So I’m enjoying Seafood Jambalaya and biscuits and browsing online personals. Yes, I joined another site. I’m sorry, I’m just not good at not trying to date and I’m not good at actually dating, so that just leaves online dating.
Little different this time though . . . set up a personal ad for only women. Yeah, I know that doesn’t seem like something I would do, since normally I only date girls that I trip over and land in their bed. But I’m in the mood for a girl and just sitting here with my thumb up my rear isn’t attracting one.
Not that I don’t have a lovely rear.
I’m kind of shocked though, because while persuing the people and selecting one I think of as hot, I’ve picked a couple butchier girls. Short hair, slim build, taller than me of course (it’s damn near impossible not to be). I always liked strictly fem girls before, but I guess these things change too.
I know, I know, I don’t have the time to date right now, but a girl can dream.
I finished everything for feminist theology, and have two other finals to do. I’m about to get started on my fiction one, and then do my detective fiction one tomorrow. I also cleaned my room, got together my christmas cards, sent off something for a fiction contest, went to a member brunch for the mag I’m on the board of, and Sara brought me the booze I needed for Christmas gifts.
When I type it out I feel more productive. Usually I feel like there is so much to do in general, that I always feel very very lazy.
I’m noticing a lot of restlessness with my friends. Everyone wants something different, most aren’t sure what it is. I know I have no clue what I’m looking for, but I can feel like a need a change in my bones. I think it’s partially due to a lack of new writing lately, mostly I’ve been editing and expanding for the past two months. Although that’s great, it lacks a certain raw energy that comes with creation.
I’m also lacking someone who gives a crap. And a home of my own. And independence. I know one day I’ll look back at this extra time with my mother and be grateful for it, and I know I’ll miss all of the little things she does for me. But right now, I miss my life.
I’ve been very (not really) productive today.
I’ve finished applications for Univ. of Mississippi and UNCW, meaning I am 50% done all grad school apps. I sent a reminder to the one person who is late on an recommendation form. I set up a tumblr account, which is just for fun right now, but might eventually replace this blog, because I dig the mixed media abilities of it. Will have to talk to my web guru about the difficulty of switching over, largely due the archived posts right now. I’m not sure if he’ll even answer, still no word on wtf is going on with the log titles. the cool thing is I already have these posts being routed to appear there, so if you have one you can add me to follow.
I finally got the first rejection letter back on a story I’ve been trying to get published. It’s from my most recent push of only 5 submissions, but it’s nice to see that it getting around. No paychecks for short stories (usually) only a stack of of no thank yous. I think of rejection letters like Dan Savage’s advice on dating. He always says no relationship will ever work out . . . until one does.
I outlined a paper and seriously considered another paper.
My sister ditched for some sports stuff on the tv.
And I’ve been emailing back and forth with this musician, who I’m sure I’ve freaked out about on here, Jason Webley He’s kind of gypsy, folk, punk-rock, indie, yeah. He might be a pirate. I can’t tell. I had mentioned when signing up for his newsletter he should play in Philly, and he’s trying to see if he can book a gig in January, so he emailed me about locations. I’ll let you know if he gets one. You’ll be forced to attend. I’ll also let you know if he turns out to be a pirate.
Might be trying getting ready to date again. Don’t have the time but I almost signed another free dating site because I loved their marketing so much. It’s winter, and I have certain needs, and since I’m not in the city, I’m limited in my options.
I’d really like to find a fun girl to hang out with, but that seems more difficult because of my inability to choose a sexuality. It bothers a lot of them. Oddly enough it doesn’t bother me that they feel the need to choose a sexuality, so I’m not entirely sure why they can’t be as open minded as myself.
Oh well.
Still med free. But that’ll be coming to a close in the coming months probably. The depression has lifted, my moods are swinging up, and the holidays are coming. Manic tricia at Christmas? Yeah, it’s not going to be cute.
