I Want to Draw you a Floorplan of my Head and Heart

This Friday my workplace finally trusted me with a closing shift. Closing entails an entire hour alone in the building, and requires two basic functions: staying awake and locking a door. Everybody reassured me several times they were only a phone call away should disaster strike, and promptly bolted for the door because obvs it was Friday night and they had some important kitty cat videos to Youtube. What did I do with my newfound freedom? I perused Autostraddle, of course. And I read all these things that Riese loves, and evidently Riese loves writers writing about how much they love writing. You know what guys? I love writing. And I constantly find myself fighting the urge to write about writing. The process, and inspiration and frustration… I’ve resisted thus far. I feel like this handful of essays, stories and articles gives me permission to write about writing. Just this once.  

As a socially awkward 7-year old, I decided I was going to be a writer. My first novel would be a staggering work of fiction dealing with love, friendship, betrayal and any other grandiose notions I could wrap my tiny baby brain around. Obviously, the loveable protagonist in this story was a Brittany Spaniel named Rusty. Baby b was an avid animal lover, and our special daughter-mom bonding activity was volunteer dog walking at the Humane Society (even though I always had three or four dogs of my own stuck at my dad’s house, languishing in the backyard). Rusty had this infectious energy; he always seemed frenzied and desperate. I could definitely relate. I loved him from the start. He dragged me around the Humane Society’s lawn for an hour, two days a week for at least a month.

I plugged away at The Story of Rusty (I like to think back on it as The Epic Tail of Rusty) for a good three years. I was convinced that somehow a written happy ending would supersede the real Rusty’s euthanasia. The story grew with me. When my best friend was being a vindictive bitch, Rusty encountered an equally unsavory character. When my mom was sick, Rusty’s was killed by a drunk trucker. When taking care of my sister felt overwhelming, Rusty provided for his rambunctious littermates and always behaved admirably.

Then my dad informed sister and I we were packing up and moving to California before the end of the week. I cried and he told me an analogy about water in a desert that I still don’t understand contextually. But that settled it. That’s when Rusty ran away to live alone, because he realized that people were always going to let him down. He was brave and self-reliant. I moved to California.

I haven’t attempted another Staggering Work of Fiction, but writing has been my go-to for years. In fourth and fifth grade I wrote a series of hyper-emotional poems about my cat and rainstorms. I’ve also had the pleasure of flipping through the journal I kept the year we moved to California. Henri the cat and his existential distress probably capture the tone best. Junior high I got really into Jesus, and wrote a lot of hyperbolic poetry praising G-O-D, our lord and savior. High school I discovered drugs, alcohol and razor blades. This considerably less holy Trinity proved just as conducive to mawkish immortalization. Some of it will probably eventually find its way onto this blog, so you can see I'm not exaggerating. 

I don’t know where writing will take me, but I know I’ll stick with it. I can’t imagine life without it. Writing helped me navigate a lot of really awful shit. It consistently helps me self-assess, self-catalogue and self-medicate. This blog in particular has been therapeutic. Do you guys even realize how perfect you are? Because I’m giving you everything, opening up my past like a jewelry box and giving you the gaudiest trinkets. Cracking open my observations like a geode so you can see the crystalline innards of my brain. And every time I feel self-conscious, or worry about meeting your expectations, I get a text or an e-mail, or a message thanking me for sharing. Or telling me you relate. Or appreciating some snippet of prose in one of my posts. You guys, I'm incredibly delicate. You've got all the power here. Thank you for being so gentle with me. 

I would like to believe this was written for me. I wish it was written to me: 

“Writing is hard for every last one of us—straight white men included. Coal mining is harder. Do you think miners stand around all day talking about how hard it is to mine for coal? They do not. They simply dig. You need to do the same, dear sweet arrogant beautiful crazy talented tortured rising star glowbug. That you’re so bound up about writing tells me that writing is what you’re here to do. And when people are here to do that they almost always tell us something we need to hear. I want to know what you have inside you. I want to see the contours of your second beating heart.”

