Wish You Were Here!

What fun – I took acid last night!

Only a tiny bit, and it worked, although it was mostly a body buzz.  The come down was the same (spine tingling, jaw grinding, noises and tracers galore), and it was glorious.

During the trip, I got to see the incredible art of a crazy man (you have to be stone cold crazy to be as talented as that, normal perspectives just don’t cut it), I hopped into a public pool with some friends, I drank beer until dawn, and then I ate some pancakes before sleeping for two or three hours.

And, when I was walking home this morning, I got caught up in this fantastic thunderstorm which soaked me all the way down, I ran into someone I knew along the way, I almost got run over by a jerk in a white SUV(I slapped his ugly ride and called him a bad name!), and someone rode past me on their bike and called me beautiful, which I could hear even through my headphones.

Now, I am home, still damp but changed out of my drippy-trippy-last-night-sundress, coffee in hand, bed waiting patiently.

I Was Right About the Tam Tams: Retarded!

I went to Montreal this weekend.

First time ever, and I performed in a show at the Just For Laughs Museum.  It was for some thing called Cirque de Boudoir, and it had some sort of robots and dolls theme.  My performance with Christabel is not in the Cirque photo gallery, so don’t bother looking.

But we were good.

I started off in one of Chris’ inflatable costumes, which promptly deflated, and then I climbed out wearing a tear-away Alice in Wonderland dress, which I then also stripped out of, revealing a stiff metallic bikini top and lacy undies.  I grew my bush extra big for the lacy undies.

There was a bunch of naked people backstage, as well as free beer and vodka, so we were well taken care of, and by taken care of, I mean drunk and ogling.

After we drank them out of beer and vodka, we went back to Chris’ hotel, where we smoked some pot that someone had left behind, and then I staggered back to my own hotel room, trying not to wake my insomnia prone mother (who was totally still awake).

The rest of my trip was not terribly interesting; it involved a lot of indecision over maple syrup candy (didn’t buy any), some sunburn, and a lot of television, after the rain forced us inside.

Montreal is pretty, but I could never live there.  Too many skinny hot chicks and not nearly enough hot guys to balance it out.  So I’m happy to be back in the big smoke, where the chicks are fat, and the plaid wearing foxes are plentiful.  I never thought I’d miss Queen West.

Uphill Both Ways

Good god, there’s a cat outside my window, making the scariest noises.

Cat in heat?

Maybe some sort of territorial dispute?

When did I stop having a social life?

Seriously, I’ve spent the bulk of the summer either here, or laid out on my couch.

I hate when I do that.  I get bored, like I am right now, and this particular type of boredom seeps into my every waking moment, so that I’m constantly unhappy with whatever I’m doing.  Or not doing, as the case may be.  Because it’s not like I’m actually making any effort to go out and do something.  Under these circumstances, doing things is like some kind of medieval torture; it actually fucking hurts.

I only go out when I have to work, and then I come home and communicate solely through this infernal device.  I talk to other people who spend too much time at home, who are probably as bored as I am, and who probably hate their boredoms as much as I hate mine.

And I don’t know how to stop these boredom ruts, they tend to come and go as they please.  Which sucks because that means that I don’t have any control over them.  They get under my skin, and I get itchy, and I get a bad taste in my mouth, and I get jittery, and I get so that I can’t do anything anymore.

This itchy summertime boredom.  Fuck.

Emotional Scars, Recorded for My Viewing Pleasure

I was reading my high school diary.

It fucking rocked!  Even back then I was awesome.  Less awesome than I am now, but well on my way.

I sure did like them boys a lot.  And from what I read, they liked me back just fine.  Damn, I had boyfriends coming out my a- oh never mind.  And I had no idea at the time.

So anyway, it was interesting to see my entire adolescent life passing by, page after page.  All of those tortured nights and neurotic days seemed so significant at the time, and yet, I can only remember bits and pieces.

I skipped over the embarrassing parts, like whenever I got dumped for being too crazy, and would react by saying or doing something crazy.  Like crying, or yelling, or barfing, or phoning in the middle of the night, or showing up in the middle of the night, banging on the back door while the guy was in the shower.