Obviously I’m still not ready or I’d be back on them.
So for those of you that think the story ends in my last post, you’ve obviously never traveled with me. It wasn’t quiet that easy. I offer you a precis of my journey.
NYC- 55 minutes late. Boston bus that I’ve got the tickets for? Long gone.
Penn Station (P S) – there are no trains
Me – What do you mean?
P S – Every single train leaving new york going to Boston is full”
Me – “but…” (sad face)
P S – yeah, that doesn’t work here.
Friends – Chinatown Chinatown!
Sister – Chinatown Chinatown!
Me – Chinatown? Chinatown!
Insert walking tour of the early works of Mike Doughty. F train to V train (accidentally) to lower east side. See Delancy street. 90 degrees. 40lb backpack. sweat runs canyons along my back, wearing thin the skin from constant runoff.
Enter Chinatown. Fruits vegetables, 20 luxury buses and 1,000 new yorkers eager to leave the city for the holiday weekend.
Chinatown – Sold out! Tickets Sold Out!
Me – Are you sure?
Chinatown – (points to sign and says something indistinguishable)
Me – Which way to the other bus company?
Chinatown – Sold Out!
Me- thy are sold out to?
Chinatown – Sold out!
Me – Okay well how do I get back to Midtown?
Chinatown – Sold out!
So sit down on a curb. Call sister, avoiding panic.
Sister – Plan 43. there is a train leaving out of Newark at 7pm, going to Rhode Island. Rhode Island is near Boston.
Me – I appreciate you but it’s 6pm in Chinatown, there is no way I’m making it to Newark by 7 without a helicopter.
Sister – Plan 92. there is a mule waiting in Brooklyn to carry you to Connecticut. from there a train will carry you to Bangor Maine by way of Vancouver. From Maine you can either dance for food and money on the street corner, or build a cabin and live htere.
Me – tempting. I think I should just turn around now.
Sister – okay I support you in all you decsisions, but let me just try one more thing I just thought of in the nick of time like this is a movie. Bam 1 ticket, to a different station in Boston.
Me – For real?
Sister – For Real.
Me – Anywhere in Boston has got to be closer than Rhodie Island.
End of Story?
Ha!
Scurry through B line, back down 34th Street. Tired making wrong turns. Everything looks the same, repeating, have barely eaten 500 hundred calories all day and it’s now after 6 pm. Been walking around NYC in 90degree heat with backpack and tiny duffel. Look like evil sweaty zombie. Need iced soy drink.
Find Penn Station again. Run in , pull ticket out of automated ticket machine demon. Look at Giant Amtrak Board – train delay 25 minutes. Sweet.
Time for Vanilla Soy latte on ice and smoke. Get these things, get back. Train delayed 45 minutes. Now afraid to get up to go to the bathroom for fear that when I return train will be delayed for 25 hours. Sit against wall and try to read.
Hour later. Train arrives.
No seats, no seats, no seats, no seats, snack car, bingo!
I grab a booth stick my stuff down.
2 guys almost my age – Is this booth taken?
Me – take a load off.
2 guys – (pulling out bottle of tanqueray) don’t mind if we do. I’m cute guy this is irish guy.
Me – I’m crazy girl.
2 people in table behind them – I’m Prozac Boy and this is Beauty Queen.
Me – pleased to meet you.
1 guy walking up – Mind if I sit here?
Me – Help yourself.
Him – Thanks. I’m wildly inappropriate mid-life crisis guy, by the way.
Cute Guy and Irish Guy – Here midlife crisis, have some gin!
Me – fuck, I’m going to need a beer for this.
Being on a train is not like being on a bus. We’re stuck with one another for 5 hours. But the whole area had the same mind set.
Irish Guy- Excuse me, snack car attendant, did you hear what the next stop is going to be?
Instant Chef – What the fuck do I care, I’m making cheeseburgers.
Irish Guy – You sir, are a god among men.
