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.