This is my letter to the World
That never wrote to Me -
The simple News that Nature told -
With tender Majesty

Her Message is committed
To Hands I cannot see -
For love of Her - Sweet - countrymen -
Judge tenderly - of Me

It's occurred to me lately that I am fantastically self-centered. Or rather, I should say, self-focused. There are more than a few people that I have looked at with the same disdain, never really turning that pointed finger at myself. I suppose it's because these past few years have prompted a lot of self-reflection. I've felt changes in myself that I have been at a loss to explain. And only lately have I realized that perhaps the cause for this sudden change is not nearly so important as the end result. But I'll get to that, in time.

I, dear friends, am paranoid. Those who know me well by now surely know of my affinity for Webster's. It defines "paranoid" as "Exhibiting or characterized by extreme and irrational fear or distrust of others." My own paranoia is not nearly to the extent of extreme that your textbook paranoid would be, but I think the irrational part hits the nail right on the head. I am afraid. I am afraid of things that might never happen, as well as things that in all probability never will happen. I have a new job. I fear that I will do something wrong and lose it. I have a new car. I fear that I'll get it into an accident and still be saddled with payments for the next 5 years. I know a person (who shall remain nameless) who is as giving, loving, affectionate and attentive as I could possibly ask for, and yet I am crippled by an irrational fear that he will one day decide that one of this bevy of female friends that he has (which I have never faulted him for, let the record show) has more to offer him than I do.

So why, one might ask (and several have), would I subject myself to such concerns about things that I am in no position to control? There isn't a thing in the world that I can do about my company downsizing and eliminating positions, nor can I help it if another car rear-ends mine, or if someone I loved were to decide we were no longer right together. I suppose it's not really the fear of things I can't control that gets me; it's the things I can that get me. Essentially, I fear my own ineptitude, my ability to complete anything successfully. I feel as though I've never come out on top with very many things I've set out to do. Come to think of it, I suppose most people really aren't successful at most things they do. Otherwise no one would ever try anything new, having gotten exactly what they wanted the first time out. I do realize that most of my fears are unfounded - I've been praised by my supervisor and coworkers for having picked up the job well, I've been cautious in driving the car, and I've even manged to almost master the concept of driving a standard (see previous entry), and as far as that last thing is concerned... well, I think both parties involved know how they feel about the situation, and I don't think it's something I need to be concerned about.

What it boils down to is that I'm too hard on myself. Everything I fear most in the world has something to do with my eventual failure in a situation. I don't really fear dying in a plane crash, I don't worry much about losing a loved one to some sort of accident; hell, the most fearsome storm doesn't tend to make me quiver. Why? I have complete trust in other people. I have no doubt that airline pilots, those close to me, and whoever it was who built the building I'm in at any given time to be storm-worthy, all know very well what they're doing. But me? I'd never think for one moment to trust myself with much of anything.

I know I'm considered by so many people that I know as a comical person. And I suppose I'd have to be, in order to tolerate the sort of person I really am. What most people don't see is the skittish, fearful child who is still afraid of the dark, who nearly has a panic attack if she ever takes a wrong turn and gets lost, who very often feels like (and on occasion has given into) breaking down and crying just because something as simple as one person not returning her phone call suddenly means that the entire world is against her. Somehow, I think it's a survival strategy. Had I not had the strength to laugh so many times when the chips were down, I don't think I'd be able to get through those stupid little things that make me want to crawl into a hole and die at the time, and even a day or two later look back at myself and say with some derision, "You ninny."

I often wonder what it'd be like to truly see things through someone else's eyes. The Omnipotent Creator, in His eternal wisdom, gifted humankind with a little something called "empathy" that allows us to get as close to that as possible without actually having an out of body experience (at which point, if you do have one, you're invariably branded a kook, and who cares if you know what it's like to be someone else, because everyone now thinks you're a bleeding nutjob, congrats). But I don't think I could ever get how someone else really sees me, no matter what someone might say. I've had a few sketches done of me, which were fascinating, because it's not so much the harsh visual truth that is reflected in a photograph, but rather the artist's vision of you, which gives you the true insight as to exactly what you are through another person's eyes, rather than through an optic lens. I'd never want to be sketched by someone I didn't know. The attributes that draw those I spend time with to me would never show through. And those, somehow, are my saving grace.

Strange though it may seem, despite the endless havoc that my mind continually wreaks upon itself, I still somehow cannot help but feel blessed. I don't think many people are so painfully aware of themselves -- the good and the bad (okay, more so the bad). I feel as though for the first 22 years of my life, something in me that perhaps until that point I had been too naive to understand had lain dormant, waiting for the time to arise when I'd be ready to accept it. I did not invite it, and for so long wished it away. Still, I cannot be sure its coming was a good thing, but whatever the cause, the end result is the same.

Like a comet pulled from orbit
As it passes a sun
Like a stream that meets a boulder
Halfway through the wood
Who can say if I've been changed for the better?
But because I knew you
I have been changed for good

I've never felt that I knew myself so well as I do now. I'm keenly aware of every little flaw, from the freckles on my arms to the tendency to want to spill a tear at the slightest provocation. Knowledge of the realities of things, however harsh, are the first step toward acceptance. And maybe one of these days I'll be able to understand, without really having to see, how other people see me.

I guess now it's time for me to give up,
I feel it's time
I've got a picture of you beside me
Got my lipstick mark still on my coffee cup
Got a fist of pure emotion
Got a head of shattered dreams
Gotta leave it
Gotta leave it all behind now

Unaware but underlined, I figured out the story
It wasn't good
But in a corner of my mind I celebrated glory
But that was not to be
In the twist of separation
You excelled at being free
Can't you find a little room inside for me?

