I Suck At Life

Okay, that title may be a little over the top, but still. Look at me, fer christsakes! I read several blogs on a daily basis, and find myself mildly pissed when the bloggers don't update on a daily basis. And yet I barely manage to update every few months. Seriously, I suck.

Anyway, I have plenty to say about how much my job sucks and people piss me off and shit, but I've had about a bottle of wine at this point and I feel it would be a better thing for me to post later. When I'm sober. IF I'm sober. At some point. In the near future.

I apologize for totally fucking up my grammer and sentance structure. My freshman English teacher, Mrs. Bailey, is having a stroke right now. Seriously.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

Oh my good lord I've been gone along time. "Gone" from my blog, that is. I don't know what happened, yo. Crazy summer? Frequent drunkeness? Brain injury that resulted in the loss of my ability to form complete words and/or sentances? Untimely escape of the house-monkey that used to write my blog for me? Well, half of those are true, anyway. I'll leave you to guess which two are correct.

So, let's see, where was I?

Everyone told me that summer was slow in Portland. The college kids are gone, and the weekend douche-bag crowd goes down to Old Orchard Beach to douche it up every weekend. Everyone kept telling me, but I didn't exactly understand how a bar in a city could ever reeeeeally be slow. Yeah, well. It was slow. Painfully slow. Get-out-of-work-at-7pm-on-a-Saturday-night-with-$30-in-your-pocket kind of slow. After spending my savings purchasing the new used car to replace the old used car, I pretty much thought I'd be living in said car before long. Summer was stressful.

But it was also a shitload of fun. I pretty much figured, "fuck, if I work I'm not going to make any money anyway, so I might as well take time off and enjoy myself." So I did just that, working more weekday shifts (when the small number of staff resulted in more money than usual) and took more weekends off (when the massive number of staff resulted in splitting three quarters, a fuzzy bit of pocket lint, and a wint-o-green tic tac between my fellow bartenders). I got to see my Boy every week and do lots of fun summery things. Although none of those things included my favorite summer past time, going to the beach, because the ocean water IS FUCKING COLDER THAN FUCK IN MAINE! Oooo kay. I feel better now.

The end of summer was not as terrible as it usually is for me, because I have been very much looking forward to fall and winter activities this year. When I think back to last fall, at how terrified I was about my move to Maine... whether it was a massive mistake.... whether my Boy and I were going to work it all out with the distance... what the hell I was going to do with my life... It all seems like some kind of unsettling dream that I can't shake off. It seems odd and out of place with the direction my life is moving in now. I'm in love and he's in love and we're in love (retch! retch! we're so gross! seriously.) I'm figuring a way into grad school next year for my masters and eventually, gulp, a real job. And I'm planning a move to somehow lessen the distance between me and the old man so I don't go completely insane and talk to my cats any more than I already do.

And most of all?

I'm getting a new fricken summer job.

I Hate Spam

Spamming people's blog comments is ghetto, man. Don't worry, I fixed it.

And also,

Hi.

I think I might start writing in this thing again soon.

Sweet.

Long Time No Read

Due to many life dramas, including a gut-wrenchingly painful loss of internet for a few weeks, I kinda fell off the radar huh? Well, long story short, life is good, Lucidgrrl is happy, money is tight, and loved ones are all good. I'll fess up more later, including a surreal trip to Vegas, but for now I'll leave you with this:

My friend Nick posted this on his LiveJournal, and I have been ordered to post it here, lol. I'm not sure whether I write one for him here, or on his page.. hrrm, I'm not good at blogger etiquette. In any case, here is what Nick wrote about me.

01. Reply with your name and I will write something about you.
Hard-crusted landpirate with a soft, squishy inside (Yarrr.)

02. I will then tell what reminds me of you.
A margarita sitting on a bar.

03. If I were to apply a song, it would be...
15 Men on a Dead Man's Chest

04. I will try to name a single word that best describes you.
Hmm...Crustacean.

05. I'll tell you the most memorable moment I've had with you.
That long walk home from cast partying. Whoo!

06. I'll then tell you something that I've always wondered about you.
Why you were the only girl who didn't flirt with me during Anne Frank. I mean,
honestly, what the hell. (See, this is how distorted things get in my head :-)

