There Are Firsts

There Are Firsts

if I drank scotch in real life and not just to try and acquire the taste

I would likely require so many ice cubes the bartender would schlep

them into a glass

with a scoop

Iterating the point

That heartburn is nothing but indecision

that there is no acquisition

that there is no assimilation

that there is only now and then

And that why you are the way you breathe

only reiterates

the way your stance shifts

against nothing

That which is not

a

thing

Calliope; adolescence; a Reuben or a Raphael--

all filtered like film

I rifle through antique shops for old photos and I settle mostly on

men, who have women in the background

Or who are women mimicking the brawny and encumbered fellow

on the other end of the line, a shallow tawny glow

of light intruding against the shadow of

a day

ending in lyric

Against a refrain,

it told you nothing

That which

is not

a

thing.

01.06.2012

dominoes?

yahtzee

It could be anything I type

I could be having conversations you’d never approve

of; inside I found you with your headphones on and

the light came between each pane of glass with a warmth.

I could type anything instead

I could say something about your cock

or I could pretend some other reality

I could litigate my own intentions

against the binding and salving of a wound,

forced tight, complexion bare like foggy night

the light between each cloud indiscernible

like a plane of three points, like the sound of clicks and clacks

like a count of Indians, or piggies, or anything

all the way home

any nursery rhyme to make up for your own lack of being

there, the way you abandoned everything

even self,

to go, away, to find

nothing. To find out that the things

you always knew were true really were: Love is a thing

you make, and of what you make is your own

shortcoming, and how much you hold

the outside in will tell your fortune every time; needing no

tea leaves or chicken bones or palms or horse ribs.

Converse, opposite side: You make something real.

You make it last

you make it even when you wonder why you’ve made it,

are these your sheets? would you buy that cotton count?

is that even your picture, on the wall?

But you know you type,

and this is your type; you know

black skirts and tops that slope at the shoulders;

you know yourself the way

you know to yell YAHTZEE when you see five

of a kind.

06.13.2011

Reruns

I came home and sewed my funeral dress

on; basketballs thudding in the street,

bringing me next

to you, an oasis, underneath

nothing and adjacent to the breeze.

You must have been a sitcom, you could have played

some scene I’d forgotten.

Encountered late night, on a cable channel,

face grainy but restored,

a slight tilt to your head,

voice unmistakable,

hollowed and buried deep

below the wrought-iron tree grate at my core.

In this there is nothing I know

and I am nothing but this vessel

There is never a moment when the things I think and remember

coincide

like today

like pictures on a wall of little girls I never knew

thrust through all reverie, pausing

next to the sarcophagus

I never saw

next to your coffin, the one

that bruised my hip,

The edge, hidden by bunting.

You could have been a passage in a book,

one I kept on my shelf, spined,

one I visited, sometimes,

again and again,

the same pages telling me the same story

the plot missed in repetition, grayed and retold.

If we could pair up,

if we could make diagrams,

dissect the empty night full of hoops and sneakers and dresses

I wish I never wore

There still won’t be

an ending

There still will be

a faded lullaby

the color of the cloth they wrapped you in

the color of the dirt scattered across your grave

the color of my sister’s hands

an episode

I never saw.

04.04.2011

Wouldn’t it be nice

if you were Hansel and I were Gretel

and we could follow a trail

Only without all the brother sister stuff

If you could lead me to me

and I could lead you to you

and there would be a great rejoicing and the

light, it would come; streaming through a pillar of soft

sound, crowded and cramped into a room

like too many people looking for a sunrise on a beach

you and I would struggle to keep

cool, and there would be a kind of plea-bargaining

a negotiation

Heads would roll and hearts would soar, there

would somehow be a gathered perception

an inclination of what should happen next

If I were your wife

we would settle without question

and linger in the notion of yours and his and hers and mine

But there is not a witch pressing a finger against a cage

and you have enough to eat

and I have enough to ponder

without wondering what spells

you might cast

without wondering

what stops and starts

might derail

the surety of your heart against mine.

11.21.2010

Instructions

This is how you stay together:

tap your fingers against something

inane and ambiguous, something

inanimate

Linger in your memory

and let it whisper

against your skin like the silhouette

of a man in a photograph, a shadow

dark and drab and compromised

Pry out your language

shovel, pick-axe, bothersome hatchet-

any tool will do.

