Hooray, I'm Fired!

So I finally got fired last Thursday and man, is that some kind of relief even though I am probably going to be living at The Bridge next month. But that's ok because I had to ride the bus again last month when my car got towed the same day I got suspended for three days without pay and I had to go to the hood to get it back and I spent some quality time with this bum who clued me in on the drug deal going down across the street in this parking garage downtown. It was a pretty fucking awesome day actually, even though the bus ride cost me $200.

Today was my first official day of unemployment because I decided Friday didn't count even though I did stuff like register for unemployment benefits, again, and get the paper work to hold off paying student loans, bastards, and freak out a little bit completely that I have absolutely no money, and apply for some random ass job in Korea (Korea? Sure, why not?) on Monster. (You may admire my coping skills.) So since today was a Monday that I didn't have a job on, The Foreigner bought me some blueberry pancakes and I joyfully ate them while wearing my tiara. The waitress asked if it was my birthday. I looked at her and said puzzledly, "No...?" And he lent me some DVDs, one of which makes me a criminal so I guess it's true that there is indeed a slippery slope and I have been sliding down it for over a year now. He did warn me he was a bad man so I guess I'll do the time accordingly. They probably won't let me blog in prison. Y'all probably thought I was dead already anyway.

I'm sorry about all the total abandonment, but having the life sucked out of me in not even close to a good way with that job left me absolutely barren of anything interesting to say and unable to produce anything worthwhile. The Foreigner agreed with me when I said that I was more interesting when I didn't have a job. Amen. I still think saving the world is a good idea, but it is not fun. It puts a whole new spin on that old saw we all used to say in advertising, "We're not curing cancer, folks." No shit. The people who are curing cancer don't have time to look at Married To The Sea and win Addy awards. For the love of God, THEY ARE CURING CANCER. THEY DON'T HAVE TIME TO FUCK AROUND. I enjoy fucking around. That should have been my first clue. I did not enjoy feeling dead inside doing a boring job that made me want to choke the life out of people, revive them, and choke them again just to make sure they knew it was me doing the choking. Oh yeah, my rage was turned to 11 pretty much all the time there. Every time I see that Abilify commercial and they list extreme irritability as a sign of bipolar mania, I want to high five my TV and yell, "BOY, I'LL TELL YOU WHAT!" The best part of my day was hanging out in the hallway with a couple of the janitors when I was clocking out. Those guys are good people and I will miss them. I never wanted to kill any of them and they seemed happier than most of the doctors.

The rest of them can suck my left one.

So, to sum up, my advice to the newly fired is to call your buddy before you even get out of the parking lot, then call Daddy and cry because you are never too old to do that, do whatever it takes to keep from panicking so you can get some sleep because Dad is right, the sun's going to come up tomorrow no matter what. Take the weekend to reflect. Then have some fucking blueberry pancakes, and take a fucking nap, man.

You can answer that Korean email tomorrow. It's not like you've got plans.

On Former Lives And I Don't Care.

So I've come to the conclusion that I pretty much know everyone I want to know. Not that I don't want to meet new people. I think I don't want to be found by old ones is what it is.

People keep telling me about how they've been found on Facebook by people they haven't seen in 10/20/infinity years and how cool it is. First, I think I'm too old for the Facebook/myspace which is stupid because I write a blog so that sinks the argument right there. I don't know, it just seems like work and anybody from the various phases of my life who really wanted to find me could probably do it fairly easily already. Second, there might be a reason I haven't talked to you in 15 years. Maybe I thought you were a dick and are unlikely to have changed.

Plus, it's possible I won't remember somebody and they'll be all "Remember that time when we tried to steal the bell off the roof of the Taco Bell on Everhart?" and I'll be all, "No." I talked to some dude all night at our ten-year high school reunion (and had a really good time hanging out) whom I didn't know back then and still have no idea who he was. Seriously, complete blank. No idea. Could have gone to East Calcutta Preparatory Academy and crashed the reunion for all I know.

The two people I had a burning desire to track down I already tracked down and/or got over it so I'm good with former lives and the like. There's probably way more people I hope to never see again than those I wouldn't mind catching up with. However, I do admit to one curiosity.

I get these irritating emails from the website that Matt The Miller Man used to plan our high school reunion with notices of how many people have signed my guestbook. I wasn't aware I had set up a guestbook for one thing and I think the last email had something like 32 signatures. And since I see the main core of my old high school friends about once a year, I know they all know how to shoot me a what's-up-bitch note anyway. So who was interested enough to pay money to this website to look people up and why was my guestbook appealing enough to have 32 people give the Internet chin-lift to me when I know I haven't talked to any of them since August of '89? I didn't think I even knew 32 people in high school. Who are these people who remember me with maybe some small degree of fondness? I'm curious, but not enough to pay money to find out. (I have a vague feeling I may have mentioned this before. I don't know. I haven't read any old posts in quite some time.)

So there it is. I'm pretty much cool with the present.

Unless I had homeroom with you and you can get me a book deal or a guest appearance on Entourage or something. I'm ok with someone from a thousand years ago who offers future endeavors, otherwise I'm good with the living in Dallas, you're good with the family and whatnot, and no, I'm not going to the reunion and no, I don't know whatever happened to Brian. I heard he died.

Wait a minute, I think I just inadvertently sold myself on Facebook. If I can get my own talk show by talking to people I can't remember, then it might be an ok deal.

I'll check it out, but if there's a lengthy sign-up process or it's in any way irritating, I'm done.

That's exactly what I intended to say when I started this post anyway.

If I Ever Have Kids, I Will Name Them Corndog And Tater.

Hey wow, you people missed me and you are also effin' tenacious to have come back again and again while I was working on that whole getting beatified shit. You're all totally awesome.

Bogda, my boyfriend will totally bring you beers too, since he's really my new favorite bartender and hasn't even thought about getting to second with me, probably.

Speak o' the devil, he just showed up. I'm so glad I wore blue eyeliner. Shut up, I never quit wearing blue eyeliner because it has always rocked.

So I have to go make up an email address because yeah, I want to know Kathy Bates' big ideas. I think it's Graydon Carter. He'll probably make me stop saying how stuff rocks. Whatever. Just sign the checks, GC.

Nothing Kills Creativity Faster Than A "Meaningful" Job.

So I hung out with Niebaum, this accountant dude named Los who is way too cool to be an actual accountant, and Stef on Friday night and my brain starting working again in the way that I like that I didn't know I liked so much when it worked that way all the time. I need to spend more time with people who say things like, "Fuck it. That's the way I chew."

Turns out saving the world isn't much fun. I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who's surprised that I've come to that conclusion. I'm gonna blame Catholic school for this one. I guess I never got over wanting to be saintly. I know, it's not like I've got much inherent piety to start with, but at least I'm recognizing my limitations at long last. I don't think I can acquire saintliness. Acquiring saintliness is an oxymoron anyway. Duh. You'd think I would have noticed that sooner. Apparently, I'm a little stupid. In any case, I give myself credit for trying something so far out of my skill set that it's a wonder I haven't accidentally given someone the wrong baby.

