farewell, so long, alf weidersomething, etc. I've sort of given up on you, LJ. It's not you, it's me. You see, I'm sort of a whore. I want to be told I'm great and to be told I'm awful and I just get more attention from MySpace. What can I say? Maybe we were never meant to be. Or maybe I'll come back sometimes, when I need to vent and I don't want the entire western hemisphere to know about it. We'll see. But in the meantime, just know we had some good times. I'll still stop by from time to time to see how you're doing, so our relationship isn't over. But it is cooled off for the time being.
Today I was smacked in the face with ignorance. The stubborn kind, that won't listen to anything you have to say. And I forgot, precisely, how much it hurt, not to be able to make someone see. SEE. Understand. LISTEN. To take a small-minded, petty stupid opinion, and change it to rational thought. I weaved logic and reason for an hour, and at the end of it, I couldn't even make the kid see that saying words like gay, retarded, and nigger is wrong. Despite explaining that saying something that anyone could interpret as cruel, IF YOU UNDERSTOOD THEY COULD TAKE IT THAT WAY, is wrong, and him getting that, I couldn't change his beliefs. He felt intent was all that mattered. I couldn't make him understand that if he knew how it would be taken, then intent was, marginally at least, cruel. And no matter how much I tried to make him see that, he wouldn't change what he really thought. Which thoughts, when he finally voiced them, shocked me. The kid said, straight out, that he thought "girls together are hot, man and woman together are as god intended them, but men together are disgusting and an abomination upon man (I'm pretty sure he didn't actually use the word abomination - or know what it meant). I just, I can't FATHOM the depths of ignorance and...GAH I just don't GET it! I'm speechless in the face of this kind of belief. It's based in mysticism and religion, not observation and cold fact, and I don't know how to refute nonsense (which, sorry ,and I know this is my own failing, but nonsense is where I place mysticism and religion). And while I know it's wrong because it's foundations are wrong, if I can't refute it, I can't change it, and how can you even TALK to someone if they hide behind God's word? I can't change his mind. And I can't accept that.
HA To all my co-workers who requested yesterday off, so we were ridiculously short staffed and I had to work 11 am to 1 am (even though you don't read this blog):
I hope you enjoyed St. Patty's day. And what do you have as a result? A crashing hangover. What do I have as a result? Three hundred and thirty dollars. And no hangover. Oh, and the day off.
Biscuit: Did not run into Bobby McFerrin. But I told some guy playing a steel drum to let him know you said hi. Those band guys all know each other, right?
I need a break. So, I've been sick for three days now. In the last week, I've logged about 60 hours at my job, and 20 at commmunity service. I worked from 11 am to 2 am today, and made 60 dollars. SIXTY DOLLARS.
See, there are 4 bartenders - me, Kevin, Frank and Gerald. Gerald has been working there for 23 years. Frank, 15 or something. Kevin categorically refuses to ever come in early, stay late, pick up shifts, or do anything other than bartend. So whenever we have a big group, who gets screwed into something that involves making no money, such as a beer tub station? Me. Every fucking time. This is despite the fact that I've been there longer than Kevin, have asked them repeatedly to stop doing it, and that Gerald is 55 years old, weighs 300 pounds, and can't fucking keep up when it's not busy, let alone when it is. The beertub night? I ended up behind the bar most of the night making drinks. The time I was put on the floor to serve because we were short a cocktail server? I made every single service ticket. Every time they put me on the floor, in fact, I make every single service ticket, because they throw Gerald on service because he can't keep up with the customers, and I end up running service bar. Does anyone ever tip me out when this happens? No. Does that fact that Gerald can't handle his job anymore ever get brought up? No. He's a 55 year old bartender who has worked at the same place for over 20 years. He will never, ever, ever get another job anywhere in the world, and he knows it. He also knows he's got a good thing going, since whoever has to work with him basically runs circles around him all night and does all the work, but then splits the money with him. And no one will even think about letting him go or moving him, because he's the most passive aggressive person I've ever met, and he starts throwing snarky comments about corporate and his company loyalty around whenever it gets brought up.
But this time, tonight, trumps all. They tell me I'm going to float. Help bartend, keep the two beertubs stocked, clear glasses from tables, get change, just generally do anything and everything anyone could need. Basically, they're telling me I'm going to be doing the job that THE FUCKING MANAGER IS SUPPOSED TO BE DOING because ours can only ever seem to expedite food. FOR FIVE FUCKING DOLLARS AN HOUR. Not once have out managers ever made a fucking drink or do anything useful, ever.
