Lingua Franca

Neurotic City

2010-11-06T18:44:00.000-07:00

There is a line from Colum McCann's novel Let the Great World Spin which I often find myself turning over and over again in my mind. I may be paraphrasing a bit, but essentially the line is as follows:

"It takes courage to live an ordinary life."

This is true. Very true. But I would take the sentiment one step further. Living an ordinary life sometimes requires more than courage, it requires compromise, forgiveness, and ultimately acceptance. And even if you manage to find all of these things you are not guaranteed peace of mind or happiness.

Introspection is a restive compatriot, but the alternatives are often just as frightening. For all of the voids I see in my life I know that I would very much prefer to be the deep-thinking, solitary, literate soul that I am, than pretend to care for things and people I do not. Pretending is more punishing than facing the truth and it often requires that one sacrifice what little exists of their sense of self. And my sense of self is already frayed. I'd like to keep what little remains of it for me and me alone.

There is no requirement that I must be someone who people understand. There is not even an understanding that I must understand myself, but I would much rather understand myself than engage people who fail to bring anything to my growth as a human being. Because even if I am no success, even if I have nothing to show for 33 years on this planet, I intend to spend each and every one of my days learning and experiencing something new about this world I live in, and I will commit myself to that until the day I stop breathing. Even if it's only between the pages of a book or in the pages of my journal, I intend to delve.

Life doesn't reward one for being good, and life surely doesn't reward you for being giving. It is what you own and what you can do that matters. That will not change. I imagine I have probably already lived half of my life and I don't expect to own or do much more with the time that's left. What comes of a life lived without some minimal thresholds or standards of accomplishment? Oftentimes one's only consolation is the knowledge that emotional abstraction and intellectual complexity (even for all of your lack of conventional value) are the only things which make you worthwhile. All I have is my thoughts. It is a task to understand and accept that just because we live in society does not mean that we are all meant to be social animals. I feel stifled by the idea of friendships, perhaps it is because of late I have mostly known false friends. There is shame in failure, but there is also no harm in being indifferent. I used to think I was a "people" person. I used to believe that being a "people" person made for a more interesting life. I no longer believe that. But maybe that's because I know I'm not equipped for what's standard in "interesting" and "worthwhile" lives (i.e. friends, love, marriage, children, homes, vacations, all of those things).

I still believe there is good to be had, I'm just beyond believing myself destined for any taste of it. My life is not ordinary. It's something else, maybe something worse. It is dull, diminished, and distracting. But it's mine.

Keep f*cking that chicken...

2010-10-30T15:08:00.000-07:00

Originally I had hoped to blog about something positive or upbeat, but the reality is I have nothing positive or upbeat to dwell upon. Life is stinky shit on a stick. I won't focus on the usual suspects (hating Austin, hating Texas, hating Austin, hating Texas), and just focus on the fact that I have never felt more empty and dead inside in all of my life. This is is even worse than feeling suicidal, which, for or better or for worse, I am not. Simply put, I am just bored with my life. B-O-R-E-D. I am down to my last $20.00 and while I would love to spend it on four bottles of cheap CVS wine and remain in a tannin-soaked stupor, it feels more appropriate to save the money and buy those bottles of wine on New Year's Eve to celebrate yet another wasted, shitty year of my life. And that's what I'll do. I'll just wait until December 31st to get blitzed out of my mind and cry myself into another shitty year.

There aren't many bright spots. The few bright spots I had previously used to cling to sanity and security have been washed over by reality and let me tell you, reality is a motherfucker. The reality? I am an embarrassing excuse for a human being. Unemployed (again!), destitute, living with my mother (who really can't afford to have her useless 33 year old daughter living in her home for that much longer), and essentially uninspired by everything. I had wanted to feel good about my life, even if it's not much of a life. But I don't. I hate everything about it. Stifled, suffocated, and sorry. That says it all. I am stifled, I feel suffocated, and I am a sorry excuse for a human being. What happened? I really did think I would be better than this. I really did think I would have a chance, just one fucking chance, to be worth something in this world. People try and tell you that "positive" thinking and optimism are good for you. I could not disagree more. Optimism, positivity--those things are a part of a grand delusion. The world is not built to reward you for your "happy thoughts." It's about taking care of those who play the game and know the right people. And I am not one of those people.

I'm tired and disappointed. Tired of my mediocre life and disappointed in myself. While I may not be interested in hastening my demise, I'm beyond caring about feeling alive. My life is about going through the motions (wake, sleep, wake sleep) and I'm bored. I'm over it.

Here's to morning coffee.

2010-10-20T11:33:00.000-07:00

And why am I praising my morning coffee? These days it's the only thing I look forward to with any consistency. I hate the overrated shitty little hipster mecca I am forced to live in; I am unemployed; I have no money; and I hate where I live. Wait. I said that already. Well, it's true. I can't think of the last time I had something I was genuinely excited about. Even the weather continues to suck balls. It's almost fucking November and the temperatures are still near 90 fucking degrees! What bullshit. Lest I find myself diving deeper into the murkier depths of psychological despair I try and find tiny things, little existential bites, to hold onto; because if I don't, I get very scared of where I might end up.

This morning I received yet another rejection for a job. It was a data entry position that any monkey could do. The interview and interviewer were half-assed and the job did not require any specific or significant intelligence to speak of; even so, the position was awarded to someone else. When I inquired with the employer about what they found lacking in my qualifications they simply said, "We just chose to go in another direction." I've heard this before and it's not in the least bit helpful. What it really means is, "We have the ability to be completely arbitrary and selective in our process and feel no need to share any information with you which might aid you in acquiring work." At this point I'd be fine with hearing, "Well, the other person had bigger tits and was way hotter than you." Or, "We don't like your hair." But when you receive no feedback whatsoever, none, it leaves you feeling more demoralized than ever. So, I have come to a new conclusion about my job search: I am not going to search for a job any more. What the fuck for? The only way you can get decent jobs in this town is to fuck the right people. That's not a lie.

I'm too old for that shit. And I'm not fuckable.

I still want to escape this shitwaste vat of overrated garbage and I will...eventually.

Here, but not present . . .

2009-06-13T21:43:00.001-07:00

I spent an overall splendid Saturday with my youngest and bestest of friends. We went for a swim in the horrid heat. This is a sign that my love for him is deep and unrelenting as I never, EVER, get into what could be considered "swimwear." (Of course, I don't even own a swimsuit. I wore some really ugly shorts and a t-shirt, but you get the point. I don't do water. It's a shame really, because I love water. It's my body that's always posed the problem. Hell, even when I was marathon fit I never wore what could be considered revealing clothing.) As we walked hand in hand to the pool my young friend asked me very pointedly, "Tiffany, are you gonna leave?" I paused before answering. "What do you mean?" He peered up at me, "Are you gonna leave Texas?" I had to remind myself that I was talking to a child, therefore it would do me no good to venture forth on my usual rant about the suckworthiness of Austin, Texas and how it is in fact a veritable lifesuck and not the cultural, commercial, or artistic mecca its PR army has endeavored to portray it as. Instead I answered, "Yes. I will leave Texas again." He then asked me, "Why? I like Texas. There are lots of nice animals here." I couldn't really disagree with him seeing as how I myself have managed to meet quite a few nice animals. Nor did I extend my remarks with my usual addendum, "Hell yeah I want to leave Texas! And Austin! For good!" I was very quick to tell him, "You know that you will come and visit me no matter where I am, right?" His response? "Okay. But you have to come see me too." When he is older I will tell him that nothing in the world will ever keep me from him. Nothing. As far as I'm concerned I'll be at his graduations, wedding, and whatever commemorative moments for which he feels he compelled to welcome me. This little boy runs through my veins. He is the closest thing to a child I will ever know. One day, when he is older, I will tell him as much. But for now, I held his hand that much tighter in mine and we spent a hot Saturday enjoying one another's company, splashing about in a small apartment pool, and things were fine, just fine.

32 . . . and a little blue . . .

2009-06-04T11:52:00.001-07:00

So today is my birthday and it has now been one year since my father passed away. He's been on my mind since I woke up this morning. And I'd be lying if I didn't admit to crying a little bit. It's been on and off. I miss him. I miss him something awful. I have stop to ask myself, "Will it always be like this? Will each birthday be a mixture of melancholy and merriment? Will I keep counting the years until it's my time?" I hope not.

Long time no blog . . .

2009-05-31T12:44:00.001-07:00

What can you do? Life happens. Even if that life is really no life at all.

I am still monstrously underemployed (though I can actually tolerate my coworkers . . . with one notable exception), I still hate where I live, I'm still broke, and I'm still just me. I'm just trying to keep myself distracted. If I spend too much time thinking about my life and how really pathetic it is I get to the point where I don't ever want to leave the indoors. Clinicians call it depression, I call it a reality check.

I have been spending a lot of time lately thinking about love, romantic love. Not because I'm especially interested in the concept, but because as I grow older more and more people I've known and excised from my life are finding their way into domestic arrangements. A lot of people are married these days. I recall having a conversation with someone a few years ago about how I was just never one of those females who would imagine the perfect wedding. I know such women exist, I've been friends with a couple of them. Even so, I was never party to the fantasy. Marriage is fine, but love is so much better. I've only had small tastes of love, but what I tasted was enough for my lifetime. It didn't fill me up and when things went sour it was difficult to remove the sour taste from my mouth; but I'm still one of love's biggest advocates, even if I never want anything to do with it again for as long as I may live.

I'm alone. I've always been alone. And it feels as though I'll probably always be alone. But strangely this doesn't bother me nearly as much as it used to when I was younger. I have gotten over the supposed belief that if you aren't attached, married, or having sex on a regular basis, you must surely be miserable. Meh. There are so many other parts of my life that are royally fucked up that it would be the cruelest thing imaginable to try and bring someone else into this nightmare of a life I've been forced to settle for. I'm not so cruel. It's largely one of the reasons why I avoid friendships, old and new, by any means necessary.

Another friend I no longer know once told me that I could expect all of my married friends to be divorced within 10-15 years. It had happened to her and a few of her friends. I shook my head, "I hope not. That would make me sad. I want people to have good love."

And that's no lie.

Holy Moly.

2009-05-02T13:07:00.000-07:00

I just read my blog from last night.

I really should learn to stay away from the computer after finishing a six pack on an empty stomach.

Trust me, I'm paying for it today.

That bottle of wine needs to be opened eventually. Hair of the dog?

There is a library DVD of Best in Show to be watched. I shall elevate myself prior to enjoying the film. You know, to enhance the already hilariously funny parts. Or whatever.

Thankfully the family is gone for the weekend. Merciful silence.

Stream?

2009-05-01T20:13:00.000-07:00

It's Friday.

I have nothing to do and no one to do it with. Why should this matter? I'm a 32 year old woman (almost!) who can't just be content with her own company. After an internal recitation of this reality I thereafter proceed to consider issues such as the following:

*I have no partner.
*I have no spouse.
*I have no car.
*I have no home.
*I have no friends.
*I have no financial security.
*I have no job worth mentioning.
*I have no solvency.
*I have no prospects.
* I have no idea what I'm doing.

Of course, this list is not all-inclusive. It's just a bunch of spittle. I am thoroughly disgusted with myself and where I am. I want to be someone or anyone else. But that's impossible. Instead I remain me. I just wish (Tiffany doesn't pray sports fans) I had more to show for myself. It's not a good thing when sometimes the only thing you look forward to in the evening is the ability to import that new CD you just checked out from the library. Yeah, the library you go to AT LEAST three times a week, because it's "something to do."

You're always looking for something to do, aren't you Tiffany? Without question this would probably be because of the fact that you've not ever really done SOMETHING with yourself. So, just keep busy. Stay distracted. Pretend you're not unhappy. Pretend you're not a smudge. Try to keep faking it.

I just want something/someone/somewhere to look forward to.

I don't know any French people . . .

2009-04-29T17:08:00.000-07:00

. . . but I sure do get a kick out of the way they think. Brilliant. Read the Objectif Lune piece.

It really is like riding a bicycle . . .

2009-04-25T19:16:00.001-07:00

Not sex, but rather, driving a car.

I am cat sitting this weekend. A friend and her husband needed a last minute cat sitter in order for them to make their annual trip to the New Orleans' Jazz Fest. I jumped at the chance. Time alone in a nice house in one of the few charming neighborhoods in Austin? And I get to stay with two cute cats? I jumped at the chance. In addition, I get use of one of the two hybrid vehicles owned by the family. (They are both college professors. Makes sense now, doesn't it?)

So I filled up the tank with gas and drove to my father's grave. I hadn't seen it before, and I'm not really sure why I wanted to, but I did. The anniversary of my father's death is also the day of my birth. Talk about cursed luck?

I didn't really get emotional and I only cried a little. My mother has been to my father's grave twice and had once attempted to make me feel better (maybe I was at a low point, I'm not sure) by saying that he was in a very lovely spot. Well, he, or his remains rather, are in fact in a very lovely little soft rolling hill which, because of the recent rains, is soft with fresh green grass. His stone was a simple white granite of the type seen in Arlington National Cemetery. My father is buried in a veteran's cemetery. When my mother had tried to describe my father's resting place to me I was far too abupt, rude surely, and said, "Mother, he's dead. I don't think he cares where they put him." I quickly apologized.

Daddy issues.

One of my coworkers (the obnoxious writer) and I had a conversation about parents and my father came up. "Daddy issues" was the way he belittled my preoccupations. "I've got bigger problems than Daddy Issues. My mother and I have serious problems." Oh really? I tore into him. "Well my father is fucking dead asshole! I can't try and 'address' anything with him. That's done. If there were things I should have said to him, there are no fucking do-overs. You, you at least have the opportunity to try and right whatever it is you feel is wrong with your mother. She breathes. If you want another chance, it's still there. The only thing stopping you is you. Try doing any of that when she's dead."

My coworker didn't say anything else to me.

I've known my father was dead. Yet somehow, there was something very final about seeing his headstone. The inscription says, "Gone, but not forgotten." I don't know who chose it. I know it wasn't me. I like it though. It's really rather appropriate, because try as I might, I can't seem to forget him or remember that it's okay to let go of any of my anger toward him, and that it's even okay to just cry when I miss him and thank him for the gifts he did give me. I dance, I sing, and I groove along to the beat of my own twisted drummer because I inherited a little bit of soul from a man who once knew what it was to live life with simple joy. In the end he traded all of that in for hard drugs and hard drinking and died too soon, but he used to live, he used to laugh, and he used to dance. He shared these things with me, they are my father's legacy barreling through my veins.

I may not be rich, powerful, or beautiful . . . but I'm a singing, dancing, and loving fool because I learned from a beautiful man that it's okay to be that way.

You know it's bad when . . .

2009-04-20T17:09:00.001-07:00

. . . the most exciting thing that happens to you is the arrival of your newest magazine subscription. I happen to share a name with some other woman who also lives in this shitty town. Poor bitch. Anyway, other than her offers for life insurance, MedicAlert jewlery, and those scooters for people with disabilities, from time to time I get her magazine offers. To date I have received offers for "professional" rates for four publications I thoroughly enjoy. The advantage to this is that "professional" rates are usually like one-third the usual subscription rate! Shit yeah!!! My limited funds has only permitted that I avail myself of three of them. Today's treat was the arrival of my first issue of The New Yorker. Color me snobby! (If you're interested, the other two magazines I 'snagged' courtesy of the other TMC are Harper's and The New York Review of Books. I just recently received an offer for the Atlantic Monthly, but have had to hold off . . . for now.) Why am I typing any of this?

Let's see, any other excitement? Um no . . . but it is payday this Wednesday and that means somewhere in this crusty town there will be a big pitcher of IPA with my name on it!

Gloomy Sunday

2009-04-19T15:42:00.001-07:00

I used to believe that a person needed love and/or friends to survive. At one point in my life if you'd asked me about these things I would have argued as to their indispensability to a human existence. I don't really believe that any more. Maybe it's because I am getting older. I don't know. But I am realizing that friendships, love, and memories are very much like snake skins which can be discarded, but unlike snake skins, don't need to be replaced. You do build a tougher skin, but it's a different type of emotional skin which keeps you immune from the aches and pains of life's emotional traumas. Outside, of death, there really is not very much I can't shake off these days.

I have decided to excise yet another person from my life. A very wonderful person. She's one of the neatest people I have ever known, but a slew of strange and bizarre occurrences has left it so that she is much better off without my presence in her life. For a flash I thought maybe I was behaving too hastily, but no, I realize that I don't really need her around. She was a good friend, the best kind of friend, but like all friends I've come into contact with in my disgusting excuse for a life, she's far better off without me. Trust me. So what next? I keep breathing. If I live to be an old woman (which I hope won't be the case), I imagine there will be a night when I can just sit alone, ponder my mistakes with regard to people I've known and with regard to myself, and perhaps not feel so foolish. I'm hoping old age will provide some type of solace, because alcohol only does the trick for so long. And hangovers really do suck.

For once, it would be splendid to really have something to look forward to. Just once. I can't remember the last time I just had one thing that made me want to pretend to be happy. Hell, even getting out of the shit-stain of Texas doesn't do much to please me all that much.

This is has been a horrible week. But haven't they all?

*A note to the world. Do not allow someone's self-loathing to put you in awkward, untenable moral positions. It's unfair. Not to the self-loather, but to yourself.*

You really don't get out of life alive . . .

2009-04-18T19:04:00.000-07:00

I travel a total of four hours (two hours both ways) on Austin's shitty public transportation system to get to a job I work for only 3.75 hours a day. I am paid 11.00 an hour. It's a gross understatement to say that I am underemployed. I spend all of my time putting stickers on books and metal shelves in a cooled High Density Storage facility. I am learning how to use a warehouse cherry picker. That's what I do to make around $150.00 a week. If I think about it too much it makes me want to cry. I don't because I realize any kind of money is better than no kind of money if I want to get the fuck out of this shit hole known as the State of Texas. With the exception of one misogynistic blowhard who fancies himself a "writer" and tries to tell me how to do a job he himself was also just recently hired to do, I get along with my coworkers. I am the only female. There are no attractive people for me to ogle. But then again, I am not attractive, so there is no point in concentrating on the lack of worthwhile eye candy.

I am especially eager to get out of this hole before the government proceeds to do anything more humiliating than the statements which have recently made the national headlines. Oh you know, this state's dumb ass governor's comments about "leaving the union." All for the sake of "Tea Baggers" rights. If I had a pair of balls I could give you idiots something to tea bag alright. But it's a good thing for you all that I could give a shit what happens to this dumb state. I feel absolutely no connection to Texas. None. Nada. Zilch. This place has not ever done a fucking thing to make my life better. Flat, hot, dry, and ugly--that's Texas! Can you believe that people actually get the shape of this fucking place tattooed onto their bodies? I'd die a million deaths before I did anything so idiotic to myself. And I don't want to get started on Austin again. A fine city that freaks out in the presence of black people (See the recent incidents when several business establishments and clubs decided to close early for "safety" during a weekend when an influx of African Americans were in town for an annual track meet. Why? Because apparently ONE person was killed last year. I don't like it that someone was killed, but really, closing down malls and bars? How funny that this shit little town did not decide to close down when South by Southwest had the streets overrun with hipster douches. Fucking racists.)

This was a horrible blog.

Gadgets.

