And the hits just keep on comin' . . .

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!

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.

Bong Rips for Michael Phelps!

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.

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 . . . "

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.

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.

Happy Birthday . . .

. . . 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.

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

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.

Incredible.

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?

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.

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.