So I ask the manager the entirely reasonable question of who and how much everyone is tipping me out. And he says we should decide that. So I tell everyone this, and they go okay, sure. I bust my ass running food, running drinks, making drinks, taking out beer to the tubs, making change, stocking the booze and beer behind the bar, washing glasses, emptying trash cans, cleaning off the bar top, getting ice, opening checks, closing checks, doing the entire liquor order which was HUGE, cleaning off tables, staying until the end and helping them clean the ENTIRE BAR, and at the end of the night, this is what I get:
10 dollars from Jenn, who made 700 dollars and didn't have to clean one fucking glass off of her tables because I did it for her. Oh, and? Dropped a bill last night for her birthday, as did my brother. Which I didn't even want to be out for because I'M FUCKING ILL. 0 from Mechelle, Gabe, Joe, Hemu, and Michael (reasonable, didn't help them that much.) 30 dollars from the beer tub people (again, reasonable) NOTHING FROM THE BAR. NOTHING. NOTHING. NOTHING.
How am I supposed to go back there tomorrow night, STILL SICK, and work like nothings wrong? Especially when it's just me, Stacy, and Gerald? Lisa will be there, so the girls can't hop behind the bar and make their own drinks. Gerald can't keep up even remotely, Stacy works lunches and can't make drinks very fast because she's completely out of practice, and then there's me. And no "floater" because no one other than me would be stupid enough to agree to do it.
There are 800 people in this group. They are rude and impatient. They tip 10 percent. (Well, except for the one drunk asshole throwing hundreds at Jenn.) There is no way. And the worst part of it is, the managers know that it's impossible, they're gonna call someone from banquets to come in, and because I did such a good job tonight for no fucking pay, they're going to ask me to do it again. And I can't. I need the money, damn it. But by saying no tomorrow, all of the work I did today will be completely forgotten, how fucking screwed in the ass I was tonight will mean nothing, because they'll be mad at me for standing up for my right to MAKE MONEY.
I seriously don't know what to do. I so upset I'm shaking, my throat hurts, and I'm so angry I'm completely awake. I'm starting to get a stress headache, and I'm supposed to do community service tomorrow, and I can't because a) I didn't get home until now, and it's almost three, and b) I can't work at the pace i did tonight tomorrow night if I'm on my feet at the thrift store all day. And I have 14 hours of thrift store time left, which I can't finish in time because they scheduled me a double open/close today and Wednesday, and Thursday I have to do the clean up trash one.
And the worst part is, this fucking blog was supposed to be my catharsis and calm me down, but I'm even more upset now than when I started, and I still have no solution to any of the problems. The only thing I can fix is the community service, and that's by buying out my remaining hours, and that's 140 dollars I don't have right now because I FUCKING GOT SCREWED TODAY. AGAIN.
television So, can I just say I hate the new car commercial where a group of scary, sound of music esque car sales people sing that song "so long, farewell..." and then a girl jumps (I swear) forward and sings "adieu, adieu, to you and you and you...", because that song is catchy. Not good catchy, but shoot myself in the head it won't go away catchy. So there's that.
But then there's also the fact that I LOVE Conan O'Brien. He is hilarious. For instance:
"This is my guitar, Admiral Huffington. Sometimes I whip it out, and I go 'It's time to play Admiral Huffington.' Which can sound dirty."
And then he has Dave Chapelle on, who is talking about going up to Jessica Simpson, and he's like "I'm Dave Chapelle, I'm on TV too. And she says 'I know who you are'. and I'm like 'I knew it bitch!'" (You know how he talks) and Conan is laughing so hard he can't even respond. I love that.
Thank god at least some TV is funny.
Really, that was all. Oh, and Borat was on Leno with Martha Stewart last night. I'm not even going to try to tell you what happened, but her little "home lesson" was how to make a bed. Borat helped. Find it online. I thought I was gonna drop a lung.
Oh, and yes, I'm aware I have no life. This is because I can't drive and noone wants to come to me. Also, I love late night television.
I actually considered calling Paul and seeing if he wanted to go get drinks. As friends. Which means, in Jamie land that it's Over.
The funny thing is, it was my explanation of why it was over, of why I knew, about a month in it would never last, that got me here.