Just levy that stick and raise the roof

you are up on top of,

gleaming.

Some days will not be easy.

Some days won’t even be right.

Shoop, shoop

doo wah diddy

yakety yak

don’t talk back

This is how you stay together, this is how it stays so long:

don’t depend on the fragile

vocabulary built from silence

Don’t break out the bricks until

the cavity lets loose the gizzards:

heart, liver, anus and other visceral

organs

Rough, tough, tangled firm

Lay down against your lions, contrary

Let the drift outlast, lie fallow

Shoop, shoop

doo wah diddy

yakety yak

don’t talk back

This is the record you make:

of an event, of a smolder, of any simple

stilted sweep of the hip to a beat

Solid, unsanctioned

in tiny rooms with little sounds rasping against shrunk-up stones.

Your heart cannot get bigger, only

it does.

You bet you would

You bet he would

You bet the sky won’t be blue

He bets it will, he bets

he won’t, he bets

you would

Shoop, shoop

doo wah diddy

yakety yak

don’t talk back

He does it,

you do it,

loudmouthed,

in spite of each

other.

09.24.2009

from then

Your eyes live for splashes of light sinking

into wave, for

that instant when the water boils

so you know to throw the lure

to cast your arm

against the wind.

I'm flailing.

No good poems come from me.

I am not emptied.

I am not a vessel of light

just a husk of who we were.

In smaller moments I find

you on me, a finger here

slight touch there. I take it.

Legs like tree trunks rooted

firmly into your ground

never toppling, only undulating.

Sturdy arms never meant to row,

only cradle.

And yet they are too often

left circled

but vacant

like a lot on a street where weeds

grow over and smells of anise bloom against

the grit and grime of a city littered.

Those two blue storms, so grave in the recess of your brown

and set to narrow, they

trace the contours of a horizon, the impression 

of wind, the crevice between stacked rocks--

but never the stalled breath of a lover

the contrast of skin to skin to skin.

Still, there is comfort

in knowing the phases of the moon

which coincide with the tide

which shift to bait

your glance

this way.

05.19.2006

Sticking.

Here's the deal: I quit smoking two and a half months ago. It's a struggle for me every day not to smoke. My boyfriend seems to have an incredibly easy time with it and it drives me crazy.  While I don't think I'll literally go and buy a pack of smokes every day, I long for it at least once.  And I can't help it. He's sick of hearing about it and I'm sick of not smoking.  

It doesn't help that so many of my friends are smokers. And the bullshit from the informational booklet included with the patches about "friends will be jealous that you managed to quit" is just that: bullshit.  I'm jealous that they DIDN'T decide to quit.

I keep having dreams about two things: smoking cigarettes and my dead step-brother Greg.  (He died in a drunk-driving accident; he was the drunk driving...).  I think about Greg periodically but it's not like he crosses my mind every day.  Over the past month, I've had six dreams about him.  Three where he was there and three where he was just... a presence.

Anyway.

I'm sick of not smoking but I'm sticking to quitting.

Snarky Stalkery Behavior and the Revelation of Youth.

Nate is camped out on the couch playing Skate on PS3.  I am bored and have trolled my usual ninernet haunts to no avail.  It seems that nothing has been updated in the fifteen minutes since last checked.  How rude.

Jesus, that led me down a ninernet avenue I rarely visit: looking up old boyfriends/friends/people i never want to see again, but feel compelled to "check out" thier current lives.

Subsequently, I feel much better about my own.

For instance, how on EARTH did I ever date this guy?! 

 

(For the record, I did not date the pirate. Though perhaps I would have been better off if I had.)

It's hard to believe that I was so head-over-heels for Mr. S that I lived in a one-bedroom, cat-shit-smeared-on-the-walls, scary-child-beating-neighbor apartment with two other people (an epileptic and his mother, who liked to knock me on the back of the head with her crutch) just so we could "stay together".  This is the guy who broke my heart by getting back with his ex-fiancee?  This is the guy that caused me to pine for months and months? THIS GUY!?

Stalking him provides me with an excellent example of why I am SO glad I am no longer eighteen.

Seeing new pictures of this old flame has caused me to completely re-evaluate my time in Virginia/D.C.. Perhaps I was blind? Perhaps I was just young? Please let me blame all of those bad choices on youth.

