Saturday, August 28 2004
This will be the longest stretch of knowing that I won’t be writing for a very long time, but as of tomorrow I will be out of any type of communication for a week and a day. And for this I am excited, as I really need a vacation, which sounds funny since my summer sounds like one long vacation, and although at times it was, at times it definitely wasn’t.
So, you won’t hear from me for a while, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be itching to write, cause I will. So I’m bringing a notebook to jot down random and not so random thoughts and when I return I should have a lot to tell you.
And for those of you still in NYC, I hope you have a lot to tell me, as the RNC is in town this week, and things could get, well, more exciting than dull. The police helicopters are already out in full force and who knows what else is in store for the city that never sleeps and will continue to never sleep because of all the air pollution we have to deal with this week.
As for me there’s Reno then Black Rock City…And I’m not sure how much sleep I’ll be getting either.
Tell Me You Love Me
Thursday, August 26 2004
Chaunce and Ron - part of “the project”
I just got back from Toronto. From a night of being in virtual tears and a night of unexplained anger that may have been unjustified, but not so much so. I’m not cut out for this show, this thing I produced, this product that I’m not happy about. It has nothing to do with most of the people involved, although it has something to do with a few of them, but I won’t name names because even though I am willing to spill kerosene all over this bridge and watch it go up in flames, I don’t want to shout Burn Baby Burn. I should be bigger than all this, although I’m not sure I am.
Last night when all was said and done and the CEO of this company made his thank yous, he thanked everyone, including his best friends dog and the man who delivers his morning paper, except me. EVERYONE. Never even realizing that he forgot, I didn’t want to remind him. Because it’s not that I need the accolades, I know what kind of person and worker I am, it was just the icing on the cake. The shittiest cake I’ve ever had the “pleasure” of tasting.
My morale was down. Not down. Rock bottom. And then I realized I have morals that don’t match the morals of this show, or the people or the way he ignores me after I did more work than 2/3 of the people he thanked. And I am so over it. I just want to get paid and move on. It’s sort of a relief, knowing that unless he pays me an exorbitant amount of money, which I know he won’t, that I won’t be back. MY CHOICE. MINE. And that feels good.
We had an interesting conversation at lunch one day. We is not important, although this man, this CEO was one of the diners. We talked about our breaking point, that point that O.J. hit, that Scott Peterson hit, that point that turns a man into a killer. The can’t turn back but tomorrow I wish I would point. And I don’t know mine, nor do I ever want to know it, but I do have a breaking point of sorts, one that makes me mean and hateful and unforgiving. And in a series of three days, two people have driven me to that breaking point. This man being one of those people. And the other, well, that slug from a previous blog finally got in touch with me in the most cowardice of ways. An email. One that says he chooses me out of his life. He’s getting married now, and has to move on. Lose his friends. And that’s just as fucked up as a man who can’t remember I exist enough to thank me.
Fuckers. No matter where they come from, that’s who they are.
Tell Me You Love Me
Monday, August 23 2004
This is a mother fucking long article that was emailed to me, and I think it might be one of the dumbest articles that shines and empowers women at the end, that I’ve read in a long time.
Like DUH…if he doesn’t call, make plans, leave his other girlfriend, or make committments, chances are something is most definitely off..but it doesn’t always necessarily mean HE JUST ISN’T IN TO YOU.
It’s like making a poor excuse for a who gives a shit anyway situation. If he lies to you up front and makes you feel like he is going to be into you, and that’s what you want (for him to be into you and vice versa), then fine..he’s a sucky person. But if he tells you the way he feels from the beginning and you choose to stay..you can still have a different type of abnormal as defined by society’s standards relationship. Not that this is what everyone strives for..but maybe for some it’s all they hope to be.
I like that Greg Behrendt is trying to empower women, but not all women want what this guy’s saying.
I hate articles like this. I’m not saying it’s not true some of the time, but puhleeze…
Zero Calls, And One Cruel Answer
Why Men Don’t Phone: It’s Not Him, It’s You
By Roxanne Roberts
Washington Post Staff Writer
Monday, August 23, 2004; Page C01
It was a great date. He promised to call. He never called.