Someone I hadn't talked to in a while asked me tonight "How I was". At first, I didn't even know what they meant. Which is normal, I suppose, for a two month fling. But considering it was my only relationship in 3 years, it's surprising. But then I figured it out, and told thrm I was fine, knew it was going to end long before it did. Which is a comment I've been throwing out there since it happened, kind of like a paper sailboat - set on the water to see if it floats. And I'll admit, as paper sailboats go, it wasn't, standing alone, the most seaworthy of excuses. But no one ever asked the follow up question. Why did I know? Easy. Because he came over to my place innumerable times, and not once, not once did he ever go through my books. I walk into someone's apartment, they have any books, I'm sitting in front of the bookshelves for twenty minutes, pulling out titles I've read and recognizing them for the old friends they are, pulling out titles I haven't to see if they're worth reading. Gaging, a bit, the person's worthiness by the content of their collection. Goosebumps is bad, worn and much loved (a la Velveteen Rabbit) is good. And he never even looked at one. And it was that simple. Just like that, it wasn't worth the angst.
Sure, he dumped me. And that was a first, I'll admit it. I've had relationships that petered off, that end in a spectacular fireworks display of anger or apathy, but I've never dated a guy before and had him find me wanting. Granted, this is partially because I avoid commitment and closeness like the plague, but still. I couldn't get over it. I've been obsessing, this past month, over what was wrong with me. But now I know - he may have said the owrds, done the deed, but i had decided before that by the slight to my books. They're not much - collections of paper and ink - but they're important to me. And maybe not all avid readers need someone who's interested. And I don't need someone as avid as I am. But I do need someone who at least notices. Takes some interest.
Otherwise, what on earth would we talk about down the road?
fat as I wanna be I just looked at my weight for the first time since I officially became alone (wait, I mean single) again. Using letters, I'm going to attempt to show my weight fluctuations without exposing how fat I actually am.
Ok, I'm usually, on an ok-looking-as-long-as-my-shirt-covers-my-hips kind of day, an M. Right in the middle. Not too fat, not too thin, the fat equivalent of Baby Bear's porridge.
After South Beach, I was finally exactly where I wanted to be - a K. A couple notches below average, a little fat I was slowly turning into muscle, I was in shape, I was cute, I could wear tops that showed a little bit of skin at the bottom because the fat roll was GONE.
Then I started dating Paul. Within a week, I was right back up to M on booze alone. Which was fine. Why he broke up with me is still half a mystery, but I know it wasn't because I gained a couple of pounds. Though the booze might have had something to do with it. Not the point.
Now, though, I'm approaching Q territory. I say Q because it's a fat, round number, and about 10 pounds heavier than I want to be. Or have been in a while. And I feel absolutely disgusting. But I thought about it, and I think I'm just gonna have to eat this one out. Cuz there is not way in any hell I'm going on a diet at the beginning of binge drink, binge eat, fudge, cookies, pie, meat dripping with blood, mince pie, gravy, mashed potato season. Oh, and bread. And Christmas themed martinis. And wine. And cheese and meat trays. And chocolate.
Basically, if I had to pick a period of the year to be as fat as I wanna be, I think I timed it just about right.
Come January, it's K time. Carrots, celery, starvation, oh my. Slimfast shakes, veggies, eggs, lean meat, no carbs, oh yeah. But for now, I'm rockin' the holidays.
Just watched Home for the Holidays. I love that movie. I just can't believe that the guy who wrote the screenplay is the same guy who wrote Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Not that I've seen it, but it's a far cry from a goofy movie about a fucked up family at Thanksgiving. I'm not entirely sure why I love this movie so much. Partially, I suppose, the fact that they remind me of my family. Completely fucked up, but at the same time, they all, with the possible exception of Joanne, really love each other. And the chemistry between Holly Hunter and Dylan McDermott is perfect. It's not just that they're attracted to each other, though they are. It's more that they recognize each other. I can't explain it, but it amazes me that a movie can so precisely convey something so true.
As you can probably tell by my distraught if somewhat oblique entries recently, I've been having a little upheaval in my life. Suffice it to say, I no longer have to worry about changing my "status" on MySpace. In the meantime, I'm doing what I did before all my time was taken up with (insert name here). Namely, wroking on my book, cleaning my place, watching movies, working, working, working, and maybe going to the bar for a couple of drinks. It's amazing how much MONEY I have now that I'm single again. I can't believe how much I was spending on getting us drunk.