I suppose I could go to that old faithful, fate, and say, "Had it not been for Mr. S, I would never have found Nate."  But that's bullshit.  "Meant to be" is bullshit.  The world is full of coincidence (call it a divine plan if you please) and sooner or later, I would have met him.   (For chrissake, we were both in Alameda. There's a cap to the number of years you can live there and not meet the whole island.)  It may not have been the perfect circumstance to fall in love, but I would have met him.

But still, had it not been for Mr. S, Nate might be playing Skate (for the last FOUR hours) on some other girl's couch. 

The only reason I am still bored is because there are not many old boyfriends to look up on various social networks.  (Likely the only disadvantage of being with Nate for ten years.)  Also, the other people I want to stalk are too damn hard to find. I'm still in contact with everyone else from whom I'd like an update.  (Being "friends" with the person, even if you're not that into actually being irl friends with them, is a great way to subtly stalk them and make snarky comments about them to others who do not know said person, thereby releasing the risk factor of aforemetioned snarky-stalkery-behavior.)

Left to my own devices, at this point I would usually crack a beer and turn on the tube. However, I must remain responsibly sober if I still plan to A) go down to http://oaklandlakefest.com/ today and B) check and see how the store is doing.  Too bad, so sad.  I'm interested in seeing some Hiero live, but I'm also lazy.  I don't want to lose my dope parking spot.  Walk?  Then I have to walk home!  Multiple hills deter me from bipedal transportation.  See: Elizabeth: dictionary definition of lazy.

Hunger might motivate me. I am a little hungry.  Nothing on the schedule for dinner tonight, so I've got to get creative.  Perhaps I do need a corn dog, some funnel cake and a little festival action to brighten my mood. 

holding on to it all

If you and I could float

on the sea

buoyed by a rubber raft

ice all around

neither one would clamor

about “who bought this” and “when

did we pay that”

 

mostly the argument

would be about getting to

higher ground

 

no one wants to leave

what is perfectly behind them

and perfectly ahead--

only just now perfected

 

the pleasantries of “what the fuck”

colliding with “just sit down”

 

I literally

Cannot hold

Onto everything

All at once

 

 

 

 

Sour Pickles

 

The why is because

It has to get done:

there is no one else to do it.

You won’t leave it, won’t liken it to a fruit:

ripened peaches, soiling air with

that sickly sweet scenario.

 

The why is because

Your mouth flaps around like wind on a tent

bright and loud

and brushing and soft

The why is because

there isn’t anything else for you to do--

 

--this is it,

watching peaches

--this is it, cog in the wheel

--This is it, commerce

--this is it, liquid turned to shiny bracelets

‘round the wrist, tinkling like chimes

 

The why is because your pickles

sour, your chicken dries, your eyesight fails, your child decays.

 

The why is because you read too much

(you read too much)

The why goes back to when

everyone else danced, drugged

limbs akin to cornstalks and presenting caterwauling cartwheels

down a hallway

 

the why is because every moment doesn’t matter

more than the next; complications in the simple and

simplicity in the complex like the stupidest stanza you ever saw. Dashed quality

in every sentiment abbreviated, like ampersands and semi-colons:

 

full throttle,

the why is

because it has to get done

and you are there to do it.

 

06.30.2009

Last published, August 2005

Oh, blogspot. How anonymous you are for me... as no one who cares a wick would ever think to check this.  You alone are my online diary, my unknown, my rarely visited but awfully explanatory little piece of the ninernet binary which makes up an infinitesimal portion of this world wide web.

I have to make my computer learn new words just to complete a paragraph without little dotted red lines underneath certain words; such as "blogspot".

Tomorrow is my birthday.  I'll be twenty-nine. Even typing that made me sigh a big sigh, and I honestly am unsure for the reason.  And then I re-read the blogs from four years ago; so angry and mad and horrified at life. I'm glad (even if it makes me crazy every damn day) for the job I have.  At least it isn't that old one.  I'm not on company time; I'm not searching for files so a judge can yell at me for looking shabby in her courtroom or a lawyer can misplace a file and tell me how I need to stay more organized.  I don't have a crazy co-worker who seems like she's out to poison every thing I value as good in the world.  I don't have to drive to a place where, underneath my feet, kids and near-adults play power games, beating, screaming, threatening and being threatened.  I no longer have to ride the bart, take the bus and walk up a hill just to get to a place to make me money.  I don't depend on someone else's misfortunes to make me my dollar- whether that misfortune was vast or slight.  So at least, this many years later, I've learned that my time is more worth more than the former.

