Where Is My Mind by The Pixies

All over the place, Frank.  It’s everywhere and nowhere at once. 

The last month or so have been filled with fear, loathing and an endless current of booze. Sounds awesome, I know.

After I lost my office job of four years, I sat back and thought on what I really want to do. What do I love? What can I do every day without hating it? Anyone who knows me will say it’s writing. They’re not wrong, they just don’t know me that well. I didn’t even know it, how could they? I would love to write full-time but I would also hate to have to write full-time. I write because I love it but I have found myself incapable of writing every day. Yes, it is for lack of trying. I can’t get on my computer for more than five minutes without opening the Internet and Tumblr’ing or watching something(s) on YouTube, Netflix or Amazon. (That is, when I’m not looking for work. It’s really forty-sixty at this point.) 

Staring out of my window at the Sears Tower and chain-smoking one September afternoon, I thought of everything I ever did and loved doing and how many of those things had the potential to get me bitches to ride with, bling to blind them and cash-money to bind them. (Most of my contemplation is set to a crunk ass beat blaring from the back of my skull.) Bitches won’t ride with you just because you kick ass with web layout. You can’t write jokes and afford Soulja Boy-worthy bling. No one ever got any cash-money for making art out of a Hello-Kitty coloring book and 15 Crayola coloring pencils. 

As I ashed out my millionth cigarette, I figured it was time to introduce alcohol to the brainstorm. Since living in the West Town neighborhood, I’ve made Cleo’s on Chicago Avenue my think-and-drink spot. It’s rarely empty and in these last several weeks, my interest in strangers has grown to be an insatiable need. I want to know more about how people are spending their time on this planet. It sounds voyeuristic (it is – minus the sexual connotation) but sometimes it seems as if though we are all killing time in front of one screen or another and I want to know what gets said and done in the interim. 

I’m weird, fuck it. 

It was while I waited for my fish-and-chips and stared at the long necks of quarter-full vodka bottles that I realized what I wanted to do. It was in front of me the entire time, throughout my entire life, and I’d ignored it somehow. 

I can bartend. Simple. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? 

I grew up in bars. My dad was (and still is) an alcoholic. There was never a weekend without me fetching a beer or seven for him. During the week, I’d spend at least four days a week sitting at a stool in a bar with my dad or waiting in the car with my younger brother waiting for him to come out and take us home. He taught me two things: one, fiscally irresponsible alcohol abuse can tear a family apart and two, this does not stop most people (if any). 

Another thing he taught me was loyalty to your bar but that’s a subject for another project of mine that I’ve been working on kind of but not really. 

Oddly enough, writing that is shedding some light on why I chose it. 

*side-stepping obvious daddy issues* 

Anywho, I signed up for Professional Bartenders School in Chicago. I loved it. I’m proud to say I graduated this past Monday but I still don’t know enough about booze. I’ll be taking a break from the Internet parts I waste time on (like Tumblr, Amazon and Netfix) and only utilize the web to learn more about beers and booze. Also, job hunting. I’ve been filling out applications, sending out resumes and pulling on the doors of closed-for-the-day businesses because if being the daughter of an alcoholic has taught me anything, it’s that bars get busy after four and I want the person in charge focusing on me. 

Problem is, a lot of bars are closing their patios for the winter. That means tables are being lost and business is expected to lessen, what with most customers spending money on Christmas gifts and whatever. However, some places are hiring seasonal and my school’s job placement program has a great reputation so hopefully I’ll be working within the next few weeks. 

(twenty minutes after a bathroom break) 

Sorry, my friend has a Tumblr that is hilarious. Go check for yourself, it’s so damn funny: Back Row Heckling. 

Anyway, I’m losing my writing fervor and kind of just want to read my friend’s story for a little while before I log back on to search Chicago micro-breweries. 

Until next time, when I tell you more about things you will realize you didn’t care to know about me. Cheers.

Because Obama.

Harry Hippie by Bobby Womack

I am officially unemployed. 