The average single woman will stare at the phone, willing it to ring. A long list of possibilities noisily circle through her brain, like a hamster on an exercise wheel: He lost my number. He’s really busy. He’s intimidated. I talked too much. I drank too much. I slept with him. I didn’t sleep with him. Ei-yi-yi . . .
No, no, no. None of the above. The answer, according to author Greg Behrendt, is that he’s not really interested. Doesn’t matter why. No ego-soothing platitudes. No pop psychology. No cute relationship tricks. He’s just not that into you. The truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable.
The tough talk is tough love for women from Behrendt, who strips away all the excuses for men (why he didn’t call, isn’t faithful, disappears, won’t commit, etc., etc.) in the new book, “He’s Just Not That Into You: The No-Excuses Truth to Understanding Guys,” so that women will stop wasting their time on the wrong guy.
The Los Angeles comedian was a bachelor for two decades before settling down. By his own admission, he was guilty of plenty of bad dating behavior — which made him a perfect consultant to the hit HBO series “Sex and the City.” For the last three seasons, Behrendt advised the show’s all-female writing staff and Executive Producer Michael Patrick King, who is gay. Behrendt sat in on scriptwriting sessions a couple of times a week, providing the “straight male” feedback.
“The biggest lie of all is ‘It’s not you’ — because you are the person I’m in the relationship with. The truth is, ‘It is you, and I’m not into you,’ ” says Behrendt, 41, now a happily married father of a 2-year-old daughter.
About 18 months ago, Behrendt listened to the female writers (“All sharp, all attractive, couldn’t have more going for themselves,” he says) discuss a guy who had gone out with one of them, kissed her, then declined to come up to her apartment because he had an early meeting. No call the next day, but he sent an e-mail a week later.
The women all reassured her that she was fabulous and that he must be scared or really busy. She asked Behrendt to weigh in. He knew no morning meeting will keep an attracted man from a midnight mambo. “My first thought was, ‘I don’t care if I’m flying the space shuttle tomorrow, I’m coming up.’ ”
He broke the news: The guy wasn’t into her.
The writers gasped. “We were horrified,” remembers Liz Tuccillo. “It was like we were all punched in the stomach. Then we started laughing.” The cruel reality descended on the room. Each woman grilled Behrendt about her own relationship, and each time he shot down all the sympathetic excuses. The bottom line: If these men were truly interested, they would call, be faithful, commit, and more. It was just common sense to him, but a revelation — like cracking an ancient, secret code — to the women.
“He’s just not that into you” was written in a sixth season script of the show, the blunt answer to Miranda when she puzzled over the baffling behavior of her new beau. But Tuccillo (never married and 41 years old) was so taken with the idea that she also decided to write a book with Behrendt detailing the many variations of “JNTIY” in relationships. “I had so many years and years of making excuses for men,” she says. Writing the book with Behrendt forced her to break decades of bad habits.
To wit: While working on the manuscript, Tuccillo mentioned that a new guy promised to call over the weekend. “It was Sunday night, and he hadn’t called. I was bummed out. On Monday night, he calls and I’m overjoyed. I tell Greg, ‘That guy called. I’m so happy.’ And Greg’s reaction was, ‘But he didn’t call you when he said he was going to.’ ”
Tuccillo was annoyed — at Behrendt. “You are such a drag, Greg,” she told him. “Give me a break. He was off by 24 hours.” But ultimately, Behrendt was right. “He’s the big brother you wish you had. He’s demanding these men treat you the way you should be treated.”
There’s plenty of dating advice, God knows, and most of it is for women trying to deconstruct the hearts of men. The premise, of course, is that men are complicated, emotionally stunted creatures incapable of direct action. And so women spend years obsessing with understanding girlfriends, wildly hoping that deep down he’s really in love and wants to be with them.
Even if he doesn’t pick up the phone. Oh, wait — even if he can’t reach into his pocket and dial his cell phone, which is otherwise glued to his adorable ear. When you Google “Why didn’t he call?” you get more than 1,500 hits in this vein:
“I went out on a date about two weeks ago with a guy who seemed EXTREMELY interested in me and I in him. We had a great time and he wasn’t afraid to express to me what a great time he was having. . . . I was 100% when he said good night and what a great time he had and that he would definitely call.” He didn’t, of course, and about a week later the heartsick writer ran into him. He said he had lost her number, and asked for it again. And then he (duh!) didn’t call. She was utterly baffled. People always want to know, “What happened?” Nothing happened, says Nancy Kirsch, senior vice president of It’s Just Lunch international dating service. “Ultimately, chemistry is impossible to predict. That’s what it boils down to.”