I bet you've all been waiting for my story about giving someone the wrong baby. You think you're pretty funny, don't you, smart guy? Well, I don't even touch the babies if I can help it. They tend to cry whenever I'm in the nursery anyway. They're like wild dogs. They can sense my unease.

Obviously, my plan could use some work; like, I should get one.

Rather than formulating a plan, let's talk about my new boyfriend. He brings me beers while I'm writing. It's pretty cool how he's going to make me pay for them so he can get my autograph without having to ask for it. It's very serious. If my phone weren't dead from leaving it The Dubliner all weekend, I'd leave it here so I could call him and giggle and have to come back for it. He's got a decent handshake and I like how he says my name. He's not even a foreigner.

On any given Monday, anything can happen.

Dammit, I Do Not Want To Move.

I love Lakewood. I love where I live. Except I have to move on account of The Man. A new property company bought the complex and first they raised the rent $50, then they ripped out all the shady landscaping around the crystal clear pool and turned it into a scorching hot shadeless concrete murky nightmare I wouldn't dip my big toe into, then they started "remodeling" which means they just put new knobs on the cabinets, painted an accent wall and put some fake ass plastic hardwood-esque flooring down and are forcing people to move to one of them when their leases are up, and jacking up the rent $200. That's right, folks. I'm getting gentrified out of my place. This blows. I'm thinking about moving to Fair Park. If anyone has any ideas, feel free to share. I want a funky but safe neighborhood. Is that so much to ask?

Anyhow. I'm still at the hospital job, but it has been a freakin' struggle. I thought things were getting better, then my boss hung up on me twice when I called in sick. I really was sick, btw. There was some other shit too which I don't feel like talking about, but basically I expected to get fired every day for about a week, which could still happen because what the hell do I know? Like I said, I thought things were improving.

Once again, I have discovered that being completely honest is a great way to piss people off. It seriously chaps my ass when I get punished for telling the truth, especially when it's about how I feel.

"How do you feel your training went, ReadBecca?"
"I think it was terrible. I've never heard of half the things on this 90-day survey that I'm supposed to have learned. I also think management is closed off and unapproachable for questions."
"Either do the survey over in a way that makes me look good or I will fire you."
"Ok. You remind me of my mother."

Yeah, good luck with all of that, I know.

I don't have any summertime hijinks to report at this time. It's too fucking hot outside to do anything. I spend a lot of time hanging around the house in my underwear. I must have got a new neighbor because I'm picking up somebody's wifi again. I hope to have more crap to blog now that I have the means. Don't worry, you haven't missed anything, which tells me I must be on the wrong track in general because nothing really weird has happened to me lately. I don't really have any hospital stories to tell because they're all either way too sad to appear here or are priveleged health information type stuff. In any case, none of it's inherently funny and I can't even spin it to make it funny.

Wait, I just remembered I got hit on by Jerry Garcia at this country show I went to with Stefanie. Stefanie is a big fan of this dude Dale Watson, and I finally got curious enough to go. So when I showed up at the Granada ticket window, this tie-dyed t-shirt, gray-haired pony-tailed Birkenstocks guy stopped me while I was getting my money out and and gave me a free ticket. Then I danced with him a few times to be nice on account of the free ticket and all, and Jerry got shitfaced on Smirnoff Ice and started getting handsy, and then I had to duck him at the end so I could pay my tab and then I realized Jerry wasn't the only one who'd had a few so I had to spend the night in The Pleasant Room. I had a great time, but dang that handsy hippie was so far off the mark of what would turn my head it was ridiculous. Stef was also surprised to see that ReadBecca can dance. Duh. College Station leaves its mark after a decade, no matter what you do to wash it off.

Remember Tank Man.

War Kittens Is The Funniest Thing I've Heard In An Ad In A While.

You know WAR KITTENS?! was the funny thing someone came up with when they were bored in a meeting and they finally found a way to sell it to a client. It cracks me up every time because I can see the creative team in my head and they all look like people I know. Anyway. I miss that part of advertising.

The hospital gig is better. They finally hired another person to work the night shift so I can actually leave on time. Sort of on time. She's late every day, and yes, I get it that it's karma for my chronic lateness. Hot Carl says tardiness is a deal breaker. I've been early twice for Stefanie recently.

I'm practicing defensive coworking by just leaving, whether she's there or not. I'm excited that I'll be able to go to yoga now, like I planned when I took this gig. There are a lot of advantages to finishing by 2:45 pm every day. I have learned in the last couple years of underemployment that I really like being home early. I like being done at a certain time and just leaving. It's nice to punch out and leave the chaos to someone else instead of having to stay and fix the chaos. I got enough chaos. More of it can blow me.

If you want to meet strangers, play cards at a bar for drinks. In particular, play Uno. You get to say, "SUCK MY YELLOW DRAW FOUR, LOSER!" to total strangers and then you still get a free shot of whiskey. Plus, pretty much everyone knows how to play already and there's not too many rules to keep track of in the midst of all the bar noise and alchohol. You don't even need a table. Put a bar stool in the middle of the circle and use that for the discard pile. Group participation puts everyone in a good mood so everyone has a good time. We had the right amount of fun and I wasn't a bit hungover. You can't double-fist the beers if you have 27 Uno cards and Stefanie keeps telling you, "Skip you, BITCH."

I've been off Coca-Cola for two weeks now. I only backslid once when I was in the middle of the hangover shakes. I didn't feel too terrible, but my hands were shaking. Maybe it was the DTs. It's one of my weird hangover symptoms, the shaking hands. Been happening since high school. I probably have neurological damage from my 18th birthday celebration. Anyway, I had a Coke in a collins glass so it was just enough to take the edge off but not enough to send me into a sugar/shame spiral. And that was over a week ago, so we're all good. Damn, I shouldn't have started talking about it cause now I want one. I gotta go get me an iced tea, man.

I Am Excited About Million-Dollar Password. Aren't You?

So I think Password would be the most fun game show to go on, as long as your celebrity wasn't stupid. Like my dream celebrity Password partner would be William H. Macy. I bet we would kick ass and win two million, just for sheer awesomeness. Awesomosity. Awesoment. Whatever. It would rock. Also, I haven't looked at the Internet in over a week and the first thing I saw was that George Clooney may be single again. That brings me comfort. I dream of living next door in a KurtnGoldie situation and sending him semaphore signals from my balcony overlooking the pool. Also, it is difficult to eat a sandwich one-handed with a fork. I'm sure that was worrying you.

This bartender looks like my cousin. Actually, he looks like two of my cousins did twenty years ago. Interesting. Not really, but I had to say something. I haven't been up to any shenanigans lately. I would like to have shenanigans to report this evening, but I'm not in my usual bar, so I'm a bit out of my element. I'm actually wearing what is known to chicks as jeans n' a cute top n' strappy sandals. I am sick of t-shirts. Which is sad because I hate ironing more. You would think that I would enjoy the whole OCD precision aspect of it, but that's why I hate it. I can't enjoy it because I can't iron as well as the dry cleaner. One of my many flaws. Cons: can't iron like a professional. Pros: laundry gets done faster. It's all relative.