2009-03-18T18:10:00.000-07:00

My new iPod (courtesy of my mother) is great. It holds fuckloads of stuff. 120G. I fall asleep to NPR Podcasts. I'm in love with it. The only problem? The case I bought limits the sensitivity of my click wheel. It behaves like a clit which will only respond to just the right touch. It's a bit frustrating, but I always get what I want.

Missing my home . . .

2009-03-12T12:14:00.000-07:00

in California.

The weather here has been remarkably reminiscent of home, the home which has my heart, namely the Bay Area. It's windy, crisp, and a little rainy. Reminds me of San Francisco. It's good for my spirit in that I can almost forget where I am, but then I remember and it sucks all over again. I really do hate Texas. So much. Last night I went for a burger and a beer at bar downtown. This was a feat for me as I hate leaving the house and hate downtown even more. A woman came up to me some time during the night and asked if she could touch my hair. *sigh* This kind of shit never, EVER happened to me in California. It's not so simple to exoticize someone when there are tons of other chicks (i.e. strange-looking mixed girls) roaming around who look just like her. But not so in Texas. The woman proceeded to tell me, "Wow, I didn't think it would be so soft! It's like a pillow. I wish I could sleep on it." I am not a violent person, but I am often tempted to thump people on the nose.

I am making very poorly chosen Mix CDs for people. It's a nice distraction. My taste in music is so bizarre. But shit, I stand behind it.

And the hits just keep on comin' . . .

2009-03-09T20:25:00.000-07:00

My mother gave me some money. I am still broke, having no luck finding a semi-permanent gig, and am crossing my fingers that California will finally get its shit together and send me my tiny ass state refund check. Hey, I really I have nothing else to look forward to. I used some of the money my mother gave me to do something important. I went and got drunk. Alone. Again. I started out at noon and finished up at four this morning. I went from mimosas, Bloody Marys, and beer in the flash of an eye. It's a talent really. My head did its part to tell me that such mini-benders are probably not really a good idea. But I had a reason! There is always a reason.

My ex-best friend is going to be married soon. It's bringing a host of confusing emotions to the fore. The most difficult being that I'm not quite able to understand how it is I can still miss her so much. I actually sat in the shower and cried at the reality that this person, someone I would have (and probably would still) have taken a bullet for, is going to experience one of the most amazing days of her life and I can't even call her and congratulate her. I can't even tell her that I want her to have all the happiness and goodness which can be fit into a single lifetime. I can't even tell her that I am happy she has found a good, caring, funny man to cherish her and stand beside her through the rest of this crazy life. I am sad because I know I have missed out on an opportunity to be an Aunty to what I know will be an amazing kid. No, she's not with child yet, but I think of a future I'll never know anything about it and really did believe I was going to be a part of. I thought we'd grow old and stay friends. Once, we saw a movie together and a Muppet Movie clip was shown with the two crotchety old Muppets, M. turned to me and said, "That's going to be us when we get old." I really wanted it to be us. I am sad because I won't get to see her glowing and in the arms of good love. I don't want to miss her any more. Especially because I know she doesn't miss me.

It's sad to admit that I know pretty much everything about her wedding plans. I've read her blog religiously and often find myself smiling and crying at the thought of how happy she must be. When I have been with Jenna and have been drunk or depressed and found myself bringing up my ex-best friend Jenna has snapped at me. "Man, fuck that bitch! Quit dwelling on shit. She doesn't give a shit about you." I know all of this. Truly I do. Yet for some reason, losing a friend was harder, much harder than losing a lover. And considering the fact that I have pretty much run all of my friends off, it's become that much more paintful. It's been three years, when will it stop hurting?

So, that got me to drinkin'. And then there was the fact that I was stupid and made contact with a friend from high school. The stupid part was not making contact. I'm glad we are back in touch. She's a beautiful person. The stupid thing was being told about how grand her life is. She has a two year old, is pregnant again, and loves her Navy officer husband. You can copy, paste, and repeat this story and you essentially have the same story for every single person I've ever known.

I have fucked up my life. I know this. I am alone. I am lonely. And I don't like it. I am nowhere near the person I wanted to be. I could give you a whole list of the things I could have been (writer, professor, journalist, lawyer, entrepreneur, etc), but I've just seemed to lack the discipline or true verve. I did have a small bright spot to this depressive spell. It's tiny, I'm sure it won't get me through the hardest of days, but it did help a tiny bit. I realized that regardless of who has abandoned me, rejected me, or forgotten about me, I am a damn fine specimen. And no, I don't mean physically. (At one of the bars I went to a man who made a terrible drunken pass at me actually told me that he could tell that though I wasn't "physically attractive" I had a lot going on inside. Umm, thanks?) I'm intelligent, insightful, caring, funny, and am the only me that will ever be. It's so cheesy, but it's true. This is the only Tiffany Conner that will ever be this Tiffany Conner. It is what it is, and I am who I am. Any who have been fortunate enough to come into my life should realize that I never wanted more than a chance to be a good friend or partner. It's such a waste of my energy and life to keep comparing myself to other people and to strive for someone else's brand of success.

This is my life. I get to live it. It's not the greatest life, but it is a chance and I need to start doing more things to acknowledge that it really can be a good thing to just be . . . alive.

I promise to work on it a little.

Oh, and with respect to M. and J's wedding, I intend to sit somewhere, alone, with them in my heart and take a shot in their honor.

Grrrrrrrr!

2009-03-04T10:29:00.000-08:00

I am not a hateful woman. Ask anyone who knows me and I hope they will confirm this. The whole of my miserable life I have prided myself on the fact that I am among the most tolerant, sympathetic, and empathetic of individuals you will ever meet. All of that being said, I fucking hate Rush Limbaugh.

I cannot for the life of me understand why any supposedly intelligent individual would waste valuable life seconds and brain cells listening to that hypocritical slimy fat bastard. And no, my antipathy for Mr. Limbaugh has nothing to do with his recent comments hoping for President Obama's failure with regard to the president's economic stimulus plan. I have a strong history of distaste which goes all the way back to a tortured high school classroom in which I was the only somewhat progressive student in the midst of a horde of suburban fucks who actually wrote Rush Limbaugh quotes on their notebooks like he was a rock star. I shudder to think. Let's forget for now that this shithead (and Bill O'Reilly! Another who makes me want to vomit in my mouth) were adamant that opposing the president (President Bush, of course, with regard to the unjust invasion of a sovereign nation which did not attack our country) or calling for his failure was tantamount to treason and was “unpatriotic.” Let's forget for now that President Obama's stimulus plan, while not perfect, but an effort of some sort to keep people from losing their HOMES and their JOBS, does far less to chisel away at the blessed market gods than did the wizards of doom in the halls of Bear Stearns, Lehman Brothers, or Merrill Lynch, to name a few.

Typical conservative pundit piss ants.

I shouldn't say that. Really, I shouldn't. I am not against free enterprise. I believe that healthy competition is good for innovation. Yes, the private sector often takes this to such an extreme that competition for profit's sake overrides any general proposition of innovation for the sake of any greater social or cultural good, but that's another issue entirely. I know that it's called the FREE market for a reason, but there is no harm in acknowledging the truth: Markets can fail to provide benefits for all. How many times must we hear, “Let the markets fix it! The markets must work their magic!” before we realize that these “magical markets” are in fact manipulatable, man-made mechanisms that aren't made to “fix” anything. My problem is with the fact that assholes like Limbaugh and O'Reilly propagate this idea of indifferent, efficient markets irrespective of the reality of last year's meltdowns and calamities, disasters which sit as proof positive that the contours of the market landscape are almost always shaped by someone and that's not free, unfettered anything. The advantage of free, unfettered markets was to no one's advantage. The creation of complex financial instruments which made many rich fast has made that many more poor faster.

I am not laying all of the blame on Wall Street. That is too easy, and it is wrong. But jackfucks like Limbaugh and O'Reilly claim that the president is out to cultivate a Godzilla Government and no one, not one person has thought to stop and ask them, “Well, what's your idea then shitnugget? What's your plan? Do you have a plan? I mean, other than tax cuts or bad-mouthing the president with an eye toward 2012?” (Oh and by the way, I've always loved how hypocrite conservatives can talk about "getting government out of your life" and then want to stick the government right into my uterus.) What's the plan when you have no plan? ATTACK! Consider this, when Michael Steele, the GOP's Chairman, gets taken to task for daring to take the edge off of Limbaugh's comments he is attacked by the same party he was just elected to lead. The fact that the GOP is taking commands from a fat, drug-addicted, many times divorced, bloviating shithead, rather than its elected Chair, says something worth noticing about the GOP. What happened to retooling? What happened to articulating that supposed robust message you've always believed resonant with the American people? Of course, there is something frightening about Mr. Steele's stated mission to take the GOP to the Hip Hop generation. And his being introduced at a recent conservative luncheon and being told, “You da man!” by his introducer, well, that's just whack! And weird. It's also a little weird.

This was a long, bitchy blog about nothing personal. They are my favorite kind.

To all the folks I've loved before . . .

2009-02-14T10:26:00.000-08:00

F*ck you! You missed out. I give great head and love to cuddle.

To everyone else, I hope you have a fine V-day and do something with someone you love, even if that someone is only yourself. I spent a fine wasted evening with my baby sister last night. I realized that it doesn't matter if she and I have nothing in common. The truth is I have nothing in common with any of my family (my mother and sisters, not the least to the say the extended clan). I am the oddball. Bookish, bizarre, strange to the rest of them because I have no desire to get married, expel children, and be "normal"--that's me and it will always be me. Even so, that's no reason to deny myself an opportunity to try and share quality time with the women I love. Granted, I had to have a bottle of wine and a couple of beers to endure some of my sister's television choices (horrid VH1 reality shows and teen angst programming). But you know what? If I get to hear that signature laugh of hers and see that toothy grin, it's always going to be worth it.

Tomorrow I get face time with the only real "boy" friend I've head. That would be Eliot, my fabulously cool 5 year old buddy boy. I can hardly wait. Dinosaurs, Darth Vader, and dirt. It fails to get much better, even when things are not as bad as they are now.

Otherwise, life is bland, boring, and as disappointing as always. I left the house to buy a new toothbrush. They didn't have any yellow toothbrushes, which, if you care to know, is my favorite color. Not any cheap ones anyway. I refuse to pay more than a $1.50 for a fucking toothbrush. The walk sucked. It was nearly 80 degrees and humid as hell yesterday. A "cold" front has come in today and it is a nice crisp 50 degrees, but it's still not cold enough for me. I want to freeze my balls off. I want a real winter. The trip to WalGreens was completely uneventful and as banal as could be expected. I don't enjoy making trips to the store. I only mention the trip because I had a mini-mental flight of fancy during which I hoped that the obviously bored clerk would attempt to spark up phony conversation with me in the same manner he did with the woman who checked out right in front of me. He made the mistake of asking her how her day was and she proceeded to tell him EVERYTHING about it. I mean everything. What she ate for lunch, where she was going for a party, why she bought what she bought, etc, etc, so on and so forth. It was mind-boggling. Had the clerk asked me how my day was I was so ready to say, "Well, let's see it was a struggle of ridiculous proportions to convince myself to get out of bed to walk to this store and buy a toothbrush. But now I have my toothbrush, two new pens, and a bottle of lubricant to use with my sex toy, my Valentine's Day date. And you?" Unfortunately, he merely said, "Will this be all for you." Talk about a letdown. Par for the course really.

I have a lot of things on my mind, but don't really have the energy to write about serious subjects. Perhaps later. Would you like to see my new pens? I'm excited about them. Sadly. Although, I must say that I am somewhat disappointed to learn that David Beckham is the spokesperson for them. W.T.F? There are much better looking and more talented footballers in this world.

Bong Rips for Michael Phelps!

2009-02-03T06:34:00.001-08:00

Regarding the Wonder Boy's supposed "fall" from grace . . . who gives a shit! I was rather jealous. I bet he can afford some good shit. Seriously people, are there not more important things with which the world can concern itself?

That is all. For now.

Consumed.

2009-01-28T22:18:00.000-08:00

So I decided to leave the house last Friday. But I didn't do anything exciting. I made two separate visits to the public library (I was also at the library today), spent two dollars on a really shitty cup of iced coffee (It's January here and last week it was fucking 80 degrees outside. And! There were bizarro women wearing scarves and coats. WTF?) I then proceeded to a talk held in the Communication building of my alma mater. I recently attended a very interesting talk given by Michele Norris of NPR and because I miss having my brain tickled thought I would give another on campus talk a go. Customarily I would not care to be caught dead on that campus, but more on that another time. The talk was called Challenging Academia's Conventional Wisdom, and the description of the talk was as follows:

"Universities have developed protections for academic freedom, but in practice scholarly disciplines tend to establish a canon and institutionalize a conventional wisdom. What happens when scholars challenge these conventions, in terms of theory, methodology, or practice? What are the consequences of pursuing critical inquiry? What strategies are most effective inpursuing a controversial research agenda in academic life?"

The organizer of the talk was a radical Journalism professor of some local note called Robert Jensen. In addition to Dr. Jensen were a Communication Studies and Sociology professor. I overheard the Sociology professor say that she'd just returned from a trip to San Francisco. Color me jealous. All ascribe to what they termed “activist scholarship”. It was a small gathering. There were around twenty people, all graduate students, and all very full of themselves. I continue to hold fast to the delusion that I may one day return to school for a graduate degree, but it usually only takes a couple of minutes with graduate students for me to rethink that idea. So much blah blah with so little substance to speak of. I'm decidedly turned off by the aloofness which pervades so much of the academy. Who knows? I may eventually overcome this aversion, get my shit together, and become Tiffany, PhD. It could happen. Anyway, at one point in the discussion yours truly decided to ask a question. Mostly because no one else was raising their hand to do so. After I asked my question the moderator of the discussion asked me what “field” I was in. I panicked. I couldn't blurt out, “I'm actually unemployed. I just enjoy attending graduate colloquia in my spare time.” So instead I said, “American Studies.” And they bought it. I should probably feel bad about lying. But I don't. I was just as (if not more) intelligent as the rest of the people in that room. Come on, how often do I pay myself compliments? I posed what I believed to be a very substantive inquiry. I just hope I don't run into of the people from that classroom. Ever. I don't really like fibs.

On the bright side, I was made aware of some other upcoming events to keep me busy. I went to one tonight. Economist James K. Galbraith gave a talk about the financial meltdown, repercussions, and potential policy remedies. Twas quite informative. I may compose a separate blog about the content of discussion. It will probably put you to sleep. I asked a question after Professor Galbraith's presentation. I really can't seem to help myself. I also ran into a woman I had not seen in over eight years. (See what I mean by running into every fucking one?) She was harmless though. In fact, she took my number and said she would keep me in mind in the event she heard of any friends who might be looking for a poor mixed girl to do some of their office type shit. I was grateful. The only awkward moment was when she looked at me and asked, "Are you still writing?" I can only imagine what my face must have looked like. Yes, once upon a time I actually believed I wanted to be a (gasp!) writer. A real writer. I smiled and said, "No. Not really. Not sure I have the discipline for real writing. What made this brief interaction somewhat painful was that this woman was actually the second person in the last month to ask me about my non-existent writing.

Afterward, while waiting for the bus home an attractive pasty gentlemen asked me if I had just attended the aforementioned talk. He said, "I'm sorry, but were you just in the Galbraith talk? You asked a question right?" I conceded that I had. "So, were you satisfied with the answer he gave you?" And from that a conversation ensued. Without realizing it, I became excited. I might actually have a conversation. With a man! A man who was just my type. Nerdy, pasty, and white. I quickly imagined his denuded form emanating the same type of blinding sheen reminiscent of a raw whole chicken in a supermarket freezer. Leave me alone. I like what I like. Plus, he was intelligent. But before any conversations (friendly or otherwise) could continue, the bus came. I held out for the tiny possibility that he might choose to sit next to me and converse more. This did not happen. And why didn't I sit next to him? Why didn't I at least ask his fucking name? Because I'm a jerk ass retard who doesn't know how to do simple things like that.

Tomorrow I am attending a documentary screening and discussion about James Baldwin. He is one of my favorite authors. I wonder if Chicken Boy will be there. I wonder why I wonder.

I am lonely. Without wanting to acknowledge it, I realize that I am very lonely.

"Say, you remind me of a man . . . "

2009-01-22T22:39:00.000-08:00

I no longer have a job again. It's a long, depressing story. All I will say is that one should more closely examine a budget before assuming you can hire. I would be lying if I didn't say that I am not in low spirits again. But when am I not?

Nothing remarkable to relay. I went to a party last weekend. I had to convince myself to leave the room. I spent more than three hours in bed trying to talk myself out of the whole idea. Why would I want to go to a party and be surrounded by strangers? Worse, I don't know anyone in that part of town and would be forced to crash on the host's couch. Ultimately, I decided to give it a go. I regret that decision.

The party was hosted by J. the femme-bi boy (who I have learned is actually just a horny little bastard) with whom I had the lapse several months ago. It was his birthday party. Silly me for thinking that someone would want to celebrate their birthday with a tame partaking of drinks, food, and perhaps a bit of booty shaking. Um, I learned rather quickly that I had walked into some kind of desperate dork swingerfest. Essentially, the party was populated with a strange array of science, tech, and role play dorks who had discovered their genitalia and somehow now figured themselves "cool" because they were willing to let their best bud screw their wife/girlfriend/husband/boyfriend. Not my bag baby. J. proceeded to disappear into his room on at least four different occasions with four different people (male and female, some married, single, or attached), came out of his room, sat on his couch and proceeded to make out with whomever had not yet gone into his room and was (un?)fortunate enough to be sitting there. Mama mia! This kind of sexual musical chairs proceeded throughout the night. I also learned that one of the married women there was J.'s second girlfriend, as in she is a girlfriend in addition to one he apparently has at present. He would introduce her to people as "Girlfriend Number Two." Umm, no. I wanted to ask him straight on, "Does she not have a name?" Toward the end of the night J. was asked by one of his drunk, lingering guests if the "blonde girl" was his. Just like that. "So the blonde, is she yours?" What.The.Fuck? I felt so weirded out. Let me explain why.

I'm not against people doing their thing. I'm not out to judge J. for how he chooses to express his sexuality. More power to him. One tiny thing for me was that I wish I had been provided with some forewarning as to the nature of the festivities. Not so I could trim or shave my legs or anything, but so that I could prepare myself for a lot of alone time. At the very least I would have been able to better communicate that Tiffany was not there to play, if you know what I mean. Because I wasn't privy to the nature of the fiesta I did have a couple of people make unwanted advances. As lonely as I am, uh, no. I've made out with men and women, been in love with a woman before (who was foolish enough to love me back), but ultimately I think monogamy is extraordinarily sexy. If people want to group, swing, or do whatever with a willing consenting ADULT, then that's fine. Me personally, I'd rather be alone, or belong to just one someone. And since that's not happening ever, well, I'm afraid I'm not interested in signing up for anything else.

So, the party freaked me the fuck out. I am getting old. I have decided never to leave the house again.

Hidey Hole.