There were card games, and talks of politics. We made fun of Irish Guy’s sex life. We harassed girls walking by, and we drank in moderation but enough to pass the time joyfully.
This is a rousing game of war between Irish Guy (left) and Prozac Guy (right). If Irish guy wins, he drinks. If Prozac guy wins, Irish guy drinks. these rules were set up largely because Prozac guy was asleep and we hadn’t met him yet.
So then Every gets off the train in Rhode Island except me and Mid-life crisis. this is the part of tale where he licks me.
You know me. You know he’s 40 and there is so pheromone I give off that only attracts gentleman who have left their 30s. I fear if this continues when I am ready to date and settle down I will only attract 60 year old men.
So I am here, and it’s day one. I will keep you updated as to the rest of this journey.
So there is so much running through my mind and going on that I might have to split everything up into a few smaller posts. I don’t even know what is the most important part of my life to start with. Should I begin with comedy, and lead to tears, or the reverse? Aren’t we all just tragic comedians living in a comedic tragedy?
You can’t get a decent rapid boil without a proper stove. I’m making homemade linguini and clams with fresh chopped clams. It smells like Sunday. My special twist to the family recipe? Freshly diced tomatoes on top. This is not the important part of my post.
So I guess we’ll go back to counting crows, because my new repetitive joy song is a bonus track titled Sessions. Sample lyrics for why we are starting here:
don’t want no damn religion because I’m not prepared to die
but until then I got to thinkin’ maybe I don’t know
take my pill, spend my nights alone
I cant get high, but I know I done the thing I shouldn’t of done
But the whole song seems to hit home with trying to be good about my medication and find some clarity.
So it’s been anthem when I come home and get changed in pjs instead of calling friends. It’s been a friend with a similar problem.
The lithium I realize will never stop my mood swings entirely. Mostly it tapers them to a very manageable level, and it also stops my monster from getting too loud about why I suck. It’s very difficult to be normal when you can’t sleep at night because you’re listing all the shit you hate about yourself.
I feel guilty now for digressing, then realize that it’s my fucking blog. It’s your job to skim, not my job to edit.
But why am I talking about this? Oh well it was another Mike Doughty weekend with my sister Kate.
I think she might largely be to blame for what turned going to see him from a fun thing to an obsession. Every time we go it opens up a dialogue that’s important between us. His shows have helped in a small percentage renew our relationship.
My beautiful sister is on the right:
(hopefully she still doesn’t read this, because she’d kill me for posting any pic of her)
We were joined by fellow cursed friends, Jay and Ange from Baltimore. For the most part everything went off without a hitch. . .
wouldn’t that be nice if that were true?
Okay so everything worked out fine but there were moments on the trip where we did not know that. But more about that on Tuesday when I upload necessary photos. That’ll be the weeks funny bit.
Oh god, carbs make me so sleepy i can hardly function now.
What was I saying? Oh who knows. I think I was talking about meds and mood swings, because part of this recent determination to really connect with myself is about finding the person I like within. And a recent realization struck me that unmedicated behavior while taking medication is part of the problem. I am a repeat offender (it’s not called Testimony to Circles for no freaking reason) of poor behavior and shitty choices. I can eat every scrap of lithium on the planet and as long as I’m still out there hanging with scoundrels and scallywags, i might as well not be taking the meds.
So my struggle now is not only to take my meds regularly (two weekends in a row without a missed dose, which is a first for the past 10 month or so) but to change my behavior and decisions to reflect the desire for mental stability.
So the first pattern of behavior I’m modifying? Sex.
Stop laughing. I’m so serious right now.
I know that I’ve developed a reputation, with good reason, for being a very sexual creature. And somehow naturally I’ve had a cylonesque ability to screw without emotions, often surpassing most guys I know.
And I’m not here to condemn casual sex. Far from it, people shouldn’t always take it so seriously.