I don't expect anyone else to get that reference, but it's satisfactory enough for me to end with. For now. What it all boils down to in the end, I suppose, is that having more means having more to lose. This is why I worry. The higher-paying job carries with it more responsibility, and therefore more possibility of screwing up. The expensive car is worth so much more, even the tiniest dent in its nearly flawless body would be noticed. And the guy who turns most of the female heads I see, who can pull me back from the verge of tears with the smallest smile, who somehow knows most of the things I know about myself and takes it all in stride, is such a rare find that, having lost it, would be irreplaceable.

...but it's a small price to pay for living a dream.

Current Mood: complacent
Current Music: "Back for Good" ~ Take That

Sometimes the ugliest of things come in very pretty packages.

I'm going to make this as brief as I can, because I was falling asleep at the new job today because I was a.) bored and b.) overtired, and I don't care to have a repeat performance of that tomorrow.

There are people in the world who seem to be complete, having everything wrapped up for them in neat little packages. They are prim and proper, clean and tidy, well spoken, intelligent, and articulate. But it seems so often that from the depths of such things springs a spirit that is callous, blunt, condescending, and downright mean.

Then there are people like me. I'm messy, uncoordinated, careless, disorganized, never know the right thing to say, and sometimes I just don't think. I have no talents to speak of, and I'm always broke. But my one saving grace is that, deep down, for all my sarcasm and biting edginess, I know that there is a fairly good-sized shred of decency in me. I suppose that's really all that keeps me from completely loathing myself as a human being.

I had had a good night. I was ready to end it on a contented, if exhausted note; when someone said something to me that was just plain cruel, so much so that upon hearing it, my eyes began to sting and my stomach to turn. And yes, I'm fairly certain that in this particular circumstance, the criticism was deserved, but the manner in which it was delivered was so unbelievably nasty that it only served to upset me. There are those, it seems, who have never heard the term "you can catch more flies with honey than you can with vinegar." Even if, for the sake of argument, I had done something stupid and thoughtless for which I deserved a royal tongue-lashing, what would being cruel accomplish other than to make me feel horrible? Where exactly is my motivation to improve? Chances are, I'll just waste time beating myself up, and then somehow feel so spurned that instead of correcting my flaws or bad behavior, I'll simply embrace it just to prove someone right.

Now if there are still any "frequent readers" out there, one might say, "Gee, Faith, you're depressing. You never write about anything good. You need to stop feeding so much on negativity." And perhaps that's true, and I will be the first to admit that I am entirely too hard on people, namely myself. But given the nature of this environment (look around you, I have reserved this space for my own personal thoughts and rantings, which keeps me from bitching at you/others in person), I would tell you to kindly fuck off. Despite this, however, if we were both on a subway, I would gladly give up my cushy (snort) seat so that you could sit and be comfortable. And that, friends, is what we call decency. Consideration. A thought for the feelings of other people.


And that is the difference between the different sorts of two-faced mirrors. Never judge on first appearances alone.

What do you do when the only place you feel safe no longer feels safe? How do you sleep at night after having had someone violate your privacy? When does the feeling of normalcy and security finally return?

Sound like a lead-in for a Lifetime movie teaser? In all actuality, it is. But in this particular case, they need to add the familiar qualifier: "Based on a true story."

I have not forgotten, dear friends, that I have promised you a full account of my journey to (and throughout) San Diego, and I have failed to deliver. Part of the reason is because it seemed to be such a daunting task to recollect and record all the new things I experienced while I was there. Tonight, however, I have had an experience that is completely new and foreign to me. Unlike my discoveries in California, however, it was not one I would have ever wanted to have.

I got the call from my landlady at around 2:30. I'd just finished a sitting and was getting ready to take pictures of my mom and stepdad, who are up for the weekend from Florida. She asked what time I'd left the house. I gave her my best guess, and figured I was about to get a royal tongue-lashing because I had set the alarm improperly or something. The truth, as it turns out, was much worse.

"The house has been broken into," she said. "How soon can you be home?"

I've heard it said, countless times, of many different situations, "It could happen to you." I've read and watched and heard of people who have stories of suffering from some sort of loss or fear that most people don't experience. They usually say a similar thing: "You always think it's going to happen to someone else. I never thought it'd happen to me, but it did." And still, somehow, I remained unconvinced. What were the odds? I guess I just figured that whatever "it" was, "it" wasn't going to happen to me. "It" always happened to someone else.

I barely remember the drive home. I know I was shaking, and my heart was pounding, and it was probably sheer adrenaline that got me there. A thousand possibilities raced through my mind as I drove as fast as I dared. Who had it been? What had they taken? I made a mental list of the things a thief would probably go for first -- my laptop, my jewelry, most of which was monetarily worthless, but nonetheless still irreplaceable. The absurd notion crossed my mind that the thieves had taken my chinchilla, given the value and demand for chinchilla fur. I'm fairly certain that all of these thoughts and fears were voiced aloud in a babbling stream of semi-consciousness to my mother, who was riding in the passenger seat with me.

When I walked into the house, I felt oddly displaced. It was as though I was walking into a mockup, or a recreation, a two-dimensional set in which I could open a door that looked out onto nothing. This was where I lived, but somehow, this was not where I lived. I felt like Jennifer Connelly in Labyrinth, opening a door and stepping dazedly out into something that felt so warm and familiar, and yet, I couldn't quite shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.

