "Some Day My Prince Will Come." You are dancing on your daddy's shoes. You are the 14-year-old girl who just got kissed for the first time. He's tangled in your hair. He's dripping from your skin. He's wrapped up in your legs, and around your arms. He coats your lips like dust on a shelf.

"Do you wanna get some dinner?" he asks. You nod, or maybe... maybe you are brave and you actually say the word 'yes'. You go to dinner. He tells you he is a dog person, and he wants to own a house some day. A house with a yard...

and a fence...

and a fireplace...

and a woman.

You go back to his apartment and do what it is a woman in love does. You eat more meals together. He says you have a beautiful body. He says you make love like an earthquake.

Your roommate says, "He's a bullshitter." That's only fair. You said her last boyfriend was a manipulative bastard, on a daily basis.

One day you ask if he wants to see a movie. He's busy and would rather you just came by later at night. A week later is your brother's birthday.

"I can't go, babe. Take one of your friends or something. Maybe next time?" You smile. He's planning for another year of togetherness. Perhaps he's planning for a house... with a yard...

and a fence...

and a fireplace...

and a woman.

He isn't, though. He's losing interest, or maybe he already has. You spend hours and hours in stores you would never think of spending money in but he absolutely loves, hoping he's there. You make yourself into the epitome of perfection and walk to his favorite cafe, sit down and slowly sipping espresso, waiting for him to show. You go to the bars, he took you to, overtly throwing yourself at men you'd rather not be seen with, praying he saunters into rescue you. Then you realize one sleepless night that he never said "I love you" back, and he stopped calling you...

"just to hear the sound of your voice."

But you resist. He must love you. It's just harder for men to say it is all. Your older brother says that he hates to tell you this, but you were just a conquest. He warned you. Everyone warned you.

This can't be. They just don't understand your love.

You confront him. You cry and scream and he tells you.

"Shh, it's gonna be ok. Calm down." And in a second of absolute clarity you know he believes that. You know he believes in a future with you in it... or someone else. Or any other woman...

Anyone with long hair and pale skin.

"Everything is going to be alright," he tells you. And, you know... for him it will be. You know he'll have that house,

that fence,

that fireplace,

and... that woman.

She'll be crazy about him. He'll be tangled up in her hair, and wrapped up in her legs.

He'll tell her he's a dog person.

She'll make love like an earthquake.

You're smarter than this, but... that doesn't matter. You should have seen this coming, but... you didn't.

You leave. You leave him, and days later you see his scarf draped on your kitchen chair. And you cry. Your roommate tells you to get over it. Your mother asks if you would like to move back home for a little while.

He comes by to reason with you. He kneels at your feet and hugs your calves. You smell the rum on his breath. You tell him to leave. He kisses you, and for a moment you are content with just being one of the many beautiful things he collects. he asks you to move in with him, and you know that he doesn't really love you. He's just trying to make it last a little bit longer...

until the next good thing comes along...

until some equally or exceedingly beautiful butterfly dances in front of his net.

"Goodbye." You whisper. He doesn't hear you. You say it again.

"Goodbye." And he turns,

and he leaves.

And you know it's over.

You wonder if he'll tell the woman from the house that she is...

"unlike anything I've ever known."

bleed black

I changed my mind.

Being back here isn't that bad. I guess. I think it's just weird having to be around large numbers of people who I don't really like, for one reason or another. I really thought all of the drama from last semester would have subsided over break, but apparently not. It only festered into a weird looking shape of cruelty and malcontent.

I'm pretty ecstatic that I have my single. I don't think I could have dealt with Jen as a roommate. She's very.... unintelligent and lacking any semblance of creativity or individuality. That's not good for me to be around. I don't mind occasionally being ridiculous with my friends. But constantly... that would probably make me cry. Which is very no bueno.

As for classes thus far, I don't know what to really think. I got roped into taking biology by one of my friends. I took bio in year 9 of high school and it was not the best experience. Bad teacher, bad people in the class, bad case of 13 year old apathy towards everything and anything. Anyway, hopefully this time around won't be nearly as painful. The professor used to teach kindergarten and seems very enthusiastic at making us at least somewhat biologically competent. The only thing I don't really like about him is that he seems to be trying too hard to get us to like him. I kinda wanna be like, "Prof. T, listen... breathe. We're either going to love or hate you. Such is life. Nothing you can do will change that." but that may be just a smidge harsh. The bio class itself though is already kinda hard. It took me two hours last night to read half a chapter. The bloody intro chapter. I had to stop every line or so to look up a term. Pathetic, no?