Did you know I actually had to seek professional help because of one boyfriend?  My first love, who, after dumping my sorry ass, decided that it would be a great idea to fall in love with one of my friends; the friend who looked like a super model and had no scruples in regards to dating her friend’s ex boyfriend.  I asked them to please not do so, as it was breaking my fragile heart, but they chose to ignore my requests.  My relationship with this dude lasted about two months, their relationship lasted two years, so I guess their whole “We’re in love” crap was somewhat authentic.

People really suck sometimes.

But I learned a valuable lesson from that experience:  Psychologists are useless.  It was all empty platitudes and Blame the Parents.  I got better of my own volition.

Beach Blanket Buggerall

I dreamed last night that I was watching a teen sitcom.

It took place on a beach, but the set design was super cheap.  You could tell that it was filmed inside; the lighting was horrid.  And I shouldn’t even get into the casting, but the girl they had playing the role of the hot bimbo was fat, butchy and covered in pimples.  However, she was blonde, and wearing a Hawaiian shirt, so it went well enough with the theme.

I guess my dreams don’t have much of a budget for sitcoms.  I’ll try to do something about that.  Lobby the CEO or something.  I don’t even know where to go with that request, truth be told.

Anyhow, the scene that I watched in my dream involved some sort of potion that could make someone smarter when it was sprayed directly in the face.

The characters took turns spraying the smart potion in people’s faces, with hilarious results.  The climax of the joke was when the bimbo of the show said something stupid and, after being sprayed with the potion, said the exact same stupid thing again.

There was even a laugh track.

I See Why People Build Walls

It seems that happy couples are bothering me once again.

I thought I’d grown immune to giving a shit about the romantic successes of others.

I wasn’t happy or unhappy, I was just not part of that world of achieving romantic gratification from the words and arms of others. And I was fine with it, for the most part. I was fine with my imaginary boyfriends and my masturbatorial prowess. Sure, I was lonely, and I’d assumed that I’d meet someone special at some point, but I wasn’t hurting, no more than what my usual emotional roller coaster provided, anyway.

And now it’s back. Whenever I see some happy twosome wandering hand in hand down the street, loving each other, enjoying each other, appreciating the funny little quirks of each other, I feel like I should be wearing a sandwich board advertising my inevitable FAILURE.

Like I should chastise myself for even considering the idea that someone could actually enjoy my company enough to expend that sort of energy and emotion on the likes of me.

As it turns out, no.  I still don’t deserve the love.

Fuck, I should have known better. And now all I want is to go back to where I was before, when all I’d dated were casual jerks like myself, and when relationships that involved actual emotion were a thing of the past.

But I can’t go back.

I made the decision to actually allow my feelings be known to myself and to another. I trusted, and I got hurt.

Oh well, what’s done is done and I have to at least try to learn something from this. Hopefully something that will make me wiser without making me more bitter.

Currently, I’m balancing on the brink of bitterness, and it feels like it would be so much easier to just let go and fall in.

Maybe I could stop feeling once and for all.

Because this whole “feeling” thing really kinda sucks these days.

Shedding It

Fuck it.

There are so many bigger things in this world than my small and pointless angst. There’s death and pestilence and birth and love, for goodness sake.

There is the best feeling I’ve ever been lucky enough to experience. Which is realizing that I don’t want to be anywhere else, anytime else, anyone else. This has happened to me twice so far, and I consider myself lucky to even have that. To notice it in the first place, when it was happening, while so many people never get to be aware of that moment.

This right here, right now, although the exact opposite of the best feeling I’ve ever been lucky enough to experience, is still fleeting.

As fleeting as the good.

I don’t know if this makes me feel better or worse.

Itchy in Skin

This restlessness has me in a death grip.

There is absolutely nothing I want to do right now, including what I usually enjoy doing when I’m avoiding my responsibilities (dvds of HBO shows, Archie comics, beer with friends).

Wait, there is something, something small nibbling at the back of my head:

The chocolate martini wants to be resurrected.

However, no vodka, no creme de cacao, no dice.

Fuck it. Alcohol would just send me into a bad state of mind anyway. Maybe not. There is beer in the fridge, leftover from last week’s party. Tons.

Having one, just to ease the tightness in my stomach/head/soul/whatever this thing is that’s causing me such angst.

No, never mind, not having one. I’ll stick with the angst, even though it’s doing nothing for me. No enlightenment, no drive, no focus.