The day after my birthday is also my grandmother's ("passed" aka died) birthday and the anniversary of my grandfather-(husband to said dead grandmother)-'s death.  So when I go for dinner on Saturday, I think I might bring my mom a little present.  A... this is a hard day but hey, at least you have me and i got you this awesome gift sort of present.  Plus the moms was away from the bay area for mother's day, so i'll have to double whammy it.

Going to the Monterey Bay Aquarium with some friends tomorrow.  Very excited for the sea horse exhibit.  Nate and I will wander around with Eric and Thereasa, and we'll point at tuna and say, "You're delicious."  It will be fabulous.  Last birthday in the twenties.  Next up, that dirty tune so many seem to be singing this year. Mmm, thirty.

La-di-da... that's about all.  Just something new to update this sadly neglected space.s

Hell's Bell's... Ringing, Ringing, Ringing

So it's been for-freaking-ever since I've posted or even checked this damn thing. Now far too enamorate of "myspace" to do any good (www.blog.myspace.com/eakthemonkey) blogging on multiple places.

Plus I'm kind of lame, anyway.

I no longer want a sugar daddy, but I did go fishing. And even caught one. And had thumb surgery. And two months off work. Which helped me realize I fucking loathe working here. Most of the time. There are perks (quick internet access) and pluses (close proximity to Rasputin's and Target and PetSmart) but mostly this shit is just depressing.

De. Press. Ing.

As a former idealist, this was just about the worst place to get a job if I had any desire to reinvigorate the idealism.

Maybe I wouldn't mind so much if everyone cared more.

Maybe I would.

Who knows.

Maybe I'm just sick of lawyers who get paid lots of money and don't do shit.

And hypocrites.

Lord.

I can't believe I'm back at work. It is still slightly surreal... like if I woke up and had to go to hell one day.

I Need a Sugar Daddy and a Vacation from Myself...

Word.

Sometimes I just need a vacation from my life-- from the boyfriend, the friends, the work, the work, the blame, the shame, the kittens...

You know, sometimes I just want to go and live a different life. Not forever, just for a couple weeks or maybe a month or two. Different friends, different lover, different job, different problems, different stress... just different. I'm sick of my problems; sick of worrying about whether or not someone else is doing thier job, sick of work...

Sick of elipses...

Ha.

Yeah, I'm sick of myself. I'm tired of all the complaints. I'm tired of the rusty stunted cogs in this here wheel I work for. I'm tired of having to lower my expectations and blah, blah, blah. I'm tired of wondering how my life would be different, if only... I'm tired of it all. I'm tired of debt and drugs and alcohol and smoking and not smoking and my friends who seem not to really give a shit at all, tired of being the youngest and the least assured.


I'm just tired.

I just don't know what I'm after... ain't that the truth...
The boys are away and the cats will play... no really.. not really...
Out tonight. L and I caught some drinks at the Piano Bar and wandered around Oakland with Ron (Righteous Omniscient Neurotic) and that was fun. So then we came home and acted like it was a slumber party.

Who can blame us? The boys are fishing. They are gone. Tomorrow night we are going into the City to go dancing. That should be fun. Maybe sublounge, maybe luna lounge, maybe somewhere completely different.

I'm so glad that in all of these years L & I have remained friends. She said, put that in your poetry and smoke it and I have ever since then... years now... and I love it. As much as I complain, I'm not sure I would change my life. Maybe my house, but not my life.

97%.

Here is a poem. For all the non existent audiences of the world...

I am 16 going on 17…

before, when things were simpler, I was
unaware that change really meant different
and things really were scintillating
beyond whatever it was I really believed.

Before,
when things were
littler
in scope and specter
I watched what meant truth like
fair was a reality you could finger and jerk

I try and explain things three ways.
This is what I see of me.
What you see, this is what you have.
What you take.
Which, by take, I mean carry
way into the deepest substratum
beyond
and before
and within
and holding
and scolding
and smoldering

until every glance is clear.