I headed down the hallway to my bedroom. The door hung slightly ajar, inviting me in. I held my breath. I always keep my door shut when I'm not home. Aside from the fact that I don't want my things doused in cat hair, it's a matter of privacy. The door, opened in my absence and without my permission, stood silent testimony to the fact that this illusion of privacy had evaporated.

I didn't dare exhale as I stepped in. I looked around, seeing all of my posessions laid out haphazardly before me, just as I had left them. My laptop, which was the first thing I would have thought they'd go for, was sitting on my desk. My TV, DVD player, video games, computer, DVDs, jewelry and everything else appeared to be completely intact. I looked around and inspected things, and came to a stunning conclusion: nothing of mine had been stolen.

My roommate, however, was not so lucky. As I would soon see, her drawers had been pulled open, her clothes ransacked, the jewelry on the top of her dresser taken. As the completely unsympathetic and incompetent police officer who later arrived surmised, the thieves had first attempted to force the front door, then, failing that, slid open a screen in the front room, which Gabe uses as her office. They had most likely gone into the freezer looking for valuables, because the door had swung wide open and was that way when the police first arrived. They'd gone into Gabe's room, the master bedroom, and started rooting through her drawers in search of hidden money and valuables. Seeing a number of valuable things, such as televisions, computers, and other electronics, they had gone to the front and side doors, propping them open with the intention of carrying large items out. This is where they ran into trouble.

The alarm is set to go off when the back door is opened, giving 60 seconds for a code to be entered to disarm the system. When the front door is open, the siren immediately sounds, no questions asked. At this point. the thieves went to the hallway and ripped the box out of the wall in an attempt to silence it. However, since the alarm is connected to a central system that sends an alert to the company, they quickly responded with a phone call to ascertain that everything was all right. Receiving no answer, the company would then phone the police, then Gabe and her mom. At this point, the thieves apparently panicked and left, but not before pocketing Gabe's jewelry. For reasons I still don't understand (but am nevertheless thankful for), they never made it into my room. Pam had asked that the police take the alarm box from the stove where the thieves had left it to fingerprint it, but he refused, claming that it wouldn't get us anywhere, given that he and the other officer who had first arrived on the scene had touched the box also, so their prints would be on it. He also stated that given that they had no suspect, they had nothing to compare these prints to. After taking down a rather unimpressive report (which he had the nerve to state he would not file for another few days), the policeman left, leaving the rest of us to attempt to calm ourselves. Not long after, we discovered that two of the windows on the porch had their screens forced open, and there were handprints on the glass, clear as day, from where the thieves had first tried to enter. We called the officer back with this information, and he brushed it off as "not what's important. You girls just need to be more careful."

I attempted to get on with the rest of my day, which wasn't easy given the splitting tension headache I was now suffering. I had an enjoyable enough dinner with the family, although I was dreading returning to the house as night fell. It hadn't seemed particularly threatening in the daylight, but tonight, cloaked in shadows into which any unsavory character could creep, suddenly, I was afraid. Aunt Cindi offered me the use of her couch for the night, but I never sleep well on couches, and the thing I was most afraid of was something no one could protect me from -- the nightmares.

In the end, I decided to come back, knowing I couldn't avoid the place forever. Somehow, the ominous air seemed to have left, and as I approached the house, I did so with little fear. I paused with my hand on the outside door, looking over at the footprint in the grass and dirt from where the thieves had entered. The storm door on the porch was still open for fingerprinting, but as it stood there, it almost seemed to speak to me, as if to say, "Thought you could forget it, did you? No. It happened. It's here, staring you right in the face." And there, upon unlocking the door, I happened to set eyes on that big, greasy, oily handprint. Just one more tangible piece of evidence that something had gone horribly wrong.

After saying hello to Gabe, I walked slowly down the hall to my bedrom. It nearly made me sick to think that just hours ago, a stranger, (or perhaps two) unwanted and uninvited, traversed these same halls, walked this same pathway. I stepped in my room, which seemed as inviting as ever, thank God. I will not be ashamed to admit that I am frightened. Ever since I was little, I'd peer into a dark room, half expecting a shadowy figure to emerge. Then I would have laughed it off as silly childhood paranoia. Now, however, the threat is very, very real. And it's frightening.

The thing I still cannot for the life of me understand, aside from the fact that a couple of guys broke into our house in the middle of the day with no evidence and no witnesses, is the sort of person who did this. I don't know who he is, I don't know where he lives. But I do know, however, that he is out there somewhere tonight. Tonight, he is probably sitting down to watch some TV, or perhaps enjoying quality time with his family. The point is, this person is important to someone. And tomorrow, will he wake up to do it again?

There is one thing that I can say for certain: I will take whatever precautions I can to keep this from ever happening again. Tomorrow night, I will have a companion sleeping by my side, and I will have no need for fear. For tonight, however, I have but one thing to protect me -- the knife I now plan on keeping tucked away within easy (but accessible) hiding place I have devoted for it. Whatever happens, come nightmares or visions, threats real or imaginary, I will be prepared.

Fuck fear. I've got no use for it.