Just me and my boiling mind.

Ugh, these nights are the worst.

Grand Prize

Well, this past weekend was certainly a whirlwind of suck.

I worked thirty five hours in three days.  Now, I’m of the opinion that one shouldn’t even attempt thirty five hours of waitressing in a week, let alone in three days.  It’s a difficult job, and requires a lot of down time.  Why?  Because generally, people are assholes, and if you subject yourself to thirty five hours of people in three days, you will definitely experience a lethal exposure to assholery.

For example, I got yelled at because we didn’t offer a fucking soup combo on our menu.  Yes, yelled at.  And then she accused ME of having an attitude problem, even though she was the one having a menopausal  temper tantrum over our menu selection.

Here’s some advice to those of you who have never been in a restaurant before:

The menu is not conceptual.  It is what the restaurant offers.  You pick something from it, or you go away.  It is not the fault of the waitress that they don’t have what you want, and it is not your right to scream like a banshee when your request for special treatment is denied.  You want the waitress to give you special treatment?  You slip her twenty bucks.  Or you mind your fucking manners and you go somewhere else.

Ugh.

So yes, I worked thirty five hours in three days.  I also am suffering through a ridiculous insomniatic spree that involves not only being incapable of falling asleep within a reasonable amount of time, but waking up just before dawn, and staying awake for several hours more.  Sunrises, incidentally are quite breathtaking, but fuck, do I ever miss sleeping.

And to top it all off, I got home last night, all drunk and high and ready to kill this weekend of pain, to discover that I’d been dumped.  Via email, no less.  I’d thought that I’d been handling it quite well, but sadly, it was only the drink and the drugs in my system.  Once they wore off (about half an hour ago), I realized that I was upset about being dumped.  Amazingly, I do have feelings, and they do get damaged when someone I like decides they don’t want to be near me anymore.

Damn, that was a hell of a weekend.  Whatever did I do to deserve all that torture at once?  I suppose it’s better to cram it all into one compact period of time, but really, I feel like I spent the past few days getting chewed up, digested and shat out into a filthy, old-timey outhouse.

So I’m looking forward to some aversion therapy in the form of buying frivolous material goods, and burying my face in the handsome crotch of a younger man.

Looney Poons

I have a beef.

People always weigh the merits of dating hot chicks versus mediocre chicks and the answer INVARIABLY comes up the same:

Better to have a homely-yet-sane girlfriend than a hot-but-crazy one.

Fuck.

As a certifiable crazy-and-sometimes-hot-but-aging-at-an-alarming-rate chick (if there is such a category, I may have just blazed my own trail on that one), I have to let it be known that I am offended by this all too common theme.

What’s wrong with crazy chicks? And what qualifies as crazy? I do fly off the handle and have been known to act inappropriately at times. Not boil-the-pet inappropriate, or one thousand voicemail messages per day kind of crazy (like I have nothing better to do with my crazy time), but I have my moments.

Hmm. . .

I can’t think of any examples right now, but I have, in the past, and likely future too, been dumped for being too “intense” (crazy), too “emotional” (crazy), too “unique” (crazy).

And what the fuck am I supposed to do about that? I’m crazy, so what? Why do I have to be avoided and exiled simply because I am different from your run-of-the-mill soccer moms and Sex and the City twits ? I emote more, I argue more, I flail more, and I get angry about intangible theory more than the average person, big fucking deal.

Why are people always looking for the safest route through life? Why not try something new and exciting? Maybe you’ll like the change of atmosphere. Maybe you’ll learn something. Hell, maybe you’ll discover the cure for ennui after spending an afternoon chatting with a hot-but-crazy chick. You’re sure as hell not going to find that cure by sitting around bitching about crazy chicks on an internet forum, which is how I got inspired to write this stupid post in the first place ( Hot-But-Crazy Lesson #1 crazy people are capable of finding inspiration in the most mundane environments. Regular people, not so much).

And really, I suppose the pendulum swings both ways, because I have also been known in my time to dump guys for being too “unopinionated” (boring), too “opinionated” (boring), too “ugly” (BORING!).

Maybe we could just call it a draw: You’re all boring, and I’m batshit crazy.

But still sometimes hot. And just you wait until I stop being hot, that’s when the crazy really starts to fly.