I let my sandwich get all cold and now I can't pull it apart like I like. I suffer for my art. Um, I guess that's it. It's ok to be underwhelmed. I will try to be involved in a gangland-style shoot-out between antiques dealers or something.

The password is:

stilted

A Measured Response.

A foreigner doesn't like me, and that's ok.

I'm not going to lie, it stings, but I chose an open forum so that's how it works. I could delete it, but I'd still know. It wouldn't hurt any less.

Criticism is hard for me to take from anybody, much less a stranger who only knows what I say here. I say a lot of things that are ridiculous. It's deliberate. Every stupid, petty, immature, self-destructive, nonsensical, angry, bitter, sad, funny, silly, happy, grateful, smart, wonderful, honest, unique thought in my head is allowed to come out here, most of the time.

ReadBecca began so I could say what I want, whenever I want. Because you're not supposed to do that in real life, and I really, really want to, all the time, whether or not it's a good idea, and I have suffered the consequences too many times. I have to work on that. I thought this would help. I say "I" when I write because this place is mine. I try to avoid "you."

What I say here, it doesn't always have to mean anything. I never tried to hide that it's mostly vanity and crap. I know I don't always make myself look great, but that's ok. I'm not worried about looking like an idiot. Every time you think I'm an awful, pointless dilettante please go back and read "Adios, Grandpa Tex." That's real. That's something I'm proud of. "I hate my job," that you can pretty much ignore.

What really worries me is that people who find their way here won't get it. I want people to be in on the joke that I know that I'm creating my own chaos. I also know I'm the only one who can get me out of it, and I'm trying to do just that. I'm struggling to get to a good, real, happy place and it's hard. I want to have a job I love, a solid romantic relationship, and loyal friends I can trust. That's not different from anybody else. I just hoped I was telling the story a bit differently.

It's meant to be me, through a filter, so it's not me. I wrote this paper once on the different styles of autobiography and the poetry of Seamus Heaney and what I am trying to say now is the same thing I tried to say then and doing just about the same poor job of it. Basically, it's impossible to give a true and accurate report of yourself. You can't see yourself that way because you have a filter of how you would like to be, not how you really are. People can't see you through your filter, only their own. I'm just trying to provide vision correction so the filters are closer to the same.

Right now, I'm more upset that I feel compelled to explain the motive because that means I'm not doing it right. I wish I could just let it slide. I'd like to be all, "That's cool. It doesn't affect me." Except it does. It bothers me that I didn't say it right. That a stranger didn't see me the way I meant to present myself. Does it say anything about me that I take all the responsibility? That I don't think it was some flaw in a foreigner's filter that made him miss my point? Does it say anything that I've been thinking and writing and editing these few, small paragraphs for over three hours trying to get it right? To not react with outrage or hurt or smugness, dismissiveness or contempt? To rationally listen to the comments of someone I don't know who most likely isn't concerned about what's best for me and probably wasn't trying to help? And to be objective and to take something away from it that is in my best interest? All at the same time trying not to make it into more than it really is or misconstrue the intent, which I can't possibly know anyway?

I don't know what it says to you. It's just a blog. I like to write stuff on it. I hope people are entertained when and if they read it, and I hope it helps me figure out all the questions I have and how I can be better. That's about it.

I'm supremely irritated at myself right now for talking all about my feelings and turning this into an After School Special instead of coming up with a comeback that would have made Johnathan Swift cry.

Bonus Boredom Post

The thing I love about bartenders is, is they use terms of endearment when they talk to you, even when they see you every weekend and periodically during the week as well. They forget your name of course, I know that. Which is fine, because I call them by the wrong name and that's way worse. Tonight I've been Sweetie and Baby. That, I love. Sweetie is ok, but being "Baby"ed is better. I don't know why. It just is. Anyhow. I get that it's a marketing ploy to make single women hang out and drink more and tip bigger, but I'll take it where I can get it these days.

Hanging around waiting to be called "Baby" by a pretend friend is a little sad, but it's not as sad as banging yet another foreigner. I've declared this summer's tour as the No More Foreigners Tour - Summer '08. There will be merch.

Anyway. There you have it. I'm pretty much going home after this beer, I think. I can tell this is the mood I'm in when I start talking to strangers just to see what happens next, and that has never ended well. Plus, I'm running out of battery power. I wish this spot had an outlet. I wonder how much I'd have to drink to get a memorial outlet on this side of the bar. That would be pretty awesome. I want an ornate faux-gold faceplate with Bottecelli cherubs. Rococco. That's what I want. It would be very.

I heard this girl quoting lines from Heathers a while ago. I have to buy that movie. The whole croquet balls thing was a little OTT, but I love that movie. It makes me want to get a red scrunchie. Tara is the head Heather of this bar, except she's nice. She's Veronica at the end. I'm glad Martha Dumptruck didn't get killed.

Plus, I think I have to quit my job. I think it may crush the life out of me if I keep working there. It is in no way fun. Even when I was selling my soul shilling phone service, I still had fun sometimes at work. I haven't had a single fun day at this hospital gig. I'm pretty sure I'd like being in nursing school. I like anything where I get to learn stuff. But I'm not so sure I can take working at a job I am clearly not suited for. My talent does not lie in clerical work where I have to be nice to people when I am profoundly irritated to the depths of my soul. Seriously, people should file their own crap.

I got a talking to this week. It started out with my boss saying "People don't think you're happy." And I said, "I'm not." This is not the way to start a meeting. Also, apparently people are afraid of me. My first instinct was to say, "Good." I want them to be afraid of me. I want them to do things themselves instead of asking me to. I am not a naturally nice girl. I find it extemely difficult to smile when I am pissed off. Hiding what I'm thinking and feeling just to get along is repulsive to me.

Dang, I'm losing battery power just when it's getting good. I probably won't be able to pick up the thread later, but sweet merciful Heaven I feel much better for getting even this little bit out. It's been driving me nuts. See? It's terrible when you can't say what you think. Which is why you should boycott China.

Those Of You Sitting On The Left Side Of The Plane Will Have A Fantastic View Of The Grand Canyon.

This is the view I see when I leave the house. Yes, the mat faces me, not visitors. I didn't do it on purpose, but I left it that way after a maintenance guy hosed down the concrete and put it back wrong. I dropped that pen out of my purse and just didn't pick it up for the photo. Don't worry, it's not still there.

This is the best Dallas radio station. Mesquite Schools Radio is an all-70's format run by high school kids from Mesquite. The theme song from Grease was playing when I took this photo.

This is the street I have to drive down to get to my apartment. I live where I live so I can see these awesome, million dollar houses that were built in the 1910's and 20's, but I didn't want to invade anyone's privacy so I just took a picture from my car looking up into the awesome old trees. Trees are good.