5 things I saw and wanted to share:

1. Puttering down Pardee St, a camouflage bug with a lawn mower strapped to the roof

2. Birdhouses stacked, onetwothreefour, roughly hewn condos full of avian drama

3. Little boys on bikes discussing the mechanics of ice cream consumption

4. Unruly lawns spilling into the sidewalk, waves of flowers like a creeping tide

5. A yellow tulip stained with the bloody evidence of some genetic battle.

God bless Portland, and all the loveable weirdos calling it home.

-b

You Are Everything, You Are Nothing At All.

I like books about drifters, songs about the same. They both seem to make me feel a little less insane…

Once again, my brain proves incapable of recounting everything I’d like to share with you guys. There’s so much information constantly assaulting us and no time to pause, decompress, analyze things as they come. I suppose it boils down to a matter of perspective, an argument of perceptions. I just can’t hold onto the details of every situation, can’t memorize every nuance. I wish the memories you were going to want later would cue you in as they were happening. I wish some internal alarm system that would alert you something important was happening and you should probably try to live in that moment for as long as humanly possible.

My friend recently got hired to dance at a club on 122^nd. Anyone who knows her understands how entirely absurd that sounds. She’s lovely, with a penchant for channeling creative talents into a million different streams of light and beauty. She’s that person who asks what you’re thinking and you’re inclined to answer honestly no matter how complicated the response. Because you know she’ll listen, and get it. About a month ago I attended a poetry reading she participated in. She is seriously fucking talented. Intimidatingly talented. I have yet to allow her to read a word I’ve written, although we have a poetry exchange planned for the near future. Just thinking about it makes me sweaty.

She worked her first shift this past Friday, and I went out to support her. I pre-gamed by consuming an entire bottle of Jose. Cue my first really bad decision of the night. I don’t really remember much about getting to the club, other than Friend’s sister dropped us off and I crammed myself into the tiny space between two car-seats because Friend’s nieces are still babies, and a little scared of me, but warming up. Slowly.

Somewhere between Friend’s house and the club I transformed from my usual awkward self into my belligerently-drunk-but-still-awkward self. So we get to the club and I have $20 in my pocket and a bottle of tequila in my stomach and I’m wearing one of the vests I got for my job interviews and feeling fucking fantastic. I felt like I could take on the world. I felt like I could look a social situation in the eye without flinching, like I could swallow Friday night in one giant gulp and not heave it back up 2 hours later in the back alley.

                                                                                                   

The stories we tell ourselves aren’t always true. My memories of the club itself are pretty scattered. I vaguely remember feeding my friend $1 bills out of my mouth. I vaguely remember a homeless man selling me a pair of glasses outside the club. Prescription glasses. He had me try on each pair to see which ones helped my vision, but obvs nothing was going to help my vision because I was blind drunk. I bought the pair that fucked up my vision least, $15 cash. I hope that fella at least did something productive with it, like bought more glasses to swindle more drunks.

This week was a week of discoveries. A week of lows and limits, but a week of discoveries. I don’t regret a single minute, except for every single minute. It was a week of stress and setbacks, but I didn’t cry because mostly I think I was too hammered to cry. Or too hungover, which really could have prompted crying. Either way, even when I know I’m being self-loathing it feels better to do it actively than to just let it immobilize me. It’s been a long time since somebody had to give me a play-by-play of my actions. I can’t say it was a particularly good feeling.

[This is a direct text-quote from Friend, and an accurate synopsis: You spent the weekend feeding strippers dolla bills from your mouth, woke up in a boston terrier’s bed, then puked and rallied twice in one day. You have to get your shit together. I find that excuse works 87% of the time.]

And we laughed, you know, because sometimes you’d rather cry.

Sometimes I think if I could just channel my mind directly into my fingers and keep writing I could go on indefinitely. I’d fall back into my body, still sitting here at 35 and realize that I had written every word I ever meant to say. What I actually think I’ll be doing at 35 is nothing, because I think I'll be dead. I don’t dwell on it as much as I used to, but I suffer from a total Doom Complex. I’ve never seen myself living into old age. I can’t picture living past 26. It’s not that I don’t want to live. I mean, living is hard as shit and only gets harder a lot of the time, but I can appreciate that the struggle, that friction  makes living worthwhile. Because why would we want to just float around in complacent little bubbles indulging every whim, not worrying about paying bills, or our piece of shit cars breaking down, or what may have been said/done the other night when you were fall down drunk… I lost track of where I was going with this.