2009-01-02T03:58:00.000-08:00

I brought in the New Year alone. I sat in the room I sleep in, drunk, watching the Sci Fi Channel's Twilight Zone marathon, CSI episodes, and a DVD of the ballet of Romeo and Juliet. I had, and have, no desire to be around people. Hell, even my mother and baby sister had something to do to bring in the New Year. My mother has met a new friend, if you know what I mean. This makes me so very happy. Mostly because it leaves me hopeful that when I leave again she won't be alone, but will in fact have a special someone to be with. Hell, someone in this family should be happy. For once. I learned of my mother's new friend last weekend. My baby sister didn't take it very well. I found her in my mother's room, sitting in the dark in front of the TV, some obnoxious teenybopper show reflected in her glasses, a single tear falling down her cheek. I sat next to her and asked her why she was upset with the fact that our mother had made a new friend. My sister broke down, leaned her had on my shoulder and said, "It's always just been me and Mom. I want it to be that way." I held her hand in mine and tried my best to explain to her that nothing or no one would ever weaken the bond they had. I wouldn't allow it. Now, this is not easy for me to say. You see, my mother once left me with my grandmother to be with a man. We had lived in a battered women's shelter for over a year and even after all of that, she went back to him. I was twelve. I told her very directly that I would not be accompanying her back to an abusive lover. So, she left me with my grandmother. I never really got over it. Being older and having done dumb things for love, I guess I understand a little more; but truthfully, I still believe she made the wrong decision. I was her child and she left me for a man. A man whose love came in the form of a bleeding head wound and drunken tirades. I still remember being nine years old and having him call me a whore. It was a most frightening experience. His lips were covered in beer-caked spittle, his uneven, yellow teeth were all I could see, and his voice was so loud. My mother left me for this.

I won't let something like that happen to my baby sister. And well, I spoke to my mother and made her promise me that she would use her head. I told her the truth, and the truth is that I am happy she has made a new friend. I don't want her to be like me--alone. Even so, I expressed the need for her to remember that her daughter needs her more than any man. I hope she will listen. Anyway, they spent the New Year with my mother's new friend. He invited them to the movies and then to his place for food. Good. And I stayed alone in the room. All I can say is that my New Year's celebrations have been good indications as to the forthcoming year, and well, 2009 looks to be as shitty (if not more so) than 2008. I'm used to it.

I fell asleep at 4am watching Aston Villa and Arsenal on Fox Soccer Channel. I don't know who won. I didn't wake up until 2pm on New Year's Day. I awoke to the sound of a cousin sitting in the living room with my sister. I stayed in the room. I hid there for over two hours until one of my aunts finally came in to use my sister's computer, discovered me lying on the bed, and forced me to interact with her. I was terrified. Let me explain why.

I rarely, if ever, interact with my extended family. I grew up with them, but truth be told, feel like a stranger amongst them. For one thing, we have nothing in common. Not one thing. My extended family's idea of a good conversation involves gossiping about who's gotten fatter over the last few months, what was the result of last week's America's Next Top Model, and how many times anyone's been to the doctor in the last year. On the few occasions I have been forced to interact with them I do my best to pretend to be interested. It never works. Most of them find me aloof, odd, and unapproachable. I have even heard it said that I believe I am "better than them." On the contrary, I simply find that I am unable to be around them because I can't seem to meet their standards. They see me--college graduate, without a husband, no home, no car--and smirk. They judge me for lacking material goods. They judge me for having cerebral interests and aspirations. They judge me. As a result, I avoid them.

I used to consider myself a people person. But I am realizing that I prefer to be alone, with my thoughts. Being a deficient human is fine so long as I only have myself to deal with.

Resolutions are for suckas.

2009-01-02T02:07:00.000-08:00

I don't make New Year's resolutions. Never have, never will. What's the point? If you really want to do something with your life, you'll do it. And well, mostly, everything I've ever wanted to do with my life has been out of reach or not the kind of thing a person like me is meant to be doing. You know, good things, things which will make a life seem worth living? Well, those things are out of my reach. Nevertheless, here is my list of expectations for 2009, along with a list of things best left forgotten in 2008.

Best Left Forgotten in 2008:
-Having to come back to this shithole of a wannabe city in this shit stain of a state.
-Having met, and foolishly fallen for, yet another man whose only concern was treating me as a life support system for a vagina.
-Sleeping on the street.
-Friends. I have made the conscious decision to do all of my friends the favor of receding from their lives. In the end, they'll thank me for it. My skin crawls at the thought of someone having to acknowledge me as a friend. I don't care to put anyone through that type of embarrassment.
-Botched attempt at offing myself. (Note to self, buy more pills, or just get a rope. I can't afford a gun.)
-My father's dying on my birthday and being found behind a dumpster in a shitty Texas town. (Thanks for that, Daddy! It's not enough that our relationship was complicated while you were alive, but your death made it that much more bizarre and hard to deal with.)

Things to Remember about 2008
-That Sunday in Dolores Park with Jenna, Lincoln, and Spencer. I'll take the day with me to my grave. There's no point in describing it. You just had to be there to know how damn good it was.
-Every time I had a chance to watch Jenna dance.
-Making a couple of new e-friends. These are a lot less hard to handle than real friends. E-friends don't have to be seen in public with you. It makes a huge difference.
-Accepting the fact that I just don't like being alive. And that's okay. It really is okay.
-Watching Barack Obama become the 44th president of these United States of America.

Things to Look Forward to in 2009
-Getting the fuck out of Texas. For good. Otherwise, life is just life. No better than yesterday.

Happy Birthday . . .

2008-12-31T13:16:00.000-08:00

. . . to you.

Despite myself, I miss you. But I'm happy to be rid of you. Emotional contradiction of the highest order. Why am I happy to be rid of you? Because I'm a drunk and you were a nag. Not a good mix. And, well, because I love to think of how happy you are.

Happy Birthday, M.

Tock. Tick.

2008-12-30T09:59:00.001-08:00

It would be an immense understatement for me to say that I cannot wait for this year to be over with. But I have no hopes for 2009. Are you surprised? No, not really. At least, I'm sure you are not if you are in any way a follower of these blogs.

The good news? I am at work again. The bad news? I don't make shit. But, it's work. I am the office manager for a non-profit which coordinates with the local higher education board. It sounds as though it could be an exciting opportunity, but it's really just me filing, ordering office supplies, and helping the Executive Director keep her busy calendar. And she is very busy. That's fine. There are interesting things to read. Things I consider interesting. Board reports, student assessments, things of that variety. I am hoping to at least learn a few things. The director is a very nice woman. She's successful, motivated, and well-respected. Most importantly, she's flexible. She's giving me the opportunity to keep a short schedule so that I may look for something part-time in the evenings. And I may already have a lead. I have an interview tomorrow for a part-time shelving position with the public library. I would love this. Especially because it would allow me to be around books, but more importantly because it would permit me to make that much more money to save for my eventual Texas exit. (I am ignoring the fact that landing the job would require that I come into contact with some people I'd rather not see. People who bring up the worst kinds of memories, but money is money.) The long-term prize? Get the hell out of here for good! I'd like to offer my mother a little help with rent payments and money for groceries, but otherwise I intend to save, save, save and then make sure the rest of the world sees my red tail lights headin' for . . . somewhere. Anywhere. Not here.

I'd like to wish you all the very best and safest of New Year's celebrations.

The only Xmas song I like. Seriously.

2008-12-25T17:06:00.001-08:00

I don't give a sh*t about the holidays.

2008-12-24T17:51:00.001-08:00

I really don't.

I have been told that family and love keep one from being overly pessimistic about such things. Family would have to mean having my own kids and love would mean the romantic variety. Neither one is on my radar. *shrug*

Even so, I want everyone (anyone?) who reads this to have a fantastic time with family, friends, booze, or whatever else it is that rocks your world. Don't go it alone. It's no good alone.

I shall leave you with this wisdom from the mouth of my favorite babe:

"I wish I was a talking animal that drank yucky water, lived in a forest, and ate frogs."

I could go with that.

Also . . .

"Tiffany, you don't wear makeup? If you don't wear makeup you can't be pretty."

I always knew there was something I was doing wrong. Well, there are many things I have been doing wrong. This is just one of many.

Holidays. Who needs them? Happiness? I wish it for all of you.

Screw it.

2008-12-09T14:01:00.000-08:00

So, I am 99.9% sure that I did not get the job with the non-profit.

No surprise there.

I am completely and utterly morally deflated. I have decided not to look for work any longer. And the volunteer opportunities I'd met to learn more about, I'm not too interested in that either. I need money. I don't give a shit about networking. I need money.

So, I'm committing myself to a life of sitting on my ass in my mother's spare bedroom. I'm going to stay up all night, sleep all day, read books, and that will be that.

I'm probably not going to be blogging much. What more is there to say really?

I hate Texas. I hate Austin. I hate my life. I hate. There. The End.

If anything interesting happens it's actually not that interesting if only because it's happening to me.

I wish you all the best of luck. Remember, sometimes life really does suck that bad! And there is not always a benefit to thinking "positively." Screw that shit, too.

Bizarro World.

2008-12-07T17:26:00.000-08:00

So, I have no idea how the interview went. They asked me questions, I answered them. There were moments when we were confined to pointless banter, I went along. I had to submit a writing sample (a faux business letter), not a big deal. But ultimately, I don't think my chances are that great. Again, I know I could do the work, and I wouldn't have a problem working for a non-profit which is actually doing good things for people, but I just didn't really get a vibe from either of the directors which said, "Yessss! This chick needs to work here!" And there are other considerations. One, they appear to think I have a car. You are all more than acquainted with my beefs about the shitty public transportation in Austin; I have even more problems with the fact that people just assume you own a car. Well, I don't own a car. I don't want a car. I am licensed to drive, but I like my life without a car. I enjoy not having a car because it usually saves me money (when I am employed), I feel a lowered level of stress, and well, I just don't really care about cars all that much. So there's the fact that I don't have a car, and there's the fact that they administer drug screens. Yes, well, you all know that I would not pass a drug screen. But here's the thing, I am of the mind that it's no one's damn business what I piss. So, as a general rule I don't usually apply for jobs that require drug tests. The job I interviewed for didn't say anything about a screen, but the paperwork I signed at my second interview for the background check listed the requirement. Oh well. I understand why. You don't want kids running around with Tyrone Biggums. For the record, I would never, ever tell kids where I get my drugs. Ever! And well, I don't do crack.

So much for that job.

I spent Friday night visiting my friend J. J. is the bisexual (homosexual?) man I slept with. You remember that story, don't you kids? Anyway, he invited me over to see his new place and then walk down the street to have a beer with his ex-girlfriend. All of this was fine. We had a couple of beers at his house before meeting his ex. (He constantly referred to her as My Ex and was sure to point out that they always ended up in bed with one another after drinks and stuff. Her name was more of an afterthought. Their residual attraction to one another was not well disguised.) I was told later that His Ex "approved of me." What? And that she told him, "If she's not interested in you, give me her number, I'll go out with her." Um, the thing is I'm not really interested in anyone. J. is a nice gentleman. But I had to put him down easy when later that night he proceeded to awkwardly pet my head and ask me, "Do you think I could get a little kiss?" I was considerably altered by this point, but was glad that I was able to keep my wits about me. "No kissing," was my response. From that point on J. was less likely to engage me in chat. Later that night I sent him a text telling him that while I enjoy his company and don't regret having slept with him, sex and friends are not a good idea as far as I am concerned. And it's true! I have no desire to do my buddies. If it happens once (eh, shit happens), but if the shit keeps happening, well, opting for masturbation may be the better bet. That's right. I admit it, I am committed to sex with myself before I am to not-so casual sex with a friend, straight or otherwise. J. responded well to the text. He thanked me for being honest and straightforward, but indicated that we could still remain friends. Considering how easily I have been losing friends of late, I'll take that.

After this blog I have to finish helping my youngest sister with a homework assignment. Nancy has asked me to help her with an assignment in her Teen Leadership class. The assignment? I am supposed to write a eulogy for her. In other words, I am supposed to pretend that my sister has passed away and that I am being called upon to eulogize her. What.The.Fuck?????? Needless to say, I am having a little trouble with the task. You know, on the whole I am extremely supportive of educators this day and age, but have to wonder what this kind of assignment has to do with instilling my sister with leadership qualities.

If I don't get the non-profit job (which may be for the best), I do have an appointment for some temporary work as a typist. That might be a better bet. Six months worth of typing would mean I could save all of my money and then at the end of the gig, get back on that plane to Anywhere But Here!

Stay tuned.

I welcome your cheese.

2008-12-04T19:26:00.000-08:00

I have a second interview tomorrow for a job I really, really want.

I'm going to behave as though it's my job to lose. And I'm not going to lose it.

Hell, if someone I haven't even met (but for whom I have a genuine respect), can believe in me. I sure as hell can find a way to believe in myself long enough to put myself in a situation to be successful for once in my life.

Over the holiday weekend I watched a lot of TV. Too much, actually. I watched a shitload of football and movies. I watched the Star Wars Trilogy. Twice. This is from the Empire script. It's the scene where Yoda lifts Luke's X-Wing from the swamp. And I love it.

Annoyed at the disturbance, Luke looks over at Artoo, who
is rocking urgently back and forth in front of him.
Artoo waddles closer to Luke, chirping wildly, then scoots
over the edge of the swamp. Catching on, Luke rushes to the
water's edge. The X-wing fighter has sunk, and only the tip of
its nose shows above the lake's surface.

LUKE: Oh, no. We'll never get it out now.

Yoda stamps his foot in irritation.

YODA: So certain are you. Always with you it cannot be done. Hear you
nothing that I say?

Luke looks uncertainly out at the ship.

LUKE: Master, moving stones around is one thing. This is totally
different.

YODA: No! No different! Only different in your mind. You must unlearn
what you have learned.

LUKE: (focusing, quietly) All right, I'll give it a try.

YODA: No! Try not. Do. Or do not. There is no try.

Luke closes his eyes and concentrates on thinking the ship
out.
Slowly, the X-wing's nose begins to rise above the water.
It hovers for a moment and then slides back, disappearing once
again.

LUKE: (panting heavily) I can't. It's too big.

YODA: Size matters not. Look at me. Judge me by my size, do you? Hm?
Mmmm.

Luke shakes his head.

YODA: And well you should not. For my ally in the Force. And a
powerful ally it is. Life creates it, makes it grow. It's energy
surrounds us and binds us. Luminous beings are we...(Yoda pinches
Luke's shoulder)...not this crude matter. (a sweeping gesture) You must
feel the Force around you. (gesturing) Here, between you...me...the
tree...the rock...everywhere! Yes, even between this land and that
ship!

LUKE: (discouraged) You want the impossible.

Quietly Yoda turns toward the X-wing fighter. With his eyes
closed and his head bowed, he raises his arm and points at the
ship.
Soon, the fighter rises above the water and moves forward
as Artoo beeps in terror and scoots away.
The entire X-wing moves majestically, surely, toward the
shore. Yoda stands on a tree root and guides the fighter
carefully down toward the beach.
Luke stares in astonishment as the fighter settles down
onto the shore. He walks toward Yoda.

LUKE: I don't...I don't believe it.

YODA: That is why you fail.

And what if you find a way to believe? This is someone's nifty editing job. What would have happened if Luke had actually found a way to do, rather than do not.

If Master Yoda says to believe, well shit, you gotta believe then don't you.

I'll keep you posted.

Incredible.

2008-12-02T17:40:00.001-08:00

I watched tiny bits of Soon to be Bye Bye President Bush's interview with Charles Gibson. I have never been able to listen to Bush in large doses. It's just too painful. The reason I tuned in? Gibson asked Bush if he had any regrets. Bush responded that he regretted that the intelligence he used to take our country to war had not been "good intelligence." And that lot of people had staked their intelligence on this intelligence. Anyone who knows anything about the run-up to the Iraq war knows that this administration knew damn well that the intelligence it had was fabricated, or not fabricated, not investigated and tested to the extent that would justify its being used as the foundation for an invasion and occupation. This administration willfully and purposefully waved that fabricated evidence under a banner of legitimacy which government proclamations are often given.

Right before this statement about the intelligence leading to the Iraq war, Bush insisted to Mr. Gibson that he has always been correct in resisting any effort to withdraw our troops from Iraq. I almost choked on my tea after hearing this. Even now, this man can look us in the eye and insist that he has been correct to send people off to die, kill innocent civilians, and suppress fundamental liberties in the name of "security and safety." And even though he knew there were no WMD, there was no imminent threat, and there was no connection between Iraq and the 9/11 attacks, he insists that it's always been correct to fight this war when it should never have been started to begin with.

Unbelievable.

There was also a priceless moment when he was asked how he thought the American people would remember him. His answer: "I don't know." Gibson then posed the question to Laura Bush. Her answer: "I think they'll remember him because he kept them safe."

What, exactly, was he keeping us safe from? Oh right! We're safe from threatening, deadly weapons which never existed! But we're not safe from the peering eye of our government, nor are we exactly afforded our rights of due process if for some reason we should end up on a government watch list of some sort. Safe? My ass!

This president often likes to say that "history will judge." You're right, it will. And I don't think you're going to like what it has to say about you.

Is it January 20th yet?

2008-12-02T17:05:00.000-08:00

I am sick. My head is a gigantic booger balloon. My ears feel like they are filled with cotton, my sinuses are filled to the brim with mucus, and I feel like ass. So of course that means I had to do something important today. I had a job interview. An interview for a job I'd actually really, really like. It's working as an Executive Assistant (sounds boring, but wait!) for a local non-profit which provides a variety of social and community service to minority and immigrant children. Check out their site!

Tiffany really wants to work here!

The woman who "interviewed" me was really quite inspiring. She exuded so much passion and while I didn't really say much (it was more of a conversation than interview), I could definitely see myself working there. My interviewer asked me two questions. What are your aspirations and can you speak Spanish? I have been asked the former of these two questions before. It's one of my least favorite interview questions in the history of interview questions. I also really hate, "Where do you see yourself in five years?" Shit if I know! Oh and, "Why do you think you'd be good at this job?" I always answer as honestly as I can, but it doesn't always benefit me to do as much. I've interviewed for jobs I knew I would have been phenomenal for, but for reasons which are sometimes not explained to me, have not been given the jobs. I have even contacted the interviewing parties to inquire as to what, in particular, excluded me from consideration. I have yet to receive a useful answer. Something other than, "We just found someone more suited to our needs." Blah!

I'm trying not to get my hopes up too much. I am supposed to receive a call tomorrow or Thursday inviting me for a follow-up, or telling me to go screw myself. I am almost positive I'll get a second interview. I'd have to meet with the two directors I'd be supporting. I wish I could say I was nervous. I'm not. I'll just walk in like I own the place, give them what I've got, and let the chips fall where they may. What choice do I have?

Oh, I also have two meetings with two state reps at the Capitol for volunteer work. And Thursday I meet with the volunteer coordinator at the LBJ Presidential Library.

Trying to keep me busy folks.

I am now going to go lock myself up the bathroom and hope that the steam from the hot shower can loosen some of this crud in my nose.

Lastly, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JENNA!!!!! I love you.

Epiphanic.

2008-11-28T14:03:00.000-08:00

My youngest sister is about to go to a mall type shopping center with her friends. She is more girl than I ever was. She wears makeup, cares about her hair, and will probably end up getting married when she gets older. In other words, she will be normal.

I don't know what compelled me to ask her the following question:

"So are you and your friends going to stop into the Borders? Look at some books?"

Silence.

"I'm kidding. I know that's not the cool thing kids do. Only dipshits like your older sister did things like that as a teenager."

It's true. I never had any friends when I was her age. I had books. Books were my companions. Funny how some things don't ever seem to change.