This is the Starbucks where I read...

...The Observer, which I have been quoted in.

I would like to read The Observer here, but they don't have chairs in the Absolut aisle and Starbucks is conveniently next door, so I can't complain.

I get the majority of the recommended daily allowance of adult beverages at this joint anyway.

I've never been to this restaurant, but I was just thinking I needed one of these, so I took a picture.

After all the drinking and shacking up, I can always go to this place, which is also in my neighborhood.

Monday Is Awesome. When You're With Matt.

Holy schniekies, I got off work on time today, in the actual daylight of a gorgeous spring day. So, duh, I needed a drink.

I called Matt the Miller Man. And for the love of Mike, he wasn't busy. We made plans to have dinner. Yay! Dinner with my oldest friend! Huzzah! Since I've known Matt since seventh grade, I'm allowed to write "Yay!" just like 1983. We arranged to meet at The Dub, and have dinner across the street at The Blue Goose, and although I did not have one of their world-famous Swirls, I did drink a shot.

On a muthafuckin' Monday, bitch.

I don't know where that came from.

Anyway, Matt usually doesn't drink on Mondays, and I usually don't drink (shots) on Mondays, but since we're old pals, we broke the rules for each other. Olive juice, Matt. It was delightful. And damn, fresh tortillas ought to be a national landmark or something.

The combination of hanging out with Matt and eating fresh tortillas has given me this dopey grin that will not quit. Also, I'm blogging in bed, which never happens, and which I love, because I am more committed to this bed than the law allows. I seriously love to sleep. I love to lounge. It's the best thing ever. The next best thing to my bed is a hammock. Or a chaise longue. One of the oversized ones in the Crate and Barrell catalog. The only thing better than napping poolside is napping in the pool. Or in the tub. I fall asleep in the bathtub I suspect more often than the average American.

I have a vivid memory of falling asleep on a towel under the mesquite tree in my aunt's backyard out by the pool. I remember the grass below me and hearing the South Texas breeze blowing those thorny, supple branches back and forth over me while I tried to resist the sound, to stay wake, not sleep, with a sun-warmed and faded beach towel covering me to keep the surprisingly cool shade from giving me a chill. The wind in the mesquite tree sounded like the ocean. There's no kind of sleep as an adult that rivals the deepest sleep of a child. Every nap I take is just an attempt to recapture that so perfect nap that one day, beside the pool, at my Aunt Sue's.

Sweet dream, my lovelies.

I Know I Ought To Write Something, But I'm On A One Glass Of Wine And Scallini's Pizza High And Dancing With The Stars Is On So Whatever, Man.

I Heart The Damaged.

So if women are drawn to men who remind them of their fathers, what the hell am I doing chasing down all the soulless foreigners that Dallas has to offer?

My dad is a good man, and an American.

He didn't abandon me when I was little or anything. I talked to him yesterday. He wasn't a bum, a drinker, a drugger, a rager, or cold. FOR (father of ReadBecca) is a truly decent human being. He puts up with me even when I do things that remind him of my mother.

FOR drove me to the airport when I went to meet my Internet boyfriend. He didn't talk to me for a week before that, but he still did it, and he gave me an emergency credit card. Once, I thought I had cancer, and he picked me roses from the bed I refused to help dig. And FOR's funny.

So what is it that makes me completely ignore the good guy and go for the "interesting" one? Why do I think "emotionally unavailable" is "interesting"? And how did my Spidey Sense become so sensitive that I can pick one of these pricks out at 50 paces?

Why am I only comfortable in a completely unbalanced relationship? Is it because my brain has to work so much harder, at lightning speed, trying to figure it out? Is it really the sheer challenge of it that I like? Do I choose a shit every time just because I'm so damn smart?

I get up an extra hour early to journal three pages every morning. Recently I read all the pages I've written since January and I noticed something: I bitch about men the same way I bitch about my mother.

WTF, over?

The things that make me avoid all but the most limited contact with Crazy Linda are the same things that I unconsciously (semi-consciously) seek out in a man. Can it be so simple an explanation that daily contact with my unbalanced mother during my childhood warped my love instinct for life?

That is so not cool.

How did that influence trump that of my totally ok dad? All I can say is it's hard to ignore her. Seriously, she doesn't let up. Ever. FOR had to divorce her and she still kept coming back to wreak havoc. It's like when Michael Myers won't die. Except she's much louder, and has a lot more masks.

My dad has given me course corrections at the most volatile, potentially disastrous moments in my life. He saved my life. Twice. And he did it just by being there, even when he was a thousand miles away in Minnesota, and he used a promotional corporate tie tack to do it. I still have it. And to top that, FOR moved to College Station, TX, because I was there.

This is a man with emotional skillz.

My dad's good opinion of me is my most valued treasure. Disappointing FOR would kill me. FOR told me the most important thing you have in this world is self-respect. And FOR told me that any man who lets a woman ride on the back of his motorcycle doesn't really love her, because if he truly did, he would never put her in that kind of danger. He might risk his own life, but not hers.

I hate motorcycles.

Damn! They Broke Me.

Dude, I totally lost it at work today. We were so busy, I couldn't even powder my nose, much less eat lunch. I get really weepy when I'm overwhelmed. I also get weepy when I'm hungry. And when my hormones are raging. (Yes, and when I drink too much. And at movies and the Olympics and weddings and sometimes Law and Order: SVU.) It was the Trifecta of Tears today. The boss had to give me a hug and some Nutter Butters. I kept answering the phone, though, and smiling at patients' families the entire time I was crying. I'm no quitter.

Everyone is very nice and helpful. I just have no idea what I'm doing most of the time. I'm not used to that. At work, I mean. I'm totally aware that I have no idea what I'm doing in actual life.

Dang, it's three minutes past my bedtime. Sweet dreams, kids.

You Ain't Been Cookin' If You Ain't Been Burned.

I've never been bad at anything I've tried before in my life. I've never had to try. I've always been at the top without much effort.

But this new job is kicking my ass, and for less money.

I've never had a job I had to work at before. It's a little humiliating, but I think in a good way. I think I've been safe in my box for way too long, at least career-wise. In my personal life, man, I have always been on the edge, in a bad way most of the time. I'm still not sure if I've made a huge mistake in taking on this new thing. I'm trying not to freak out after only a week and a half. I mean, it's too soon to tell which way this thing is going. I have no background for what I'm doing, so panicking at this point would be a bit premature. Let's just take a breath, people, and see where this train is headed.

I was pretty much questioning my entire life Friday night when I finally got home from work about three hours later than I thought I would, and I was thinking that having someone there to be nice to me after a massively long week and an epic blow to my ego would be really nice. My neighbor was making dinner and it was such a nice day that she had her doors and windows open. I told her whatever she was making smelled awesome. Then I went inside and soaked in an Epsom salt and lavender bath and almost drowned myself by falling asleep in the tub. I finally got out like an hour and a half later and was just sitting down to watch Diane Sawyer talk to hookers, which makes me angry and sad and relieved that at least I haven't had to enter that field, when someone knocked on my door.