Kiss me too fiercely
Hold me too tight
I need help believing
You're with me tonight
My wildest dreamings
Could not foresee
Lying beside you
With you wanting me

And just for this moment
As long as you're mine
I've lost all resistance
And crossed some borderline
And if it turns out
It's over too fast
I'll make every last moment last
As long as you're mine

Maybe I'm brainless
Maybe I'm wise
But you've got me seeing
Through different eyes
Somehow I've fallen
Under your spell
And somehow I'm feeling
It's up that I fell

Every moment
As long as you're mine
I wake up my body
And make up for lost time
Say there's no future
For us as a pair
And though I may know
I don't care

Just for this moment
As long as you're mine
Come be how you want to
And see how bright we shine
Borrow the moonlight
Until it is through
And know I'll be here holding you
As long as you're mine

Current Mood: contemplative
Current Music: "As Long As You're Mine" ~ Wicked Broadway Soundtrack

'Evenin.

Yes, I know, I promised to post about the fabulous San Diego journey. Honestly, it's been difficult to find inspiration as of late. Folks have been up my butt here, there, and everywhere (figuratively speaking, of course), which has gotten me incredibly frustrated. I don't know if the trouble is that people expect too much of me, or if I'm just not motivated enough to live up to it.

This weekend has been all about escape for me... well, in some small way. My favorite (well, only) pair of jeans ripped right up the butt earlier this week; which, for the record, had nothing to do with the Oreo binge I went on the other night -- these jeans were actually fairly baggy. It was just their time to go.
Anyhoo, at the time, I was quite literally as broke as broke gets. I couldn't afford a new pair of jeans, and I am required to wear them for work, so I had no choice but to ghetto patch them. So you can imagine my delight when the paycheck came on Friday, and I damn near skipped to the Gap, who, luckily, was having a sale on jeans.

A sidenote: under most circumstances, I will happily be the first to condemn the evils of retail stores on the ridiculous pricing of most of their items. The Gap, in most cases, follows right along with that rule. Most of the time, I won't buy anything there unless it is on some heavy duty clearance. However, I will gladly make the exception for Gap jeans. There is nothing quite so soothing as slipping into a pair of jeans from the Gap, and few things more satisfying than gazing in the mirror in self-appraisal and knowing that, without a doubt, damn, you look good. I don't know that there is a soul on God's green earth that would look bad in a pair of Gap jeans. They are the only ones that fit me the way I like, and this is why I'm fully willing to pay $50 a pair for them. Thanks to this weekend's sale, I didn't have to. I spent $40. Ah, salvation in faded denim.

The other half of my glee arises from my borrowed mode of transportation. If you got to drive this car, you'd be giddy, too. Granted, it's not mine. I'm just keeping a friendly eye on it until Phillip gets home. He left me the keys to both his house and his car when I dropped him off at the airport, and offered me the use of both while he is in Georgia (the country, mind you, not the state. Look it up if you're curious). Granted, I'm not going to throw a wild party at his house or go carousing around in his vehicle, but it's nice to know I have the option to use them. I couldn't resist driving the car a couple of times -- it's a cute little thing and it's ten times nicer than my car. I rode around yesterday with the window open in brand new sportscar that nobody knew wasn't mine in my brand new Gap jeans and black T-shirt and felt like a movie star. It's nice to be able to escape the confines of poverty once in a while.

Work today was pure and utter hell. The biggest problem with my store is that the managers seem to feel that, even when they are not the manager on duty, they should not have to take sittings, due to the fact that they are managers. I spent my entire afternoon in the camera room, running myself ragged while the other two yokels I was working with ran the back, doing God knows what, because by the time I finally stopped shooting, I had pictures due to be printed and negatives to be edited that were in the completely wrong place. I was exasperated. And I have more of the same to look forward to tomorrow, Monday, and Tuesday. JOY.

I spent the evening tonight at home by my onesies. None of the people I normally hang out with were around. I suppose it's just as well, I haven't been feeling entirely well for the past couple of days, and I don't get enough time to myself to just sit around. As I left work, I found myself exasperated and wanting to talk to someone. Normally I'd call Phillip. He listens without trying to offer non-helpful advice, and he's got a way of making me laugh without even trying. Unfortunately, however, he is most decidedly out of the country, and therefore unreachable by cell phone. He said he'd email me, but I can hardly expect him to do so very soon or very often, given his busy sightseeing/quality time with the brother schedule. I don't know that I'll go to his house, even if my schedule/gas money situation does permit. It just seems wrong to be in a place infused with so much Phill-ness and no Phill. It's like being a moth drawn to an unplugged bug-zapper. I dipped into the pint of Ben & Jerry's that we bought the other night, because I have a sore throat. I think he'd think it was okay.

It is motherf*cking hotter than hot in this room. And I don't feel well. Both of these things anger me immensely. As does the fact that I'm scheduled to work with one of the aforementioned lazy managers tomorrow. As such, I am going to go ready myself for bed, so that I may rest for the day ahead, while I dream about a life that doesn't so closely resemble Hell.

Current Mood: crappy
Current Music: "Fill Me In" ~ Craig David

And on the ninth day, there was Internet. And it was good.

Which, for anyone who hasn't been living under a rock for the past 8 days means, "Ooh boy! Faith is back from California! STORIES!"

Indeed, my dear readers, have I ever, [i]ever[/i] let you down before? I think not. But forgive me. It is currently about 12:30am. I have not yet been home for 24 hours. In that time, I have had to deal with wayward parking, find my way home, become reaccustomed to sleeping in my own bed, get up at 8am for work (which, to a person who is still on Pacific Time, feels like 5am), deal with 10 complicated sittings, sort through backlogged postal and e-mail, catch up with pals, fend off unwary suitors (more on that to follow), recreate the Sta-Puft scene from Ghostbusters (photo to follow), retrieve a few precious photos from the trip, catch up with the roomie, spend some quality time with the chinchilla, start unpacking, recover from jetlag, and generally resettle into New England life. And yes, the culture shock is evident even after a mere week on the West Coast.