English this year... what is to be said? I think there's about four of us in the class who have actually picked up a piece of literature in the past year. Case in point; during introductions, Dr. K had us do the general "name, year, favourite author" and 90% of the class freely admitted that they don't read and haven't heard of any of the pieces or authors we're going to be examining. I'm sorry, but how dense do you have to be to not even recognize the name Toni Morrison. Seriously. I think it's also kind of sad. Why aren't these kids reading? Did they have a shitty lit professor in high school that killed it for them? Everybody CAN read... it's just a matter of finding the right things. But whatever. My professor kind of rocks. She just came off leave and is snarky, brilliant and extremely chill. Thank God. I'd heard not so hot things about Dr. K and no lie... I was a little not looking forward to the first lecture. But she's awesome so no worries. And we're reading really awesome pieces, starting with Charlotte Temple. Heck yes! I'll take strong female characters and interesting prose over drug store literature (and I use that term loosely) any day.

The only thing that kind of sucks is that I have to go back to Jersey next weekend for a Hillary fundraiser. I don't mind at all... I love Hillary and will do anything & everything to make sure she's the next president. But on the other hand, I just got here. I want to get back into the swing of things before going home and dealing with that drama.

But it's whatever. At least I'm not doing the TS thing and being extremely unhealthy. Oh wait... Whoops. I am! But I'm ok with that. One can exist on cigarettes and caffeine alone. I swear.

even the strong won't survive

I'm back at school. It is lame.

I have never ever wanted to be anywhere less than I do right this very second.

At least I'm finally roommate-less for the semester.

cant get over you...

Hillary won Nevada. Thank God. I'd been mentally preparing myself for a loss all day. But nope... somehow we pulled this one out.
I think the most meaningful sign I saw was this one woman. She must have been 30-35 and she was a shift worker at one of the casinos. It said "I LOVE MY UNION. I LOVE HILLARY." And I think that's just perfect after the two big unions out in Vegas went with Obama.

I'm heading back to school in the morning. I don't quite know how I feel about that. I mean, I know I have to go back. It's just going to suck this semester. 18 credits plus doing Hillary and consulting work 40+ hours a week and living with a chic I've maybe spoken two words to my entire life. Such is life. I can deal. If anything, it'll piss me off enough to write.

I feel like such a bad pseudowriterwannabe. Seriously. Over break, I've maybe edited like two pieces and haven't began anything new. I don't know. There just isn't anywhere I have felt comfortable writing up here. I think I really just need to bust open a bottle of wine when I get back and see what happens. I know there has to be something inside worth writing. Or not worth. Just something that needs to come out.

I don't know why, but I've been thinking a lot about George over the past few days. I know he's not good for me. I know he's just another thing I have distracting me from Hillary and writing and school. But... when he talks to me... I can't help myself. I feel so weak around him.

Maybe I should lock myself in a boys-free bubble. It might help, no?

(youremyheroininthismomentonlyfufillingmydarkestdreams)

((runAWAYfromhere))

My grandmother is dying.

She is dying and there is nothing I can do about it.

She fell the day after NH and has been in the hospital/rehabilitation place since. And she's not getting out.

Florida was NOT fun.

I don't do well with the whole family thing. I left that scene way before it came en vogue to do so. I have no relationship whatsoever with anybody on either side. I guess that's why I didn't really care when I heard my grandmother was sick.

My mother and her cousin were crying hardcore when my grandmother could not feed herself... or even sit upright. And I think that's when my apathy hit. Seeing her like that, it really had no affect on me. I don't know if that makes me a bad person. I'm not that horrible. I guess I'm just desensitized to this sort of thing. I had to go through it with my father's parents (even though I was not --and still am not-- speaking to him). I guess to me...this just feels like the same old routine.

If anything, maybe I pity my grandmother. Weird, no? It can't be normal. To feel pity for someone with whom I have had no substantial relationship with except six days last March and three days now. But she is so helpless... apparantly she had this great mind and now she cannot remember who the president is.

I don't know. The whole situation is sucky. I don't feel anything. And that makes me a bad person.

But it's really not my fault I don't feel anymore. If I let myself feel anything, I would get even more out of control.

winning is AMAZING

Well... WE WON NEW HAMPSHIRE!!!! I'm exhausted. I just got back to Jersey today after leaving the victory party Tuesday night and getting shitty at headquarters with staff and then cleaning out the office & saying goodbye to everyone today.

I'm off to Floriday till Monday night to visit my grandmother which will ultamatly lead to me getting high as a kite and writing freakishly amazing poetry with Angy. Pictures and details of both adventures shall come upon return.

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. 

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.

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?

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.

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.

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 ?