I’m trying to say this: I realize the thought of dying young is terribly self-indulgent. But it’s also strangely comforting. Like no matter how bad things get, I can handle them because they won’t last much longer. It’s also a bit of a cop-out. I keep telling people I’ve only got three good years left; I may as well live them to the fullest. I don’t know you guys, maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe I’ll wake up one day like Riese did and remember how I used to be young and sad and foolish. Only time will tell.

In other news: we had another work meeting this week. This one was half business and half a celebration of two brand new brides. Unfortunately said brides were not marrying each other, although I probably could have let you guys live under that blissful assumption for at least another minute. No, they are both happily married to men. I use the term “happily” pretty loosely, because I’ve picked up on a lot of frustration and bickering since the nuptials. Anyways, that’s beside the point. Because in the moment I’m describing, awkwardly surrounded by friends/co-workers, munching on Hawaiian cuisine and listening to tired euphemisms about Eternal Happiness, I’m sure then they were perfectly content. Or maybe they were hungry, or a little sweaty, or worrying about the cardiac emergency patient coming in post-celebration. But I digress. As we’re sitting there eating fresh pineapple and chicken skewers, a man named Rockstar Jeff struts in with an acoustic guitar. Jeff was wearing a pair of snakeskin print pants and proceeded to serenade our “blushing brides”. You guys, you haven’t lived until you’ve experience a singing telegram. Seriously, go here and watch all of those and feel jealous.  

The entire time this madness was occurring, all I could think was “this is my real life. This is my real, grown up life”. I was being paid to sit and watch a man in tight, snakeskin print pants serenade my co-workers. Hell, I even sang along.

The other day at work one of the girls attempted to compliment me. She said, “You don’t seem to be nearly as awkward as when you first started!” I wasn’t sure if I should thank her or not, so I just smiled (awkwardly) and laughed like it was a joke. But I know it wasn’t. It was a fair assessment of my recent interactions with people. The key to a successful conversation lies in finding a topic which both parties find interesting, and have a basic knowledge of. I have plenty of worthless knowledge, but my interest appears to have waned. As Autostraddle would say, I can’t find a fuck to give. So I keep faking it, keep playing dumb. Keep getting the surface character down pat. My study in method acting.

My friend asked why I wouldn’t let her look into my eyes too long. What am I afraid she’ll find? My answer at the time was “nothing”, and in some sense I meant it. I’m afraid of the expansive void within my mind, the spaces I hurtle myself when the world feels too small. At the same time, I could have said “everything”. The things I’m ashamed of, the stories I’m afraid I’ll never tell. I’m not the person I thought I would be. I’m not convinced of my essential goodness, or even capacity for basic human kindness. Repeatedly I’ve coerced people into trusting me with their brokenness, only to do further damage. I’m afraid she’ll see the bad blood too close to the surface, the hurt and bitterness beneath the complacency.

So, here goes another angsty out-pouring. You weirdos seem to be enjoying it though! This week we hit 1,000 views. I’ve been working on ways to casually slip that number into various conversations... Things like, “Oh Honey, I’m glad to hear your son got into grad school! Did you hear my blog hit 1,000 views this week?” or “I’m sorry you lost your job. Maybe if you’re the 1,001th view on my blog you’ll feel better?”

Thank you guys, for helping me maintain this illusion of living the dream. All my love.

-b

Blame it on my ADD, Baby

This morning I woke up to the kitten grooming my left eyebrow. At 6:24am. On my day off. Additionally there was a text on my phone from a good friend’s number saying some stranger was in possession of her phone and purse. I guess that’s what happens when 3 people win a $50 bar tab at Press Box trivia. You go, Oedipus & the Motherfuckers, you intellectual bastards! I have nothing but love in my heart for you.