07. Put this in your journal.
(I guess you'd have to officially add me to your friend's list thingee, huh).

Upswing

It seems like a million years has gone by in a week. This time last week, I was a big ball of confusion-- what the hell happened Saturday night? What did our conversation mean? Was he drunk and upset and saying things he didn't mean just to hurt me? Or was this just how he felt and it was finally coming to the surface? Last Monday night, while he was at work, I left him a message. "I have Wednesday through Saturday off, and there's a possibility I could get someone to work for me on Sunday too... but I'm not sure you even want to see me this week. I don't know what's going on." He called back as soon as he was done at work to tell me he did want to see me, and he was sorry about Saturday night. That he had no business calling me when he was that drunk and upset about something that had nothing to do with me. We agreed that with all the talking and not seeing each other over the past four weeks, that we needed to just see each other already, and the rest would work itself out. I got out of work on Tuesday night and I just couldn't stay away a moment longer. I broke my no-driving-at-night-in-my-beat-up-shitbox-that-could-break-down-at-any-second rule and drove up Nawth at 10'o'clock at night. He was standing outside the bar, smoking when I walked up around midnight. And I just melted into him. We stood on the sidewalk that way for a while, talking about meaningless shit and holding each other. He explained his drama. His eyes glistened with tears when he told me how far gone his grandfather was, what hurtful things the old man had said to his father. How he should have told me but didn't. How he shouldn't have let it effect us. He laid it all out there, and I knew from that instant, without a doubt, that things really were going to be different. And then we went home and made up for lost time. And I knew, for the first time, without having to be told, that he loves me. No matter what.

The rest of the weekend was ridiculously fun. We celebrated my 25th birthday in style. We went even farther up Nawth to his family's camp and went fishing. And the way he acted, the way he spoke to me, the way he looked at me... It was like he remembered how to be my boyfriend again. And it broke my heart to leave on Sunday morning, but I left with the warm security of us wrapped around me. No matter what happens, at the end of the day, we just want to lie down next to each other. And no amount of distance or miscommunication or hardship can change that.

And just as bad things happen in my life in groups, good things happen similarly. I'm finally getting the new car I so desperately need, and money's looking good for the time being. And, really, who can be down when spring is spinging and summer's on the way and you just got your Maine resident fishing license?

Certainly not me.
;-)

Click.

It's amazing-- and amazingly simple-- the power of one little button. This morning I woke up and the only way I could make myself feel better was to press that little button and shut that cell phone off. To become unreachable. No one will call me with bad news from home. No one will call me pissed off at the drunken message I left at 2am. No one will be able to let me down any more than they already have. No one will be able to convince me they care and I'm important and things will be better, only to just disappoint me with their... underwhelming lack of gesture or action. I've severed my little life-line, and no one can reach me now. And I may be just technologically sticking my head in the sand. And it may be the least mature and adult thing I've done in a long time. But right now? Well, I really just don't give a shit. I'm hiding out. All with the help of one little button.

Reflection.

I had some sort of mini-nervous break down earlier today, and for some reason it manifested itself in this oddly blonde hair. One moment, I was sitting at my kitchen table, head down, bawling my eyes out over my grocery list and then suddenly it was hours later and I was standing in my bathroom, staring at my (normally red) newly blonde hair. It isn't uniformly blonde, mind you, just all kinds of tow-headed chunks all over the place. It's not bad, just kind of.... disturbing? And I'm just, I guess, slightly puzzled as to why my extreme emotionally aggravated state resulted in blonde hair, is all.

It all started on Friday morning. I was already at 37 hours of work for the week, with two more grueling bar shifts to go, and still stressing about money and cars, etc.. Basically wrapped up in my own stupid problems. My mother called me to chit chat, tell me about the dress she saw for my maid of honor stint for Big Sis's wedding this June... and, oh by the way, your grandma almost passed away last night. On the night of her 95th birthday, my grandma's lungs were so full of fluid from an apparent case of pnemonia that she wasn't expected to make it through the night. They shot her full of morphine, and my mother sat by her bedside and held her hand until the next morning, listening for each ragged wet breath. She pulled through the night, but it's still touch and go. Mum has begun arrainging the Mass and cremation, fearing, I suppose, that she won't be able to pull it together if it's actually needed in the near future.