All in all, it was an absolutely amazing trip. The travel experience was one of the worst I've had, but the experience was more than worth the journey. However, I feel I cannot properly do the tale justice without starting with a full night's sleep and a brimming cup of coffee.

If I were David Byrne
I'd go to galleries and not be too concerned
And I would have a cup of coffee
And I'd find my surroundings quite amusing and
People would ask me which were my favorite paintings...

Sorry. Felt the need to tangent-ize there. Anyhoo, onto the story of today, which was, in and of itself, somewhat remarkable.

Alarm went off at 8am, which was, in fact, 8am, given that after quite a bit of gentle prodding from Phillip, I had reset it for the proper time, instead of the 40 minutes fast it was before. I was tired of being thrown off in the mornings. Doesn't seem to make much difference, anyway. In any case, I got up, tore myself from the bed (ah, to wake up beside one's beloved; is there any greater joy?), scraped together what was just about the last of my clean clothing, showered, dressed, and readied myself for work. We left the house a bit before 9 to stop for coffee (without which I could not possibly have functioned, especially on this given morning), said our farewells, and I headed off to the grind. Arrived at the studio to find my one-year pin waiting, which, sadly enough, was a big thrill for me.

On a sidenote, Carlina from Hockmeyer called yesterday and begged me to come back to work. Granted, the powers that be were not clamoring for my return... Yet. Bwah hah hah.

Work was lousy today. Lots of sittings, albeit productive ones. Had some cute kids, a couple rough ones, but all in all a fairly lucrative shift. I punched out at 3, left by 3:30 (note the time difference -- note to self: do NOT clock out until you are positively ready to jet out the door -- some slacker of a customer will inevitably pop in to detain you otherwise), came home, relaxed for a few, then went out with Erin. We putzed around at Kohl's as she shopped for clothes and I recounted my horrific horror story. Another shopper overheard my tale of woe and asked if I had liked San Diego, given that she is considering moving there when she graduates from college. I recommended the location, but not the airline I'd travelled on (interested parties can ask me about this -- I'm not in the habit of using my journal as a vent for consumerist rants). The San Diego Board of Commerce can contact me directly for the address to which they should send a check.

River City was mostly typical. It was just Erin and me, as usual. Most of our pals were unreachable or otherwise engaged, so we were content to amuse ourselves with a few one-on-one games of pool. That is, until Hekyll and Jekyll showed up.

I had just sunk the cue on what should have been a gimme of an 8-ball shot (oops) when a young fellow with a backward baseball hat and a goatee approached. He asked if Erin and I would like to team up opposite him and his friend. Given that I am a jovial person, and always up for meeting and associating with new people, I figured, "Why not?"

For all their raging levels of testosterone, John and Josh (real names or aliases? you decide...) were hardly ready for the WPA. I'm not one to critique the billiards skills of others, but do me a favor -- before you decide to take the role of "skilled, condescending teacher" to my "naive, novice student," please ensure that your skills are superior to mine. John and I teamed up against Erin and Josh, and John saw fit to precede every shot I attempted (most of which, admittedly, were not successful), with a few cajoling tips on how to make the shot that he himself had just botched moments earlier. He and I won the two games we played against Erin and Josh merely by default, and it was only with the patience of Job and concentrated doses of beer and vodka that I was at all able to tolerate the whole episode. At one point, Erin excused herself to have a cigarette while Josh was in the restroom, leaving me to fend for myself with John. There was a cold bottle of Bud at my side and a Sox game on TV, so I foresaw little difficulty. When Josh returned, he asked about Erin's whereabouts. When I told him she'd gone out to smoke, he made a quick dash to do so himself, forcing Erin to take her phone conversation with Dave regarding these two yokels into a more private alley. Dave, for his part, berated Erin for being "cynical" and not wanting to meet new people. I remained indifferent to their presence simply because I try to believe the best in people, and because I knew their sophomoric efforts to "score" with my pal and myself would ultimately turn out to be fruitless. After Josh finished his cigarette, the two beat a hasty retreat, but not before inviting Erin and me back to Josh's house for a party and asking for our phone numbers. Shockingly enough, I declined the invitation as well as the number request on both our behalfs, informing them simply that, if they wanted to meet up with us for a rematch, we'd likely be at the pool hall again next Tuesday.

Despite my casual approach to the situation, I can't help but marvel at it as being just a bit beyond belief. It's not that I believe that Erin and I are overly unattractive, but the zeal with which we were approached was more befitting a pair of strippers shopping in the "petites" section of the Limited Too. For my part, I hadn't taken an extraordinary amount of thought with my appearance -- I was wearing a simple T-shirt and jeans, my hair thrown back into a somewhat messy ponytail only slightly tamed with a bandana, and not a great deal of makeup to speak of. In the past, having gone to such a place, I might have worn a more fitted top, a nicer pair of pants, perhaps taken a bit more time to do my hair, and reapplied the makeup. As it was, I had gone out on a whim, I didn't have much in the way of clean clothes, I was out of hair gel, and frankly, screw it, I have a boyfriend. I don't feel an overwhelming need to impress any other member of the male species. And somehow, for some reason, this sort of "energy", as it was explained to me by my aforementioned male companion, draws the menfolk like a tractor beam. And to think, I've wasted countless hours and dollars on nice outfits, makeup, and hair products, when I could have simply slapped on a bit of deodorant and the first thing I found in the closet and stepped out wearing the most lethal and sought-after feminine accessory of all -- indifference.