But I’m too good at the game. I’ve become so good a the game that I can’t stop playing even when I love someone. And that’s not cool. It’s my worse pattern behavior, and the next time I think I’ve got a shot with someone I want to be able to experience a deeper connection and trust.
So no more sex until I find someone I can have a relationship with. I’m not 100% sure on my parameters for the experiment, but I think when it’s right I’ll just know it.
I don’t rightly know what anyone ever expects to read when they open this page up, but I’m not bothered by sharing my self-discovery with the vast wide world. Political office has long been a non-option for me. Scandals for writers usually involve lying and plagiarism, not honesty, sex and booze, so I’m safe there.
You’ll get a good post about the concert and about Harrisburg on Tuesday night. I’m going to go into carb coma and watch to see what happens between the Pegasus and the Gallactica. Damn it’s tense.
So I have nothing against being young. I was young, am young, will be young maybe forever. But I can’t date young. I can’t keep my mask onthat well and sooner rather than later someone tells me I have had a lot of life experience, which is a horrible thing to say when I feel like I’ve barely lived.
I need you to have already done drugs, so I don’t have to worry about you picking up the habit (yeah it’s happened with boys I’ve seen). But I need you to be more than 1 year clean so that I’m not inhibiting your recovery too.
I need you to not be a heavy drinker, but mostly because you’ve already woken up in enough dumpsters and you are over it.
This might seem shallow, but there are a number of reasons behind it.
- It makes perfect sense to me that intelligent people need to use alcohol and drugs for a period, because our brains hurt and the world sucks, and we hate ourselves. If you really like yourself that much when you are younger, no one else does. Go start a self-help cult and get away from me.
- Emotionally mature people come with baggage. Baggage belongs in an airport bar, so I anticipate everyone with baggage has tried running away and looked for the answer in the bottom of a few bottles.
- Your house is a representation of you. Imagine giving a tour of your house to someone you think is special and you hit the hall closet and you pull it open and their job drops to the floor, and they say “wow, that’s a lot of skeletons“ and know you’re trying to put yourself in front of the closet and close, it, but truth be told, it is a lot of skeletons, so your trying to kick them out of the way of the door and start rambling about how your old roommate forgot to move a lot of her stuff out and you really haven’t looked in that closet in years.
And yes, when I find that someone they will have their own skeletons, because I hate to share.
But fuck finding that someone special. I had a great day today doing exactly what I love doing, well mostly. Woke up at 8am, and that was after two hours of pretending I was still asleep, and dozing as light began to filter in.
I got up and took out my new camera, Bernie, with me to grab coffee and some cleaning supplies. We had a great time, and a got an iced red-eye, which is my favorite spring/summer drink.
Came home, and decided I would show you what my building looks like since Neighbor Jenny started hanging paintings.
It’s not much, but it’s home:
My foyer:
Better shots of the paintings chilling (the farther one is going above my couch as soon as N.J. gets a screw gun, whatever the fuck that is):
Stairs from Hell, a.k.a reason #473 not to drink:
Ooohhhh approaching apartment door:
Closer still:
To the right of my door (that extra carpet has been there for a year):
And I’m home:
Okay so yeah, I’m having way too much fun with Bernie. He and I went all over the city. So after I finished some cleaning and some napping, I was feel blah and I decided while talking to kate that I would take Bernie, my camera, up to Rittenhouse Square and back. That’s about an hour walk each way, but it was well worth it.
Then i got home, sat down and finished up the first draft on my voodoo story, which means I just busted through about 1,500 words without moving or really blinking. And that’s fun when that happens.
I look forward to draft 2, and if I get some of my school reading done I’ll tackle that Monday.
I think I found lines around my eyes. Is that normal at 25? I’m not sure if I mind, but I think I do. I’m too young for lines.
Okay that’s enough for now. Tomorrow is my little sister’s birthday party so there will probably not be a post, hence this big mamma jamma (which I checked, it’s not hyphenated, it can be one or two words).
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