Saturday night, I got out of work relatively early for me, 7pm, and made plans to see a friend of my Boy's who was down from up Nawth on his way to Boston. He asked me what my Boy was stuck doing this weekend, since he wasn't down in Portland with me. And I had no answer. Why wasn't he down in Portland with me? His night class on Friday was canceled. He had no obligations on Saturday or Sunday. But he never even asked me what my work schedule was, or whether I could get out early or get someone to cover for me. He just sat around his house, hung out with his buddies, went fishing... There I was in a bar in the Old Port on a Saturday night, all of a sudden confronted with something that left me quite shaken. It's one thing, you see, when you keep those little things that bother you to yourself because you fear you might be overreacting... but when some outside observer touches that nerve at random... So I did what any other sane, rational female human being would do.. I got drunk and left him an angry message. I guess angry isn't the right word, though I was livid. I made every effort, even in my intoxication, to keep my tone and word choice in check. More of a, "Hey, I'm at a bar with your friend having a good time and he asked me why I'm at a bar having a good time with him and not you and I couldn't help but wonder.... why is that, exactly?" I left this message around 11pm, and by the time I got home, he still hadn't called me back. Here it is, Monday night, and he still hasn't.

Maybe it's my own fault. Maybe I've bent over backwards to accomodate his schedule so often that he doesn't even feel the need to try anymore. Maybe I make it too easy. Maybe I make it ok for him to grow complacent, knowing that all he has to do is go on about his business and live his life, and this girlfriend will fit herself in wherever she can. I call, I text, I send funny things in the mail, I suprise him with silly tokens of affection, I rearrange my schedule, I switch shifts, I work extra hours, I call in favors, I drive hundreds of miles, I never make demands on his time, I never ask him to not do something in favor of doing something with me, I don't even make the slightest attempt to conceal my feelings. I love him. And he knows it. ..But forget about putting forth the slightest bit of effort to even attempt to come and see me on a whole weekend he has free.. he can't even manage to pick up the phone and call me to see how I'm doing... if I'm ok.. If she's ok...

I suppose drinking beer with his buddies and fishing is more important that any of that.

So this was the state of mind I was in this morning when I found myself sobbing at the kitchen table.. when I was driving to the store, choking on my own tears whispering, "Pull it together, girl, you're in public." ...and here I am, hours later, staring in the mirror at a strange looking blonde girl.

And I feel oddly calm.

Sprung.

There's a pretty sweet festive vibe in old Port-town today-- thanks to the lovely weather, shining sun, and Patriots parade downtown this afternoon. I even heard the first ice cream truck drive through my neighborhood. Maybe I'll flag one down and get a Screwball for old time's sake.

On my way to the bank this morning I stopped by a snuzzy little hipster coffee shop for an espresso-punch-in-the-face and parked behind a beat-up station wagon adorned with the usual collage of dumb bumperstickers. This particular lady had a combo of cat-themed (e.g "The more people I meet, the more I like my cat.") and gay-themed ones. But the one that really cracked me up was a cat-shaped sticker with the rainbow pattern on it. Now, is this in support of gay people who own cats? Or actual gay cats themselves? Curious. Mostly because pet cats are usually fixed, and seem to be pretty asexual. Also, I'm sure there's quite a difference between wild animals' and domestic animals' sexual behaviors-- gay versus prison gay. I mean, maybe Mr. Fluffywinks only starts lookin' awful good to Brutus when he realizes he's never going to see another vagina as long as he lives. Christ, my own boy-kitty tried to do it with his own sister before I had him fixed. I don't think I'm going to jump on the Gay Animal Rights bandwagon too quickly...

I just realized that the teller at the bank accidentally credited my account with $51,100 instead of $511. Think they'll notice? Or maybe they'll just let me keep it? I mean, in Monopoly you get those Community Chest cards that say, "Bank Error in Your Favor! $200!!" This is kinda like that. Right? Am I right?

I'll be sure to make this point with Bank America when they call me tomorrow.

Big Fat Failure.

I got an F today, possibly for the first time in my life. I have a stable full of A's in everything from "19th Century American Lit" to "Law 101" to "Sociology of the Criminal Mind." I even managed to eek out a C+ in "Dealing With Evil In Ancient Babelon," and I never even went to class. Or learned how to spell, "Babelon."
But today, I failed.

My car inspection.

That's right, I am a failure as a car-owner. I failed to psychically know that there was a hole in my exhaust system and that the rod connecting my wheel to the parts that make it go is about to break. I failed to ask the mechanics the last half a dozen times it's been in the shop this year whether there was something else wrong with it. I failed, and now I have to wear my scarlett letter for all the world to see. They took away my pretty green sticker that happily proclaimed, "March!" and replaced it with an ugly red sticker with a big fat "F" in the middle that sadistically proclaims things like, "You suck!" and "You're poor, and you're about to get poorer! Haha!!!!"