I'm not really sad about it, which kind of bothers me. All those years (four but still) of financial stability and now I don't know where my next check is coming from.  Also, the fact I won't really miss anybody is tugging at the Guilt Wire in my head for some reason.

All I feel is this weird excitement. 

No more waking up at 5am to get on two busses and a train to sit at a desk for eight hours.

No more bitchy looks from people in the elevator or awkward silences from a former friend turned trick-ass-bitch in the breakroom.

No more breakroom, conference room, three-hour long meetings or wearing that blue company long-sleeve I loathe with all my soul.

More time writing, being outside during the day, riding my bike...  I'll only go out if it's free.  I'll cook for myself.

Of course, that means I'll starve and get skinny but I'll finally be able to find clothes in my size at the thrift store so this might work out.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not going full-hippie mode.  A bitch got bills, you feel me?

This time,  I'm going to avoid office gigs outside of temp jobs.  Get a solid part-time, doing I have no idea what, but something I'm not gonna hate.  I've applied for about three proofreading gigs and one that involves web layout and content. 

I'm a writer, I need a gig that involves that.  Until then, I'll be a starving artist with a blog praying people click these irrelevant links so I can buy more overpriced coffee to sustain my hippie spirit.

Just kidding.  I can afford Folgers... for now.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to apply to Dominick's.

I FUCKING LOVE YOU ALL

Seriously, I am so grateful to each and every one of you clicking on ads and links. I know it's incredibly menial and stupid and I'm sorry for asking but thank you thank you thank you.

You are so cute today.

You adorable, intelligent, supercool beings, you.

May you pass all your upcoming drug tests, you beautiful souls, you.

Fast As You Can by Fiona Apple

Sorry about the angst-y teenage letter from earlier.  I'm still trying to work things out.

Please don't think I'm a weird clingy psycho person.

I am but I don't want people to think that.

I cling to those I love because I rarely love.  My body and mind have both been abused long and often enough to ensure the love I have inside stays there.

My heart has grown greedy and refuses to share because that would mean opening for people - proffering something that can't be returned and accepting that there's a part of me out there, wandering the world, far far away from me.

As of this moment, there are several parts of me floating around in the endless abyss of crowded streets and strangers - I will never get them back. 

One of my parts is in the grip of a man who was my first "real" love and that soap opera ended with the discovery I didn't even know his real name.

He took me, had me, tied me up and down while saying he loved me even though he disregarded every one of my safety words and I still don't know what his real name was.

When I was a child, I thought the act of love was a game (I didn't realize I was being raped until years later). 

When I was a teenager, I fooled myself into thinking there was nothing wrong with a secret love because love is love is love and there could never be anything wrong with that.  Until the abortion, that is. Then things weren't so rosy and I realized I'd been had.

I'm an adult now and still have odd connotations with various sex acts and displays of intimacy.

I want someone to love but I'm terrified of allowing myself to do so.

Lori is a fragile and half-broken thing.  Honestly, I really am working towards being whole but it's like one of those nightmares when you're running from a bad guy only to find the grounds become wet cement, drying with your every step.

Shouldn't we all be closed?  Isn't that the safest route to a life without heartbreak or humiliation?  Just stay closed off to everyone and everything, letting only the tiniest morsels of love to leave you and even then, they would only be escaping into the cracked bindings of books or the cheap plastic holding an album...

At the same time, my soul is yearning to be shared.  It's like waking up with only Carpe Diem on your mind and you find out it'll be raining all weekend.

This is the most angst-y day of all days and I apologize for putting this all on you, Internet, but I can't keep it up anymore. I want to be tough and strong but I'm weak and soft.

I'm a liar, too.  And I miss the last man that was in my bed.  I miss him so much.

Letter To Myself

It’s time to get over it.

You haven’t spoken to or seen him in nine fucking months.

He hasn’t tried to contact you in nine fucking months.

You “hung out” for about two months (not even a whole two months) and fucked him a few times.