02/18/2005

I am the LAMEST person ALIVE.

Or at least the clumsiest.

So far today I've spilled on myself or otherwise dirtied my clothes, oh, five times. No, three times.

First, I dropped a banana. The banana landed in the pot. The pot was full of soapy water and old spaghetti. The water splashed all over my shirt. Luckily none of the spaghetti found its way onto my white shirt, but the water was s-t-i-n-k-y for sure. And so I had to febreeze myself once I arrived at work.

The banana was just the beginning. I've lived with myself for twenty four years and still don't recognize the signs of impending klutz-o-matic behavior.

Once at work, I spilled coffee all over the front of my nice white shirt (which smelled quite delicious, thanks to the febreeze) and onto my pants. Fearing for my white shirt, as it is the only long-sleeved white shirt I even own, I rinsed the sleeves and front under water. Lucky for me I had a tank top underneath the shirt or else I would have been walking around with coffee spots. So as I'm trying to save this shirt, which I don't really like in the first place because it is a little too big and a little old, I splash bleach onto my pants.

The pants are a different story. I like the pants. The pants are nice. They are gray with a lilac pinstripe. They are from Gap. (Go figure. I love my GapCard a little too much.) They are one of the few pairs of pants I own that I can wear to work, especially after losing 40+ lbs and having to replace almost my whole wardrobe with a few measly dollars. (Hence, the love of the GapCard. A little too much.)

So now I've ruined my pants, defrocked myself of the shirt, and dropped a banana.

Not to mention the banging of the forehead on the shelf in the bathroom prior to all of this activity... another thing I dislike about the apartment... but... of course... it's a lengthy list...

Some days I take the cake.

I just want to go home.

Or shopping.

Terrible, terrible.

And LAME!!!

Word.

The same day, over again...

That's what DA should stand for. Dumb Asses. Because they pretty much run around with thier heads up thier asses, it seems.

Okay, okay, maybe that's a little harsh. Not all of them are idiots, semi-useless, or overpaid litagators. Some of them-- many of them-- do the job and do it well. But man... those few stupidheads really make me want to scream.

Take, for example, someone I'll call Prima. As in, Prima Donna. Because she is. But. Back to the example. The office she "habitates" is, well... messier than the room I kept when I was sixteen. And since only my family knows how that looked... disaster area is a nice term. While not quite on the level of the tsunami disaster... well... it's pretty damn close. Files, papers, stacks of shit, decomposing orange peels, empty soda cans, half-filled coffee cups developing mold, used tissues, stale chips, bowls, plates, forks, knives, big garbage bags full of clothes, boxes full of shit she'll never need again, stacks of old newspapers, muffin wrappers...

Two weeks ago I slipped and nearly killed myself because of the shit all over the floor. So none of us here in the office venture into HER office very often. Mainly because we value our lives and it is not safe in there. I've twisted my ankle in her office, bruised my leg, smacked my knee, hit my funny bone, and cracked my forehead-- and I'm clumsy, but I'm not THAT clumsy. I know how to balance, at least, and I swear the magnetic field of crap in her office effects the gravitational pull. Obviously I'm no scientist but good lord... danger! danger will robinson!

If that isn't bad enough, she loses files and referrals CONSTANTLY and expects me to find them-- and acts like shes organized!! Arg.

Enough about the dumb asses... I'm tired on thinking about them. I'm tired of working for them. I wish there was a transfer here soon. Our other office seems to get all of the new blood while we are stuck with all the rejects. The head of the office has taken over the library and made it his office, leaving us poor secretaries with no where to eat lunch or (in my case) do homework. And then there's Brandon, who acts like he is in third grade, hiding my keys and messing with my desk. Sometimes I expect him to dip my pigtails into an inkwell... But I was supposed to stop being annoyed by them. It is quite difficult...

I've realized that lately I am just angry and mean almost all the time. I don't know if it is stress from holding in all my life annoyances, my money issues, or what... I get annoyed quite easily and want to smack many upside thier little beady heads. I think some of it comes from my annoyance with N--

Here's the thing. I've got no one to complain to but the bandwidth of the internet, so here goes... and even if he did happen upon it... well... it's truth so whatever. Complaining to empty air is probably more appreciated than complaining in his ear... that never goes over very well.