I'm trying to make this all sound funny, because the truth is I spent most of the day today fretting and crying and thinking about things like getting rid of my cell phone, cable, internet, and left kidney in order to afford to A) get this piece of crap fixed or B) get a new piece of crap. I mean, really, what do I need? A roof over my head, a car, and food for my cats. I can eat free salads and rice at work. I can sell my blood periodically. I don't need electricity. I can read by candle light! It'll be quaint.

heheh. heh.

Christ.

To add insult to injury, the Fates decided that transportation and finances being in serious jeopardy wasn't quite enough. The new schedule went up today, and the only days off I ever have are on Mondays and Tuesdays. And managment at my Boy's bar just switched him to working Mondays from 2pm-2am. And he has class from 8am-8pm on Tuesdays. And unless some miracle happens, I have no idea how we'll see each other until, oh, like... the end of April? Yeah. A month. Well, I suppose I could work all day every day, seeing as how I have neither a reliable mode of transportation nor a reliable mode of Boy distractions.

Heh. Heh.

Fuck.

Where The Hell Have I Been?

Everywhere. Last week was a mess at it's beginning. I picked up shifts and switched shit around and closed and finally managed to come up with a bunch of days off to go see my Boy. Wednesday was our one year anniversary, and I made it up Nawth in the afternoon while he was still at work. I sat at the bar and sipped beers and thought about how good it would feel to touch him after three weeks apart. And then when I was done with mulling over that romantic notion, I thought about how good it would feel to touch him after three weeks. (I might look like a sweetheart but I have a filthy, filthy mind.)

After he got out we cruised over to another bar in town (also known as, the only other bar in town) to watch mopey college students who take themselves too seriously wail away at their guitars and african drums at the weekly open mic night. I love live entertainment, so the open mic night works well for me: If the acts are good, I'm happy. If they suck, I can mercilessly make fun of them in my head and snicker. All the better when I'm with my Boy, because if anyone can out-mock me, it's him. So I'm sitting at the bar and my mister casually points out that I happen to be sitting next to Howie Day. To which I replied,

"Who?"

So apparently I've heard his songs on the radio alot and just had no clue who he was. He's from up Nawth, so he was visiting and allowing himself to be "convinced" to perform at this dinky little bar. So, he didn't look like any kind of rock star, not that I've seen one before, althouhg he did have "rock star" hair. I mean seriously, how do they do that? Clearly he's not famous enough to tote around a team of stylists to Way-The-Hell-Up-There-Maine. When you get a record deal or hear your own voice on the radio, do your hair follicles undergo some kind of chemical reaction? Anyway, eventually he got up to perform and-- in true rock star fashion-- appeared to have been crawling around the inside of a bottle of Jack Daniels all night. After five minuets of attempting to get his guitar in tune, he addressed the crowd:

"Heeeey everybody, how ya doin tonight? Y'Happy to be up here in Maine? Woo! Y'know, all those people in New York City think they're havin a good time tonight, but they're not havin as much fun as we are in Northern Maine! Woooooo! Yeah! Anyways, I just wrote this song last week, so I'm prolly gonna fuck it up alot. Here goes."

He then launched into some similar moody-touchy-feely bright guitar mope-rock like his other songs about depressed love or some shit. When he got to the line, And who was that number on your cell phone anyway? my Boy turned around and looked at me and I looked at him, and we turned and headed for the door. We can read each other's thought bubbles like nobody's business.

Back at home I had a suprise waiting for him-- Candlelight and a six pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon. An ode to a night one year ago when we drank PBR at George's on Boyleston St. and kissed for the first time on an outbound Green Line train. I thought it was a fitting gesture, epecially for a couple like us-- a little bit of candle-lit romance, and the Wonder Bread of beers... But that night?

We never did get to the beer.

The Ghosts of Relationships Past

If you haven't checked out The Tournement of Exes (at cruddyaward.blogspot.com) yet, you really should. We've all got our horror stories, I suppose, so it should be quite amusing to see which ones win. I sent in my own story a few days ago, and I'm not sure if it's the thinking process that's begun or simple timing, but all of a sudden, it's been a virtual parade of ex activity. One called me out of the blue after a looooong period of not speaking, one started IMing me out of nowhere after months of not talking to each other (because ex-related friendships always seem to take a dive for me when said ex gets a new girlfriend...who isn't too keen on her new boy having a relationship with an old flame, albeit platonic...) and today I could have sworn I saw another one in the parking lot of the grocery store. Exes abound these days, so in the spirit of this, I thought I'd revisit the ghosts of relationships past. Y'know, because I'm maudlin like that.