What the hell is wrong with me? I have no business trying to tell my sister (in code no less) that I think she doesn't read enough. So what? I read plenty and look at what it's gotten me. I'm 31, alone, living with my mother due to unemployment, and replete with my loserdom.

I'm a terrible sister.

I'm going to lock myself up in the room, drink the rest of my beer, and watch some Twilight Zone episodes.

Terrible.

Consumers.

2008-11-28T04:49:00.000-08:00

If I hear one more damn news story about freaks out in droves to shop for "deals" I'm going to pull all of my nappy hair out.

If there's one thing that being broke and unemployed has taught me it's that I really have no need for half of the things I claim to need. Of course, I am speaking with reference to my own consumerist inclinations. I like to buy shit, oh yes I do! I miss my iPod (lost it in California last month!), slobber over MacBooks (I will never have the cash for one), and have fantasies about winning the lotto and going on a book shopping spree! People have been waiting outside of stores since 10 pm Thursday night. Are you mad? Watching all of these news clips of people crowding into Wal-Marts and outlet malls like cattle is enough to make me want to lock myself into a personal commitment to slice my purchasing power in the event that I am ever fortunate enough to become gainfully employed again. It's a bit disturbing to think that the country's economic straits are so dependent upon our eagerness to shell out money for things we probably don't need. But such is the nature of the beast. We have long since succumbed to the logic that as markets shrink, industry must create the illusion of demand. The economy thrives if we buy.
I find that we U.S. citizens are such an economically perplexing bunch.

Anyway, even if I did have money (or a job) you would not find my ass out at any stores at 5 in the morning looking for a deal on the newest Butt-finger Me Elmo.

Reasons to Love Her . . .

2008-11-28T04:23:00.000-08:00

My youngest sister turned 15 earlier this week. It killed me to not have the cash to get her something. I'm hoping I can make that up to her. Eventually.

I wrote her a small note telling her I loved her madly and hoped that she would forgive me for being such a consummate loser. Well, it wasn't really phrased so depressingly, but I did plead for understanding.

Anyway, Happy Birthday to my baby! Fifteen! Damn.

Also, this was funny:

Nancy (my baby sister): "Are you okay sister?"
Me (struggling with Aunt Flow): "Ugh. Not really. I'm having horrible cramps."
Nancy: "Ooooh, do you need some medicine?"
Me: "I already took some medicine. I think I just need to have my uterus removed."
Nancy, with puzzled expression: "If you have your uterus removed does that mean you won't be able to pee any more?"
Me, suppressing wild laughter: "No, not quite."

Ah, it's great having siblings.

Food Comas

2008-11-28T04:00:00.000-08:00

My holiday? My mother made a shitload of good food. I ate and then I slept. I slept a lot. I am still unemployed! (Booo!) However, I have inquired into volunteer opportunities with two local museums (The Harry Ransom Humanities Center & The LBJ Presidential Library), two state representatives, and the local food bank. All of them responded that they would love to talk to me about making free use of my talents. Yes, it's not a paying gig, but I'm almost (almost!) past caring. I just need something to do. I need to feel a tiny bit useful again. Oh, I did also get a call about a job interview. But I'm very doubtful as to my chances. It's an Executive Assistant position for a local non-profit. In other words, it's the kind of job I would cut off my left titty to get. That means that more than likely it will go to someone else. *sigh* I'll probably attend the interview anyway. Again, it will be something to do.

I know this is late, but as they say, better late than never, right?

I have had a shitty time with life of late. Of late being the last three years. Even so, whether I can ever really believe it or not, I am thankful for some things. I really am. Such as? Well, I shall tell you.

In no particular order, I am thankful for:

*My beautiful, thoughtful, accepting mother.
*My beautiful, thoughtful, accepting sisters.
*My little red-headed buddy.
*My favorite California girl and ballerina.
*Electronic friendships.
*Having had a father who gave me a love for good soul music, a decent singing voice, and rhythm.
*My books.
*The Netflix watch instantly option. It's like my boyfriend or something.
*Coffee
*The Public Library
*Having lived to see the election of my country's first black president.
*Once having known (I'm not typing out their names, just their initials) SEMH, TPO, AAG, and MRT. Sometimes I miss them, whether I want to or not, I'll always care about them, but mostly I'm just thankful they are happy in their lives and selves.
*A fine IPA.
*The View from Dolores Park
*A robust California Cab
*My sexy brain. (Sometimes I'd trade it in an instant for a sexy ass or a great set of tits.)
*Stargazing
*Hugs from my mother, sisters, and the redhead.
*Kisses from the mom, sisters, and the redhead.
*Marathon viewings of The Godfather movies (With regard to my movie tastes and sports proclivities, I'm almost a dude. It's weird.)
*Cute cats.
*Cute dogs.
*Cute guys.
*Cute kids.
*And I know I already mentioned them, but they deserve to be mentioned twice . . . my Mamita y mis hermanitas. I'm nothing without my ladies.

I hope you are all having a hella bomb ass holiday!

Titties!!!

"It's alright with me . . . "

2008-11-25T04:03:00.001-08:00

This used to be one of my favorite songs when I was younger. There was something about the video that just made me want to stand up, dance, and sing. It's still one of my favorite songs to sing out loud. I don't do a bad job.

Youth was such a blissful, oblivious time. Sometimes . . . I miss being a happy person free of the pressures, expectations, and judgments.

I did leave the house . . . for a second.

2008-11-23T03:22:00.000-08:00

Last Thursday I attended a free discussion sponsored by the Journalism school of my alma mater. Michele Norris, of NPR fame, was the sponsored guest. The subject of the talk was the election and whether or not the media "got it right." I enjoyed it very much. What I did not enjoy was the fact that during the Q & A someone decided start off the evening with a question asking for a good microphone recommendation. And from there the questions went from dumb to pointless to meandering. At one point Ms. Norris even said, "I don't think I understand your question." Yes, that's Texas for you. There's not much of an intellectual verve here.

I was a bit nervous when it was my turn to ask my question. I don't recall its exact wording, but I do remember that I was curious as to Ms. Norris's opinion as to whether or not the media has any responsibility in aiding the general population become more discriminating media consumers. In other words, what responsibility might the media take in creating more mindful consumers during an age when our range of choices has become so broad given that it seems we are less informed than ever before? I won't go into the answer I was given. The only point of this post was to mention that three people complimented my question (which was nice) and that two people (including Michele Norris) asked me if I was from Berkeley, California. They only asked because I rock my Berkeley hoodie all about town. I'm not wearing any fucking ugly ass burnt orange. Besides, Berkeley is a much better school than my alma mater. I probably should have lied and said, "Yes, I am from Berkeley." But I didn't. I merely sighed and said, "No, but I lived in the Bay Area and miss it like mad."

Anyway, Michele Norris thought I was Californian and that made my week.

Is it 2009 yet?

2008-11-23T02:25:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure why I should care. The last three years have been the absolute worst years of my life. I can't imagine any reason for it to get better. Heartbreak, death, incarceration, and perpetual failure have been the taint of my existence. No surprise there. How many days is three years? I don't think I want to know.

I had a short stint at construction work last week. It was due to a friend's generosity. Her brother-in-law was working on rebuilding her garage and because she knows I am pathetic and in need of some kind of cash, she asked him if he had any use for me. He agreed. Mostly because he's a nice guy. I didn't really do anything remarkable. I spackled and caulked. Oh and I did a little painting with a weenie-roller. It was two days' worth of work. It was perfectly mindless but wonderfully distracting. My body has never been so sore. Standing on ladders for hours at a time, who knew it could be so damn hard? I gave the money I made to my mother. She needs it more than I do. Besides, if I had kept the money I'd probably just drink it away. Well, there's no probably to it, I know I would drink it away. It's what I do.

I ran a search through my e-mail account and learned that I have sent over 300 resumes out in the last two weeks. Resumes for any and all kinds of work. You name it, I've sent it. I have a resume for all season. And then I tweak as appropriate. I have even gone so far as to eliminate any reference to my education. I am no longer a college graduate. Not that it matters. The fact that people advertise for jobs which a rhesus monkey could perform and then go so far as to ask that the monkey-human in question have a college degree, is mind blowing. It doesn't take a person with a college education to file your fucking papers, type your memos, or use a copy machine. But then again, I've met quite a few people with college educations who lack the sense of a slug.

In the meantime I amuse myself by finding web sites similar to this. I am thinking of putting one together myself.

I actually have $20.00 that I did not give to my mother. Tomorrow morning I may walk to the store and purchase a bottle of shitty wine and tampons. Then I'll come home, ride a cotton rocket, and drink myself to sleep. (It's almost 5AM and I haven't slept all night, so I'm probably going to be hitting the sack at around 12 or 1pm.) I wish it were possible to sleep through the rest of this fucking year. Hating life is just that much more easy to do during the holidays. Fuck Thanksgiving and Fuck Xmas! That's right. Bah-motherfucking-humbug. And I won't be changing my mind any time soon.

The days are all the same . . .

2008-11-16T16:34:00.000-08:00

The weather has been somewhat tolerable. I've enjoyed the sky. It reminds me of Oakland. Of course, this was usually after the gray morning clouds and fog cleared. I have said before that if the weather stayed like this all of the time I probably wouldn't mind living here, but that's not true. I can't stand Austin, Texas. There are no opportunities to speak of, and on top of that, I'm SICK of its supposed reputation as a musician's mecca. Yes, if you like bad alt-rock country shit that all sounds the same. It's depressing. The "musicians" of Austin have actually banded together to urge local government to put together a live music task force whose mission it is to heighten opportunities and living conditions for the city's "musicians." What the fuck? Here's the thing, if your music is worth a shit, you don't need any damn government task force to help you become a success. The wondrous thing about making music that does not suck is that it works its own kind of Field of Dreams magic . . . if you play it, they will come. But no, this town, in all of its infinite wisdom, and with a slew of misplaced priorities decides to create a commission, waste money which could potentially find its way in more useful coffers. The homeless situation here easily rivals, if not surpasses, that of San Francisco. No shit.

Since we are on the arts (sort of) I shall continue in that vein. I have an interview with a downtown theatre. They are in need of temporary evening sales associates. I was asked if I had "arts sales experience." I do not. But I can be charming. You may not believe it, but it's true. I tried to emphasize this and it snagged me a meeting. So, we shall see.

Saturday's excuse for a newspaper had a small note in the editorial page about the fact that Texas ranks 49th for arts funding. That was not the point of the mention. The point was to gloat about the fact that the state ranked 50th is California. Oh yes, Texans have a huge inferiority complex when it comes to California, myself being excepted seeing as how I've lived in California and hold it to be far superior to the flat, endless, scorching mess that is The Lone Star State. Texans fear the recent increase of California transplants. For the life of me I cannot imagine why the hell someone would leave California for this shit tank, but everybody has their story to tell. However, caveat emptor, because you get what you pay for. There is a reason it's cheaper in Texas. There are quite a few people who come here from the West, but it's usually families. Homes are expensive in California. Young, entrepreneurial types do not find their way here. Why should they? California has a larger GDP than Texas, a more diverse cultural and topographical landscape, and seven (as opposed to Texas's one) top-flight public universities. Unfortunately, both states suffer from some undetected electoral malady which permits the election of nimrods (George W. Bush) and egocentrics (Guvnor Ah-nuhld) as governor. Both states seem okay with permitting a platform to the insipid. Even so, in my opinion the Californication of Texas is a myth propagated by the bizarre, lunatic fringe which keeps this state "red." Besides, most of the "outsiders" in Austin come from Houston, Dallas, or shitty little Texas towns. The Houston and Dallas influx is because the people there find their cities unbearable (sprawling, humid cities), and the shitty little Texas town folk think of Austin as "big city" and realize it really does suck less than B.F.E., Texas. Both sets of individuals usually arrive in Austin to attend the University here. Meh. It's just easier to blame "Yankees" and "Californians." Ridiculous.

As for the arts funding, well I couldn't understand the point of gloating over this. Whooptee fucking doo! That's shitty for both states. It's not necessarily something to brag about that the two biggest states in the union are at the bottom when it comes to the cultivation of beauty, expression, and talent. It's a sad testament to the heightened anti-intellectualism of our age. But rather than recognize that, the pinheads who pass for journalists here decided to use the statistics as ember for an incendiary cultural riot. It's disgusting. Ultimately, I'm a citizen of the country as a whole. The great thing about being a U.S. citizen is that I can rant and rave about the suckworthiness of any state I live in. Isn't democracy great kids?

This blog was a rambling mess! My apologies.

My weekend was uneventful. I went to the library (which I love), and spent my weekend watching dinosaur videos with the following young man (whom I love even more than the library, so that's A LOT of love).

He's pretty good-looking, don't you think?

Ciao.

I've seen the sun rise for a whole week now . . .

2008-11-12T05:05:00.000-08:00

Locked up in my room, suffering from insomnia, and unwilling to see any bright side, I don't sleep like any normal person. This always happens when I am unemployed. It's a curse. It's not a good thing to have too much time to think about all of the things you are not, and that's all I do.

I stayed up organizing my books. Touching them, flipping through them, and resurrecting them gives me a small measure of comfort. Though I have moved (there was Mexico, and of course, California), my books are constant companions I can't convince myself to abandon. I've disposed of belongings and lost what I believed were indispensable material products (my iPod being the most recent thing), but I must have my books. Even though I frequent the library, my personal library is the only thing I own. I hide behind my voracious reading habits. I am intelligent, but not very smart. I am intelligent, but not a success. I am intelligent, but not worth employing in even the most menial of capacities. I have sent applications for dishwashiing positions, housekeeping, and for busing tables. Austin, Texas is a joke and I am sick of pretending to laugh.

I also found seven of my old journals. Moleskins. I have lost my heart for journaling. Blogs haven't taken the place of my journals, I just realized that far too much of what I wrote in my journals was repetitive and pointless. I used to say that I wanted to leave a legacy for people to read about me after I'm gone, but I've concluded that the world has better things about which to be curious.

I'll cut this short for fear of diving into my usual negative depths. These types of things don't go away. How could they? I have to live with who I am, and that's not much.

I can't think of a clever title . . . sorry.

2008-11-09T17:31:00.000-08:00

I am watching 60 Minutes. The host is having a conversation with the “brain trust” of President-elect Obama's presidential campaign. It's hard for me not to notice that they are all white people. Amusing considering that a few minutes before I was watching a C-Span panel of Newsweek reporters and the one African American reporter made a similar observation about the Obama campaign. Yes, I watch C-Span. It's a dirty little secret; tell no one.

I experienced a tiny second of indignation, but then realized something: Presidential politics have always been a game for white people. The players and the participants have always been white people. Why should Obama's campaign have been any different? Who better understands the machinations and nuances of presidential campaigns than those who have always been the primary players? Be that as it may, I hope that once President-elect Obama becomes President Obama he will indeed make a worthwhile effort to introduce qualified minority candidates into the upper echelon of our nation's government. I am not talking about a sprinkling of cronies throughout the Executive Branch (I think we've seen enough of that over the last eight years), but a cabinet which can continue to inspire citizens. President-elect Obama's election has elicited so many statements from African Americans interviewed, statements of hope. I recall several who have been interviewed saying things such as, “Now I can tell my son/daughter that you can be anything, including president.” It's nice to be able to say, but why should we not have a young minority child whose parents say to him or her, “You can be anything you want, including president, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, Secretary of State, or UN Ambassador to whatever country is most in need of a brave advocate.” It's still so very early and the beginning of President Obama's forthcoming historic presidency is over seventy days away. I have placed the countdown in my cell phone! We shall see what happens.

Accompanying all of the news about President-elect Obama there have been numerous stories about the supposed downfall of the Republican party and what it needs to do to rejuvenate itself and regain its lost stature. It's ridiculous. Do we really need echoes of Palin 2012 to mar our nation's (the world's!) newfound sense that the once sinking ship of democracy may possibly sail again? I'm not a Republican. That goes without saying. However, that doesn't mean I wouldn't bring myself to vote for a Republican (Lincoln and TR come to mind). I'm issues-oriented. Speak to me about your stance on the concerns I feel are essential to our nation's identity and vitality. If you can speak to me from the abstract and point me to specifics and convince me that your plan will bring broad opportunities, I will listen to you. I don't care if you like donkeys or elephants or trees. To be quite frank, I'd love to see a diversification of parties in this country. I find it remarkable that a country which purports to value competition is so frightened by the prospect of political competition. A genuine, vibrant, and robust democracy is best served by a true marketplace of ideas, and ladies and germs, good ideas can come from outside of traditional parties. But most of us know that.

If Republicans are serious about remaining relevant they will indeed be required to take a long, hard look at their positions and what kind of political entity they want to be for people in the coming decades. I don't often agree with the pundits, but I must say that I find myself agreeing with their contention that on some level the election of President-elect Obama is a resounding repudiation of the divisive, below-the-belt politics which were the specialty of the Atwater-Rove-Bush conservatives. (Quick useless plug. Frontline will be airing what looks to be a fantastic episode about Lee Atwater and the world he wrought. Check it out on Tuesday! Frontline is my favorite PBS show. Any potential love interest would be required to snuggle up with wine and Frontline. Now you know one of the many reasons why I am single.) With exceptions, citizens are tired of irrelevant conversations. We want candidates who will respect our intelligence and engage us on a more sophisticated level. If the Republican party is more concerned about selecting candidates on the basis of their ability to field dress a moose and spout off a “Golly Gee” here and there, they are losing sight of what quite a few of us expect from our leaders.

When I go to the polls, I don't want to elect someone who's an Everyman/Everywoman. I want someone whose name will rightly grace my country's history books. I want someone who believed they could lead on the basis of their ideas and because their expectations for our nation were high. I want to cast my vote for someone who recognizes that the democratic experiment cannot be perfected in any lifetime, but that the experiment is an ongoing journey which will require the engagement of its citizens. And while we as citizens may disagree about our priorities, disperse into opposing camps after disagreement, and often deny our responsibilities after we agree to disagree, we are still in it together. I believe that. I do. E Pluribus Unum. Out of many, one. So, I guess unless Republicans can find a way to avoid initiating acidic discourse and recognize public service as a noble plight, they will continue to lose ground. Unless Republicans (or any public servant) can acknowledge the hypocrisy of their ways, they will not be asked to do what Bill Clinton called “the people's work.” To my way of thinking, calling for 'Limited Government' whilst doling out BILLIONS to Wall Street is in no way emblematic of limited government. Gretchen Morgenson of The New York Times put it best. We have witnessed a government eager to “socialize losses and privatize gains” and that is not in the interest of the whole. And don't get me started on the auto industry. Maybe, just maybe, if the Big Three had not been putting all of their damn money into inefficient fuel whores, they would not be facing insolvency. Gas prices may be down, but the problem of energy independence and climate change has not gone away. Any aid to the auto industry needs to come with a quid pro quo which leads to US built hybrids and a move away from SUVs. (I would like to see a diminished car culture, but I'm realistic.)

I am reacquainting myself with my inner-politico. I have always been fascinated by questions of policy and considering the tenor of our times of late, I can't really help but write about it and wonder what it will mean for us. It's either write about this or that other . . . stuff that plagues me. And I'm sure my two devoted readers don't won't to hear about me.

"Luxuriating in our Racial Deliciousness."