Sometimes, she has to break it gently to clients. “I hate to think that someone thinks they did something wrong or something not right enough on a date. That’s just not the case.” But women, she says, are much more prone to second-guessing than men. “We want to try to figure it out. We want to fix it.” And they so want to believe men are telling the truth.
Behrendt believes men would rather chew off their arms than admit the truth. Why do they lie? Not just lie, but kiss and compliment and generally mess with women’s heads rather than say, “I’m just not that into you”? He thinks it’s fear of confrontation. “I can’t even tell you why. Men are afraid of women being upset or yelling. In a fight with a guy, you know what it is: It gets verbal, then it gets physical. With a women, you don’t know where it’s going to go, and you know it can’t and shouldn’t get physical.”
Relationship correspondent Jon Platner weighs the pros and cons of honesty in a column on AskMen.com called How to Reject the Girl You Don’t Want. He concludes that honesty can make women defensive and confrontational. “She may also ask you countless questions about what she did wrong, a situation you definitely don’t want to be stuck in,” he writes. He prefers Option 2: Give her gradual hints such as stop returning her calls, saying you just got out of a relationship and are hesitant to leap into another one, or are too busy with your career. Platner’s strategy is that the woman will give up: “This is ideal because it ends the relationship without you having to outright reject her. But even if she’s slow to get the hint and it still comes down to you spelling it out, at least you will have softened the blow.”
So it’s better to lie? Or not call? Or just disappear? Well, yeah.
Behrendt admits he was one of those guys. He doesn’t remember cheating on girlfriends, but “other than that, you can mark me down as all of them.” That is, until he met his wife, Amiira, six years ago. He was really, really into her from the very start.
“It was like being brought up from the minors to the majors,” he says. “She was just ‘it.’ I was able to envision a future with her almost immediately.” He says he worked hard to make Amiira part of his life: She operated at a certain level, and he had to step up to that level. “I really had to be a better man, all the way around, to be with her,” he says. “Other women in other relationships would suggest changes that I wasn’t willing to make.”
When a guy is truly interested in a woman, he pursues her. That’s the way it’s always been, he says, and equality hasn’t changed it. And so Behrendt strips away the excuses:
If a man is into you, he’ll ask you out. (In fact, Behrendt believes no woman should ask out a man who hasn’t asked her out first.) He will call, no matter now busy, because you’ll be a bright spot in his day. He will want to have sex with you, and will stop having sex with other women. He will want to be with you when he’s sober, not just to party. If he’s really, really into you he’ll want to marry you. He’s not into you if he’s breaking up with you, or disappearing with no explanation, or married to someone else, or abusive.
There are exceptions to every rule, he says, but he really wants you to ignore them. You might be wonderful, but many wonderful women are in relationships with men who don’t call, don’t bother, don’t care. It’s wiser, he says, to assume the worst: You’re the rule. He’s not that into you, so get out and find someone who is.
“I’m hoping this starts a revolution that gets everyone to step up and behave better,” he says. “I want women to honor themselves, and I want men to honor women.”
Unlike Carrie, Tuccillo hasn’t found her Mr. Big. “I’d love to say I met the man of my dreams and he treats me like a queen — but that’s not the case,” she says. “. . . Obviously, I still feel bad if a guy rejects me, but the hours I spent agonizing and strategizing and trying to figure them out are gone. You can’t help but feel stronger and more confident when that’s out of your life.”
See, Happy Ending? Not like the kind you get in an Asian massage parlor - but the end is sort of better than most of the rest of the “waste of your time but now your hip on current relationship thinking” stupid article. Do you see my point, or not? I’m never wrong, but I can’t always be right. Or Can I?
Off to Toronto tomorrow. Wish me luck - It’s that work strip club thing again. And…I…am…already…Pulling…my…hair(s)…out…
Tell Me You Love Me
Saturday, August 21 2004
I gave myself a year to figure it all out.
