I like to think I’m funny.

But maybe I’m not. Maybe I am just loud, and swear, and people only laugh at me because they are so uncomfortable, and are afraid if they don’t laugh, I’ll beat them. Which is very likely true. Nevertheless, at one point I had this misguided idea that I could be a comedian [or comedienne, whatever], so I wrote some jokes a few years back. I stumbled across them tonight. They are worth posting for the sheer awfulness of them.

Although those of you who know me could probably see me saying these and seriously believing that I am, in fact, kind of hilarious…

Well, you be the judge.

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Crappy Jokes About “Things I Never Understood”:

I never understood those people who feel the need to remind you of everything, even obvious shit. I was going out west last year and EVERYONE I told said, “Ooh, don’t forget to take pictures!” I thought, “Oh wow! What a great idea! I never even thought of that. I was planning on bringing my easel and painting a watercolor landscape of the Grand Canyon while I was there, but photographs! That makes more sense. More portable. Thanks for the tip.”

I never understood those people who think everything is a competition. “My birthday is March 31st.” “Oh yeah? My half-sister’s neighbor’s best friend is a doctor and HIS is the 29th.” What, so is he better because he’s a doctor or because he beat me coming out of his mom’s vagina? Or sometimes you talk to someone and you might mention how you were sick, and they just HAVE to one-up you. “Oh man, I was so sick yesterday.” “Oh yeah? I was throwing up while simultaneously having explosive diarrhea and THEN my plant died.” What can you say to top that? Nothing beats bodily fluids coming out of two orifices at the same time.

I never understood the saying, “You can’t have your cake and eat it, too.” Well, you can’t eat cake if you don’t have it, but if you have it but don’t eat it, what’s the point? It’s just gonna sit there and mold. The shelf life of cake isn’t that long. Why is being an adult so HARD?!

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Sorry for that. I hope you realize you’ll never get back that five minutes of life you just wasted reading those.

Mental Detour.

Wow…I was just rereading that last post from December…I am one depressing fucker!!

OK, hiatus OVER! Here’s some new shit. For the 4 of you who keep up with this site, this is an example of a typical hour inside my brain:

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I have a lot to say. So perhaps a list will be the most effective means to conveying all this pent-up emotional information:

1) I’m warm – too warm – and would like to take my fleece off. However, I am still wearing my neon green work shirt and am unsure how I feel about rocking that outside of the Garden. [pause] I can’t take it – the fleece must be removed.

1a) Much better.

2) This caramel coffee latte is fantastic and just what I wanted.

However, this thought is a diversion from what I intended to be #2 on my list.

3) Walking down Congress Street, words started swirling in my head – letters, sounds, forming themselves into spontaneous thoughts, describing sensations, feelings, my view on the world.

4) These words overpowered me, clogged my mental processes like cholesterol in an artery. So much so, that the only thing I could do is rid my brain of these thoughts – via a pen in my hand.

5) Having no paper (or scrap of anything, save a receipt, which I knew would not be big enough to accommodate the amount of words swirling in my ead), I decided to buy a new journal. I saw a bookstore. Jackpot.

6) There were many options – spiral-bound, colorful ones with designs, big ones, small ones, leather ones. At three dollars, I picked the cheapest one. Pliable brown leather – pleather?

7) The one I wanted was hot pink and only six dollars, which I thought was very reasonable. It, too, had a soft, pliable pleather cover. But it also had the word “LOVE” embossed in silver on the front. I picked it up, and immediately set it back down. Instead of being a word of hope, I knew it would only (and consistently) remind me of what my life was lacking. No dice.

8) Why is it that, out of all the wonderful things about my life, I constantly focus on the one thing that is “missing”?

8a) “Missing” is in quotes. It does exist – love, that is – for me, in my life. It just takes a different shape than what I expect. Different form than I am used to.

8b) I must remind myself of this.

9) Why do I feel that the fact that I was wearing a fleece and wanted to take it off is worth writing about?

10) I think I have sufficiently set the scene and waded through the current state of affairs (coffee; location – bookstore; purpose – new journal; activity – writing, thinking) to get to those pesky little words that originally brought me here…emotionally and physically.