A few days ago was the Marine Birthday Ball at work. It was great. Hundreds of gorgeous and gorgeously dressed Marines wandering around the hotel. Mmm. There were two gay guys, who I'll call the boys from Boston, staying, and they were loving it, too. They were my favorite customers ever. Great tippers, entertaining, funny, just your basic gay guy. I wish they lived here. Anyway, I get to work the next night, and the cutest Marine had come back. Apparently he left his dress uniform in a suite and had come back hoping it was still there (and how disappointed was I that I missed him leaving in a towel that morning?). It wasn't. But he sat at the bar (the only person, at that time, sitting at the bar) for a while and drank. Then the boys from Boston came down and we all bullshitted for a couple hours (most fun I've had working ever). They taught me bar tricks. Jen got the hot Marine's number (because I have no game), but then lost it. Oh well, we're pretty sure he was married anyway.
Not that that would have made a difference.
What? I'm not married. And it's not as if I'm looking for another relationship after what happened the last time. Fuck that.
sad Broken faded beads. Plastic gilded chipping paint. Forgotten under a deck outside a run down bar. Pooled on dirt since they fell from someone's drink numbed fingers. A brief day in the sun, a coveted possesion for a moment, hanging around their proud possessors neck. Then to fall by the wayside, forgotten and alone. They're just beads. They don't know their current state is any less happy than the day they were wanted and worn. But they still look sad and pathetic lying there.
It's hard, sometimes, to remember that you're not beads.
choices I read this today, and it occured to me it's been a long time since I made such a decision.
Perhaps it's time.
...the smallest of gestures in that moment could have changed everything.
If so - the thought was inescapable - she would have had a very different life.
Better or worse? No man or woman could answer that. The winds blew, bringing rain, yes, but sometimes also sweeping away the low, obscuring clouds to allow the flourishes of sunrise or sunset seen from a high place, or those bright, hard, clear nights when the moon seemed to ride like a queen across a sky strewn with stars in glittering array.
A different life... Less wind, less rain. Perhaps none of the visions offered those who stand in the high, windy places of the world.
I finally, after a month (at least) of trying, got to hang out with Lindsay last night. We had a balst. Went to Dubliner for a couple of drinks, then back to Lindsay's, which we walked to from the liquor store, which we walked to from the bar. Watched some of This is Spinal Tap, then walked back to my house.
I love walking distance.
In other news, got caught driving suspended, so I'm thinking about selling my car. I can't srive it anyway. Any suggestions?
I cannot stop crying. Literally. I scratched my fucking eyeball taking my contacts out last night, and my eye won't stop leaking tears. This, however, is not all...
*It looks like I have pinkeye.
*I didn't sleep all night because it hurts so bad.
*I haven't worn glasses in public since I was in 8th grade, and noone has seen me in them (excluding family, close (very close) friends, and liquor store attendents) since that time. They're huge, hideous, and missing one nose thingy. I hate them, being seen in them makes me want to cry (at least I've got that covered), and...
*I have to work in 3 hours. On no sleep, with an eye that is angrily pink and won't stop crying, in my hideous middle school glasses, and it hurts everytime I try to focus on anything. Including the computer screen.
*I'm trying to make an appointment for after work to see what they can do, but Mom said all they're gonna do is give my some fancy Visine that won't help, and an eye patch that will irritate me to the point I'll take it off after an hour. But maybe I can get some quick, not-so-embarrassing-I-want-to-crawl-in-a-hole glasses. Though I do think I'd look rather dashing*** in an eye patch. Possibly with some stripes and a parrot. If I think I can pull it off, maybe a peg leg or a hook too. Or maybe not.
*Oh, and if I can't go to the eye doctor today, I'll have to make up an excuse not to see anyone til I can. Which is lame. Kind of like having a scratched eyeball is lame.
***Have you ever played the peasants quest spoof of king's quest on homestarrunner? you play a guy named Rather Dashing, and you have to kill trogdor the burninator. But they won't let you see him until you prove you're a peasant, which means you have to be um, dirty, something else, and on fire. and then even if you do everything right, he kills you anyway. I love that site. And the game is actually really intricate and cool.
*I hate when work asks me to serve. Not because I actually hate serving, like I say, but because I feel more special behind the bar.
*I really believe I'll die alone.
*My bed is usually completely disgusting. As of this moment, the "guy" side of the bed has three empty dirty bowls, 4 books, a half-full ashtray, some (were) clean clothes, mousse, a used towel, half a sub wrapped up in a Subway wrapper, and some jewelry on it. It's pretty much like that all of the time, except when someone is coming over.
*I've been on a diet, supposedly because I want to be healthy. But it's mostly because I want to be skinny like the girls in Cosmo.
*Oddly, considering the last one, I really think I'm better looking than most of the people I meet. And this makes me happy.
*Sometimes I hate my cat. Mostly when he's being needy and I'm not in the mood.