The Comedian: This was my first boyfriend. The summer I turned 14, my father's side of the family rented a house down the Cape, and my New York cousins brought the 15 year old boy that lived in their apartment building. They had babysat for him most of his childhood and he had become like part of the family. He was hysterical. We went to Plymouth Plantation and pretended we were British the entire time, harassing the "immigrants" at the plantation with all sorts of questions from "home." We got drunk on Malibu and watched Reality Bites and smoked packs of cigarettes and peed on the front lawn and fell down alot and giggled. He was my first kiss. And so what if he claimed he wanted to be my boyfriend and wrote me love letters and then got another girlfriend behind my back. It was a nice way to ease into dating hell. We made out on a rooftop for christ sakes.

The Big Man on Campus: Oh God, was this guy a pain in the ass. Apparently I was very shallow when I was a teenager or something, because I was always drawn to these BMOC type guys, even when I knew they were bad for me. This guy was star of all the school plays, class president, friends with everyone, etc etc. He was 18 and I was 15 (I know, sick huh? I went to a small school. There were slim pickings, okay?)He was a total jerk. One day we were making out in the theater and he stopped and said, "You know, I can't take you to the prom. I already promised some one else I'd take them." Even though my brain was all, "Hey! I'm you're girlfriend!! You take ME to the prom, goddamnit!!" my pride forced me to say, "Whatever. I didn't want to go to the prom anyway." and then continue the making out so he'd see how cool a chick I was. Yeah. Anyway, turns out this other girl was someone he cheated on me with throughout our entire 9 month relationship. Asshole. Although, I wasn't too broken hearted about it, because the winter of my sophomore year we were doing a play together and I met...

The Film Geek: He was frigging adorable. When the sparks started flying on set between us, I broke up with BMOC immediately. This was really the first time I actively persued a guy, and felt all kinds of tingly feelings for one. He was adorable and romantic-- which is quite impressive for a 15 year old. He was obsessed with Quentin Tarrantino and wanted to be a director one day. So many of our "moments" seemed like something out of a movie. Our first kiss, for example-- He walked me to the subway one afternoon. I went through the turnstyle and started towards the stairs when he called out, "LG, wait. I have to tell you something." I walked back to the turnstyle, and he leaned over and kissed me. I paused and looked at him and said, "I've been waiting to hear that." He was adorable. He used to bribe the office runners to deliver me little notes during class or slip things into my bag when I wasn't looking. But, I was going through some 16 year old angst at the time, and acted like a total bitch alot, and we stopped seeing each other. ...Though we revisited things briefly in college... I have a special place in my heart for that one, alright. He's one of the good ones.

The Pretty Boy: Okay, so we didn't so much date as go to the prom together and fool around my junior year. Here was another example of my attraction to shiny things-- He was class president, star of the school plays, popular, (is this sounding familiar yet?) aaaaand on the varsity soccer team. During the school year, I figured out his schedule so I could just "happen" to be around looking all cute and laughing with friends when he got out of class. I practically stalked the kid. (Did I mention he's a dead ringer for Tom Cruise? Seriously, it was necessary.) Anyway, I got up the balls to ask him to prom and he said yes and we made out copiously and then he never called me again. (Of course, I revisited things with him in college as well. Yeah, he's pretty, but shallow. Not much has changed over the years.)

The Musician: My first love, my first.... ehem. We dated during my senior year in high school and my freshman year in college. He hurt me pretty bad. I don't want to talk about it. We're friends now... when his girlfriend's not home and he can call or IM me that is. I don't think she likes me very much. Eh. It was six years ago, but it feels like yesterday sometimes. I guess that first love really stays with you. Funny that I'm waaaay more comfortable talking about the meaningless ones and cagey about the serious ones... hmm..

(Insert random hook-ups and dates with exes and high school flings)

The Psycho: He took hard core porn pictures and cut-and-pasted his ex-girlfriend's head on the women in the pictures. Then he threatened to kill himself if I left him. Then he made my life miserable sophomore year in college, calling me from Wisconsin and demanding to know where I was all the time and who I was with. Then he CHEATED ON ME WITH ANOTHER GIRL AND I ONLY FOUND OUT ABOUT IT BECAUSE HE NEVER CAME HOME FOR SPRING BREAK AND HIS MOTHER TOLD ME HE WAS STAYING AT HER HOUSE. And apparently, he kinda had a thing for sucking penis too. This was the story I submitted to the contest. Suprise suprise.