10a) Wow, what a detour.

10b) Hmm….now I am concerned that the next thought will not be worth all these mental detours…

10c) Another distraction: phone. Texts. I turned the volume off – no vibrate – and set it face down on the table.

10d) Better yet…

10e) …it’s back in my bag.

11) Original thought [FINALLY!]:

(Error Message: Reconstruction of though failed. Need hard drive reboot.)

[pause]

Twenty-eight degrees and snowing doesn’t bother me any more. A light breeze doesn’t, either. Strong gusts of freezing cold wind that cuts through gloves and stings the delicate skin underneath pants – you never get used to that. But a little light, flaky snow and sub-freezing temperatures – well, I’m used to it now. Each person is different. Sure, it would be nice to wear flip-flops and skirts, but that time will come. Soon enough. It’s worth waiting for. And on those days of heat waves in July, the people of Boston will complain, and be irritated, and wish for snow. And standing thigh-deep in the snow in February, the people of Boston wish for a heat wave.

We should just be happy with today.

And I was. Walking around Faneuil Hall, a light dusting of powdery precipitation on the sidewalks, the sky a steel grey, casting a dimness on the world, I was actually…enjoying it. It was quiet. Quieter than my own mind has been in recent weeks. It’s Sunday afternoon. The streets are not crowded with cars or pedestrians.

I’m deep in my own head now. I picture it like a set of hands, poking and prodding the cerebral cortex – peeling it away to find the structures underneath – the thalamus, the amygdala, the cerebellum. Poking it. My hand twitches. Squeezing the amygdala. I become afraid. Flicking the hippocampus. I can’t remember my name.

When I’m in my head, no one else is allowed in. And I don’t want to talk to you. No offense – it’s just the way things are. The effect of the mood down swing. Later, when the pendulum brings me back up, I’ll look up and wonder where everyone went. They left while I was busy, distracted by my own grey matter.

Then it’s all gone, and I feel used up.

Kind of like I do right now.

Whatever neurons were firing, whatever synapses were in action…they’re quiet. Like it is outside. Finally.

It’s like exercising your body. It makes you stronger, better able to do physical tasks, in better shape, and it wears you out.

Sifting through this mental junk, it’s like mental exercise. It makes my mind stronger. It makes me better equipped to do mental tasks – like dealing with the fact that I am in this body and this mind all the time. And can’t get out.

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Mental Detour

Caught a glimpse of a woman who is exceedingly unfortunate-looking. And she is with a man – the ring on her hand makes me assume he is her husband. And she’s pregnant – again, assuming – though she could just be fat. Her companion is far more attractive. Makes me curious.

But also…it gives me a little hope. If she can land a man with that face…there is hope for me yet!

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Maybe I’m done now. Finally.

Maybe I can rest.

Maybe the words will cease forming and swirling…at least for a little while…

Maybe…

Poem #1

Yesterday I was thinking about how I acted when my ex and I broke up, and I got mad at myself for being so outwardly distraught. I thought, ‘I wish I could take back those things I said and did from that night.’ And then from that thought, a poem emerged. Here it is, in blank verse [15 unrhymed lines of iambic pentameter].

Untitled. 10-23-08

I wish I could take back behaviors from

that night when we broke up. While you, in bed,

just resting, sleeping, dreaming, I, in stealth,

was checking emails, conversations with

a certain girl you met the prior week.

I savored every morsel, all the talk,

the witty banters, questions of your self

and us and did you really love me? Then

my heart was beating, pounding, racing, so

I woke you, asked you, what the fuck is this?

You said, It’s over. No discussion could

undo this pain you caused, betrayal I felt.

The crying, screaming, sobbing, rolling on

the floor, so unattractive, pitiful.

I’d take it back, but now it’s just too late.

Wish I had more time.

I wish I had more time to do a lot of things. I’m too fucking busy these days. Between school, working in the lab, working at the park, being president of a club, doing homework [or thinking about it], meetings, eating, sleeping, showering, having a social life [or trying], commuting, breathing, thinking…I just don’t have enough fucking time to write.

