About me.

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?

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 . . .

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.

"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.

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 . . .

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

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.

Things I miss about TO1...

• 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 . . ."

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?

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

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 . . .

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.