Alas, the hour grows to the point of "ungodly late," and I still have to retire for the evening to begin work at an hour that does not quite approach the point of "ungodly early." Rest assured that the San Diego Saga and some excellent stories and pictures are on the way. In the meantime, my children, I will tide you over and reward your fortitude with a few goodies:

San Diego 2005 Photos

Who ya gonna call?

Current Mood: satisfied
Current Music: "Going Out With Artists" ~ Crash Test Dummies

I’ve been suffering from lack of inspiration lately. I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s because whatever discontent I’m currently feeling is at such a low-grade extent that it doesn’t properly fuel my more passionate outbursts and ramblings. It’s rather unfortunate that I can only find something worthy to say when I’m feeling some sort of gut-wrenching heartbreak. Oh, I think it’s safe to say that if I attempted it, I could achieve some sort of heartbreak every day of the year. Today’s, gentle readers, is of an immature, temporary nature. Try as I may, I don’t believe I could parlay it into something worthy of a page-long journal entry, and this disheartens me, because I feel that if you’ve taken the time to read the entry, it had damn well better be worth your time. I somehow get the idea that I now know sitcom writers must feel, pressured with deadlines, week after week, feeling the strain of the eyes of America upon them. Some episodes are painfully obviously better than others; those are normally reserved for holidays, season finales, and sweeps week. So, ladies and gentlemen, I humbly beg you to raise your TV Guides and salute the sitcom writers of America, for having the God-given talent to produce heartwarming family fare persuasive enough to keep your eyes from your children, your chores, and related household duties for a solid 23 minutes. It is for this very reason that, when faced with a bit of good old-fashioned writer’s block, I must turn to these sage scribes and beg the question:

What would a sitcom writer do?

And the answer, dear friends, comes to me with startling clarity: Do a montage.

Ah yes, the montage. Webster’s defines it thus:

a. A relatively rapid succession of different shots in a movie.
b. The juxtaposition of such successive shots as a cinematic technique.

Surely you are familiar with this technique; we all are. I’ve seen it done several times over the years, but the one sitcom that I believe to be the unequivocal master of the montage would be “Mad About You.” I can hardly expect to do it justice, but if you would kindly permit me, I shall try.
Permit me. My computer has been running slower than a fire drill at a nursing home recently, so I attempted to access some not-oft-used folders in an effort to remove anything unnecessary and better my system performance. In the process, I stumbled over some old IM conversations that had been religiously logged. Feeling a bit nostalgic, I opened one of them, then another, then yet another, and at long last: I hit GOLD. To that end, I give you a montage of sorts; bits of conversation, highlights taken from the very best of discussions, starting with a little something I like to call “Melophobia.”*

* The offender in question shall be henceforth referred to as “Mr. Undapants,” myself, “Melophobiac.” Included is a helpful commentary from “Johnny Bravo,” with whom I later shared the highlights of this conversation. Names have been changed to protect the thoroughly unintelligent.

Mr. Undapants (12:20:57 AM): so what's up?
Mr. Undapants (12:22:10 AM): u like music?
Melophobiac (12:22:36 AM): No. when I hear the slightest hint of an instrument being played, I run screaming in the opposite direction.
Mr. Undapants (12:22:49 AM): oh, come on now
Mr. Undapants (12:22:58 AM): if u do acting and musical theatre? that can't be true
Melophobiac (12:23:35 AM): No, no, it's the God's honest truth. I have this pathological fear of ice cream trucks and church organs.
Mr. Undapants (12:23:57 AM): how does that include any and all music?
Melophobiac (12:25:37 AM): Well, you see, when children are babies, they are normally baptized/christened in the religion of their parents' choice.
Melophobiac (12:25:45 AM): On such an occasion, an organ is usually played.
Melophobiac (12:26:05 AM): Then, as the infants grow, they become small children, who like ice cream. Hence the ice cream truck comes into play.
Mr. Undapants (12:26:14 AM): why did i sense u were gonna bring up religion...
Melophobiac (12:26:31 AM): the word "church" might have tipped you off.

(Johnny Bravo (12:28:12 AM): heh
Johnny Bravo (12:28:16 AM): who is this guy?
RoxyQuiksilver81 (12:28:23 AM): some guy
RoxyQuiksilver81 (12:28:34 AM): wants to hook up. I’m not keen on it.
Johnny Bravo (12:29:22 AM): heh
Johnny Bravo (12:29:28 AM): cool
RoxyQuiksilver81 (12:30:55 AM): then again, if we were making out, and he said, "You're so hot," I must admit I wouldn't be able to stop myself from wondering if in his head he was actually spelling it "ur so hott"
Johnny Bravo (12:31:05 AM): hahahahahahaha)

Mr. Undapants (12:32:09 AM): u still there?
Melophobiac (12:32:57 AM): yeah. sorry. it's just that a Meow Mix commercial came on and I had to dive under the bed.
Mr. Undapants (12:33:24 AM): lol why?
Mr. Undapants (12:33:31 AM): those commercials are hysterical
Melophobiac (12:33:58 AM): yes, but people sing in that commercial...
Mr. Undapants (12:34:05 AM): lol
Mr. Undapants (12:34:36 AM): yeah, that song makes me laugh hysterically long after it's over
Mr. Undapants (12:35:09 AM): How do you go through life avoiding music? It's unavoidable, it's all around us.
Melophobiac (12:35:43 AM): I have not escaped completely unscathed, believe me.
Mr. Undapants (12:35:53 AM): I wish I could help you
Mr. Undapants (12:35:56 AM): music is my whole life
Mr. Undapants (12:35:56 AM): haha
Melophobiac (12:35:59 AM): I am very pale and have never had the pleasure of attending a Garth Brooks concert.
Melophobiac (12:37:21 AM): on the bright side, it allows me to have a handicap parking sticker so that I can park as close as possible to the store on the odd chance that I might encounter an unwary whistling shopper and have to make a mad dash through the parking lot.
Mr. Undapants (12:37:36 AM): you really have one of those?

