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.