It. As in life. Not that you can figure out your life in a year, you can’t, and if you can then what kind of life are you choosing to lead, but I gave myself a year to figure out the next step. I needed a change and almost a year ago to this date, I wasn’t given an option. On the very same day I was to leave for a place I can’t really describe I was told I was leaving a place that I could.
The show I had poured my blood, sweat and tears into was going away. Getting cancelled. Over as in the opposite of under. I was offered a position on staff at the station, asked to stay on and work at the company. But I knew better. I knew this was my chance. My opportunity to escape. The one time nobody could look at me weird for getting out. Well, they could, but the one time I knew I wouldn’t care.
I decided to make my own decisions. Take My own chances.
I jumped. Well, not at first. I took another Producer position, even though it was in San Francisco. And when I lost that job after 3 weeks, that show too just went away, I stayed for what I thought was love. Not that it wasn’t, but it was a fucked up sort of love. And then I traveled. Tried to clear my head. Make decisions. Figure out where the fuck I wanted to live.
And write. That’s what I wanted to do. Write and sex educate. Perform. Make people more comfortable about sex. And slowly I did this. Real slowly. I performed a few times in New York, because even though I wanted San Francisco to be my home, I had a large part of my heart and my life in NYC.
So I went to Europe. Sounded like I was leading this glamorous life, when actually I guess I sort of was, only it was the low budget version. And in Prague, in one of the most beautiful and magnificent places I’ve visited, I missed living in New York.
I left with a headful of ideas. I decided to try for a job that I didn’t get. Which is a good thing, because the last time I didn’t get a job, I got a column out of it. And now, this time, they want me to create a class. Something that is mine, all mine. Does anyone know anything about copyrighting btw?
And a friend has written a big sex advice book and it comes out next month, and I am referenced enough times to get my own credit in the index. And I’m teaching a shitload of classes. And I have this amazing idea for a book that needed support and I’ve got the support - but not the publishing house yet. And I’ve got this idea for a video, and a play. And I’m sick and tired of having ideas. Because ideas are nothing if they aren’t made tangible.
I want to touch my ideas. To see them come alive. But first I must go back to the place it all began. I must end my year of living freedom at Burning Man, and start my thirtieth year on a different note. A more confident and sure of myself sort of note. Because this is my year of making things happen.
And they will. There’s a shitload of things I have to do when I get back.
September 10th…My Year of Making Things Happen begins.
Tell Me You Love Me
Friday, August 20 2004
Do you get my phone messages and refuse to return the calls? Do my emails really bounce back? It’s hard to believe you haven’t heard from me, when all I’ve been doing is reaching out to talk, and all you’ve been doing is not responding. I guess that means you’re not really doing much at all, you pulseless, heartless self absorbed slug. Yes, you, I called you a slug, because you slither through life taking what you need from people and throwing the rest away. Slimeball. That’s what you are, green, gooey, booger, the long kind that keeps coming out of your nose, even when you think you’ve picked all that remains. Still, I give you the benefit of the doubt. Maybe you’ve been on vacation this past year. On some far away island without email, without phones, without TV and even without transportation. So while you somehow got dropped in the middle of nowhere, you now can’t find you’re way back. Because if you did, if you came home, you would most definitely write if not call.
You want to be friends but not really. If you did, we’d be friends, no excuses, no having to create a heap of lies to make up for the thirty seconds it takes to say hello. A recent fortune cookie told me to reach out and make contact with you, an old friend. So I did and still nothing. Who really believes those stupid sweetened bits of lemon-zested delight anyway?
I never did anything to make you hate me. I know this. You know this. We, collectively therefore know this. Still you don’t know me at all anymore, and that makes me sad, because you, you of all people, used to know me so well.
I’m not talking about you, if you think I’m talking about you, so don’t get this big head and that sinking feeling in your chest, but I may be talking about you. Yes you. You’re the one I’m talking about. Not him or her, but you. Who you are isn’t really of great importance anymore, because while you don’t know me, I don’t know you either. There. We’re even. But still, the sickest part of all this is that I’d welcome you back, because I liked having you in my life, like a really cute pug that won’t stop shitting on the floor, I just can’t seem to take you out with the trash. Not that you should ever throw a dog away, but I hope you get my point.