I’m sitting here, eating eggs and drinking coffee. I know for a fact that interesting things have happened to me this week. Things that are worth talking about, worth cracking open and analyzing and attempting to piece back together again. I just really, really, really can’t seem to summon the attention span to do so. I’m listening to a playlist about Bears. It’s raining outside and I need to donate plasma soon so I can continue to unreliably pay my bills.

I know my hesitance to write stems from the fact that I actually have something worthwhile to write about. I’m not ready. Like being attacked by a grizzly bear, I’m hopeful that if I play dead long enough, this situation will bat me around for a while, lose interest and amble off in search of more interesting fare. And blackberries. And whatever else bear problems are in search of. Love, probably, or at least honey.

This morning I told you I’m not some apathetic sociopath running around destroying things without a second thought. You said actions speak louder than words. Maybe you’re right.

Why can’t I seem to say anything when it actually needs to be said?

I always think of what I was trying to say about 15 minutes after finalizing these things anyways. Perhaps this is an indication I should slow down and actually consider the weight of my words before sharing them with the whole world? Perhaps. Or I’ll just keep vomiting my half-baked opinions into cyberspace.

http://www.poptower.com/dance-moms-picture-81102.htm

Update: It’s a little later in the day, and I’m feeling marginally more motivated. I even talked to a stranger today. I’ma say that earns me 10 points in the social skills department. Granted I’m sitting alone in my dark bedroom, recounting my moderate accomplishment to the 5 people that still read my blog. But that’s beside the point! To celebrate, let’s go over some of the conversations I’ve had this week. These are paraphrased, but they get the point across:

#1: Regarding the content of this blog/my head.

Conversational Partner: I think you’re a little cray cray.

Me: You think I’m what?

CP: You know, cray cray. Like crazy.

Me: Oh, right. Thanks for clearing that up for me.

#2: Regarding my emotional landscape.  

CP: How are you feeling today, anyways?

Me: I don’t know…kind of sad. Sweaty. Maybe a little hungry. I think I’m depressed.

CP: You’re not depressed. Those are just symptoms of being a human.

#3: Buying a bottle of wine at an undisclosed grocery store from a middle-aged man named “Jonnie”. I handed him my ID…

Jonnie: Oh yeah, I’d better at least pretend to check that. The alcohol police are on the prowl this week… usually I’d turn a blind eye. I just want kids to be havin’ fun on their Friday nights, you know what I’m sayin’ girl?

And then he winked at me. Jonnie, you’re the reason people like me grow up to be people like me.

Courtesy of: http://nightclubsecurity.wordpress.com/tag/alcohol/

#4: Regarding my thought process.

Me: Sometimes I think I’m legitimately bi-polar.

CP: Have you been tested for syphilis recently? That could account for your erratic behavior...

#5: Regarding my mental dreamscape.

Me: Yeah, all of my dreams have been really dark lately. Really bloody and disturbing.

CP: Have you ever considered talking to someone? You know, like a professional?

Me: Pretty much every day. Why?

http://www.sodahead.com/entertainment/would-you-buy-a-robotic-dog/

#6: Regarding the ins and outs of adulthood.

CP: One of my sister’s friends asked me what life after college is like.

Me: Oh yeah, what’d you say?

CP: I said I drink twice as much, except now it’s usually alone in my basement while wearing sweatpants.

#7: Regarding my binge drinking and subsequent poverty.

CP: I wish you would go to an A.A. meeting… or like, just flip through the Big Book of Alcoholism, just to humor me. If you go to one that a church is hosting, they might even have free cookies. [Note: this is also a commentary on the lengths I would go to for free food…]

#8: On making things happen.

Me: I decided I’m taking a vow of celibacy until I achieve some goals.

CP: What sort of goals?

Me: No more binge drinking, maybe start meditating or yoga… you know, general self-love and acceptance type stuff.

CP: So what you’re saying is you’ll have sex again when you’re about 65.

#9: Sitting at work, I innocently peeked over at my co-workers computer screen to see a plethora of pasty, middle-aged, criminal type people.