*Sometimes I worry that if I ever do find a guy and settle down, he'll annoy me even more than Ranger does.
*Stolen DIRECTLY from Lindsay: I have a really hard time understanding conservative people, and I feel my blood pressure go up when they talk.
*Sometimes I sleep all day. I'll go to bed at 2 am and still be in bed at 5 pm the next day.
*I wish my mom would stop buying me stupid shit I don't need because I feel I have to keep it, but I hate it. Art prints, frames, mirrors, kitchen towels, pretty much anything that ever goes on clearance at Bed Bath and Beyond is filling up my closets. Also, I have enough pumpkin candles now, Mom. I know I told you I love them, but not all year. Just in October and November. You can buy me other smells. The pumpkin ones I have currently should last me the rest of my life.
*Sometimes, instead of showering that day, I just spray Bath and Body Works spray on my clothes.
*I bought the Ultimate Love Songs collection from Time Life. And I love it.
*I don't really hate dancing. I just think it looks silly, and it embarrases me.
*I think I drink and smoke too much. But I like them both too much to stop.
*I'm afraid of bugs. But i love to camp. Go figure. Oh, I'm also deathly terrified of scary movies.
*I never watch a movie without looking up the ending on the internet first. And I usually read the end of a book as soon as I start to care about the characters.
*I haven't worked on my own book in weeks, because I'm afraid it will suck and noone will like it.
*The path America, as a whole, is currently going down scares the crap out of me, and I'm beginning to believe I'll have to homeschool my kids if I don't want them to be Stepford children of the corn. But I also think most homeschooled kids are freaks.
*I'm moving in twelve days and I've barely started packing.
an hour or two later, dumbfuck turns his computer on... I can’t sleep. I would surf pointlessly about the net until I got sleepy, but that’s not an option, because the internet isn’t working. Apparently, either the doofus I steal internet from got wise at 5 am, or possibly, just turned off the computer and went to bed. Hmmm… But will that stop me from writing in my LJ? Hell no. That is what Word is for.
So I’ve recently become aware that more often than not, the surveys coming my way are ones I’ve filled out before. This means two things. One, I am a complete and utter loser who needs a new hobby. Two, people have probably heard enough times about my nicknames, my most embarrassing moment, and my favorite drink. Oh, and whether or not I like someone RIGHT NOW, not to mention whether or not I’ve cried this week, which, incidentally? Total correlation. So in the interests of, well, me, I thought I’d make up my own. So here goes.
My I’m bored and inspiration has gloriously failed me survey
Define moronic: Someone who drinks a cup of caffeinated hot tea at 2:30 in the morning while watching television, and then is surprised when they’re still lying wide awake in bed 2 hours later.
OK, already bored with the survey. It’s not funny. It could be if I was a little bit more out of it, but I’m just too sober.
So, earlier at work, I wrote down two things I wanted to write about later, and then, inevitably, lost the piece of paper. But in a weird twist of anti-senility, I actually still remember the two things. If I wasn’t already writing this down, I’d think “write that down” because the swiss cheese passing for my memory doesn’t do that very often. So.
Thing one – I am really, really, juvenily glad I live in a state where the grocery store is called Publix. It makes me laugh, without fail, every time I go shopping. Okay, fine, just giggle a little inside, but happy nonetheless.
Thing two – People who call a vodka cranberry a Cape Cod piss me off. Yes, I know, it’s three syllables shorter (sorry, sorry, shorter by three syllables). But “vodka cranberry” IS, in fact, shorter than “Ooh, I know what I want. What is that drink called? It’s red, and they put a lime in it and you have to know what I’m talking about, I had one last night. Oh, oh, oh, um, give me a minute….oh, oh a Cape Cod. That’s it, a Cape Cod. Can I have a Cape Cod please?” Sure, I’ll let screwdriver go. One, it’s funny, two, it allows me to order a Sloe Comfortable Screw Up Against The Wall With a Twist when the bartender is cute, and three, it’s engrained enough in our culture that no one forgets what OJ and vodka is called, but NO NO NO on the Cape Cod. Vodka cranberry. Cranberry and vodka. Pick one or shut the fuck up. Oh, and that goes for a Cuba Libre as well. JUST TELL ME you want a lime in your rum and Coke. Do not order a Cuba Libre, or I may be forced to shoot you. Well, I may be forced to drop your lime on the bar mat before I put it in your drink, which has about the same chances of fatality as a bullet, at least if I’m aiming the gun.