And it pisses me off.

[C, I don't know how you do it. You manage to post sometimes up to three blogs in a day! And long ones. Where do you find the time??]

Anyway, I want to write more. I just can’t seem to. I want to write, even a short short story, about yesterday when a I got hit by a bike — while I was in my car. The dude had the balls to ask if I wanted to “check it out” — like his rolling into my 1997 Rav-4 could have done any damage. Notwithstanding the fact that he ran into the front passenger quad panel, the same quad panel that was completely destroyed when that elderly Japanese man unwittingly opened his car door into oncoming traffic [AKA me] this past March. Never got the panel fixed, but I think it gives The Rav more character [like it needs it].

I want to write a short story about my first pack of cigarettes, purchased last week on a whim with a borrowed eight dollars. Yes, cigarettes cost that much in Massachusetts. Coming from Tobacco Country, that seems a little much.

Incidentally, I have 9 cigarettes left. I don’t know why I’m smoking. It’s both disgusting and delicious at the same time. This horrible dichotomy is intriguing, though. How can I like and hate it so much? I must look ridiculous, but I do fit into different social situations. I even had a guy bum one off me, while I was waiting for someone. Standing on the corner outside the South Station T stop, a man walked up and said, “Excuse me, you don’t happen to have a cigarette, do you?” I had been asked for lights before, but never a cigarette. I wasn’t even smoking at the time. “Actually…I do, ” I replied, with a smile. “Funny story — this is actually the first pack I’ve ever bought and I’m 25.” He asked why, but didn’t seem as amused as I would have thought. Ah, well.

I want to write about the self-revelations I’ve been having lately. My need for affirmation. And why that pisses me off. Don’t think I’ll ever not need affirmation, but I am trying my fucking hardest to just do what makes me happy, not wait around for the rest of the world, and just say “fuck it.”

I want to write about my life decisions. Clinical Ph.D program…or MFA in creative writing? Or neither? Do I even have any talents either way?? Holy shitballs. Fuck. Sure, I can tell a funny story about
that time I sneezed on that guy’s face, or when I found maggots growing in my kitchen cabinet, but what does it mean?? Besides getting me two dates, is this blogging doing me anything, besides telling weird and most likely embarrassing and stupid stories to the average of 23 people who visit each day??

Maybe. Who the fuck knows. Right now, I don’t care.

Just wish I could write more.

Lost & Found

FOUND: two silicone-filled breast enhancers. Spotted on the shores of Nantasket Beach, Massachusetts, at low tide, approximately 15 feet apart. Originally mistaken for jellyfish.

This scenario left a lot of questions that my crazy mind decided to answer. Here’s how I imagine the situation going down:

Deborah, a 36-year old single math teacher at Hull High School, is convinced by her friend, Lucy, to meet her boyfriend John’s coworker, Tad. Deb is a little wary, especially since her last three blind dates ended in disaster [could that tax attorney have been any more boring?] However, after bribes of dinner and free cat-sitting next time she goes out of town to visit her parents in New York, Deb agrees. She’s in good shape, a triathlete – but there’s not much to speak of the in the breast department. So when she goes to try on her bathing suit before the date [how she was convinced to have a blind beach date is beyond me], she does something she will later regret. In the second drawer of her bureau, next to her bras and fancy lingerie [relics of that six-month engagement in 2004] are her falsies, also known amongst her friends as “chicken fillets.” The dress Deb’s sister picked out for her to wear as maid-of-honor at her June wedding last year necessitated them – the halter top looked just too empty. Only worn that once, and successfully, she decided to give them another try. She thought, ‘Halter dress, halter-top bikini. Same thing.’ They all met at Lucy’s house in Hingham, and carpooled to the beach. Arriving at 10:30 in the morning, while high tide still covered most of the beach, they managed to find a good spot, set up chairs and towels, slathered themselves with sunblock and got down to the business of enjoying the beautiful day. Deb felt confident and sexy, filling out her bikini. She chatted with Tad, laughed and flirted. ‘What a good idea,’ she thought. ‘This fake cleavage looks awesome.’ After an hour or so, the July sun became overwhelming, and Deb and Lucy decided to take a dip in the cool, refreshing Atlantic. Tad and John watched from the shore, sipping on Sam Summers. While floating in the waves, Deb told Lucy how cute she thought Tad was, and funny – not like the other accountants she had known. The girls were facing the beach, waving, when a huge wave came up behind them and rolled them both over. Lucy recovered, but Deb’s top was not securely fastened [she forgot to double-knot it], and it fell off. It floated by and Lucy grabbed it, but neither recovered the falsies. They searched for several minutes, but the tumultuous waves had washed them several dozen feet away, never to be seen by Deb again. She realized she couldn’t hide in the water all day, so the girls emerged from the ocean, although they were not quite sure how to address Deb’s sudden change. Tad questioned, ‘What…happened?’ noticing Deb’s new lack of cleavage. A brief pause, then Deb’s blaring honesty: ‘Well, the wave knocked off my bathing suit top, and I lost my falsies. [Sigh] There.’ She laughs, and they all laugh. They unpack their lunch of turkey pitas and fruit, Deb pops open a beer, takes a big swig, and smiles at Tad. He smiles back, admiring her courage and honesty, and thinks to himself, ‘Wow, she’s incredible. I’m going to marry this woman.’ Waves crash in the distance, the tide on its way out. The foursome enjoys a few more hours at the beach, then depart. At low tide, someone will discover Deb’s secret, lying on the shore. But she won’t care.

Never Enough Time…or The Panic Was So Far-Reaching It Could Be Described As Widespread

You know, there’s just never enough time to do all the things I have to do and all the things I want to do. So I either put off the former, stress out, get anxiety-ridden, and feel like a loser…or put off the latter, and feel unfulfilled and like a loser. Both results in me feeling like a loser. Why, oh why, can’t I just be independently wealthy, and spend my days reading, writing, crafting, drinking coffee, and enjoying the great city in which I live?

One of the things I want to do on a regular basis is write. Since I made the decision to actively do so [in my quest of becoming a "writer"], I’ve made leaps and bounds in my prioritizing “writing” and putting it near the top of the list [even above "laundry" and "gettin' money from my hoes"]. But I haven’t enough time in the day! I don’t even get it. I work all day, come home, watch a tiny bit of television, check my email, then all of the sudden it’s time for bed! No time to write, unless I drink massive amounts of coffee and/or alcohol, and don’t sleep…which I’d do, but my youthful face would suffer, I fear. And I like being 25, yet still passing for a teenager. It gives me hope for when I enter my 30s [which a jerk I work with reminded me is not too far off].

So, specifically, I wanted to write about my most recent experiences at a concert. I began writing the story a couple days ago, so finally, here it is:

The panic was so far-reaching it could be described as widespread…

The concert tonight exceeded any of my expectations, the few that I had. I met Steve, the tour manager [or so his business card read] at Fenway on Wednesday. He offered me tickets to see Widespread Panic on Thursday night, so how could I refuse? Free concert = awesome. My roommate and a friend said they’d come with me, and we met at the Bank of America Pavilion down by the Boston Harbor at 7:00. Will call didn’t have me on “the list” so I called Steve, and he brought the four tickets up [and my roommate called the situation "dodgy"]. I only had two friends, so there was an extra ticket that my roommate promptly sold for twenty bucks. I said we couldn’t sell a free ticket, but he’s Irish and doesn’t follow normal rules.

When we got inside, the scent of marijuana wafted through the air. With ten-dollar beers in hand, we laughed, joked, and chatted while Widespread Panic jammed on stage. Upon drinking the second alcoholic beverage, and as the sun finally set, we stood up and joined the throngs of hippies dancing in the aisles of the pavilion, moving their bodies without inhibitions. There was no way we could refuse the call of the music [especially a ten-minute jam of Bill Withers' "Use Me"] and soon we, too, shook and gyrated like the white people we are. The dancing was contagious! And actually, quite fun. Even the cute four-year old girl with glasses was running up and down the aisles, jumping and shaking about. In the bathroom, my friend and I encountered the ballerina-turned-hippie, who demonstrated her years of ballet study with a glissade and an arabesque before flitting her way back to her seat.