I suspiciously opened the door and my neighbor was standing there with a plate full of pulled pork in verde sauce. I was so overwhelmed, I barely got "thank you" out. I shut the door and turned around to get a fork. Then I burst into tears. I was so thankful that somehow, some way, the thing I wanted most - for someone to take care of me - found its unusual way to me. The Universe works in ways we least expect.

I told Stef that I either need to get a dog or another foreigner. Then Tara said she has a dog she loves and she still gets jealous of those with boyfriends. Damn. That's not what I want to hear.

What do you do when what you want isn't what you get?

You open the door to your neighbor who brings solace wrapped in a tortilla and you thank them, God, the cosmos, whatever who is making it possible for you to make it to the next moment. You get a good night's sleep, you drink box wine and watch Cheaters with someone who makes you laugh like a motherfuckin' bitch, you do laundry and you have an afternoon beer with someone who's happy in a way you wish you were and you people-watch at your favorite bar while you write notes on how to survive.

And even though you said it before to someone who doesn't deserve your notice, you remind yourself that all the great ones wrote in bars.

I Have Not Seen Any Gross Stuff At Work, But I Have Heard It.

I answer calls from patients' rooms. So even though I haven't seen a baby being born, I have heard it. Crazily enough, I still want to have sex.

The St. Paddy's Greenville block party has come and gone this year, and I completely missed it. That's what happens when you freelance for a fucking deadbeat. It was awful not being able to go this year. It was a perfect spring day. It would have been a guaranteed good time. My future husband probably shagged some other chick and got herpes so now I don't want him and he was perfect for me.

Instead of keeping my future husband disease-free, I watched Titanic in my pajamas. I always cry when the mom is telling the kids the bedtime story so they won't freak out and when they show the old couple clinging to each other, waiting for the water to come. But this year, it was all the Irish music that made me saddest. Stupid steerage passengers party scene. And my friends got free Jell-o shots. What a gyp.

My new job is hard. I can't remember who anyone is or where to find them. I know who this one nurse is, though.

She's Irish.

WTF?

Ok, so you know how I haven't had a job since October? I haven't been out of bed before 9 am in like four months, right? Alright, 11. So you're going to have to help a brother out, man. I have been out of bed, cogitating cohesively at 5:45 am two mornings in a row. Is it always that fucking dark that fucking early?

I hit the snooze bar only once each morning, but I was up before it went off again both times. I was up to turn off the second alarm, but under standard parameters I would have done this with my eyes closed and gone back to bed without ever really having been officially awake. So on your average Monday morning when I had a job, I'd roll in around 9:45. It was advertising. No one's there before 10. Anyway, not only was I there FIRST on Monday, I was HALF AN HOUR EARLY. Insert the comic book noise of your choice.

And then today, WHAT UP with the Stephen King fog bank? I was expecting to meet Jack the Ripper taking the hound of the Baskervilles for a walk. Seriously, that kind of fog comes with fucking werewolves. That's grab-your-crucifix fog, man.

I've been watching PowerPoint and corporate training videos for two days. But tomorrow, I go learn stuff for real. This. Will. Be. Interesting.

Also, the Greenville St. Patrick's day block party is in four days. Woo, and might I add, hoo!

Sweet Mother Of All That Is Holy, I Am That Girl.

Which girl? THAT girl who breaks up with people on her blog. The Foreigner who says he never reads it, read it yesterday. I was mortified. We still went out for drinks as planned. To the weirdest bar in Dallas, The Grapevine. It's on Maple. They have the best music and the weirdest clientele. It's fantastic. They use whatever glassware they can find so every drink I had came in a different (i.e., bigger) glass and they fill them up all the way. It's alcoholic Heaven. I had a great time. It's hard not to when you're getting felt up by a queen named Gary.

But wait! There's more!

I am also THAT girl who drinks exponentially larger vodka tonics and ends up crying in the parking lot. I KNOW. I HATE THAT GIRL, TOO. I can only hope that all the black eyeliner and mascara I was wearing was smeared all down my face. I wish I hadn't given up getting my jeweled false eyelashes on straight. I would have cried them off and I can imagine one stuck on my mascara-streaked face, all heaving bosom and hysteria, "DON'T LOOK AT ME! I HATE YOU! THANKS FOR BUYING ALL MY DRINKS! I'LL TALK TO YOU NEXT WEEK! I SAID I HATE YOU!"

It was the messiest, most ridiculous, most out of control me The Foreigner has ever seen. But at least it was honest. That's what happens when you don't say what you think. Bottling things up is bad. You're just making the inevitable explosion that much worse the longer you pretend EVERYTHING IS OK. So don't.

There now, don't we all feel better? I certainly do. I'm not sorry and I don't feel guilty. I feel a little protective of Drunk Crying ReadBecca. It's not her fault. She was just pushed to the limit of what she could take. I put her to bed with a little kiss on the forehead.

She's fine.

Breaking News: I Do Not Have Tuberculosis.

So the new jobby-job starts on Monday. Woo! I bought scrubs and bright t-shirts to wear under them so I don't look like an inmate. It's A LOT of khaki. When I open my own practice in ten years, I am wearing whatever color I want. Bank on it.

Also, I haven't entertained The Foreigner in six weeks. This is a good thing. No need to console or commiserate. I'm cool with it. The whole scenario wasn't really "me." Having been a slutty girl for a number of years, and having been celibate for a number of years as well, I've decided that they both suck. Both periods of extreme behavior were for all the wrong reasons. So eff that. I'll tell you what I really, really want - what I really, really want.

I want to fall in love and get married.

I mean it. I am not kidding. I'm still not into the whole parenting thing, but sign me up for a cool husband who wants to be nice to me. I want a happy, cheerful man who makes me laugh like crazy. I have darkness enough for two, so broody, moody and bad-tempered men are not on the list. That eliminates all my ex-boyfriends, except maybe one and he's married so he's not on the list anyway.

There actually is a list of qualities I want in a husband. It's a Love List. I saw it on Oprah. The first thing I put on it was "loyal" and the last thing I put on it was "thinks I'm beautiful and sexy." I also have "manly, but not an ass." That might be my favorite. I didn't put anything on it about pancakes. Or nationality. I've opened the door for actual Americans. But it's a long list and I don't want to overshare it.

I'm talking about oversharing on my blog. Ha. I see how ridiculous that is. I'm aware. I'm also aware that there are things you don't know that I would never, ever write about, so I could seriously overshare like a thousand million times more than I already do. I'm just saying. (I love the idea of people yelling at their computers, "WHAT? THERE'S MORE?! GOOD LORD, WOMAN!")

So that's what I'm up to these days. Thinking about getting hitched. I think I'm more ready now than I've ever been. Things are looking up. Excellent.

I Am The Queen Of Being Employed, Finally.