(Johnny Bravo (12:39:47 AM): where is this kid from?
RoxyQuiksilver81 (12:40:35 AM): Judging by the preceding comments, my guess would be one of those places where they don't monitor the contents of their drinking water all that closely.)

Where will this harrowing saga take us next? Will Señor Undapants smarten up to the idea that he is being mercilessly toyed with, or will he continue to reveal his innermost fears? Will the Melophobiac ever confess? Just how do they get those cats to sing in the Meow Mix commercials? Stay tuned…

Current Mood: mellow
Current Music: The crickets outside my window...

And another day draws to a close.

Something happened today. I’m not really sure what. For the second half of the day, I wandered around, feeling somewhat zoned out and detached. I’ve had this feeling before. The first time it happened was about a year and a half ago. It probably sounds a bit trivial, but at the time, I didn’t think I’d survive it. I’ve always wondered what would happen if it ever came back as strong as it was before. But it wasn’t as strong this time. Or perhaps I was stronger this time than I was the first time it came. I don’t know. It angers me that it shows up, because this sort of feeling strikes me as something that should happen to a person who is emotionally and physically worn out, who is completely grief-stricken and despondent. Admittedly, I don’t really have that going on right now. I’ve been able to rest up lately, and the dust from any of the recent craziness that has plagued my day-to-day life is starting to settle. And I’m happy. Doggone it, I’m freaking HAPPY. This feeling has no right to come over me. Whatever it was, it has gone, for the time being. Should it come knocking again, I’m simply going to tell it that I haven’t got time for visitors.

Erin and I went out to Newbury Comics tonight in search of a piece of music that has eluded me in my efforts thus far. Normally I’d just download the one song I’m after and have done with it. This particular song, however, seems to be impossible to find. I’ve been able to discern what album it’s on, but neither Newbury or FYE at the mall carries it. Honestly, man, what the crap?

Riddle me this: What do you do when you’re bugged about something and you’ve lamented about it to just about everyone who will listen, and yet, you’re still not quite feeling any better about it? Do you just keep venting, mindless of whether it bothers anybody else, or do you just keep it locked up for fear that your friends will start to resent you for obsessing?

Gah! I need to stay off that thread. Throw myself into my hobbies. Except that I don’t really have any. I’m lacking in ambition lately, and it’s really starting to piss me off. Gingko works for memory, St. John’s Wort makes you cheerful… is there any medicinal cure for laziness?

I’m well aware that this particular entry wasn’t all that enthralling. You want literary prowess? Try Shakespeare. I’m just here for the free drinks.

Current Mood: blank
Current Music: "This Summer" ~ Squeeze

This entry was written out 5 days ago, and because I do so hate to waste a good entry, I'm posting it now, on July 13, same time.

People like me have nothing to fear from chain letters.

I received an IM today from a friend that carried with it a hideous macro that I can only guess was supposed to be in the form of a truck, given that the title of the obnoxious thing was "The Love Truck," along with the rather ominous threat of 30 years of bad luck (relating to the opposite sex, in this case) should I choose not to comply. Hah. Try me.

While I must admit I was a bit intimidated by never having seen so many "@" symbols in one place in all my life, the Love Truck's promise of bad luck did little to drive fear into my sheepish little heart. What more could an endless series of "#"s and "$"s threaten me with that Lady Luck has not smote me down with already? I am being laid off from my job at the end of the week, I'm buried under mountains of bills with no way to pay them, I am currently unable to clearly see anything that is beyond 10 feet in front of me, my car is throwing a tantrum that damn near caused it to break down in the middle of rush hour on 93 yesterday, and I've been stricken with some mysterious illness that has caused my head to loll slightly to the right under the crushing weight of the congestion that has settled in that hemisphere of my sinuses and has me so hoarse I could audition for the titular role in "The Life Story of Macy Gray." Threaten me with 30 years of bad luck with men, will you? Hah! Bring it on!

Cripes. I hadn't thought things were quite that bleak, but putting them in a laundry list like that really puts things into perspective. Ah well. At least I've got my health. Oh. Crap...

WTF?

No, seriously, that's the word of the day. Or rather, the acronym of the day. Is acronym the correct term? I'm a bit too lazy to look it up. I think in order to qualify as an acronym, an abbreviation must be pronounceable. And no, I'm not looking for you to set the record straight for me. I'm getting lost in semantics. Forgive me.

I visited urbandictionary.com and was surprised to find only one entry for the term "WTF?" The definition found there refers to it as "Acronym for whatever you want it to mean...most commonly used is for What the Fuck?" All right. So according to the sources that matter, it is indeed an acronym.

It has been brought to my attention of late that a certain percentage of my readers (yeah, all three of you) find my entries to be somewhat enjoyable, so I'm doing my darnedest to keep you posted on a regular basis. There's really nothing exciting going on in the life of your favorite young wisenheimer to speak of, but I'll be damned if you're gonna know how boring my existence is. I say "boring" because there's precious little in my life that I would think would hold any sort of fascination for the everyday rustic, but I manage to keep myself well-entertained. Before I get to the main point of my essay, however, I will fill you in on some of the more interesting tidbits of my day.