2008-11-07T18:25:00.000-08:00

Cory Booker, mayor of Newark, is the originator of the phrase in my blog title. He used it on the night we elected our first black president. The CNN pundits giggled after he turned the phrase and Stephen Colbert mocked it; I reached for a pen and jotted it down. Mayor Booker used the term in response to the now very over-asked question as to whether or not the United States now lives in a "post-racial" society. If only it were that simple. I cannot begin to count the number of times I have wandered into tense territory over discussions of race. I've had such discussions with friends and strangers alike. They never seem to end well. Even so, I continue to have these discussions because I believe in the importance of intellectually and socially engaging those who may potentially benefit from exposure to a varying perspective with regard to the subject of race. I guess that sounds a bit haughty. I'll admit, I don't know very much about quite a bit. But I like to think I have the occasional useful insight to offer, and as a mixed race woman, discussions of race, equality, and access are of special importance to me. Here is what I have to say about our a "post-racial" world: It cannot exist. But I do not mean that in any negative way. Let me explain.

I would politely define racism as an ill-advised ideology rooted in illogical fear. As far as I am concerned the same could be said for homophobia. Undeniably, the election of President-elect Barack Obama signals an important shift and makes an important statement. Outside of the statements and signals made with respect to tolerance, there are the statements and signals made with respect to a nation's exasperation with the politics of fear; a politics which has sought to erode our civil liberties, make war through the manipulation of our national heartache, and recklessly belittle our stature to the rest of the world. On Tuesday, November 4, 2008 the electorate said enough is enough. Even so, this does not mean that the appropriate ascendancy of an intelligent, charismatic, and inspiring black candidate to the presidency has eliminated localized, irrational discriminatory behavior. Racism will always exist on some level. Who could ever believe otherwise? For example, here in Austin, my hometown, a member of my alma mater's football team was removed from the roster for posting a text message on his Facebook account which essentially read that it was time for "all the hunters to gather up, we have a n*gger in the white house." The football player was sure to include his love for Jesus on his now deleted Facebook page. Keep in mind that this is a young man plays on a majority African American football team. This was always something which irked me about my so-called diverse alma mater. African Americans were a rarity in our classes, but were always conveniently in surplus for our football field. Hypocrisy knows no bounds.

The opportunity for conversations surrounding issues of equality is at hand. If, as a nation, we can feel inspired to elect an unlikely candidate to our highest political office, surely we can draw from that pool of inspiration to bravely converse about the sticky points which have made this election so momentous. What sticky points? Let's talk about people of color in the context of incarceration rates, the death penalty, access to higher education, executive offices in the corporate world, or home ownership, among other things. Quite a few commentators have implied that blame for the sub-prime mortgage debacle could arguably lie at the feet of minority citizens; this is said while completely ignoring the fact that white, Ivy-league educated executives were largely responsible for the construction of the complex, deceptive financial instruments which have led to so many of our current economic problems.

My belief is that there is a continued need for diversification on many institutional levels. This persistent truth points to anything but a "post-racial" society. But we can change. I can type that and actually believe it. Tuesday night has instilled me with a bit of hope. A bit. The passing of anti-gay measures in four states (including my also-home state of California) leaves me disheartened. I read Thursday's New York Times editorial and agreed with the general argument that the most recent backward steps are a temporary barrier. Make no mistake, until gays and lesbians are given the unfettered right to marry or start families, we are denying U.S. citizens their rights under the 14th Amendment and continuing to fall short of our egalitarian ideals. Bigots can say what they want, but the time will come when true equality exists throughout this country. One day (perhaps after I am long gone), I hope the presidency will be occupied by an openly gay president. Perhaps, in its own symbolic way Tuesday's victory will get us closer to that day. I have too many beautiful gay and lesbian friends who deserve the right to commit themselves to a long-term partner and it would be an honor to have an opportunity to work on their behalf for their freedom struggle.

In closing, I am still basking in the afterglow. I have my copy of Wednesday's New York Times tacked to my wall. It reminds me that for all of my cynicism, we are indeed living in a different world. I like it very much. I had a person actually ask me, "Where were you when you found out?" And we went from there. I won't be having children (let's not go there right now), but I know that I will remember this week for the rest of my life and will be telling someone's children about the feeling of renewal and exhilaration which poured over our country. President-elect Obama is going to make mistakes (offending Nancy Reagan will be the least of his worries, and calling himself a mutt bothers me not in the least . . . I, too, am a mutt!), but I have a deeper faith in his ability to use his intellect to avoid the more damaging mistakes which could threaten to further rip apart the democratic fabric of this country I love. Yes, that's right. I really do love my country. Always have, always will, but it's just so much easier to love it now more than ever.

Obamanos.

2008-11-05T11:55:00.001-08:00

I'm still around. Not exactly for lack of trying not to be, but we won't talk about that. Instead, let's talk about history. Yes, history.

I was in the kitchen at about 10 pm last night, around the time that Barack Obama became our nation's 44th president. I came home at 9:30. After I walked into the apartment my youngest sister, Nancy, greeted me and said, "Sister, Obama has 200 points." I didn't correct her and tell her that he didn't have points so much as votes. It didn't matter. I was impressed with her interest. I went to the kitchen to make tea when I heard my sister yell out, "Sister, Obama has 290 points now!" My response was immediate, "No way. Are you kidding me?" I put the kettle down and raced to the TV. And there it was. I sat down, covered my eyes, and began to cry. The first thing that came to my mind? I wish my father, my black father, had lived to see this.

I have been obsessively watching videos on YouTube and newspaper web sites, videos of rejoicing, hopeful, embracing crowds. I smile as I glance at the photographs of tearful celebration, these photos do something good to my heart. I need that right now. Very much. It is definitely a time for dancing in the streets. No one is expecting President-elect Barack Obama to change the world overnight. At least, I hope not. People with even a modicum of common sense can concede that the damage done by eight years of George W. Bush cannot be undone overnight. And any who would have you believe that the last eight years have done no damage, well, I can't really help those people. Perhaps they have lived on another planet since the year 2000.

As I watched President-elect Obama's rally on television, I made a mental comparison to Senator McCain's and realized that we do indeed now have a candidate whose eloquence, intelligence, and judgment can unite people from disparate and distant camps. To my mind, that's the true calling of a 21st century president. Of course, it's not the only calling. But that goes without saying. That celebrating Chicago crowd was full of Blacks, Whites, Asians, Arabs, Gays, Straights--you name it, we were all there. President-elect Obama, please do not let us down. I beg of you. Inspire us, instill hope, but be honest with us, and we will follow you. We are ready to be genuinely and honestly led. I believe that.

I sent Jenna a celebratory text which said very simply, "WE HAVE A BLACK PRESIDENT!!!" Her response? "YES WE CAN!"

I guess we can, can't we?

I don't believe in a Heaven or Hell, but if I'm wrong, Daddy, I hope you're watching.

Experimentation.

2008-10-31T23:27:00.001-07:00

I just put YouTube to the test. I looked for a track I used to dance to as a teenager who used to sneak into dance clubs in Austin, Texas. Back when she thought this place had something to teach her. I danced my ass off in those days. I loved to show what I could do on a dance floor. I was not the pretty girl you wanted to take home with you, I was not the cute girl with the smile that stopped you on your way out the door. I was just this pudgy girl who loved music and loved to dance. I used to dance all night, without drugs, without alcohol, and people would come up to me and say, "Wow! You're a great dancer!" This was no reference to my technical prowess (I own none), this was, "You're having fun, aren't you?"

I can't remember the last time I had that kind of fun.

I really can't. Pure, unadulterated, uninhibited fun, courtesy of the drug of Life. I used to be able to do that, but now I'm just numb inside.

I found a song from that many years ago (16!) and realized, that yes, I am old. I used to be a baby, but now . . . I'm old. And that cannot be changed.

Also . . . I really need to stop reading shit about My Ex-Best Friend Who Sent Me To Jail. That's how I refer to her. I can't bring myself to utter her name. It's like a sharp metallic penny on my tongue, the taste of her name poisons. Even so, I miss her. Even after all of this stupid time, I miss her. What the fuck is wrong with me? Of course, I miss Andrew sometimes, too. I can't let go of bad things. Why is this so?

She picked my favorite color, and one of my favorite pairings with my favorite color , for her wedding. I know she didn't do it intentionally. I'm sure I hardly register as a cerebral fart on her radar (which is as it usually is with anyone I let matter to my life), but even so, I was bothered by this fact. WHAT IF SOME DUMB SHIT WANTED TO MARRY ME???? I can't even use my own fucking favorite colors any more! But that won't be a problem. What idiot would marry me? Maybe I'll pull a Ross and Rachel and get drunk with a guy friend or an ex-lover who will dumbly, drunkenly wed me! Oh wait, my ex-lovers don't talk to me.

Where's the wine?

Culture Mo-Fockas!

2008-10-31T22:43:00.000-07:00

I love this chick . . .

because she is this chick . . .

The View from Dolores Park . . .

2008-10-31T22:31:00.000-07:00

Okay. Yes. I want to be back in the Bay Area.

I am back in hell (Texas). Austin has nothing for me. I can't feel myself here. But here's the thing, even without Jenna (my best friend) I can feel something pulling me back to California. Will it happen? I don't know. I am also very honestly considering a move to Pittsburgh. Explanations will come in time. The only thing I really need is for wherever I end up to not be Austin, Texas. I've just been here too fucking long. It's great for Texas, but not great for me.

I sat in Dolores Park and peered over at the San Francisco skyline, Oakland (my true Bay Area home) in the distance, and asked myself, "Why are you not here, Tiffany? This is where you want to be, isn't it? Even if you didn't know Jenna, Lincoln, and her family, isn't there just something electric about this part of the country. It's teeming with possibility. There's a palpable intellectual current running through this whole region. On top of that, there are MIXED PEOPLE!!! Like you!"

I can't get stuck here. I just can't. Texas holds nothing for me. I can't live in somewhere that pretends to be a player when there is nothing holding me back from really trying to be in places where life is happening.

I didn't tell Jenna I was thinking of moving back to California. She had drunken moments when she said to me, "You should just come back. Fuck Texas, man. Just stay. What have you got to go back for?"

I wanted to, but realized that I need, well, money, before I can go back to California. But I am going to try. I have no lover, no children, no pets, no nothing. What the fuck am I waiting for? The plan is simple enough--get a job, and then get the fuck out of here. Whose life is it after all?

The Yay Area.

2008-10-28T13:35:00.000-07:00

Ah, where to begin, really?

The opportunity to come back to my second home is something that I am glad I did. I am truly, truly glad. The weather? Outstanding as usual. The sights? I almost forgot how damn beautiful the Bay Area is, if you can believe it. The sounds? I smile a little when I hear BART in the night air. The friend? Jenna was absolutely amazing Saturday. She danced Juliet in her director's Romeo and Juliet, and even though she claims that she could give a shit about reviews, all of the reviews written about my friend were gushing. As is appropriate! I would provide links, but am going to take a quick shower so that I might go for a walk around Lake Merritt. The day is just too damn good to waste.

The bad? I no longer have a job. My job was a joke. I lost it two days before I came out for my trip. I was fine wasting the time to save money and try and move back out of Austin, but only if there was work to do. And well, there was never any damn work to do. I begged. I am not kidding, I really did literally BEG to be given things to do. I was sent home twice after having only worked for an hour. What is that? I can't live on that kind of money and certainly can't make plans to move anywhere on that type of an income. So finally, the owner of the company sadly confided that he just didn't think he needed me on staff.

I am back at square one. Even so, I have decided that when I go back home I will probably just volunteer and do something worthwhile with my time until I either a)win the lottery, or b) find a job I actually can put my head and heart into, but either way, my life has to be lived doesn't it?

I am trying to forget about what awaits me back in Texas, if only because I realize that it's nothing to speak of. I have a few more days here in the Bay Area (will be here a week in all), and all I can say is that it's amazing how good it feels to be back. Lincoln, Jenna's handsome younger brother, and my dear friend, upon seeing me, hugged me tightly and said, "Welcome home, Tiff." It almost made me cry.

I think I'm going to walk over to Peet's and have a cup of Joe to take around the Lake with me.

Tomorrow I'm going into the City, and I'm going to sit at Dolores Park . . . and pretend that I didn't have to leave. I think I'll ride the J for a bit and just let myself roll along.

For the most part, I feel good. I feel very, very good.

Decisions.

2008-10-18T11:46:00.001-07:00

I have decided I want to move to San Francisco next year.

Back to the Bay Area.

I have decided that I am going to stop worrying about being lonely all of the time. And I'm not, not, not going to send drunk texts to TO1 . . . ummmm, yup.

I have decided . . . that I am really, really excited to see Jenna next Friday. And to be back in California.

I have many things to say, but will need to think about it all.

Strange.

2008-10-08T21:03:00.000-07:00

For reasons I am unable to provide, I decided to meet the last person I had sex with tonight. That would be the homosexual gentleman I mentioned in a previous post. This is a feat in and of itself in that most people, after having sexual intercourse with me, tend to avoid all contact with me. Tis true! Yet, this person asked to meet me. He even invited me to a party at his soon-to-be new home! I really do like his dog. I may go.

In a bizarre, awkward, forgettable way . . . I believe I have made a new friend. Kids, the best way to make new friends is not necessarily to get naked with them. Especially not when you are not over someone who resides as a phantom in your head and heart. TO1 . . . what am I going to do about you?

Not necessarily.

I am tired.

Sleep sounds divine.

More politics.

2008-10-08T13:29:00.000-07:00

For the most part the people at my current place of employment continue to treat me like I’m an alien from another planet. Or maybe a pod person. It varies from day to day. There are a few exceptions. One of them is a woman whose husband occupies a figurehead position and used that light influence to secure her a position as the company’s designated filer. She loves her job, absolutely loves it. I’ve had jobs like hers before and they suck hairy donkey balls, but she’s possessive of what I refer to as the WBB (Worker Bee Brain). My mother has a WBB, lots of my friends have WBBs, and countless members of my extended family have WBBs. Alas, I have never quite managed to acquire a WBB and have long sought to be employed for the some type of intellectual or creative enterprise. Silly me! It’s never happened. It won’t ever happen. Pfft!

This woman is a sweetheart. We converse about quite a few things. The subject matter ranges from cockroaches to politics to the goings-on of her children. She wants little from life but to be secure in her person, attend her church, and be with her family. I respect her for ability to just . . . well, live. Today she asked me what I had done last night. My answer? Drank beer, ate a sandwich, and watched the Presidential debate in my pajamas. (Yes, I do practically drink every night. Problem with that?) The woman looked at me and said, “You know, I haven’t watched any of the debates and I don’t really read the paper, but I’m really undecided. There is something I don’t like about Obama, though.” I asked her what it was she didn’t like. From anyone else, anyone I hadn’t had an opportunity to engage in conversation, the following answer would have sent me into paroxysms of fear and left me incredulous. “Well,” she said. “it really bothers me that he won’t put his hand over his heart when they say the pledge . . . or sing the national anthem. You know? I mean, that’s a big part of America.”

I was about to walk to the library and only had fifty minutes to get there and back. But I stopped for a second and thought to myself. I had one of two options. Option one: I could have smiled politely and said something similar to the following:

“Well, I totally understand.” (even though I don’t understand, especially when this allegation has been proven false), and walk away. Option two: Respectfully, share my position. I opted the for the latter and said something along the following lines.

“Well, I can see how that would be a valid objection, and you have to use whatever criteria you feel matter most when you decide to vote. I think the most important thing is just that you vote—period. Even if you only write yourself in, just vote! But I would say this, as much as I understand the need for people to examine symbolic action taken or not taken by a candidate, the idea of America is stronger than any symbol. At least it is for me. I’m a patriot. Very much so, but I don’t believe whether or not someone places their hand over their heart for the Pledge or Anthem is a valid measure of one’s patriotism, if only because quite a few of those same people who would judge those things don’t even know the words to the national anthem, how many justices are on the Supreme Court, or which parts of the Constitution affords them what rights. I think those things, much more than whether or not someone wears a flag pin or shits red, white, and blue, are a more important part of America . . . for now. We’re a work in progress. Democracy is an experiment. The USA is an experiment.

“Neither of these candidates is perfect. But if one of them will wrest us away from the politics of fear then I’m for it. If we’re talking about what’s American and un-American, how American is it that under the present administration’s guise it’s been perfectly possible that these books I’m taking back to the library could potentially put me on a terrorist watch list? Is that what America is supposed to be? You should vote for whoever you believe will do the best job, but be sure the logic behind your decision isn’t just something you’ve been told to believe. Just like what I’m telling you, it’s not necessarily something you should believe, just consider. Does that make sense?”

She looked at me and said, “Yeah, I can see what you mean.”

I kind of felt like an asshole after saying all of this. This is a woman with five children, she’s been married twice, and she is probably happier in her skin than I will ever be in mine. She loves her life. Who am I to pretend to tell her how to precondition her electoral participation? Well, I’m no one really, but I don’t know that my idea of America would be worth talking about if I hadn’t at least tried to point out to her that the pettiness which has so negatively impacted the process is a larger danger to the idea of America than the lack of any lapel pin or an uncovered heart.

I hope I didn’t come off like a snot-nosed, idealistic shit.

As a final note . . . I'm listening to Fresh Air as I type this and am hearing about anonymously composed fliers being circulated in primarily African American neighborhoods in Philadelphia in which the recipients are told that they should not vote. Why should they not vote? Because of the undercover police officers at the polling stations who will be present to arrest people with unpaid traffic citations, warrants, and the like.

That's right. That's the level we've been reduced to. And they call it the City of Brotherly love. If this is what happens there, imagine what types of things are going to be possible in the South.

Do not let this happen. Shame on any of you who would dare to engage in these types of tactics. For what? Are you really so afraid of those who are different from you?

Hearing this just now makes me furious. It pisses me off so much that I could cry.

The next segment is about potential voter intimidation tactics in crucial swing states. If you haven't listened to this, I suggest you go to the NPR web site and listen. Talk about this with your friends.

The last time I cried because of politics was the year 2000. I don't think I need to say too much as to why. All I will say is that the whole thing left me coated in disbelief and killed a very significant part of my idealism. I couldn't believe the system could be so fucked up. Don't allow ignorance and fear to steal another election. Let the process override all prejudice.

Here is hoping.

It's not TV, it's YOUR F*CKING FUTURE!!!!

2008-10-07T14:38:00.000-07:00

Lest I forget to address the issue, I hope many (or any?) of you reading this blog will watch the debate tonight. I sat for a brief moment and realized just how damn close the election is, and was a little frightened. By close I mean close in terms of the proximity of Election Day and the razor thin margin which separates the winner from the loser.

If you watch the news or read a decent newspaper you don’t need to do too much reading or watching to see that the candidates are pulling back no punches and have decided to not just hit below the belt, but essentially kick one another in the balls. I can’t stand to hear so many distortions, half-truths, and outright irrelevant comments, especially when so many of them will actually find a willing audience which in turn will exercise its right to vote having been filled to the brim with crap-knowledge. What is even more infuriating to me are the people who will watch the debate and use random measures to declare a victor. Obama must be articulate, but not too articulate. McCain can be angry, but not too angry. Don’t use big words or you’ll be labeled an elitist! This one is my favorite. I can’t get enough of how voters are supposedly now ardently anti-intellectual and willing to embrace ignorance. Well, don’t be one of those people. Snobs, unite!

Watch. Listen. Learn. And when the time comes, vote.

I put my hand up on ya hip, when I dip, you dip, we dip!