So. Here goes for real:


Reasons I Wish We'd Never Moved... or... Things I Miss About My Old Apartment

1. The Shower.
See, here's the thing. Our new shower is one of those that encircle rather than have full spray action. I hate those kind. When I was a kid, I loved them. They had one at our local swimming pool (we called it the Ditch Pool because it was at the end of a gravel road, next to this huge ditch that we played Cowboys and Indians in... anyway). When I was a kid I'd stand in the middle of the circle, pretending I was being held hostage by aliens or some kind of Libyan army (blame Back to the Future for that one) and that was my prison. If I hit any of the waterspray I was dead. This was also around the same era of pulling on the swimsuit so that it filled with a pocket of air. Not exactly the most discerning when it came to showers, at least, not at that age. Now-- little pickier. Our old shower head was brand new, and the bathtub had just been replaced. The bathtub in our new apartment was black when we looked at the place the first time, and only with hours of scrubbing and bleaching did it return to white. It's one of the tin sounding, enamel covered tubs that sucks in mold like a vacuum sucks in dirt. And the tracks of the shower door are a little, well... worn would be a nice way to put it.

2. The Water Heater
Oh, jeez. Feel like I'm living in Colorado again. Mostly the water change is gradual from cold to hot and back again... unless someone is doing laundry. In our old apartment we shared a water heater with one other apartment... not eleven.

3. The Laundry Room
I admit it, we were spoiled with our $1.25 laundry... but $2.50!! That's practically a crime. And there are eleven people/ 7 units trying to use one machine versus three other units/ 4 people at the old house. And our landlord almost never gets her laundry out on time. I'm a snot, and I'll take that shit right out. Laundry is NOT to be clogged!

4. The Windows, the windows, the second story windows...
Okay, so this is a biggie. We had these great windows in our old apartment-- double pane, energy efficient-- you know, the works. They were put in right before we moved there. They kept sound in and out, and better than that-- they kept heat and cool in and out. Now we've got these rickety slat windows on half the house, and on the other half are single pane, unopenable windows. They let everything into the house-- noise, air, sound, smoke, pollen-- you name it, it's on my floor or in my livingroom.

5. Living room/ bar
Another biggie-- arg. Our living room is the width of my pinky now, and the length is about the same as the width of the old apartment. The bugger I love and live with STILL hasn't set up the stereo and so I am forced to listen to music using the DVD player and the TV. Trust me. This does not sound good. In fact, it sounds, um, bad. And I miss my bar. Someplace to eat, to drink, to throw mail on and then forget about it... Yeah. I miss it.

6. Oh, my kitchen. My beautiful, beautiful kitchen that is no longer mine.
A) Counterspace
B) Big refrigarator
C) Ice maker
D) Dishwasher
E) Big self-cleaning oven W/ a lovely stove-range that is large, large, large
7. Oh, the list goes on and on...

I'm tired of complaining. I'm tired of it all. I'm tired of work, I'm tired of incompetence, I'm tired of feeling... I'm just freaking DONE with it all... until, of course, tomorrow when I wake up and start the same day over again.

Home Time... Good Girls Win

01/07/2005

Just started listening to the new Handsome Boy Modeling School joint-- pretty good shit.
The thing is that nobody knows themselves. Every day we go through, we're all just guessing. We live every movie we've ever seen, and the world has gone crazy. Like some kind of surreal Crayola crayon box.

I look at who my president is; I look at what purports to be Democracy; I think to myself that these things can't be real. When M says... "It's all going to be privatized; schools, prisons, everything owned by a corporation; it'd be just like all the futuristic movies..." and I'm sure that it will and everything they say is simultaneously true and false like a wacky truth or dare escapade...

These are the days I live in. And this is the history of the moment. Sometimes I wonder if I ever have a child (but this is a vague and extremely distant vision) if that child will look back at my eras the way I look to my mothers: the fifties, where ambiguous memories are best; the sixties, where everything changed rapidly and with/out reason; the seventies, where she found her truths and followed through; the eighties, where everything lifelike rioted again; the nineties, dealing with the four to ten of us... the 00's, building houses...

I got no time to get to where I don't need to be... Oh, please, just let me just break down.. I need this, oh dream, to break down...let me please break down...