Me: What are you looking at over there?

Coworker: Oh, I’m just looking up my neighbor.

Me: Umm...On pdxmugshots.com? 

Coworker: Yeah, we watched her get arrested again last night. I just wanted to know what for this time.

I wish I had a tenth interesting conversation to post here, because as much as I love the number nine, it feels somehow incomplete. Oh well, I guess that's what you guys get for now. 

As always, I love you more than I can say.

-b

Today will be Better, I Swear!

Brought to you by Rogue’s mocha porter, people who photograph bears and manic depression.

You guys ever have one of those days/weeks/months? You know when you wake up and you’re not quite sure what’s wrong, but something is definitely Wrong. I had one yesterday. Let me start by saying there was absolutely no reason for me to have a bad day. ULOL and I stayed up Friday night drinking delicious microbrews, swapping ghost stories and eating popcorn. I went to bed at a reasonable hour after properly hydrating and slept like a tiny baby lamb on a balmy spring afternoon in a field of glitter and newly minted dreams. I opened my eyes at 9am to a sunny Saturday with a whole world of possibility stretched out before me.

I immediately regretted it. I’m pretty sure Allie captures this sentiment best with Adventures in Depression. 

[Note: if you haven’t discovered Hyperbole and a Half yet, there is absolutely no reason for us to continue being friends until you have done so. Seriously. Stop reading this right now and go experience the joys and wonders that blog has to offer. I’ll still be here when you get back. With an ice cream sandwich. ]

Birds were trilling, that cat was being unobtrusive for perhaps the first time in her whole kitten life, roomies were puttering about the house being all adorable and couple-y. The universe had finally deemed us worthy of a Perfect Day. I skulked my way down the stairs, feeling like a thunder cloud creeping in on someone’s picnic. My stomach appeared to be practicing for a contortionist audition. My brain jostled around in my head like a Mexican jumping bean on a trampoline inside a bouncy castle.

I fed myself, clothed myself and managed to sell plasma all before noon, all without incident. Turns out this was a mistake, because plasma had been my only Goal for the day. Don’t get me wrong, I had plenty to do. Homework, or the massive pile of laundry slowly swallowing my closet, or shaving my legs… Instead of motivating me, the oppressive reality of these responsibilities kick-started the cycle of apathy I ended up wallowing in yesterday. When I got back from plasma, I proceeded to listlessly drape myself over various pieces of furniture.

This was either to illicit sympathy or to shame myself out of my own pathetic mental state. I tried the couch, the lawn chair, the front steps to our house and at one point my bedroom floor. Then I realized my bedroom floor was appallingly dirty, and tried the couch again.

When dramatically displaying my apathy didn't work, I considered a whole heap of activities that involved some combination of booze, food and spending money. Unfortunately, despite my awesome new job (or due to irresponsible spending in the recent past) I’m broke as a joke. 

Being poor, I’m attempting to eat every food item in my cupboard before going grocery shopping. Sometimes you set unrealistic goals for yourself. Sometimes because of said unrealistic goals you eat rice and habanero sauce for lunch. Needless to say, it didn’t settle well.

Also, I have a total of three friends in this town. One was in Eugene, one currently has no phone and the other is my roommate, who was already attempting to console me.

I’ve heard it said that if you’re bored then you’re boring. Ok, those are Harvey Danger lyrics and he may or may not be the best source of sage advice. But around 3pm I started considering the statistical number of suicides prompted by acute boredom. Seriously you guys, are there people who feel this way about their lives every day?

Ok. Time to do something starting.... now! Nope. Not yet. 

I hit my low point around 5:30 when I started crying for no apparent reason while watching kitty cat videos on Youtube. Finally I stopped fighting this strange bout of 24-hour depression. I embraced it. I propped myself up in my unmade bed with my dirty laundry and my unbrushed teeth. I watched movies about people who actually have shitty lives. That’s right. I watched Precious and Winter’s Bone back-to-back. I drank an angsty beer and smoked an angsty cigarette and finally drifted off into an angsty sleep.