Get ready for ReadBecca to feature lots more blood and gore. I got a job in a hospital. On the Labor and Delivery ward. Soon, I am going to see EXACTLY where babies come from. I bet I never forget to take the pill again.

Also, I have been slightly hungover all day, mainly because after T. Foreigner, Esq., bought me a cheeseburger, I had like 17 beers for dinner. I'm kidding. I only had 10 beers maybe. I'm still kidding. It couldn't have been more than seven. I don't know how much I drank, OK? Stop nagging me!

In any case, I have a job and I have to cut back on school night extracurricular activites. And prepare for many, many more odes to the joys of coffee, because I will have to get up at five with this new job thing. Five IN THE MORNING. I know. It's going to be awesome. I'm willing to get up early if it means I might meet a med student.

I can't wait to name someone McDumbAss.

It's My Birthday And I Am At A Bar At 4:37 PM On A Monday. Wanna Make Something Of It?

It's my birthday and I am cool and you are not because chances are you are NOT in a bar while you are reading this and I AM in a bar while I write this, and it's NOT the bar I usually write in. It's a TOTALLY DIFFERENT Irish bar that is OWNED BY THE SAME PEOPLE as the one I usually go to, so, yeah, I am branching out, man.

Last night Linds and Stef took me out to dinner and a movie, both of which were delish. I highly recommend Definitely, Maybe and P.F. Chang's, especially the spareribs. I would walk 500 miles and I would walk 500 more just to be the woman who walked a thousand miles just to fall down at the spareribs' door. Also, The Foreigner took me to lunch and brought me sweets and a fridge magnet from his trip to London, even though he forgot it was my birthday. We had a nice long lunch and now he's off riding his motorcycle and now Ashley is here and we are going to have some drinks.

ReadBecca Requests: Your Break-Up Songs

Here's the premise. If you were going to break up with someone by putting a CD in their stereo with a note that said "Play Me," what would the song be?

I'll start.

Scandal, "Goodbye To You"
Led Zep, "Ramble On"
John Cougar Mellencamp, "I Need A Lover That Won't Drive Me Crazy"
The Motels, "Take The L" (Out Of Lover And It's Over)

Now you go.

That Sinking Feeling

Do you ever do things you immediately regret? Ever carried a watermelon? Ever wish you could let things lie? Ever find yourself saying, "Every time I get out, I PULL ME BACK IN!" Ever feel like your mouth is your biggest liability? Would your superpower be the ability to conjer up a giant hole you can jump into that would automatically disappear and erase the memories of anyone within a 15-foot radius? Do remember when Monica left that completely insane voicemail for Magnum PI after they broke up and tried to erase it because she knew the code and ended up leaving the outgoing message that said, "I don't know what's wrong with me. Maybe I'm getting my period or something," and then she accidentally reset the code and couldn't erase it and you were all, like, "I totally know how she feels?"

The last time I can remember a truly horrible, heinous, awful, train-wreck in progress that I could not control and knew would mortify me to the end of my days is when I made Fiona and Stefanie go undercover with me to a Match.com date. It put the AWK! in awkward.

And as for the hair-flipping incident, I don't even want to talk about it.

Just not call. Let things lie. Let it go. You're the only one who cares. Don't bring unneccesary attention to yourself when things get weird. If you just shut up, you can get out alive. Keep your nervous, freaky, insecure, over-eager, desperate, uncoolness to yourself.

Trust me on this. I totally know what I'm talking about.

And if you can't stop yourself from rolling that snowball down the hill, comfort yourself with this warm thought: Nobody else thinks it was as bad as you do in hindsight.

Except that's not true. Yes, it was that bad. You did make a fool of yourself. You should probably quit your job and move and never go to that bar again and avoid that person and anyone they might know or be related to. Change your name. Get a face transplant. Children will still laugh at you and point, but you're just going to have to live with it. Someday, you'll look back and laugh.

Except you won't.

Riding The Bus With ReadBecca

I have never ridden a bus in any city I've ever lived in, only ones I've visited because most of the places I visit have much better public transportation and there isn't that whole "Hey, you're poor!" connotation like here in Texas. Anyway, yesterday, I rode the bus.

I didn't plan to, but I got a flat and there was all this flat drama about not being able to get it fixed right away, so I ended up walking to the bank then to the train station, stealing a ride on the train but it wasn't my fault the machine wouldn't take folding money, then waiting an hour for a bus and then walking the last part of the way home in bare feet because my blisters were hobbling me in my boots. All this resulted in a massive headache due to not eating anything until 4 pm when I finally got home from my 10:30 am interview.

Riding the bus takes commitment because it takes forfuckingever to get anywhere. Hats off to people who do it every day. Seriously, the bus only comes around every hour. I think there's only one bus at a time on the route that goes by my house. You would think that having two buses at least on the same route would be smart. If they leave from opposite ends, then you have an inbound and and outbound running at the same time. Because right now, I should just catch the one bus and stay on it the whole way because at least then I'd be in the air conditioning instead of standing around waiting for the same bus to come back, and I also don't have to cross the street and risk getting killed to stand at the bus stop that's going the direction I'm going.

Trains, I've got them down. Trains are way easier than buses. Give me a train any day. But to get to the train, you have to take a bus so if I want to go WEST to downtown Dallas, which is a 10-minute drive, I have to go NORTH on the bus to the train station, then go SOUTH on the train, and it takes like an hour. There's probably a different bus to take downtown, but I only know this one because it goes to the train station and passes by two banks I need to go to and the stop is close enough to my house.

But if I actually got off near the bank I'd have to wait for an hour for the bus to come back to take me to the train station, which I would have probably started walking to since I could make it there, probably, in the hour it would take the bus to come back. So either way, I end up walking around the city anyway and I have to deal with the whole "Hey, you're poor!" crap from everyone on top of that, and get blisters.

It sucks being part of the proletariat.

"She is single and is in desperate need of a job."

People, I have had a shit week.

I didn't get any, a cop made me cry, I'm trapped in my house, my skin is in rebellion, my mother is coming to visit, I had an inappropriate sex dream about someone that made me feel guilty because in the dream I didn't feel guilty, I kept missing Teletubbies, it's cold outside, I don't have any money, no one will cook me dinner, I can't go to Luby's for chicken fried steak, I hate all my clothes, everyone's at work, I can't find any of my socks, I have to make the bed, I can't play the piano, there isn't a Pacciugo within walking distance, the mochas at the generic coffee shop suck, Starbucks still hasn't reinstated Valencia flavor, and no one wants to cuddle anymore.

But I managed to catch half the Teletubbies, I watched five episodes of Lost online for free last night, I have an interview on Monday and I had some cereal, so things are looking up.

I also think it's funny, and extremely frustrating, that no matter what my mother says to the contrary, the fact that I am not married and don't plan to have children and she would only truly be happy for me if I did is always on her mind. Today's headline is a direct quote from her regarding a work-favor I asked her to do. No mother should ever put "single and desperate" in any email regarding any part of her pushing-forty daughter's life. Ever. For any reason. EVER. She also uses my middle name and too many exclamation points. I told you the sperm bank story, didn't I? About how she told me on my 3oth birthday that she would help me find a sperm bank and move in with me to raise the baby? I am not making this up.