In fact, I don’t really think you’re a slimeball, at all, although I like the idea of describing you as a slug. You kind of are, wouldn’t you agree sweetie? Wouldn’t you say that even though it’s been more than a few months since we’ve actually reached out and grabbed each other, that you could still be the apple of my eye. Or maybe it’s a poison apple. Like Snow White and her evil queen, maybe the sweet apple you once were has rotted to the core.
And maybe I’m just confused. Confused about how I should and shouldn’t feel. I don’t know anymore. I only know one thing…we haven’t talked in while. Don’t you miss me too?
Tell Me You Love Me
Wednesday, August 18 2004
Strawberry Fields 08.17.04- one reason to visit the U.W.S.
I realize this is NY centric, just deal with it.
I have been staying with this friend, let’s call her “Ami” and she lives in this area, let’s call it “The Upper West Side.” It’s far from what I call home, which is the place I occasionally work, the cat I used to own, most of my friends any my social life reside. But it’s not a bad place to live. The buildings are pretty - lots of brownstones, and the conveniences are plenty. The people, well, they seem nice too, not that I know, because you don’t talk to strangers in NYC. However, they remind me of the people I went to high school with, the ones that aren’t my speed, or don’t understand my speed. Not that I have a speed, but these people, well, they appear to be a large group of young, married professionals with .08 children - I just love those statistics like the average family has 2.2 kids, what the fuck is .2 - and cozy homes, nothing of which I am, or possess, and I don’t think I will be or have before hell freezes over, which I hear may happen sooner than you think.
Last night this friend, this “Ami” and one of her friends, both of whom don’t fit into the generalization I just placed on this Upper West Side, took offense to the idea that I don’t want to live up here. “Ami” has been living here for most of her adult life, meaning since she’s been out of college, because a) she likes it and b) it’s convenient for her to get to her job which she’s also held most of her adult life, meaning since college. She’s got a great apartment and lives alone paying less rent than I paid to live with someone without a real room, without a real door, down in the really hip section on NYC known as Alphabet City.
But when I tried to explain to her why I didn’t want to live up here which is for the most part because I find it really inconvenient to travel to various other parts of the city from this area, I sounded like a blabbering idiot. So I just want to put it out there to anyone I have offended or may offend in the near of distant future.
I AM A BLABBERING IDIOT, so ignore me when I offend you, I probably didn’t mean to, and if I still offend you and you feel the urge to purge to me, then do so, but be aware that I don’t always mean what I say or say what I mean.
And now that this story made no sense, I shall go make no sense elsewhere.
But I’d still rather not live on the Upper West Side. At least not until I’m married with kids and a four legged creature that sheds on the rug. Maybe that will happen before the fifth of Nevruary and maybe it won’t. It’s not for me to decide.
Tell Me You Love Me
Tuesday, August 17 2004
First off. If anyone knows of a place I can sublet from Sept. 9th thru Sept. 29th, please send the information my way. I need to find a place to live, as in settle once I really return on October 5th, but this is a start to my settling for more than one month process.
Second. I found this cover on the web. It has nothing to do with anything except that I’m teaching a sex class. I am not in this magazine. I do not even know when you could get this magazine.
THURSDAY, AUGUST 19
Back to School with Jamye and Abby
7:00PM: The Sexth Sense
Jamye Waxman invites you to explore your sexual Pandora’s Box. Discover the joys of honey, handcuffs and harnesses as you learn how to open your senses and expand your mind to spice up your sex life. This hour-long class will venture into the world of sex toys — and not just the ones you can buy in an adult shop! — to teach us all how to better appreciate our sex senses.
8:30: Erotic Party Etiquette
EditrixAbby will discuss proper etiquette, classy comportment and generally how not to be the creepy lurker, scary wanker or invisible wallflower in this hour-long class. Learn how to navigate the unfamiliar waters of sex and BDSM play parties. If you’ve always been curious about what goes on, who attends, how you’d fit in and how you’re supposed to, um, act once you get there, this is an hour you won’t want to miss! Abby has also invited producers of New York City’s hottest erotic events to participate in a panel discussion/ Q to address your assorted concerns, as well as introduce you to the folks responsible for all the fun you now have to look forward to.