Today was marginally better. I organized my closet. I only cried once. I left my phone under the laundry, just like Autostraddle told me to. And you know what? It helped. I'm still here, anyways. 

Today you said it’s funny how things change, but what you meant was “fuck off”. I told you funny isn’t quite the right word, but I couldn’t give you a suitable replacement. What I meant is “I’m sorry”. In the end, I think the Right Word depends on your perspective. Tedium and tragedy straddle such a thin line… I’m sorry for lacking tact. I’m sorry I was afraid to talk to you. I’m sorry for still being afraid to talk to you. For what it’s worth, I do miss you. Just maybe not in the way you need me to.

Everybody. I love you.

-b

There's a Bear Inside Your Stomach

Some days I think I’m finally hitting my stride out here. I wake up, go to work, go to the gym and get a good night’s rest. I feed myself three meals a day. I smoke half a clove cigar after dinner each night. I read articles about politics and social movements. I pay my bills on time. I want to buy a house and host dinner parties on the weekend. I want to be a penguin.   

This isn’t how I pictured my life. Five years ago I imagined myself renting a studio apartment Somewhere surrounded by a group of lovably eclectic weirdos. People with strange music preferences, secondhand clothes and Dreams that they worked hard to keep alive. I always pictured myself hungry. Hungry for experiences, for conversation, for one more story. Hungry because I blew my last $5 on a composition notebook and a pack of blue pens.

One thing I’ve learned to expect from myself is the negation of all expectation. I crave routine and security. I can’t stand limitations and restraints. I want to love and give entirely without losing myself. I want to experience a new eternity every second.

I shuttle between worrying whether I matter at all

and whether anything else matters at all but me.

-Stephen Fry, Moab is my Washpot

I’m navigating the difference between trying not to die, and not trying to die.

I don’t think you realize how much I miss you. You’re not my bookends; you’re the whole goddamn library. You don’t stay in the back of my mind. You’re front and center, a constant nagging absence. I superimpose you onto the porches of the houses I pass.  I imagine you drinking coffee next to me in the café on Hawthorne. I imagine you smoking cigarettes at dusk, standing on the bridge while commuters start their slow crawl home. I imagine you telling me about your day. I imagine telling you about mine. Every word I write is meant for you.

I deleted every incarnation of our friendship. I erased your number from my phone. I hid your pictures. The mood rings stay in a sealed envelope under my mattress. I don’t cook curry, or listen to Stars, or watch Chopped. I flinch every time I see a silver Volkswagon. I write you letters. I tie them to balloon strings, and hope somebody somewhere someday finds them. At night I lie in my bed and beg you to call me. I imagine buying a plane ticket, showing up on your porch. I narrate our conversations, and they all end with the word “Home”.

What I’m trying to say is I love you.

You are tired,

(I think)

Of the always puzzle of living and doing;

Come with me, then,

And we’ll leave it far and far away—

(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,

(I think)

And broke the toys you were fondest of,

And are a little tired now;

Tired of things that break, and—

Just tired.

So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,

And I knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—

Open to me!

For I will show you the places Nobody knows,

And, if you like,

The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!

I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,

That floats forever and a day;

I’ll sing you the jacinth song

Of the probably stars;

I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,

Until I find the Only Flower,

Which shall keep (I think) your little heart

While the moon comes out of the sea

e.e. cummings

When I hurt my knee, your mother said you were finally my literal crutch and not just a figurative one. I never meant for this to happen. I don’t know if or how you think of me. I don’t know if you’ll read this and laugh, or cry, or if you’ll read it at all. But it’s said now, and I don’t regret saying it.  

Many miles of love.

-b

Good Times Never Seemed So Good

Hey-o! Contrary to what you may believe, I was not kidnapped by a gang of Asian grandmothers at the Goodwill (though one of them did nearly mow me down during my last trip). Nor did I put this blog out of its misery with a swift kick to its crooked, emo teeth [Note: my computer didn’t know the word “emo” just now… curious]. I’m still here, and I still expect you guys to put up with my inane ramblings. Please stay seated while the ride is in motion, because nobody wants this to happen:

A concise list of things likely to distract one from lengthy blogging:

            1. A fulltime job

            2. Rugby mob

            3. Copious amounts of alcohol

            4. Homework? No… Tumblr!!

So there you have it. My life in a nutshell.