At 10, a we finally departed and made our way to Hennessey’s near Faneuil Hall for an awesome 90s rock cover band that jams there on Thursday nights. The bar was so hot that during the band’s break, I turned the fan that cooled them off to me and stood in front of it. Unfortunately I got too close and my hair got stuck in the fan. A helpful bystander cut off the fan and we dislodged the majority of my tresses, leaving only a small chunk of my blonde locks in the fan — I told the band’s singer it was a special gift from me. Some Sam Summers, shots, and shaking it later, and we were on the move again to J.J. Foley’s for more drinks. At 3am, we were finally in a cab to go home. All in all, a good night of music, dancing, drinking, friends, and fun.

See, if I had more time in the day, I’m sure that story could be better. But at this point I’m just happy to have a minute to sit and recall it, let alone the time to type out my memories about that night.

Maybe one day I’ll either: 1) win the lottery, quit my job and have time to write all day, or 2) meet a hot, rich, amazingly sensitive and brilliant older man who will pay all my bills and I’ll quit my job and have time to write all day.

I’m pretty sure that I have a better shot at winning the lottery.

Drunken Ramblings.

I heard the siren in the distance from the living room of my apartment, and also from the other end of the phone. I called Sunrise Chinese for sesame chicken and crab rangoons. Apparently the restaurant is closer than I imagined, if we are hearing the same emergency sounds. Sipping my third glass of wine, surrounded by jazz, the smell of summer rain and candlelight, I sat alone. Opening Microsoft Word, I thought, ‘If I’m going to make a baby, I better get to fucking.’ That’s an analogy, for sure [not mine, but I have stolen it] – the baby is a book. Or even in the more present tense, just a story. Time to get fuck—I mean, writing.

Sometimes taking stock of one’s life is crucial.

There’s a centerpiece of candles and rocks on a metal tray that adorns the middle of my bar table. I never allowed my ex to light the candles – I always wanted them to look pristine, untouched, perfect. Now, in my semi-drunken state, I want to burn those fuckers. Maybe for light, sure. Maybe for something else. Maybe just to burn something.

Guess I am over my anti-pyromaniac stage from the other day.

He messaged me last night. Don’t know why. I think he might want to be friends, although when we had lunch before he left for Arizona for the summer I informed him that I wasn’t really interested in being his friend, and was unsure if I’d ever see him again. “But we live in the same city,” he said. “Are you going to delete my number?” Trapped, I said no, although I secretly knew I would probably not answer if he called. That’s a big “if.” He barely paid attention to me when we lived together. What would make me believe he’d actually want to keep in touch? Well, besides the obvious – that’s he’s a fucking moron douchebag and obviously doesn’t know shit about shit.

This has gotten really random. Happens with wine in my bloodstream. And Chinese food. Sesame chicken = truth serum.

I have so much to write about. I see everything. My life is a collection of hilarious, heartbreaking, wonderful stories.

Maybe one day all these tiny pieces and particles of stories will form a big picture, like a jigsaw puzzle. I’ll just keep picking up the pieces I find every day, put them in my pocket, and try to make them fit.

I just hope at the end that the puzzle pieces come together and don’t look a mess, like some insane clown eating a puppy.

That was over the line.

The Things I Want.

Life is all you make of it. I’m not sure I believe in predestination. I feel powerful when I make something amazing happen in my life. There is a vague sense of fate, sure — and I’ll subscribe to “everything happens for a reason” once in a while — but for the majority of the time, I feel like I am behind the wheel of this crazy tractor-trailer accident-waiting-to-happen life of mine.