The Touchy-Feely Guy: We dated for four years. We lived together and adopted cats together and he wanted to marry me. He told me he loved me after like a week of being together. He constantly showered me with compliments and I never had to spend one single second wondering how he felt about me, because he always told me. He was safe, and I knew he would never fuck around with me like most of the other guys I had dated. He loved me so much he'd throw himself in front of a bus before he'd hurt me, and I knew it. But I don't think I ever really loved him. And it makes me sad when I think about it. It was a rough break up, he didn't take it well. He's doing alright now, and we talk sometimes. But over a year later, he's still clearly hurt by what happened, and I still hurt for having caused it.

(Insert random hook-ups with complete dickheads that I shouldn't have wasted my time with, but needed to get out and be wild after four years of monogamy with someone I wasn't in love with. Hey, don't judge me.)

And that about brings us up to present day and My Boy. I've been reflecting on these ghosts of relationships past for a while now. I've come to the conclusion that having experienced both ends of the spectrum, and having my heart broken alot in many fun new creative ways, I've become better equipped each time to handle the subsequent relationship. Yeah, I'm learning from this crazy thing called life. Stop the presses. But at least today I've been with enough shitheads to recognize a shithead when he comes along. I've learned that I can wait for the good ones, because they come around eventually. I've learned that the best thing I can do, no matter how hard it seems, is to lay my heart out there on the chopping block and hope it isn't cleaved. I've learned how to trust again.

I've learned how to love again.

Spring Cleaning

It's amazing how much just moving your furniture around can perk you up. (And by "you," I mean someone like me who is all Martha Stewart Living with all the style and class and none of the jail time. Yet.)

I cleaned and rearrainged, and suddenly everything seems a bit brighter. I can get in a rut pretty easily, and I have been in a major one for the past six weeks. The psycological impact of never ending cold and snow, lack of face time with my Boy, and work work work was really starting to do a number on me. And moving my couch across the room made me feel better. Who knew?

I am profoundly less complicated than I appear at first glance. Getting me in a good mood is as simple as enticing me to exlaim, "Ooo! Shiney!"

Happy Amateur Night!

Er, I mean, St. Patrick's Day. I'm closing at the bar tonight, so instead of getting wasted and barfing up Guinness and McDonald's Shamrock Shakes, I'll be hosing green spew off the walls of the ladies room. Sweet. Actually, I don't really "celebrate" St. Paddy's. I mean, I'm Irish every day of the year-- do I pick some random religious holiday from another culture to celebrate?

"Woohoo!! Kiss me, I'm Russian Orthodox! Pass the beer bong!!!"

Things I Did Today At Work:

The service bar is not, unlike the main bar, usually a hot bed of excitement. Case in point? Thursday night.

4:30pm- Clocked in and began setting up

5:00pm- Went out to "move my car" to let another employee out. Smoked two cigarrettes.

5:30pm- Finished set up, turned on my printer, and waited.

6:00pm- Sent my boy a text message, which is a waste of time, as he is probably "napping" under a barstool in Savannah at the moment.

6:30pm- Finished reading "Mr.Boston's Bartending Guide." Learned how to make a "Pink Pussy" shot. Still no tickets.

7:00pm- Stared at the wall and daydreamed about my Boy kissing my neck.

7:15pm- Put an abrupt halt to said daydreams, because I'm not going to see him for another fucking two weeks, goddamnit.

7:15pm-9:15pm-- Stared out the window, watching employees from the bar across the street smoking cigarrettes. Became consumed with jealousy.

9:15pm- Paced.

9:16pm- Realised service bar is too small to pace in.

9:17pm- Stood still.


Oh yeah, and somewhere in there, I made a couple of drinks and cracked open a couple of beers. I get paid for this. I assure you, I too can appreciate the lunacy.

Syndication Is The Devil.

There are so many things about Dawson's Creek that make me SO ANGRY! Kids don't talk like that. Kids don't think like that. Kids aren't that fucking self aware!!!!

But I watch two hours of it every morning on TBS.

Why?
WHY GOD?!? WHHHYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!


(Please, like Cape Cod EVER looks like that during Thanksgiving?!?!)

Calm, Lucidgirl, calm.