Oh, and while I’m on a roll of bitchiness, the sound ew. Okay, go back to the beginning of woman-that-I-hate’s little bit about a Cape Cod, and look at the ooh there. It’s actually ewwww, but not gross. Say ew out loud. You know, the sound you make when you stand in something squishy, like mud. Or you have a brilliant epiphany, but not the kind that will solve world hunger, but the kind from college that will get you drunk on the two dollars you have in your pocket. However, when writing, this sound is IMPOSSIBLE to replicate, because if you write ew, everyone imagines a girl in her boyfriends bathroom for the first time, even if you meant it as a girl in her boyfriends pants for the first time. As in (say it out loud, people) “ewww, can you do that again?” See, you can’t, can you? The visual ewww ruined the image for you. And I don’t think my computer can make an o with a little line above it, and with the state of the teaching of grammar in our educational system, no one would get it anyway.
So I’m completely clueless about why I’m up at five am and ranting. I cannot stop coming up with pet peeves. Which is perfectly normal normally, but I’m in a good mood. Sure, I’ll be a raging bitch on wheels by 6 pm, two hours into my shift, but at the moment, I’m okay. I think pet peeves just have a snowball effect.
Ranger was funny when I got up. He lifted his head and cocked one eye open as if to say “What the hell are you doing?”, sighed (I swear), laid his head back down, and went back to sleep. I love my cat. Even if he is currently balled up on my clean laundry.
I miss people calling him names. El Diablo Blanco. The white devil. The Spring Roll. I got a kick out of that. Basically, I just miss Loblolly, where, if I was up at five am, chances are, I could find one of the following:
1) One or more individuals still drinking on the porch from the night before. 2) One or more individuals watching a LMN marathon of addict, abuse, or otherwise fucked up made-for-TV movies, an Olsen movie marathon, anything on Adult Swim, Comedy Central, or Nick at Nite, or, if I was very, very lucky, Goodburger. 3) Someone making a good burger. Or anything else delicious. 4) Another insomniac who wanted to talk, look at old photo albums, or whatever. 5) Hours of entertainment watching Ranger and Sushi wrestle/make love. (Those crazy cats.) (No, really, I mean it. They’re cats and they’re crazy.) 6) One or more individuals in either the living room, the porch, the basement, or the aptly named “smoking room”, doing just that. Or Kelly’s bedroom. That happened a lot there too. 7) Anyone visiting naïve enough to fall asleep on the couch in my room, not knowing that if I’m up, everyone in my room is up, cuz you’re sleeping in front of my TV. 8) Hours of entertainment reading the stolen beer sign that then became the house mural/guest book. 9) Leftover beer pongers in the dining room dying for just One. More. Game. 10) Anyone, really, still up in Julie’s room playing that Berenstein Bears Nintendo game. 11) Anyone, really, still up in front of Lindsay’s computer looking at every sbemail (Uh, it’s the sbemail…) known to man. Specifically, kid’s book, my favorite. I heart Strongbad. 12) Anyone, really, still up in any one room of the entire house, doing anything because it was all, always, without fail, entertainment.
Great. Now I’m homesick. College sick. 508 sick. You know what I mean. It was such a bizarre and oddly satisfying little ecosystem.
Stopping now. I’m having urges to write. I think I’ll go spend some time in Key West.
Ok, hour or two later… so I go outside to sit on the car with a cup of coffee, my cigs, a lighter, my cell phone, and a pill. This is because my phone sucks and will not work in my apartment, leaving me no choice but to freak out the neighbors by sitting on my car for hours on end saying things like “But, Mom, what the fuck is the point, really, of socks? I hate them.” And “Well, (insert name here), you know I don’t care, but not everyone thinks it’s normal to have a boyfriend who owns his own size 14 stilettos.” (Quit trying to figure it out, they broke up months ago.)
To get back to the point, because I know I had one. Oh, yeah, beginning of the conversation with Mom (because who else is awake at 6 am?) involved whether Claritin would make me break out, fall asleep, die, start bleeding from the ears or otherwise fuck up my day…
Pause. Claritin is actually IN my spell check. Weird. I misspelled Claritin. Weirder. Back to your regularly scheduled insomniac rant…
…to which the answer was no. Popped it, then she says “But take it with food. Not just coffee, it may make you spacey.” Oops. Decide to brave it out rather than hang up for the ten minutes it will take me to make something edible that’s allowed on Phase 1, and so far, not loopy. And about to eat, so I think I’m safe. Unless, of course, I am spacey, but too spaced out to notice.
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iwantlemonade's journal
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