2008-10-07T13:04:00.000-07:00

It’s Tuesday, right? I am having a hard time getting motivated to do anything this week. I am going to blame it on Aunt Flow. Squeamish—and I might add, silly—males who stumble upon this blog may not want to read further. As I get older I am finding myself more and more frustrated by my menstrual cycle. For some ridiculous reason I always assumed that getting older would mean having more control over the consequences of my monthly spewing. I mistakenly believed that I would eventually have it all “figured out” and never need to guess about the secret things my body was telling me. Unfortunately, I have not stopped guessing since that fateful morning in the bathroom almost 20 years ago. Ultimately, being on the rag is making me feel grosser than gross, more gross than usual; because let no one lie to you, being on your period is nasty shit. I just reread the sentence before this one and am thoroughly amused with myself. I hardly ever amuse myself.

Of course I may also feel like uber-poop because I essentially spent the whole weekend wasted. I still am not up for seeing any of my friends. It’s not easy to explain. Hating this place as much as I do, and wanting to be everywhere and anywhere else each day do not make me a great conversationalist. Plus, I save more money, read more, and can watch crappy TV by myself (or sports) if I don’t see people. Even so, I like people and feel the need to sprinkle my life with them from time to time. So last Friday my friend Amber texted me and quite literally asked me if I wanted to come over and “kick it.” Amber and I haven’t known one another very long, but I dig her style. She smokes hard (not cigarettes), drinks hard (anything that’s wet), and talks hard (I get along especially well with people whose mouths are potty like mine). And on top of that, she’s also extremely intelligent and fun to talk to, so it’s an honor to call her my friend. And, as appears to be the case with most of my friends, within the first two days she said something to me about my lack of self-confidence. The following is a brief paraphrase of the conversation. Please do bear in mind that we’d been drinking lots, lots, lots, lots (tequila shots, vodka, beer, and wine were all present) and smoking *ahem* stuff, and now we were playing Scrabble (or maybe it was Yahtzee, either way I lost.) Amber proceeded to make a comment about her crazy-looking face, or something to that effect. I guffawed. Amber is GORGEOUS! I mean, S-S-S-S-S-S-S-moking HOT! She is EXACTLY the kind of mixed-girl I wish had been! Perfect skin, great figure, and the right height! I hate her . . . but in a loving way. So, as soon as she made light of her beauty I proceeded with the following: (Please keep in mind that this is a blog re-enactment.)

“Dude, what the fuck are you talking about? You’re fucking gorgeous! A sick hottie!”

Amber proceeded to lay down a Triple Word Score and said, “Why is it alright for you to say shit like that but you never let people tell you the same thing?”
Insert universal cricket sound effect here.

After giving myself a few minutes to dust off some brain cells I answered, “It’s not the same.” Which it is not. “I may be ‘cute’ and have had a singular occasion to maybe be ‘pretty’ but I have never been ‘hot’ or ‘beautiful.’” It’s true. I am not even an unconventionally attractive woman. I just look like a fucked up muppet!

Amber rolled her eyes at me. I do not like when people roll their eyes at me. It makes me feel foolish.
“It’s exactly the fucking same.”
More crickets, please.
“Well, let’s not talk about it,” I said.
“It’s kind of hard not to, you’re always saying something shitty about yourself so it brings itself up. I oughta make you take a tequila shot every time you say some fucked up shit about yourself.”
Thank goodness this did not happen. If I die as a result of my boozing I’d prefer it not happen in a friend’s living room. And, tequila shots in such a volume are sure to present an interesting set of circumstances. I hardly take tequila shots, so my having taken one was feat enough.
“What’s so wrong with you?” Amber asked.
I have had more of these types of fucking conversations than I care to recall. What’s so wrong with me? What’s WRONG with me?

Ah, the 25 gazillion dollar question. Oh, where to begin . . . what isn’t fucking wrong with me! Here's what's wrong with me . . . here's what I should have said: “Look, the truth is, I’m never going to like who I am. I’m not going to learn to love myself and be all new-agey and shit about who I am. I don’t like who I am. I never have. I never will. I know this. I don’t like the way I look, the way I talk, the way I smell, the way I laugh, or the way I have to justify my dislike for myself to the people in my life. Why is it such a hard thing for people to just let me. People try and scare me and tell me shit like, ‘Well, you’ll never love anyone else if you don’t learn to love yourself!’ BULLSHIT! I love people with complete body, mind, heart, and soul, and you know what it has gotten me? Jack shit. But do you know how many fucked up, obnoxious people in this world get everything they want by pissing on people’s hearts? Do you know how many of them are married, have life partners, blah, blah, blah! I’m sure they may love themselves, but they’re assholes. Just because someone doesn’t like themselves, doesn’t mean they’re not a good person, or they can’t be a good friend.”
Uncomfortable silence.

“Shit, if it’s such a big deal, I’ll marry you then.”
I laughed.

A sweet, friendly way to basically say . . . SHUT THE FUCK UP WITH YOUR NEGATIVITY!!!! I got it. I'll just never be able to really get it.

It’s true. I don’t want to be married. I don’t give a shit if I don’t ever get married. For some reason this is impossible for people to believe. I have actually met people who insist on saying shit like, “Oh you just haven’t found the right one yet,” or “Someone’s going to change your mind.” What part of “I DON’T FUCKING WANT TO GET MARRIED!” is impossible to understand? Don’t get me wrong, I do get a little sad when I realize I’m probably going to end up a buffet for the maggots without ever having experienced a real kind of loving, but so be it! We are not all put here to be someone’s parent or spouse. I know it in my heart that I’m not the marrying type. I would be the world’s shittiest wife. Without question! I can’t cook, I hate cleaning, and I am crap in bed. Well, this last part’s not true, I’m actually AMAZING in the sack. I give great head, too! But great head is nothing a newfangled machine won’t soon be able to duplicate, if not perfect. So soon I won’t even have that! Um, that was a tangent, sorry. Does this mean I am anti-marriage? Absolutely not. I think marriage is a beautiful, beautiful thing. Please read how I’ve written marriage and allow me to confirm that when I write marriage I mean marriage between two consenting adults (even those with the same genitalia). Yes, marriage is a fine thing, it’s just not for me. (*Edit* I do think that all of the readily accessible sex introduced as a possible marriage residual makes marriage enticing, but as much as I like sex, I don't like marriage enough to get married for sex.)

242/220. 224 days until I leave this place for good, 220 days until I leave this job for good. I can hardly wait.

A little over two weeks until I’m in San Francisco and Oakland and my heart gets giddy with the thought of it.

Oh, and TO1’s response to my text was simple enough. Dodger died. And he thanked me for rooting for his team. I want to see him so badly.

Work sucks.

A Blog for an e-friend . . .

2008-10-02T21:04:00.000-07:00

So that she knows I'm not dead. Yes, that would be you Alissa (not Alyssa). See, I'm not dead yet.

As I type this, I am getting high. And that is no joke.

I've been on a blog break. This is that obvious information for my two devoted readers. But just because I have been absent does not mean that I have not been thinking. I am always thinking. One of my former professors with whom I developed a friendship used to tell me that I had a "busy brain" that could never be satisfied by mundane entrapment and that it would be up to me to make sure I didn't waste my "beautiful, busy brain."

We don't talk anymore. Mostly because I stopped feeling worthy of her friendship.

I won't continue with the me-beating on this post. I have many more posts between now and age 35.

So, what has life given me, to give to you? Proceed.

Work
I have begun a countdown. In 248 days I will leave this town again. But this time I hope for good. I don't yet know where I am going, I just know that where I am is not where I want to be. It's not where I'm supposed to be. This is something I feel deeply and irreversibly. In two weeks before the 248th day I will have quit my current job. What to say about this current job? Being underemployed and under-compensated (again) have been easier to endure this time around. It's easy because I know I am leaving.

Remember, I work for a company that makes t-shirts. They make t-shirts and embroider things. That's what they do. Even so, these people behave as though the heavens themselves will spiral into the Earth's core if something goes "wrong." Would you like an example? I ran out of work to do. I ran out of work because everything they give me is nothing. But I accept the tasks to pass the time. That is it. I thought I'd found something to do. A stack of work orders needed replenishing and I needed something to do. So, I thought I might try and restock these work orders. And what happens? One of the salespeople who probably wouldn't piss on me if I were on fire walked by me and said, "No, no, you are NOT supposed to be touching those. Nobody touches those but ME! I've been here six years and someone always touches this and messes it up. There's a sign RIGHT THERE!" Remember, I am wearing some really fucked up broken glasses, and well the sign is the size of a postage stamp.

Ummm . . . right. So I attempted to explain. "Oh, I'm sorry I just didn't want to be idle."

I later learned that this all-important task was off-limits to me because there are numbers that must be put into spreadsheets to ensure that the work orders are received in time!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SPREADSHEETS!!!!!!!!!

Okay. Fine. So just say that. She probably could say it if she ever said more than two words to me. She came in afterward and wanted me to know she wasn't "gettin' on me" but that the work order process was her "kick."

If they only knew. If they only knew I was counting the days.

Where To go?

The only thing that keeps me waking up is knowing that eventually I'll be gone again. If it were any other time I'd be even more depressed than my usual depressive self and wondering if I should go with pills or try the steak knife. Instead, I am considering the following (pardon me, I know I am being repetitive):

*Southeast Asia for a month and then with the leftover savings a move on to a mundane life in (Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, Detroit, Cleveland, Bozeman, or some other similar sized story with cheap rent).

*Skip Southeast Asia for now and moving to a possibly more exciting life in (Chicago, Brooklyn, San Francisco, Boston, or some other similar city with not-so cheap rent). Just so you know, San Francisco is at the TOP of this list. I wouldn't just live in the Bay Area this time, I'd take on The City.

*Southeast Asia for a more than just a month with a return to a place I don't like so that I can make more money yet again to leave (yet again).

These are my options. I wake up with them on my mind.

Who To Love?

Last night, sober, I sent TO1 a text message. I am watching his favorite baseball team when I do it. He had a blue Beta called Dodger. The poor fish had been alive for over four years. A beta.

The first night after TO1 and I were together he introduced me to Dodger. I looked into the murky bowl and said, "You should change his water!" When I came back over later that night the water had been changed.

The text read: "Tell Dodger's "Dad" that someone he once knew in the span of a life flash said, 'Go Dodgers.'"

I fly back to California on the 24th. I want to see him. But I know he doesn't want to see me. If life were like the movies I could walk up to his doorstep, hug him, say I'm sorry, and at least get a friend. Where I'd lost a lover, I would have found a way to salvage a friend.

Whoa!!!!

Today I learned that the local, overpriced organic store across the street from my job is now allowing mix and match 6packs. This new policy has been the only thing I have been genuinely excited about in a long, long time. Seriously.

So I excitedly bought myself a mix-match of IPAs from Oregon, California, and Colorado, and took the long-ass bus ride home (remember I live in a crap town with crap public transportation) to watch the Veep debates. My honest assessment? Palin held her own. I was hoping to watch her get reamed, absolutely positively humiliated even; but no, she is a quick study. And that, more than I care to admit, frightens me. It really, really frightens me.

If you have friends who are not registered to vote, encourage them to register. I hope you won't tell them who to vote for, but at least ask that they get their asses out to choose. Oh, but do your part to inform them. Please, for the love of any type of justice, don't let them fly blind.

Alright. That's me right now. More later I guess.

Alissa (not Alyssa) . . . I'm so glad to have your blogs to read again. I'm going to design a type of paper for resumes and it's going to be called CCE . . . for Cock and Balls Elegance.

Goodnight Blogosphere, I'm going to smoke more weed and sleep.

Dear You . . .

2008-09-22T21:01:00.000-07:00

I want you to know how happy I am for you. Your life makes me smile. I really do hope you'll come to my funeral one day. I'm pretty sure I'll die before you. If the booze don't kill me, well, I will. It would be nice if you and your family, Your family, come. Tell them I was a little crazy, but don't tell them how crazy. Congratulations on living life. Congratulations on your fairy tale. You deserve it.

Love,

Me.

If it were like this all of the time . . .

2008-09-15T10:01:00.000-07:00

I might be able to tolerate this place. But it's not. Usually it's hotter than a witch's tit, you sweat your balls off, and my hair (which is already pretty damn big) becomes something to rival Chaka Khan and Diana Ross. It's not cool.

Today's temperatures have been divine. The lows were in the mid to upper 50s and we won't be breaking into the dreaded 90s. If I close my eyes really, really, really tight I can imagine myself back in Oakland. The only thing missing is the Bay Bridge, Canadian Geese that poop all around Lake Merritt, and BART roaring its way into The City. Well, I'd need a lot more than that, but you get the point.

I am still home sick for the Bay Area. One of my three homes. I have Oaxaca, Oakland, and unfortunately, Austin.

The work day is flying by. It's great! I am counting the days until my trip back to California to see Jenna in all of her glory, and to see where my heart stands in terms of staying in this sh*thole, traveling, or giving California another go.

It really is all up in the air.

I can't make up my mind about shit.

I am still enjoying my reclusive spell. I continue to have no desire to see any of my old friends. Go figure.

I hope that Alyssa made it to Pittsburgh safe and sound.

I am going to walk around the corner to the park during my lunch hour and read outside. It's going to be highlight of my day! Pathetic, aren't I?

The Little Things . . .

2008-09-13T21:45:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I go to strange web sites. I can't explain why. I just do. I have a habit of going to University web sites, searching the department sites, and looking for interesting books or articles on the syllabi. I've found many interesting books this way. I ended up on Baylor University's site. Not because I think Baylor is a place one should seek useful education, but because I was high and curious. I visited their University Honors web site and found the following:

Independeing Reading List Selections

This was the link for their "Honors" College. Independent Reading List Selections . . . perhaps? It matters but little! I know, I know! But propelled by the power of Mary Jane and IPA thought it my duty to inform them of their misstep. So I sent the following:

"To Whom It May Concern:

For reasons unbeknown to myself I have a somewhat unhealthy obsession with University web sites, department pages, and faculty profiles. I enjoy reading the course syllabi of Universities in search of what I hope will be intellectually taxing reading material or ideas. I gave your site a go, but must say I was more disappointed than I wished to be and found the following link on your "University Scholars" site.

Independeing Reading List Selections

Independeing? Have I missed something?

Undoubtedly a clerical misstep. Nevertheless, the importance of thorough editing can never be underestimated; especially when it comes to recruiting an exceptional student population. Presentation, presentation, presentation.

Regards,

T."

Why did I send it? BECAUSE I WAS STONED AND NEEDED SOMETHING TO DO! Otherwise, I don't give a shit.

So guess what I received from the Associate Dean of the Honors College?

"Dear Ms. Conner,

Thank you for your kind note informing me of the typographical error. We shall be swift about updating that page. Please do let me know if you find any other errors. It's nice to know that there's another set of eyes out there reading over our material and finding typos, which are sometime hard to catch on the computer screen. Feel free to check out the Classics page (http://www.baylor.edu/classics) as well; should you find any typos there, please contact John_Thorburn@baylor.edu.

Gratefully,

Alden Smith"

And guess WHAT ELSE I received from the Associate Dean of the Honors College? A copy of an e-mail he sent to someone else in the department. Read. Enjoy.

"Doris,
Someone snotty found a typo on our website. Could you please fix it when you have have a chance?
thanks,
Alden

Alden Smith
Associate Dean, Honors College
254 710 3744"

Aaaaaaah Alden! Me? I'm someone "snotty?" Snooty, perhaps? You're the fucking Dean of an Honors College! If a high, underemployed, Blaxicana girl can come across as "snotty" to you because you don't hire people who know how to type or spell . . . you have bigger problems. Much, much bigger problems.

Note to parents: DON'T SEND YOUR CHILDREN TO BAYLOR UNIVERSITY!!!!! Or to Alden Smith's "Honors College." I've out-snottied them.

Hermit.

2008-09-12T17:47:00.000-07:00

This week went by quickly. For that I am so very grateful. Highlights, well, I wish I actually had some to share. Instead, there is the following:

A storm is coming. I'm very excited. There is talk of 50 MPH winds. I intend to sit on the balcony and let my hair blow. Saturday is expected to be stormy and windy. Perfect sit-your-ass-indoors weather. Because I am a woman with strange interests, I have decided that this weekend was made for certain things: Beer, wine, American Football, reading and Netflix streaming. I have purchased two six packs (Sierra Nevada and Lagunitas IPA, if you care), one moderately priced 2003 Vintage California Cab, and the latest American Scholar. And I wonder why I am single, or manage to scare away men like you know who.

I actually don't mind drinking alone. And when I drink enough to make me pass out, I actually don't mind waking up alone. It all makes sense in my brain.

Even though I am making an effort to save money by not going out and doing all of my drinking at home alone, I did stop by the bar next to my job earlier this week. I met some interesting people. When we were relatively sober we began our conversation discussing politics, books, and cities. With time and beer our conversation topics went from the types of drugs we'd each done, how to smoke weed without papers, a bong, or a can, and whether the name for the whole thing Richard Gere supposedly did with the gerbils (hamsters) is called felching. It's not. What is it called when you stick a rodent up your butthole? So, you can see it was a pretty interesting night.

I think my coworkers are finally learning to accept me. Whatever that means. And as if I really gave a shit to begin with. Perhaps I gave a shit on some level, after all, who wants to be disliked? One of my coworkers came into my work space and asked me how to spell legit. I looked up at her and asked, "As in legitimate?" With a straight face she looked at me and said, "As in too legit to quit." This was complete with MC Hammer mannerism. I was not sure what was expected of me. I smiled and offered the spelling. This is from the same person who is always sure to share two pieces of information with me. One, the job I have is the least stressful and easiest of all in the company, so I should take some solace in that! If only they knew. I just want the paychecks baby! Paychecks are what will once again guarantee that I will be on the jet to (???). Two, in the same breath that I am told how easy my job is, this individual then tells me that everyone is "baffled" by how "good" I am because you only have to tell me things once and I "get them." I am mastering the art of the plastered, plastic smile. Her final thoughts for me, "Nobody's been this good at this job since me!"

*yawn*

I know she means well. Even so, it was our purchasing clerk who gave me the kindest compliment. His name is Bob. I had asked Bob for some insight into why everyone was so damned frazzled and unhappy. He shrugged and said, "That's just the damn screen printing business." I wanted to probe, but realized that Bob was too nice for me to over-intellectualize. Bob then looked at me and said, "If you ask me, you're too smart for this job. You need to be doing something else." I thanked him. Maybe one day.

F to the Y to the I, Yo.

2008-09-09T07:32:00.000-07:00

I just re-read my drunk blog posts. I'm sorry if I sound like a militant Black Panther in some of them. I'm not sure what is up with me. I actually adore white people! I really do!

I'll end this brief blog with a quote from my friend Clifton (who is white!)

"In the end, everybody is people, too!"

Yeah we is.

A serious morning.

2008-09-09T07:20:00.000-07:00

I have resisted the urge to write about Sarah Palin, mostly because it’s a waste of my precious brain cells. However, any of you who know me in the slightest (even if you only read my ridiculous blogs), know that more often than not I end up doing things I should not do. (See drunk blogging and drunk dialing and drunk sex for examples.) So pursuant to my own grand tradition, I will proceed to do that which I should not.