* Visited the Tewksbury office. Twice. Was fortunate enough to avoid the harmless bloke I refer to as "TheStalker" the first time, not so the second. I was actually fearful that he'd attempt to jump me right there in the parking lot. Asked an endless string of questions as to what I'd been up to recently. Was tempted to tell him that I'd been busying myself on dates with my very big, very strong, and very hot boyfriend. Hell, I'd be tempted to tell myself that.

* Free pool night was once again a bust. I was gung-ho to go, but Lesley forgot it was Tuesday and went to a party with Mike. No big thing. I'll actually take any excuse I can get to spend some quality time with my thoughts, my journal, and my VCR. Tim Robbins and Morgan Freeman are keeping me company this evening.

* Phillip, remarkable creature that he is, went clubbing Friday night. He's the only poor fool I know of who goes to clubs and talks about me. I really ought to hire him as my PR manager. In any case, he got me the email address of a woman who works for a theatre company in Boston. She asked that I send her my resume. Dropped her an email about an hour ago. I hope she's got a sense of humor. She'd have to in order to read that email, never mind to hire me. And if she follows the grand tradition of casting directors and artistic producers I've contacted, she won't respond. Bah. We'll see.

* Got a strange text message. Discovered that it was from TheStalker. He must have saved the old contact list that contained the telephone number of every employee in the company. Overlooking his blatant disregard for personal privacy and shocking abuse of company information, we held a brief exchange in which he invited me over to his sketchy garage to drink some Michelob Light with him and one of his coworkers. I promptly informed him that substances like that were just the sort of thing I'd consider bathing my dog with, and that should he ever acquire some Killian's, we'll talk. It's a promise I don't intend on keeping.

* Went scouting around a few vision care places today. Decided I'm sick of not being able to see shit. Lenscrafters quoted me $75 for an exam. WalMart said $65. Plus lenses and frames. I didn't much like what I saw for selections at WalMart. Not sure what Lenscrafters has. It's too bloody expensive to have health problems in this day and age. Called mom up to bemoan my fate. Her response: "Well maybe if you went and got a full time job..." As though I've been deliberately avoiding making something of myself since I graduated college. Nothing like a little parental discernment to make a gal fully aware of her true worth. Apparently it's a mortal sin to take the path less traveled, to refuse the offer of rent-free lodgings and a meaningless job, however stable and financially secure, to attempt to pursue one's goals in life, to reach for the stars, to do all that ridiculous nonsense we're endlessly being preached by afterschool specials. I wonder at what exact age it's appropriate to tell your children to forget everything they learned about following their bliss in favor of hunkering down for a steady position as a desk jockey. And the woman wonders why I don't want to move in with her.

Done talking about my day. On to the next:

I was talking to a friend of mine today who, as of late, has been... how to put it in polite company?... deprived of the company of women. And it shows. Honestly, I've never been much of one to ogle pictures of naked anything, although I won't fault people who do. Guys work in different ways, right? I've never truly understood the male mind... don't think I really want to. And I'm fine with that. The thing I do question, however, is the women. That's the nut I'd like to crack, figuratively speaking. I want to get inside the head of a woman who joyfully photographs her naked self for all the world to see and find out what exactly goes on in there. The brain, I mean, not so much the photo session. Some questions just weren't meant to be answered.

Sure, you say, a good deal of women who are in the industry of selling sex, whether in the literal or figurative sense, whether on a street corner or a webpage, are lured there by the promise of next month's rent, next semester's tuition, perhaps their kid's lunch money. But it occurs to me that there are some who find the human form to be a rather gorgeous thing to be exhibited. I can't find fault with these people -- I've never been fond of passing judgment on anyone -- I just have a hard time understanding it. I was futzing around with the camera phone today and took a few pictures of myself. Just headshots, mind you, nothing racy. I deleted the vast majority and kept only the few that didn't make me cringe.

I've been told I'm attractive by some people. It's flattering to hear, honestly. Most of the time I give a scoff or a laugh -- I rarely remember to say thank you. It's not meant to be ungrateful, although I guess that's how it comes across, and it's not precisely what I'd call modesty. It's a little something called "disbelief." It's akin to the response one would get if they informed me that the sky was green, that marsh pigs were exceptionally talented at doing taxes, or that Madonna was God's gift to the acting profession. I look in the mirror and I try the hardest I can to see anything of any merit. I don't need to be "hot" or "gorgeous." I'd settle for "pretty," even "cute." But I never find it. Granted, this rant is not about me. I do not expect (and do not at all desire) to see my email inbox filled with rebuttals or encouragement of any kind. It's merely for comparison's sake that I mention that I have enough of a problem finding anything of beauty in myself when I'm just looking from the shoulders up, fully clothed. I can count on one hand the number of people that have seen me in less than that, and it took an enormous amount of trust on my part to allow that to happen. It is absolutely beyond me, then, how some people have, all at once, such high regard for their bodies that they are willing to photograph themselves, and such disregard that they're willing to cheapen something that really ought to be a private thing in order to sell it off to the highest bidder, again, either literally or figuratively speaking.

My, that sounded preachy. It would seem my mouth has run away with me again. Granted, I'm not here to condemn a soul, not the ones who put themselves on display nor those who enjoy viewing it. I'm merely stating my puzzlement. Hence the acronym, the term... WTF?

Current Mood: frustrated
Current Music: The sounds of the Shawshank Redemption