M says it's good for Jack Johnson to break out of the mainstream. So far on the first listen through I'm all for good ole Handsome Boy Modeling School.

I should probably go. I'm clacking away on a friend's computer. We moved; we live below M & L now. Our best friends are our neighbors. We all have keys. It's actually a pretty good deal; so far.

Maybe one of these days I'll post something in regards to fiction that I write... whatever. I'm being asked what I'm doing. That's never a good sign.


Peace out...

One Day At A Time- Screw That

I hate taking it one day at a time.

I hate that one person can fuck everything up.

I hate it that I'm not a violent or malicious person but I wish violence and malevolence on an individual, or rather, a pack of stinking wolves.

It just isn't fair.

This has been my call phrase for god-only-knows-how-long and a running joke in my family. I always want everything to be fair... my father wants me to become a lawyer because of this. But you know, I work with a bunch of lawyers and I'm pretty cool with not being one. The money isn't worth it. It's barely worth it for me to even be thier silly little secretary.

Regardless, soldiering on is required. The crazy one will never go away. Someone will always believe her lies. I feel like this is inevitable-- and people are the constant variable-- no one ever knows.

Got the new Shins album today and Handsome Boy Modeling School. Who doesn't love baroque rock and the greats Dan the Automator & Prince Paaaaaaaaaaaul ?

Not that it matters.

When I'm really depressed I buy new music.

Guess this finally got to me.

And I can't even really say what this is. Limiting my words-- man, that crazy girl really knows how to stick it to ya. Seriously. Oh... lord. I should just work on a story, not on this blog. I should just be not thinking about it, detatching myself, eliminating the emotional elements. But it's hard not to feel personally attacked. It's hard not to feel curtailed and hated. It's hard not to want to grab the nearest sharp object and puncture tires.

But One Day At A Time. These things can take months. Years, even.

Jesus.

Old Thoughts. New Blog

Old thoughts. New Blog.

First, there was angelfire... The Reflection .

Then, there was diaryland... Monkeybeth Rambles...

And of course, who can forget runboard? Eak The Monkey ...

And now... we have blogger.com. Lovely.

I've been posting random thoughts on the internet since 1995 (I think. It may have been '96).

Indulging yourself on county time is great. Fantastic. Thanks to all you taxpayers for allowing my narcissitic mispellings and all that shy-it... Not that I'm the one taxpayers should be concerned about. They should be freaking out about these other county employees who forget to put slips in for sick time and disappear for three to five hour lunches and have movie breaks in the library and all that shit. They should be more concerned about the ones who come in at ten and leave at four.

That'd be a nice work day... but, comma, no comma.

I'm in the no comma crowd. All the losers described above... well... sorry TP's but they be in the comma department.

So I'm not that bad. I don't even take full hour lunches...

We moved this weekend and I am exhausted. Who ever knew that hardwood floors would make such a difference in the temperature of my apartment!?! Freezing all the time. Sleeping in long sleeve t-shirts. Not so sexy as see-through tank tops and panties. But I guess we can't all be sexy all the time.

Today is Futon Day. Our flea-infested, seventies patterned, springs-all-sprung, tiny itsy bitsy teeny weeny loveseat is no more! How exciting for those of us who despise fleas. Get off my fucking cats, you little bastards, squish, crack, no more flea. We cleaned out our apartment and the loveseat was the last thing to go. We hauled it out and set it in front of the house with a Free sign; some poor sucker bastard picked it up within forty five minutes.

Hope s/he doesn't mind the fleas.

Put an old vaccuum out there, too, and within moments it was gone. Damn people didn't take the eight bags of clothes, though. Woulda saved me a trip to the goodwill.

Too bad for the tsunami victims that no where is accepting clothing donations... they coulda been pimped out in gap and gucci.

I lied about that gucci part.

I don't even own any gucci shit. Unless you count OK computer where Thom York says gucci little piggies... but I don't think that even counts. Not even that. But I do love the gap, despite an ardent protestation of them in my teenage years. I'd cross streets to avoid even being on the same side as a gap. I'd yell at innocent cheerleaders. Now that I'm working, Gap is handy-- one pair of pants in thirty different colors... sounds great!

Montel Williams smokes pot.

Right on for him. Way to be a leader, Montel


I should get back to work. Enough unoriginality for today.

Peace, yo.