What to say about Sarah Palin? I fear this woman. I fear her because her vapidity and superficial public appeal is so beguiling to an ignorant, simplistic electorate that I am almost positive that a McCain presidency is coming our way in January. Is this what I want? Of course not. By all accounts I am a woman of progressive leanings and foolish idealistic sentiment. But I am also growing older and more cynical and more realistic. The reality is that the political game is played without any degree of consideration that a sophisticated, informed population has any hand in selecting presidents. These days, the lunatics, or what James Carville (not one of my favorite people) called The Great Unwashed are the arbiters of our great decisions. The Unwashed come in all shapes, sizes, and colors, by the way. And quite a few of The Great Unwashed are wild about Sarah Palin.

My beefs with Ms. Palin are not too far removed from those most frequently articulated. I believe her to be inexperienced to a fault; she is too conservative for my liking; and she has been noticeably eager to claim the mantle for causes I doubt she has any genuine allegiance to (i.e. feminism). All of that being said, what I dislike even more are the ridiculous things I hear said about her by the hypocritical supporters who will more than likely turn out en masse to inflict the death knell to the Obama/Biden camp in November. ‘She’s one of us!’ Who? ‘She’s a real person.’ I don’t know any one like her. And I like to think I have a nice little rainbow coalition of friends. ‘She shows the real power of a woman.’ How? Because she is remarkably fertile? BFD! I don’t care about her superior child bearing power. I don’t care that her daughter was knocked up at 17. Hell, I believe I can probably point to at least five relatives in my family who became pregnant before their 17th birthdays. Before, 17, not at, 17. Think about that. Judge not, lest ye be judged . . . or something like that.

No, that’s not what bothers me about Palin. What bothers me is the regressive climate her candidacy has introduced into discussions of cultural, social, and even class issues. I couldn’t bring myself to watch her speech, but I was unfortunate enough to catch Palin attacking Obama’s pedigree and accuse him of behaving as an anointed messiah while completely ignoring his successes. And don’t get me started on how ludicrous it is for Palin (and McCain) to insist upon maligning Obama for (gasp!) being an intelligent, articulate, educated candidate. It would appear that in this newly reborn climate of anti-intellectual, populist politics, being editor of the Harvard Law Review cannot compare to one’s ability to bear children.

An NPR report yesterday cited a statistic stating that by a 2-1 margin U.S. citizens “look down” upon working mothers. This was mentioned with reference to the fact that a few female McCain/Palin supporters questioned her decision to accept an office like the Vice Presidency when she should be “tending to her children.” Are you kidding me? I’m not even a McCain/Palin supporter, and I don’t have (and don’t ever expect to have) children, but these types of statements do something to make my blood boil. They indicate so much about the limited views we still hold in this nation. We deny so much about the realities of so many. Let’s believe for a second that it’s true that a woman should not work, but should watch after her spawn like a good little breeder. What of the woman who has no choice in this matter? Women like my mother. Myself, and my two sisters were raised by a single mother who had no choice but to work. My mother had to work, so her children could live. Yes, I knew my father, but my father was pretty much a part-time parent throughout my childhood. My mother did not have a wealthy executive husband to treat her to a nice house in the hills or in a flat, boring cul de sac, while she stayed home to take her children to “play dates.” The reality is many mothers work. They work because they have no choice. They work because we don’t live in a country which has the capacity to break outside of bullshit conceptions of what families look like.

My mother raised three daughters by herself. I should rephrase that, she was our mother and father, but I know she needed people like my great grandmothers and grandmother and the occasional aunt. In other words, a very NON-traditional family. And that's how it is sometimes. I wonder if the Palin-mad conservatives can relate to these types of family values? As for myself and my sisters, for the most part, we’re a decent set of chicas. We could be a lot worse, I guess, but I won’t use this blog to talk about my shit-suckworthiness, there will always be time for that.

This election is bringing out the best and the worst in so many. I don’t pray because I don’t believe in any G/god/s, but I hold on to hope, ever so slightly, I hold on, I hope we’re a better nation than I often detect us to be.

In the vein of Jerry Springer . . . A Final Thought . . .

2008-09-08T22:32:00.000-07:00

I'm about to sleep. Before sleep comes there is bad TV. TruTv, to be exact. Do you remember when it was CourtTV? There's some bizarre show on where they have all of these egotistical sheriff's deputies arresting drunken Spring Breakers in a California hot spot. Quite a few of them were not from California. But the sheriff's deputies were stopping people and in many instances found next to no reason for arresting them. One of the drunken students had the GALL to ask if he could remove his life jacket while the boat was docked. The deputy's response? "YOU KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT!"

It gave me horrid flashbacks to the night I'd spent in jail. It's funny, Jenna is the only person who has ever laughed when I've mentioned the fact that I've been to jail. I believe it was probably because it came out very nonchalant. "Oh, that's like when I was sent to jail . . ." Or something like that. It did nothing for my street cred. Not that a New York Times reading, Harper's subscribing, literary and social criticism-loving journal reader like me would be able to garner much street cred. Besides, I've come to realize that the person who sent me there is a bitch, and faked friendship for the sake of filling her lack of minority friendships. I went to jail for a faker who wanted to fill some quotas. Pathetic. I think I did a pretty good job when it comes to replacements. Ex-Best Friend X versus Jenna . . . totally a better trade-off. Jenna's a kick ass ballet dancer whose traveled Europe and lets me hate myself at will! Well, not really, she hates that I hate myself, but she ACCEPTS me. For that, I love her til the end of my time.

As for that other . . . person. I've learned to flick her off like a gooey booger. Finally. It took some time, but I'm glad I was able to get it done. If I had the chance I'd probably send her middle-class ass to jail, see if she could get through it without freaking the fuck out. Let's have someone make fun of her race and her hair--but oh wait, that is the benefit of middle-class-whitedom . . . someone is always, ALWAYS there to bail your ass out. Just like someone will bail these bizarre shits from this TV show out.

Anyway, my point about this was that I realize that most sheriff's deputies are the guys who used to get stuffed into lockers or have their assholes creamed with Icy Hot. And now, with badges, they think they're total bad asses. Power trips.

TO1 called the cops on me. It's a long story. The cops never came though. I think he faked calling to cops to scare me, because, well I behaved erratically. And was blind drunk. Blind drunk and in love are never a good combination with me. If you want to know what I did, ask me, I'll tell you about it. Makes for a funny story, except for the fact that I scared away a really, really fantastic man. I was ready to go to jail again. I just wanted him to listen to me. Just one last fucking time. But no, I never get that last chance to speak my mind. I wanted him to listen to me, understand that an insecure, depressed heart doesn't feel trust. I can trust your snoring in my ear, your hairy thigh against my stomach, and your sleeping face; but I could not trust that the waking you would seek me out with any genuine sincerity. I mean, look at me. I lost you to myself. I convinced myself to do stupid things in the name of what I thought were my heart's demands. I know better now. But I just wish I didn't miss his face.

Even though I've finally managed to feel some anger for the unfair treatment I've endured by people I thought were there for me, and even though I will probably never learn to be there for myself, I know that being physically imprisoned means nothing when you've managed to encase your heart in a stronger cage. Self-loathing is a very, very strong cage. And it's easy to hate yourself when you put your faith in people whose only goal is to stomp on what little goodness is left of you.

I will go to sleep now. And this time I'm going to make myself dream of unicorns. I'm tired of dreams that make me hurt.

Tonight, I . . .

2008-09-08T21:29:00.000-07:00

drank an entire 6pk of Lagunitas IPA by myself as I watched Monday Night Football out of the corner of my eyeball. I put the TV on mute and let the shit happen. One of my supported teams was victorious, while the other got their proverbial shit pushed in. My original plan was to go to a bar and have a pint or two. Then I realized what a colossal waste of time and money that would be and decided that drunk at home alone would be much more fun and less risky. That's right, risky. I can't keep doing dumb things.

I have been seriously considering the prospect of saving until next spring and moving back to the Bay Area. I'm not quite sure why. I really do keep having dreams about The Bay. Strange dreams. The funny thing is, if I did try again, I don't want to alert anyone I know. I want to be completely anonymous. Much the way I have tried to be here in my home town. It's worked well so far. The only difference is that back in the Bay I'd actually have buses and trains to take to things. Here, I'm pretty much stuck in one place the whole time. All of that aside, I really do just miss it. I miss wearing a jacket, I miss the Bay breeze, I miss . . . . lots of it.

I may change my mind about it all. I am going back in October to surprise my friend on her opening night Oakland Ballet performance. I'm going to try and gauge how I feel. Since I've come back here I've had nothing but a very strong urge to just work, work, work and save to get out of here as fast as I can. So let's see what it will feel like to be back in the Bay Area after four months. Will I feel a pull? If I don't, I guess that puts Southeast Asia back on the table.

I'm going to finish my last beer, mock this Cialis commercial, and sleep.

No regrets.

2008-09-03T06:40:00.000-07:00

I just read my drunk blog. I considered deleting it, but there's no fun in that! Besides, it's a great way to laugh at myself. The world is not in on my joke, but that's fine also.

I shall blog later about more pertinent things. Or not.

I should probably go to sleep . . .

2008-09-02T21:01:00.000-07:00

But instead I will treat my one (or two?)readers to a drunk blog.

I have had a raucous and disgusting last few days. That's right. My holiday weekend has been filled with debauchery and misappropriated sensuality and drunkenness. Since Friday I have been drunk, high, and belly-full. Oh yes, I also woke up in a bed which was not mine. A gay man's bed. Use your deductive reasoning . . . and the deduced truth, is THE truth. I'm not sure how it came about.

But I am not proud of this last fact. Normally, it would not bother me. Especially since I have come to realize that women like me are only good for fucking and don't register in those whole emotional departments. It's a good thing for those assholes that I just want to travel the world and could give a shit about being someone's "Special Someone." Except, that it does bother me to have to pretend I don't want certain things. It bothers me because over the weekend I also made a drunken call to Mr. TO1 and told him that I was missing him and thinking about him. My reward? The obvious one: Silence. GET IT THROUGH YOUR THICK FUCKING SKULL!!!! HE IS NOT THINKING ABOUT YOU!!!! HE'S NOT GOING TO WAIT TO LOVE SOME INSECURE, FAT, UGLY, NON-WHITE SHIT-GIRL.

It has to sink in. What choice do I have?

What the fuck kind of idiot am I? I am one of those women. He is on the other side of this country laughing at me with whatever hot piece of action is gracing his bed, and I continue to hope for second chances. I wish second chances believed in me.

I think someone needs to pop Jim Lehrer upside the head . . .

2008-08-28T18:49:00.000-07:00

With the end of Barack Obama's acceptance speech you have Jim Lehrer noting there were no balloons falling onto the stage. Yes, that was the most important thing of note for him. It's a good thing that Lehrer saved himself and then went on to say, "But I don't know where the balloons would come down from anyway." The speech was given in an open air stadium, so you're right Jim, there's no place from which said balloons might fall.

Oh pundits.

So it's official. The United States dared to write a new story which breaks the longstanding mold of presidential politics and has nominated the first non-white male for president. Not an African-American, but an African and American. I've found it interesting that people always overlook that distinction. I guess because in the long run it hardly makes much difference. Black is black, even when it most clearly is not. I myself like to think of Obama as one for the Halfbreed Club, of which I am a proud member. Miscegenation Nation, baby!

What to say?

I don't possess the same fresh, idealistic buzz that once pervaded my mind at the presence of such great achievements. I recognize that what I witnessed tonight was significant, but I am not inspired. When I was much younger I was a political junkie. I was an absolute fool for policy discussions and believed very passionately in the concept of committed service to one's community at the grassroots level. I thought change was a force to be reckoned with, but that's a bygone time. Now change is a word that one's advising team runs through focus groups for polling data. I am a cynic. I don't trust politicians, policy wonks, and pundits. I have yet to feel impacted by any of their machinations. This is true, even though I readily profess that I am one of the most abstract, hyper-intellectual, over-analytical individuals you will ever encounter. (I overcompensate for my physical deficiencies and lack of self-confidence with my intelligence. Sue me. I like to think that if brains were beauty I would have been a supermodel.)

Once upon a time I would have sold my left tit and right vaginal lip for an opportunity to be the next Big Political Pundit on (insert your Sunday Morning Talk Show here). Now, I don't trust the Image Makers. I don't care if they come with "D" or "R" after their names. While Obama's speech was certainly more passionately and fluidly delivered than most given by our current President, the level of discourse continues to plummet and voters remain content with soap box generalities peppered with their favorite campaign catchphrases about all that needs to be done "for the children." The theatre of American politics continues to degrade our ability to respect civil, honest, intellectual engagement with issues. We dumb ourselves down for fear of facing the fact that so much of it is pointless. But we live in a different time from the Age of Lincoln, or so I tell myself. Politicians don't quote literature or offer up statistical proof--that's just too heady! Even so, I wonder if there ever really was a time when a politician could just break out of a PR constructed shell and speak truth to power in words which would frighten the electorate and establishment alike, but still compel them to take heed, self-examine, and act.

Please don't mistake my cynicism for apathy as I have every intention of voting. I always vote. But it doesn't mean I believe. My willingness to offer my unswerving faith to a fallible human with the occasional dash of eloquence is undercut by the truth of my every day existence. I keep hearing all of these speeches about "America's Promise" and the vitality of the "American Dream" and none of it resonates with me. They fall hard and ring hollow. American Dream? America's Promise? Don't give me that. I've worked hard, have been saddled with an albatross of debt to be the first in my family to attend University, but I've seen moments where my tenacity and inquisitiveness stood for nothing against someone whose Daddy had a friend in X office to make a call so that Jr. or Jane could get that prime job. Opportunity is not always about effort. More often than not it's about proximity to power and access. No politician will ever tell you that, but they know it. Deep down, they know it to be the truth.

On less serious notes, it amused the shit out of me to hear the sistahs in the crowd during Obama's speech yelling things like, "That's RIGHT!" and "YEAH! YEAH!" Nice. But whose fucking idea was it to play a COUNTRY song after Obama's speech? And why did Obama not actually SAY Dr. King's name. He invoked Dr. King's memory, but didn't have the courage to say his name. Why? Perhaps that is my cynicism rearing its ugly head again.

I promise that future blogs will not be so political. I attribute this change in tone to the fact that my hour long bus rides to work have left me plenty of time for reading and rumination, so politics has worked its way into my head. But sometimes I think about sex. Maybe I'll blog about that more. Would you like to know fabulous sex is with yours truly?

Ok. I'll stop.

Not about me.

2008-08-24T18:18:00.001-07:00

Joe Biden? Really?

I'll admit that I have never been caught up in Obama-rama. I think he's just like every other politician. I'm too old for idealism and have long since ceased to believe that people in positions of power care what happens to me or my ilk. Ivy League educations, corporate credentials, and wads of Benjamins are the only things that seem to matter these days, all of which are inaccessible to me. I've had many an individual say things to me like, "But don't you think it's significant for us to have a chance to choose such an eloquent, intelligent leader?" No. I don't. I think it's sad that we've become so used to mediocre leaders with lackluster curiosity and intelligence so that when a candidate is actually not an idiot like our current Commander in Chief, the world sees it as an exceptional opportunity. I would hope that citizens would always seek to install leaders with the presence of mind to function as compassionate, intelligent citizens of the world. We should aspire to elect leaders who can respect the sanctity of high national office, but simultaneously perform as our effective and pragmatic global participant and representative.

It feels as though Obama proved himself to be just another politician in choosing Joseph Biden as his running mate. Did I want him to pick Hilary? Nope. I just think there was an opportunity to really shake things up, really transform the tenor of elections in this country, present this nation with a platform and ticket primed to lead our country in new direction with fresh vision and new ideas. Joseph Biden doesn't represent any of those things. He's been a senator for more than 30 years and is the quintessential Washington insider. Selecting Biden was a concession to the most pronounced claim made by Republicans: Obama lacks experience. And because politics, like any game, involves strategic presentation, Obama is hoping to have suppressed that whole "experience" question by bringing in a long-time Washington Senator. It only seems to have drawn more attention to the issue. Apparently, it was one of great concern for him and his campaign. So much so that they have drained their campaign of any genuine vibrancy.

I went to The New York Times web site to read the reactions of readers regarding Obama's choice and read some painfully idiotic commentary. One would think that a reader of The New York Times would be someone with a smidgen of intelligence and capacity for logical commentary. One reader actually wrote that he believed that Obama-Biden were sure to be a ticket for the terrorists as "See how close it is to Osama bin Laden?!?" Yes. These people vote. They don't have much time for thinking, but they do vote.

About me.

2008-08-24T18:13:00.000-07:00

I wish I could say that it's nice to be working again, and really mean it. This job is like every other job—a pointless diversion. But I really want money. I really need money. I could share how much money is in my bank account, but the patheticness of such a revelation is too much for me to bear. I'll continue to show up to work. The people I work with are bizarre. They take their jobs too seriously. People, we're not doctors! We offer screen printing service to companies! It's not life or fucking death! Calm thee down! Whatever. I ain't sweatin' those hos! Sadly, I've already been told by one of my co-workers that I may not want to “try too hard” as some people perceive such efforts to be grandstanding. Ridiculous.

My goal is to save and live like a miser. I have no desire to go out more than I have to, or spend any time outside of home if it's not necessary. Once I start getting paid my only goal will be to find a nice six-pack or bottle of Cabernet and make my way home every night for a bubble bath or movie.

I made the mistake of attending a free Yelp event on Friday night, thinking that doing so I might meet some nice people and find a proverbial silver lining in the fact that I am, once again, in a city that I hate. This is my home town, but it is still a city I have learned is not much of a city. The free booze at the event was nice. I got to dance drunk. Other than that, I felt like I was in high school again. And I hated high school. What's more, some drunk jack ass came up to me, courtesy of one of the alcohol sponsors, to talk to me about the wonderful free rum (rum I didn't drink), and how great it is that it's made here in our own home! Whoopdee-fucking-doo! I looked him straight in the eye and said, “So what?” He was drunk, drunker than me. “What do you mean, 'So what?' Everything from here is the shit, man! We're the shit!” I shook my head. “Have you ever lived anywhere but this shitty little wannabe city?” “Why would I want to, it's the shit!” And that is one of many reasons why I can't wait to leave this provincial little hole again.

I keep having dreams about San Francisco and Oakland. Really. I have had dreams where I am alone, walking along the Bay; dreams where I am sitting in a BART train with no special destination; dreams where I am at TO1's house having dinner and drinks; dreams where I am at the Paramount theatre in Oakland watching Jenna, my best friend, dance again . . . I miss California. But I'm 100% positive that I won't end up back in California for anything other than visits. I want more of the world. I need to see more, I need to experience more, and then, we'll see where I stand.

Otherwise, I just am.

Is this thing on?

2008-08-18T18:07:00.000-07:00

I have been hiding the fact that my father is dead. I have hid this from myself.

I am angry at him.

But then again I am glad he didn't know me. I have proven myself to be a profound disappointment in all supposedly significant venues. Life, love, career--all a failure.

It's convenient that I don't believe in a Heaven or Hell, or the pain would be a prolonged experience.

I'm pretty alone.

I'm pretty lonely.

I enjoyed waking up next to a male . . .

2008-08-16T06:47:00.000-07:00

Granted, he is four years old, picks his nose, and made me watch two hours of dinosaur videos, but he has my heart. He sleeps like a lunatic. I ended up with his knee in my nose at least three times during the night. It was worth it.