So here’s what I want out of my life [in the immediate and distant futures]:

1) I want to be a writer. Not just a writer, because I suppose the fact that I write [like, right now] makes me a “writer.” More than this, though, I would like to perhaps make a living from writing. Yes, yes, I am well aware that it will be horrifically all-consuming, devastatingly heartwrenching when things don’t work out, and soul-crushingly painful most of the time. BUT. But. I have wanted this since I was 18 and first diagnosed with depression, when the words that enveloped any “logical” thought processes in my brain could only be cleared if I had a pen and paper and forced them out through through my hand. It is, has been, and will always be the most cathartic thing I can do, and helps keep me sane. Maybe it’s just a hobby. Maybe it’s a real talent. Who the fuck knows. But I have to try, I have to know which it is, and quit pretending that I will be happy doing anything else.

2) I want to be a singer. Like, in a rock band. Doesn’t have to be anything major — but how sweet would it be, right? “Oh, sorry, I can’t go out with you guys on Saturday night — my band has a gig.” Or shit, even to say, “Can’t hang tonight — my band has practice.” I like to sing — mostly in the shower and in my car, but in a former life I was a karaoke DJ. People tell me I sing well. I like to perform in front of people. I can dance. I just spent 30 minutes searching Boston craigslist in the “musicians” section. It seems feasible that I could be a rock singer. I’m going to work on this.

3) I want to move to Italy. At least for a while. I have to graduate first, because goddammit if I’m going to quit when I’m only 3 semesters away from my BS in psychology. But after December 2009, all bets are off. Who knows…maybe I will be a rock star/author and can travel anywhere I want…

4) I want to always, always keep my dreams in the forefront of my mind, and never let anyone or anything tell me I can’t do it — and never let anyone or anything distract me from these dreams.

Apropos to this evening — my first Pearl Jam show — here are some song lyrics that I think perfectly describe this:

The selfish, they’re all standing in line
Faithing and hoping to buy themselves time
Me, I figure as each breath goes by
I only own my mind

The north is to south what the clock is to time
There’s east and there’s west and there’s everywhere life
I know I was born and I know that I’ll die
The in between is mine
I am mine.

~ Pearl Jam, I Am Mine

Brain Explosion, Part I

Since I got home from Philadelphia on June 14, I’ve been working incessantly. Much to my chagrin, actually — I love having massive amounts of free time to doodle, dream, drink and craft [not necessarily in that order]. Oh, and sleep. But the money is nice, and I actually really enjoy my job — I was at the NBA finals game 6, and got paid to be there. Yeah. Amazing. Go Celtics!

Through all this, though, I’ve managed to bring my little orange notebook with me most of the time, and have made a conscious effort to write — since “writing” should be the necessary gerund of a writer wanna-be.

That’s right. I used the word “gerund.”

Anyway, I thought maybe it was time to get some of those thoughts out of the little orange notebook and into the Interwebs. Here goes.

From 6.11.08 Brain Explosion, Part I

What if I just sit here and write and don’t stop writing? Maybe something amazing will surface. Maybe I don’t need a prompt, or an idea, or even a start point — maybe all I need to do is form words with little strokes of this ink pen, until I form some that are pretty and make me sit back with delight and say, “Hmm, yes. This pleases me.” I know there are magical words floating around in my head. I can see them. I can feel them. I can even hear them. I think that means I am a little bit crazy — but like I said earlier, “I went crazy to avoid going crazy.” Sometimes all you can do is cope — and sometimes all you can do to cope to abandon that life you had before, abandon all hope of that future you wanted and gambled everything for, and lost — and just go running and screaming and jump into the arms and embrace this newness, this change, your new life. New direction. And tell yourself it’s OK — no, no. It’s good. It’s better. It’s an improvement over that unhappiness and self-doubt and holy shit, how did you do that for so long, and why, why did you squash yourself — let alone his squashing — why did you try to commit personality suicide?? Don’t do that, ever again! No one is worth giving up your you-ness. Don’t give up you! Don’t give up on you, either. And now, being armed and ready, I’m fighting for me now. Just me. And it is so, so great. I’m refocused. I see myself differently now, and do not want to go back into that fire — that sweltering, burning place that almost destroyed me before. I will only go into the fire for my dreams — I’m making them happen, one step at a time. One step at a time. One tiny step at a time…

Writing. Thinking. Putting it down.

THIS IS STEP 1.