Let me digress. I’d like to state for the record that my co-workers could be an entire post in and of themselves. Seriously, Pepper (the clinic cat) may be the only sane one in that building on a daily basis. But mon Dieu! They put on a hell of a show. Apparently tensions have been escalating for awhile now, and I arrived just in time for the excitement. Last Tuesday we had a work meeting, which essentially means “free lunch” when you’re the clueless new kid. About 5 minutes before we depart for said meeting, my boss pulls me aside to give me the rundown. Here’s an approximation of what I heard:

“Lalala, you get to eat free Thai food in about five minutes, oh yeah, something about hurt feelings… Blah blah… hired a professional facilitator.”

Wait, what? Yes. Apparently things have spiraled so far out of control that seven grown ass women have to hire an eighth grown ass woman to act as conversational mediator. Don’t worry, guys. She’s a professional.

"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.
"Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat: "we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."
"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.
"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."

I rode over to the restaurant with my fellow receptionists in our wickedly awesome (not to mention flattering) floral jungle-print scrub tops. I would try to track down a picture for you, but honestly I’m too ashamed. Just Google “floral jungle-print scrubs” and you’ll get a pretty good idea of how I look as a professional. Everyone was nervous laughter and manic chatter. Except for me. I was stoically hungry and deciding what to order on the company’s dollar.

Have you ever tried to eat a hearty Thai meal at a table full of crying women? I have. Let me tell you, every single time your spoon scrapes a little too loudly, or you drop one little sweet chili sauce bottle, approximately eight sets of weepy eyes will attempt to telepathically eviscerate you. You call that telepathic? More like telepathetic. I can boil this entire work meeting down into the single sentence I derived any meaning from:

Facilitator: You can’t just go around fingering anyone else, unless you want to finger yourself first!

All joking aside, I landed a pretty awesome job. And I got my first paycheck! I felt a lot like this:

http://www.instructables.com

Realistically, it covered rent and utilities. When ULOL first offered me a room in this house, I told her if necessary I’d sell my body to afford it. Well friends and family, that day has arrived. I’ve started selling my body twice a week on the corner of Holgate and 80^th… I’m talking plasma. Creeps. My first visit took approximately 5 hours. Lucy, I had to watch The Blindside on a loop 2.5 times. During my wait, I came to the conclusion that plasma donation is a really twisted operation. Think about it, you guys. The lower- and working- class population literally selling their blood to pay the bills? Operating under the guise of offering a valuable service to the health services? It’s sick. I try not to think about it too hard or long, because I left that place with $30 in my pocket and I plan on going back tomorrow, to “improve the quality of life for thousands of people”.

That lovable bunch of rugby weirdos known as the Betterside played here this weekend! 

In all their glory... granted this is an old picture,
but would you please take a second to look at the Backline?

The sun came out long enough to scorch all the tender gingers; rugby was played, beers consumed and old stories rehashed for new audiences. The girls got to sleep in our “loft”, which is really just an open, drafty room with hardwood floors. Let me tell you, nobody puts the Fancy into Fancy Pants quite like the Betterside. I have never seen so many animal prints, mom-butts and sequins in one place. Absolutely glorious. Also, ULOL forcibly made us eat 20 tacos at 1am. Thanks for dinner, ULOL.

All in all, I’ma chalk this one off as a success. There’s more to tell, of course. There’s always more. Like contemplating the mechanics of whale sex with The Bear, or rehashing the story of the Behemoth with BGC. E’s trip to the zoo, and my first feeble post-op bike riding. Happy Hour at the Observatory, Walmart game, killing the Biscuit. Goddamn, I wish I could carry you guys in my pocket, and commentate my life as it unfolded. But for tonight this will have to be enough, and I bid you fond adieu.

Still loving you.

-b