My favorite parts of our evening? His informing me that when he was three and "was a little boy" and he didn't know about dinosaurs. While we watched the Walking with Dinosaurs videos there was mention of some type of dune. I repeated the word dune out loud to myself and he proceeded to look at me and say, "Dune is when you are in a cave and someone shuts all of the doors so you can't get out. Then you are duned." I had to think about this. You are doomed. As things calmed down we shared a blanket and watched dinosaurs. I began to fall asleep. I awoke to find him covering me with the blanket and saying, "Tiffany, you are cold and shivering. I'll cover you."

This type of treatment makes up for my inability to locate the more adult variety of male companionship. The kid likes me. I love the kid.

Friday . . . I'm not in love.

2008-08-15T13:29:00.000-07:00

"The ashes, given body by the wind, floated away from me down the river."
-From The Boat by Nam Le

I often feel this way about my memories. They are like ashes in an unexpected wind in that they are impossible to hold on to, but taunting and visible. I set my memories aflame with undeserved longing. My propensity is to mourn loves and lives which were never really mine to experience and lose. Unfortunately, for some of us there is only the deep-seated comfort of illusion. Because I have never truly luxuriated in the pure poetry of unconditional love or unwavering friendship, I maintain a selfish devotion to my self-loathing. I have learned to kill my aspiration, and resign myself to a life draped thick with failure, as it seems to be all I will ever know in this life. And my memories? They are like a cactus shoved through my flesh to pierce the withering thing which passes for my heart. They are a blanket of blades I cover myself with, a blanket which never allows me to forget who I can never become, and how I can never love, or be loved.

Cluck.

2008-08-10T14:26:00.000-07:00

This will not be a blog post. This will be a list. I am not really in the mood for deep exposition. Not really.

Yesterday I spoke to my youngest sister (I have two. One is 10 years younger than I am, the other is 16 years younger. I am the OLD, OLD one). In the course of our meandering conversation I mentioned to her that I felt old because Prince was turning 50 this year. Her response? "I don't know who that is." Egad! Note to self, do not attempt to relate to a 15 year old. I am beyond that stage.
I am trying to drink more water. Again. I go through phases with my water consumption. When I worked for FatHead in San Francisco he saw my desk was covered with bottles of water and said, "New Year's resolution to drink more water or something?" I don't think I hated him at this point. So I probably just said something silly and that was that. Retrospectively, I wish I had said something along the lines of, "Well, I hate this job so much that the only way I can live with the fact that I work for a perverted slime shit like you is to go home and drink a bottle of wine every night! So I need to find a way to stay hydrated." Certainly not me at my wittiest, but I'm curious as to what type of response I would have elicited from FatHead. I don't miss FatHead. Not at all. Another note to self: NEVER WORK FOR ANOTHER FUCKING LAWYER AGAIN!
My sleeping patterns will not right themselves. The only benefit to this? I have seen quite a few interesting Olympic competitions. Handball (which did not involve a wall, not sure why I believed that it would), some kind of female weightlifting, water polo, swimming, some sport where the chicks were hunched over tiny-looking hockey sticks and were chasing a ball, (rather than a hockey puck) basketball, indoor and beach volleyball, and football . . . the REAL kind. Now ask me when I've slept! Quite frankly, I am sick of looking at Michael Phelps. But hot swimmers as a general thing . . . yes, please. When the fuck are the divers coming on???
I have gotten sucked back into Project Runway. A sure sign that I have reached the abyss.
I want to call TO1. I won't. But I want to call him.
I have started a new project for myself. I keep a journal of words for which I don't know the meaning. These are customarily words I encounter while reading or watching intelligent film. Last night I began to type out the words and cut and paste their OED definitions into a Word document. With a library card one can obtain free access to the online OED. I live for that kind of shit. I will make my own dictionary. Sort of. This is what happens when you cannot sleep.
I am spending too much time on the internet reading discussion threads and not looking for work. It just happened. What have I learned? People are fucked up, racist, homophobic, ignorant, and xenophobic. Oh, and they are also atrocious spellers and woefully devoid any capacity to use correct grammar.
I have lost my libido. I went three years without so much as making out with someone. Not even a drunk makeout session. And then I moved to California and (whoa!), I could get laid. I'm not sure what to attribute it to. Perhaps the men there have lower standards, I'm not sure. All I know is that in six months I managed to have more sex than I had had in the entire last three years. TO1 was the only one I wanted more than just sex with; I wanted him. So, of course, I sabotaged it by being . . . me. My heart hurts. A lot. I am not bothered by the prospect of another three sexless years. It's a good thing I masturbate.

I am out of things to type.

To sleep without sleeping . . .

2008-08-06T02:53:00.000-07:00

I woke up at 2am. I'm still up. I don't know if I will sleep any more.

I had dreams about Mr. TO1. We were actors. We starred in bad commercials together. And I was in love with him, but I could always tell he wanted me far away. He didn't need me. But I kept needing him.

In six months I won't think about him as much. I look forward to this possibility, because thinking about him hurts my heart and makes my eyes hurt.

In the words of Ryan Adams, "I ain't even been a good enough to ever keep around."

So it was with past friends, lovers, and even my father. When will I learn?

Maybe in the next life?

The Results of Job Interview #1,686,102,687,980,465

2008-08-05T15:08:00.000-07:00

Yeah, that's right. I had an interview today. Actually, I had TWO fucking interviews today. Now ask me if anything significant came out of either encounter! Go ahead . . . (in my best Smiths' chorus), 'ASK ME, ASK ME, ASK ME!!!"

A complete and total waste of my fucking time.

One position: An invoice clerk. Glamorous, I know. It is what it sounds like. I would have had the opportunity to sit on my ass for eight hours a day inputting information from a stack of invoices, preparing those invoices for a shipping floor, contacting customers when their orders arrive, and repeating as necessary. I could do this kind of job in my sleep. I probably could have done this kind of job as a toddler. So, I show up for the interview at 10 am, which is significant due to a couple of factors, one of which is the fact that my sleeping patterns have been so fucked up that my moon is the sun and my sun is the moon. Wait, I just realized how New Agey and bizarre that sounded, but you get the point, right? Moving on. I fall asleep at 9 in the morning sometimes, wake up at 2, stay up until 4am, and then just get lost in the whole ordeal.

I went to this interview sleep-deprived and wickedly out of sorts. Perhaps this is the usual result when one suffers from depression induced insomnia. Beats me.

The interview lasts five minutes. He asks me if I can type. Yes. Can you enter information into a database? Check! Feels promising, until I hear, "Well, I'm not going to bullshit you, Tiffany. I interviewed a girl about an hour before you got here, and I'm probably going to give her the job."

THEN WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING SITTING IN THIS FUCKING OFFICE WHEN I COULD BE SLEEPING?????

There is no way to describe the sensations that coursed through my body upon hearing this. Anger? Resignation? Frustration? I couldn't tell you. Part of me wanted to beg.

"FOR FUCK'S SAKE MAN!!!! I'll bet you my typing can make that other bitch grow hair on her tits! 11,500 ksph, 96WPM--ALL BY TOUCH!!! JUST GIVE ME A FUCKING JOB!!!"

I did not do this. Instead, I smiled my best large, fake smile and thanked him for meeting with me.

After writing this I'm not even sure I want to relive the experience of the second interview. It was a "College" of Traditional Chinese Medicine.

I might start considering prostitution. I mean, I saw Hookers On Point and I'm sure I can demand more than the $10.00 a BJ which was apparently the going rate on the program. Besides, we're in the throes of burgeoning recession. Surely that would permit a rate increase . . . right?

There is no silver lining.

4 August 2008

2008-08-03T21:58:00.001-07:00

That means it has officially been two months since my father died. It also means I have been 31 for two months. That's correct. My father died on my day of birth. And I had a complicated, serrated, difficult relationship with my father. I loved him. I loved him dearly, but I also lost him to his weaknesses. I spend a lot of time crying because I can't remember what it was that tore us asunder. How did I lose him? I am realizing that we are very similar. Too similar.

My father was found dead behind a dumpster at a construction site in a shitty Texas town. He was a drunk, a druggie, and destitute. I'm moving down the same path myself. The only difference between the two of us is that I acquired a more extensive vocabulary and wasted four years of my life on a bullshit document. I have even had moments where I have thought it might be worth my time to go after yet another bullshit document. But that passes. I will probably end up in the same position as he did. Dead. Alone. Pathetic. But thank God I won't leave any angry children. Yes, I'm angry. I'm very pissed off at him. He gave up. I'm giving up, but how beautiful it may have been to have had a model of persistence and endurance. I shouldn't say that. I have that in my mother. But even she is too good for me.

I can't wait to leave this life.

Things I miss about TO1...

2008-08-03T02:54:00.000-07:00

Brain
Voice
Smile
Incessant smoking
Cooking
Humor
Anger
Smell
Snoring
Dancing
Opinions
Stories
Hair . . . to pull.
Twilight Zone dolls
Dodger
Coffee
Robes
Kisses
Care Bear alarm
Bloody Marys
Mimosas
Scottish Accents
The Falcon
Blue eyes

I just miss you.

"I ain't got no money . . . I ain't like those other gals you hang around . . ."

2008-08-02T16:58:00.000-07:00

I really don't have any money. At all. *sigh*

But I did get a small infusion of cash from a one-day temporary assignment. And because I am a woman who knows her priorities, I used a good portion of it to go out and get fucking wasted! Unfortunately there are nothing but douche bags in the bars here. If you drink enough you can almost forget they exist, but not quite.

I began at the bar so as to watch Sportscenter (yes, I am one of those women), but once the super swarm of douches began I moved to the outdoor patio in the back yard. The disastrous and depressing nature of my reality struck me so hard that I did something I promised I would not: I bummed a cigarette.

T: "Hi, if I promise not to bother you again for as long as you live, do you think I could bum a cigarette from you?"

Nice Man (with a face like 10 year old!): "You can bother me all you want, and sure."

Hands me the cigarette, lights it for me, and I return to my table.

I work on finishing my Barleywine. Not as tasty as I would have liked, but they were out of my favorite IPA. I was so twisted hammered at this point that it hardly made any difference. Oh and what about my bus? Wasn't I supposed to catch the last bus? Fuck it. There's nothing like public transportation and drunkenness. Ask me how many times I rode the TransBay bus back to Oakland from The City wicked wasted? I once rode the TransBay bus home sober after a night out. I'm pretty sure that the driver and I were the only sober people on the bus (but I could have been mistaken as I had boarded many a bus in Oakland upon which I was greeted with the sweet herbal smell of . . . stuff, and there were no other people on the bus except the driver, and the driver was a bit too mirthy and cheerful. At least more cheerful than bus drivers in Oakland usually are, but I digress). Anyway, being sober on a TransBay bus is fun shit. You look around and feel like you're in a Night of the Living Dead movie. Everyone is slack-eyed, slurring their speech, and on the verge of falling asleep. And yes, sometimes vomit happens. Not cool.

So I was at the douche bag bar last night having realized that I missed my direct bus and was probably going to end up riding the owl bus home drunk. Not necessarily a bad thing, except for the fact that it meant I'd still have about 1 mile to walk because the public transportation here sucks hairy donkey balls. It's shit.

Instead, I thought I'd return to the Boy-Man who gave me the cigarette and ask for another. He appeared to be sitting alone and when I'm drunk I like to talk, talk, and talk. But mostly I just wanted another ciggy.

He was a nice boy. He endured my drunken diatribes about men, the suckworthiness of my hometown, the heat, and whatever else it was I may have pretended to have some knowledge about. I don't know. I was too drunk to care.

At the end of the night he offered me a ride home! And then he gave me a lecture about how I needed to realize my life is not nearly as bad as I believed it to be. I wanted to punch him in the nose.

WHAT DO YOU KNOW???? YOU'RE A KID!!!! You're a kid, you've got your whole life ahead of you! You don't know what it's like to live my shit of a life!!!

I suppressed the urge to engage in such an unfair display. Instead, propelled by the power of booze, I told him he was "sweet" and kissed him. Like REALLY kissed him. Ahem. I have no idea what the fuck I was thinking. I didn't even find him attractive. I mean, he was 25 to my 31 and had a face like a 10 year old. And well, I'm not even over Mr. TO1. More about him in another blog. I guess I kissed Boy Man so that Mr. TO1. wouldn't be the last man I had kissed.

I woke up this morning wanting to see Mr. TO1. more than anything. But why waste time thinking about someone who is not thinking about you . . . again. Will I ever learn?

It's not for everyone.

2008-07-30T21:41:00.001-07:00

Life that is. It's not for everyone.

Things I love about the internet . . .

2008-07-29T22:10:00.000-07:00

You really can find anything on the net. Anything. I've been looking for information on the most efficient ways to commit suicide. Yes, that's right. I am very interested in the subject. I'm not sure how soon I'd go about it, if only because it bothers me to think I'd upset my mother a bit. It only bothers me a little. I am slowly getting to the point where even her feelings don't influence me. I used to say that if my mother weren't alive, I'd do it. I'd do it without hesitation. I'd probably say screw the fact that there might be pain, step in front of an oncoming 18-wheeler and be done with it. My mother will be fine. She has people in her life who would take good care of her and hopefully help her understand that I am much better off dead than alive. I have not contributed one thing to this world. Not one. I am 31 years old and have nothing to show for who I am. I'm alone, I'm unemployed, in debt up to my eyeballs, and have no prospect for even the sorriest of jobs. I can't even get McDonald's to call me back for an interview. What does that say to you?

I'm ready to be done with this life. I don't want to be here (alive, on Earth, whatever) any more. I just have to figure out how to do it, where to do it, and when to do it.

I'm so tired of pretending I want to be here. I hope it's black. I hope it's really dark, empty, and less scary than life. Please let it be.

Doldrums.

2008-07-28T16:43:00.000-07:00

I am bored.

I am so, so, so, so, so, so bored.

I don't want to be.

I feel numb to everything.

I wish someone would accidentally hit me with their car.

This will be a blog about a boy . . . or a man.

2008-07-25T10:53:00.000-07:00

I have not blogged in a while. In almost six months to be exact. A lot has happened to me. Most of it bad. But we won't talk about all of the bad stuff, only the bad stuff I want to talk about. What kind of bad stuff do I want to talk about? I want to talk about liking and loving and everything in between. No, not really everything, but a few of the things.

I fell in love with a man in less than a week. More like three days. Do you believe that's possible? I didn't. I'm a pessimist when it comes to those kinds of things, so why would I believe that it were truly possible, especially for a woman like me. Well, it happened. It happened and it scared the shit out of me. So I did what I do best, I pushed him away. Far, far away. I pushed him away by telling him the truth about me: I hate myself. I've always hated myself. I will probably always hate myself. I don't always want to hate myself. It's just part of who I am. I'm good at hating myself. I've never had any real reasons to love myself. And so, when I needed to learn to love myself, so that I could finally get what I wanted from someone else, I couldn't do it. I ruined it with my insecurities and self-hate and bullshit. And now I can't stop thinking about him.

It's hard not to be sensitive to slights . . .

2008-02-02T23:57:00.000-08:00

I don't put much faith in things. Especially people. People are not interested in your feelings. At least, they have never been interested in my feelings. It's the worst thing imaginable to be so expendable to the world. I'm learning to care less about keeping people in my life and am more interested in learning the secret to forgetting people in my life. There are notable exceptions. My mother is pretty much indispensable. Otherwise, I ignore the hurt in my heart and pretend I don't need, don't feel, and don't want. It doesn't really work, but what choice have I in the matter?

I am not enjoying all of this rain. It's relentless. On top of that it makes my feet cold. Rather, my feet are cold because my feet are always wet. I hate being sick and this kind of weather is exactly what makes me sick. Literally and figuratively.

I'm tired of talking about my life. There is nothing going on in it, and truth be told, there's really no point to my life.

So let's talk about politics.

I've been spending a bit of time contemplating who I will vote for in Tuesday's California primary. When I was younger I was profoundly fascinated and excited by politics. Actually, I refused to call what followed politics, but aspired to a higher level of activity and almost alway said I was hoping to locate statesmanship or public service in the guise of our elected officials. I had an almost perverse, unhealthy interest in CSPAN throughout my University years. I was addicted to the channel. Absolutely addicted. It was the only thing I liked more than food or books. I remember being a little girl and actually watching the hearings of the Iran-Contra scandal. What eight year old does this? I've always been strange. I have a very real feeling that we're on the cusp of a very significant political moment. There is the potential for a monumental transformation in the way we allow our nation to be perceived. The right leader can send the right message. History can be made with this election. But I want more than just history, I want a robust, genuine, honest vision which is concerned with defining the priorities of our country in such a way as to again inspire people to seek to become engaged in the process of government. I want to know that one of the current presidential candidates understands there is a vacuum, a very real void, which will require the articulation of a grand, practical vision enlisting us all to do more than just believe in the power of the American Idea, but to do our part on the most minute of levels to see this Idea come to pass. No one should want a continuation of the Bush Administration's "It's Our Way or Get the Hell Out of the Way" brand of politicking. It is indeed a time for a personality which can bridge a variety of the ever-widening chasms we've allowed to erupt. Whether the inequalities be those of wealth, education, or access, the time has come to find someone with the guts to acknowledge these rifts and call upon us to conscientiously tread the path toward the discovery of solutions. I don't think for an instant I'll see solutions in my lifetime, but I would like to feel I lived during a period when the cynicism was finally outweighed by a glowing sense of unabashed optimism. Not in any Age of Aquarius-type of way, but again, just in a way that says, "I can care about what happens to people and I elect leaders who do as well." So, as a woman of biracial lineage I find I am very torn when it comes to my choice this Tuesday. A woman in the White House? Part of me says, "Yes! It's about damn time!" But then there is that other part of me, the African-American/Latina who says, "But what a marvelous healing moment it would be to know that we'd gone from an enslaving nation, to a nation willing to elect a descendant of slaves to its highest offices." I wave off the symbolism, and hope I will be able to make a decision, not based on my desire to see grounds broken, but on my desire to see someone, at last, do good in the name of my country.

In six months . . .

2008-01-04T21:39:00.000-08:00

I will turn 31. In exactly six months to this date.

This feeling frightens me so.

I moved to California for a fresh start; for the possibility of renewal. Something, anything, or maybe just one thing . . . positive. Thus far, that has not happened. I am just as, if not more, despondent here in California than I was before I moved here from Texas. I have lost friends, been hurt by people I thought could be friends (or more), and find no comfort in anything but books and bottles. Unfortunately, they don't always go well together. I'm not sure what it is I'm doing anymore.

I'm getting old. I'm inadequate. Age will only make me more inadequate. I hate being so mediocre, but it seems the world won't allow me to be much else.

Screw MySpace . . .

2008-01-03T13:43:00.000-08:00

While I'm happy to be rid of my MySpace profile I don't hasten to admit my addiction for the narcissistic glee which comes with posting one's woes on a daily basis. But here I know I have the luxury of anonymity. No one will find me. Mostly because no one is looking for me.

I am at my most despondent. I feel worse now than I have in a long time. I feel used, lied to, and as always, inadequate. Not good enough for much of anything.

I forewarn any who stumble upon this blog. For as long as I am around, it will be used for lamentations and at other times it will burst with brilliance. Or so I will tell myself. I like to share insights on political happenings, my readings, and my generally diminishing opinion of the human animal. And I also just like to rant. So don't expect too much. It is, after all, a blog.