It really sucks when your mother doesn't get you.

Anyway, put out some good karma for me on the job front. I could use the help. Who is the patron saint of the unemployed? I need to go to the bodega and get a candle.

Also, aren't we all so relieved Britney's in the loony bin again? Remember when Anne Heche went loony and the aliens restraightened her? Now she's got her own show and it's kind of fun to watch. Britney should take some freakin' notes, man.

If Only I Had No Common Decency Or Sense Of Shame, Then I Could Work For Extra.

CROCODILE TEARS!

Dang, how am I going to get this woman to move out of Stefanie's spot? I think I will have more luck if I will some of the hipsters down the end to go somewhere else. This one knucklehead keeps getting Vickery and Victory mixed up. Vickery Park is a bar on Henderson. Victory Park is a made-up destination downtown that contains that lame bar at the W, amongst others. Don't go there. Paris Hilton goes there, ya dig?

Say, mack, I gotta line on a crackerjack pony. I'm gonna amscray, but keep an eye on that dame in the corner. She's poison, see. A fella could get filled fulla lead hanging around a broad like that, see. So long, bub. Don't take any wooden nickels.

So the editing section of Monster is filled full of jobs that have nothing to do with editing. I think people are trying to trick me into about 57 different pyramid schemes. I can't click on a link that has more than one exclamation point in it or tells me I can work from home. They'll have me licking envelopes for Tom Cruise if I'm not careful. Looking for a job is so boring. I'm sick of doing it and sick of not making progress and sick of reporting nothing. I really have to figure out all the really technical crap on my computer. Some day. Stef's here. I better bail.

I Know Where Hell Is. Grapevine, Texas.

I used to think Hell was Branson, Missouri, but now I know I was wrong.

Hell is much closer than you think. The Devil isn't pulling his greatest trick anymore.* He's advertising, with a catchy jingle and harmless cartoon animals. Wait, harmless cartoon animals? When was the last time you thought WOLVES were cute? Wolves aren't cute. They will eat your face off. Wolves will eat your friends so they can haunt you in increasing states of decay, give you rabies AND turn you into a werewolf. Those fuckers are smart.

And so is the Devil's advertising agency. Satan wants your children and he will get you to happily deliver them at no charge to him by means of an indoor water park and fake-timber bunkbeds in a reasonably priced hotel room. So go ahead and book Satan's Vacation at Great Wolf Lodge and offer your children to The Beast. Then you can go catch a farm-raised, mutant clone fish at Bass Pro and follow it up with a nice complimentary Mai Tai at The Glass Cactus because the souls of your fat, functionally illiterate spawn made such a juicy snack for God's Chief Frenemy that you're on the list and don't need a reservation.

For God's and your children's sake, take your kids camping for real in actual woods with animals that weren't drawn by an underpaid computer programmer in Taiwan. You do not need a climate-controlled water park, you need The Schlitterbahn. Your kids need to make the most kick-ass lanyards the Hill Country has ever seen, not become processed cheese food humanish space taker-uppers with in-room PS3. I will shrink wrap your face and keep you alive FOREVER LIKE A TWINKIE if I hear any of you ever went to this place, even on accident. Don't even stop there to ask directions on your way to Enchanted Rock. I am not kidding.

Listen, I know this is a little unlike me to advocate being outside when you all know I love concrete more than Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world. But, dang, there's concrete, and then there's BUILDING A FAMILY FRIENDLY VACATION DESTINATION ON A FOUNDATION OF EVIL SHORED UP WITH REBAR FORGED IN SATAN'S METAL WORKS.

Frankly, I'm willing to get chiggers if it means I don't have to become Beelzebub's wife.




* Making you think he doesn't exist, duh. Jeez, watch The Usual Suspects again, you moron.

Dang, Hollywood Stars, Stop Dying!

Remember how heartbroken we were when River Phoenix checked out way too early in the most squalid, stupid, meaningless public display on a sidewalk ever? Talented doesn't have to equal crazy, people. You can make awesome movies without being miserable. You don't have to be insane to be great. Yeah, a lot of the great ones were nuts, but the times they are a-changing and wouldn't it have been awesome if Van Gogh had been in a support group and kept painting? I mean, have you SEEN his work? I was never a big fan of the Van Gogh. Until I saw his self-portrait in the Musee d'Orsay in Paris and instantly got it. If you have the ability to make such stunning acts of beauty that they can literally, in an immeasurably quick flash of instantaneous connection, change the mind of someone else a hundred years later, then you owe it to the Universe who gave you that gift to protect it and not wastefully die long before you've used every drop of creativity you were blessed with. Of course I have no idea what happened to Heath Ledger, and it wouldn't be any less horrible if some unexpected but natural cause killed him. We're all cheated just the same.

In short, knock it off, talented artist-types. I don't want to see a single tragically lost artist soul ever again. Get your asses into therapy, stat.


I don't have any shame about my Mondays, btw. Conflicted maybe, but not shamed, fyi. Thought I should clarify, if only for my own ends. I feel better having said it. Ok, I'm done. I'm going to look for a job while I wait for my baked potato.

I Love You, Blogda!.

Here I am sitting on the sofa wrapped in a blue and green beach towel after having washed off the shame and regret of another filthy Monday morning, listening to Dido (Shut up.) and plotting the end (The end? Of what?), realizing I've bathed three times in the last 24 hours and worrying I might be getting germphobic, and feeling a little sorry for myself I admit cheerfully (Well, semi-cheerfully. I'm hardly ever 100% cheerful.), when I decide to catch up with my ol' pal Blogda via the World Wide Internet. Then I laughed. So yeah, I'm obviously moody, duh, but it's nice when your sad sack state can be instantly cured just by your friend writing about sandwiches.

I was about to knock off blogging and make myself a sandwich, then I remembered I am out of Coca-Cola so I need to page my dealer before I can have said sandwich. You are crazy if you can eat a sandwich without a Coke. I can't eat any typically American food without a Coke accompaniment. Hot dogs? Needs a Coke. Hamburgers? Needs a Coke. Frozen Ding Dongs? Needs milk, and then a Coke later to keep the sugar high going. Have a Coke and a smile. I take that shit literally.

Dang, that means I have to ditch the beach towel and get dressed. I guess that's ok, I am a bit cold. What is the wackiest outfit I could wear to Tom Thumb? Obviously, it's this beach towel, my tiara and boots. I would do it on a bet, but I'm not doing it for free. Do I want to go to Target or Tom Thumb? I haven't been to Ghetto Target in a while. Nah, I'm too hungry to enjoy Ghetto Target. I need to acquire my stash and get out so I can have my sandwich ASAP. It would have been nice to have it while watching Teletubbies, but I missed it already. And yeah, I said Teletubbies, and yeah, I know what time it comes on. That show calms me down like a handful of quaaludes, it's amazing.