IT WAS NOT SPECIAL.

IT WAS NOT UNIQUE.

Not to him, anyways.

What he most likely found unique was the ending when a grown woman broke it off in a voicemail.

You broke it off in a voicemail.

Do you remember what you said?  No?  SERIOUSLY?

Dude.  Let it go.

Stop crying about it.  Stop beating yourself up about it.

Do you really think talking to him now is going to change things?

Do you honestly believe going into the shop and apologizing is going to do anything but humiliate you?

Aren’t you tired of humiliation?

Just let it go, man. What’s done is done and THAT is done as fuck.  There’s no going back. You’re not The Doctor, you don’t have a special police box. You’re just a silly girl that made a mistake (several, actually) and can’t stop obsessing about it.

Stop Facebook stalking.

Stop imagining the next time you’ll see him. You’re never going to see him.  Ever.

Stop scripting fake conversations that will never happen because THEY WILL NEVER HAPPEN.

He was never really into you.

It was all one-sided.

Face it.

Learn from it.

Grow.

Take It or Leave It by The Strokes

First off, I love this fucking song. I love the break mid-way when Fab hits the drum about 15 times and then Albert kicks in then the other guitarist who's name I always forget starts up then Nikolai's bass-line comes on and the whole thing comes together to this almost creepy, oddly surreal beat. The end combo gives me the same chills as a slasher-flick kill scene and the first hit of a really good blunt.

The Strokes "Take It or Leave It (Live)"

The whole message of that song is about a guy watching this girl he tried to give himself to (she denied him) and her relationship with this douchebag. Or at least that's what I always thought it was. Never debated the issue, really. Just the lines "I said 'Just take it or leave it... oh take it!" then the chorus of "He's gonna let you down, he's gonna break your back for a chance, he's gonna steal your friends, he's gonna win someday" all clue me in on some "Let me love you or get fucked over by this guy - take it or leave it".

I could be totally wrong but that's not why I started this post.  I was listening to this song on the El and feeling awesome which is what really sparked the whole thing.

It's been so long since I felt awesome.  It's a good GREAT feeling that I used to enjoy several times a week but today was the first time in seemingly forever where I smiled at strangers, made random conversation and walked with a bit of a strut.

Not just because today is Friday (or Fry-day, depending on your fandom) but because I cut my hair yesterday.

I cut that shit off.

Tenetia came over with Ajani, my best friend and my godson, to cut my hair.  I told her I wanted it short, like Annie-Clark short (Marry Me, not Actor).  We traded pics and decided on a St. Vincent/Marla Singer mash-up.

The first cut felt like a tingle.

The last cut felt like Christmas.

I damn near ran to the bathroom and checked out my new shag.  I shook my head this way, bobbed it that way, wiggled my entire body and squealed like a kid scoring a MewTwo card in her run-of-the-mill Pokemon pack (never happened to me but it was always a dream - anyway, I always imagined what it would feel like).

She pulled me back into the chair and started coiling my hair up so it could pop out in "organized" curls (if ever there was an oxymoron - there you have it) so I kind of looked like Jada Pinkett-Smith in the Matrix.  Other resemblances: 1996 hood gangsta, Coolio, rave enthusiast, some other shit, etc.

This morning I woke up, showered and took the bobby pins out and laughed at my reflection. Technically with my reflection but since your reflection is yourself and David Lynch is not writing this post (unfortunately) I'm gonna go with "at".  I ran my hands through it and fucked it up, popped it out, head-banged and giggled before my mom started yelling about how "we really need to set a schedule for morning bathroom time".

How I Knew Friday the 6th of July, 2012 Would Be A Good Day 

1. My mom nagging at 6am bothered me not at all. 

Now I am at work, my fingers wrapped around a crimson-tinged curl dangling near my left earlobe and typing out the first positive-energy post in weeks.

After work, I am going to my mother's house and writing for several hours.

I cannot fucking wait.

GIGGLE TIME!!!!!!!!!!!!!