Ok, enough fucking around. I need a sandwich post haste.

Good Monday. Excellent Work, Smithers.

This morning, The Foreigner bought me some blueberry pancakes and made me laugh real laughs, the loud kind that make people look, if there were people trying to read the paper in my living room. He has an Uncle Pasquale. Awesome. Good times, the just hanging out for a couple hours. Ambivalence currently at bay. Also, I'm not drunk and despairing, unless my pancake buzz has lasted 12 hours and now I'm coming down.

Then I picked up my CPR textbook, recycled a ton of magazines dating back to 2005, took an hour and a half nap, had a sandwich, watched Entertainment Tonight, How I Met Your Mother and The Big Bang Theory, and played a few hands of Free Cell until my neighbor fired up the wi-fi for me to steal. Then I checked my email and got a note answering my resume email and requesting my divine presence at an interview on Friday. Holy crap!

It's been quite a day. I'm exhausted.

In The Interest Of Full Disclosure...

Last Tuesday, I got over-served at home. I couldn't pick up any stolen wi-fi, so I just wrote me up a document and saved it to post later. Then I forgot about it, until now. I even had a title. It's surprisingly cogent for having been written during a good shellacking. Enjoy my unedited glory, and no, Dear Reader, I don't want to talk about it.

Pinot Noir Tuesday.

Hey Franklin Gothic Medium Font, you’re ok, I guess. I love the way Lane’s boyfriend on Gilmore Girls said “I guess.” He conveyed all the ambivalence in the world with two syllables. Which brings me to the point. I am ambivalent. Shocker. IiiI Like you didn’t already know that. I am ambivalent about continuing to fuck The Foreigner. I have this horrible suspicion that as long as I go about servicing this man, I am cutting myself off from meeting someone who actually loves me. The best I can hope for with The Foreigner is if I say “I don’t love you,” he says back, “I don’t love you, either,” and then we laugh. That’s about the closest we could get. There’s nothing wrong with a moment like that, because at least you’re on the same level and you both KNOW something together, the same way, at the same time. I absolutely adore it when you have that whole Chasing Amy moment with someone, two fingers coming together, face to face or across the room. I live for it. The oreigner and I don’t have that. It makes me sad. I’ve had that with people I haven’t seen naked. I would like to have that with someone I HAVE seen naked. It would cool if I had that WHILE I was seeing someone naked. That would be perfect. I saw P.S. I Love You last week and cried my eyes out. I love Hilary Swank and Gerard Butler in love and fighting and on the same page, in their tiny New York apartment that they thought was too small, but I thought was adorable and perfect. It was perfect for two. I love the separate dressers on opposite sides of the same wall, talking to each other while dressing or undressing. It’s not too much to ask. Somebody once told me I would marry a short Jewish lawyer. I say bring him on. I saw this documentary tonight about a dude with Asberger’s and the thing that struck me about this New York family was not their whole Asberger’s issue, it was that they quoted Shakespeare at the dinner table and their hall was filled ceiling to floor with books. I am nearly desperate with longing for such a life. Ridiculous. Wine-fueled. Claustrophobic boredom setting in. I shouldn’t be left alone for so long. As much as I hate people and just want to be left alone, this is ridiculous. I am a woman who needs to be managed. Handled. I am reduced to buying staplers. Stapler. It came with staples and a remover for under four bucks. I also bought two manually powered flashlights today. I suddenly realized at Target that I did not own a flashlight. I KNEW that if I did not get them immediately that I would be slain by Buffalo Bill tonight. I will put one in my car. That is how alone I am. I buy flashlights because I am an old maid. Oh sweet Jesus, thank God I never fucked a guy in a band who wears capes. Not a guy who wears capes, an ENTIRE BAND that wears capes. At least I am not that uncool. And then they wrapped up their song with a snippet stolen from The Doors. I hate them, whoever they are. Yay! Craig Ferguson who was in Ft. Worth last Saturday and I should have forked out the dough to see him, he amuses me so. And damn it all if he’s not a foreigner. I need foreigner rehab. Oh thumbs up to you, Craigy. I bet we could be two fingers closer together if we tried. And he wouldn’t be drunk. I smell like Ireland. I don’t know what you think Ireland smells like, but to me, it smells like moss, the moss-scented solid perfume I bought in Kilkenny to be exact. I have kept it for all these years, in its little seaglass bottle, hardly touched. I used the soap and the bath salts long, long ago. I love this scent. It’s sexy and domestic all at the same time. Craig Ferguson would cheat on me, I’m pretty sure. I am a caged tiger. I want to get the hell out of this room. I’m looking around, narrowing my eyes at everything. It’s all out to get me. Also, I am aware he is Scottish, fyi. I should collect a Scot. File. Save As. Pinot Noir Tuesday, The One Where I Became An Aunt. Again.

P.S. I don’t love you.
P.P.S. There’s nothing sadder than shouting “Braidy McBraidson!” in the middle of the night and inhaling your own hair.
P.P.P.S. Note: There was wodka in the freezer after the pinot was gone.
P.P.P.P.S. So there.

Hey, I Made My Avatar!

It changes here automatically. Don't I look the sexy as a Praetorian?

I Love You, Wireless Mouse.

I am not all electronic gadget girl, you know that, but I got a wireless mouse for Christmas and an Ipod, so I'm all loaded up on new toys, thanks.

I have also officially hit the wall with how much time I can spend by myself. I nearly went nuts with boredom over Christmas. The Willie Nelson Holiday Film Festival just didn't cut it, especially when Songwriter wouldn't play on the VCR. I pulled all of Willie's movies out of the archives at Premiere Video, which means I had to climb the ladder. Willie Nelson as movie star is pretty good. IMDB him and enjoy.

Also, I bought boots. Not cowboy. Kitten heel. Tres sexy. Depose The Foreigner if you need proof. I think they supercede silver shoes.

Why is supercede always a spelling bee word?

What else? I got nothin'. No job. Total boredom. Decided not to take microbiology at this juncture. Not vital. Must learn CPR officially. Remembering the poster in the break room two jobs ago that also mentioned treatment of snake bites not good enough. I always thought it would be awesome if somebody got snake bit in the cube farm.

I drank a lot on Christmas Day night, and I remember dancing with some guy, but I'm not sure if he kissed me or what. It's not important. Some guy with blue hair had been buying me a lot of drinks before then, so details are sketchy. In any case, I went home alone and slept on the floor. I don't remember why. It was not comfortable.

Ok, it's getting cold up here in the WRC loft, so I'm going home. It's dark outside and literally freezing ass cold out there. I should have put something in the slow cooker so I would come home to deliciousness and warmth. Oh yeah, I skipped New Year's Eve. No point. So really, you're not behind on anything.

Except for how I stood up for myself as a woman and got what I wanted in response and how proud of myself I am for not taking it lying down. I am ReadBecca, hear me roar.