10:00: Let’s Play!
Your opportunity to put everything you’ve just learned to immediate use!
$20 for classes alone
$20 for party alone
$30 for classes AND the party!
30 West 31st Street 5th Floor
There will be brief breaks after both classes. Snacks and refreshments will be served. You are welcome to BYOB. The party will last as long as you folks do! Please RSVP if you’re interested in attending so we can get an idea of how many people to expect.
Tell Me You Love Me
Monday, August 16 2004
My friend Jo Ann retaught me the value of lists.
A short wordy list
1. I thought I was going to die yesterday. I couldn’t breathe, my heart was racing, I was dizzy, sweating, panicked and going to have what I thought would be a heart attack or stroke. After much research, this is what I’ve found - If I were a doctor I would diagnosis yesterday’s near death experience as an aspartame induced panic attack. Now keep in mind I am a hypochondriac, (although what happened to me was very, very real), but after doing a lot of research I think the aspartame that almost killed me, also caused me to panic, which in turn made me feel like I was dieing. It was horrible and I never want to have that experience again. Never. So I am so off Aspartame. And I think you should be too.
2. In Amsterdam I went to a peep show. It cost 2 euros for 2 minutes and it seemed to be a favored spot for all the boys. So we thought why not, and if I had kept my big trap shut it would have been a fairly hot experience despite the fairly unhot performers. But I can’t keep my mouth shut, as anyone who knows me has probably experienced at some point in their very fortunate lives (if you know me I feel like you must realize you’re fortunate and now I hope you know I’m joking. No I’m not. Yes I am. I was in the booth with one other girl because while two boys weren’t allowed in a booth - for some strange reason (hmmm? what could that be?) two girls were. Well, me and the other girl who went into the booth together were talking pretty loudly about what we could see, never even realizing that they could see us back. It got really uncomfortable after I exclaimed “I wish they would just fuck” and, well, they did, and then things got ugly. I’m going to try to write it up as a story. Then you can read more.
3. I’m teaching a class for the first time this Thursday night. It’s at a party in NYC and it starts at 7PM. Tickets are around $20, and it’s a pretty different kind of place. If you’re interested email me (email@example.com) and I’ll give more information. I don’t want to write more about it now as I am still fine tuning my idea - can you say it’s already Monday, shouldn’t this be done by now - but I will say this: if you come to my class, which is called The Sexth Sense, which may or may not give you any idea about what the class is about, you could also come for my friend Abby‘s lecture and forum on Play Party Etiquette. Then…well, let’s just say the party starts.
4. I’ve just realized that I have too much too do to keep writing this list. How come some places spell realized with an “s”? Like this..realised…have you ever noticed this?
Tell Me You Love Me
Sunday, August 15 2004
Walking down the streets of New York City in a Penthouse tank top may elicit any number of the following responses:
You in the magazine? Which issue?
Nice tits and your face ain’t bad either.
My point exactly. Men see certain words like Penthouse (not in the apartment sense just in case you weren’t sure), Pussy and Playmate, and immediately, as long as the thing associated with these three things (women) turns them on, they get instant erection, just add water.
I haven’t been feeling very pretty lately. Being in the Czech Republic surrounded by a group of average age 25ers, made an almost 30 year old girl like me, feel more like the seahag. Then I boarded the Long Island Railroad back to Penn Station at approximately 2:20PM yesterday, and my luck began to change.
First there was the man sitting across from me. The one who wouldn’t let me get on with my Playgirl column, the column that is most definitely due by tomorrow morning. He talked about radio, working at the LIRR (which he did), and about me – cause, what’s more interesting than that?, no, really, I want to know. I began to feel good.
Other things happened over the course of the evening, and I felt like my old self, only not in an old sort of way. By the end of the night, let’s just say I had enough positive reinforcement to do some things I hadn’t been interested in doing in a long time. And I renewed a certain friendship that had ended ridiculously. Maybe it had to do with my Penthouse tank top, but I think it had more to do with my being back and being ready.
I don’t care. Really. It felt great to feel great again. Even if the air smells like warm homeless man who hasn’t bathed in five months and only drinks beer air, I am home.
Tell Me You Love Me
Friday, August 13 2004
we have more in common than you think
I need a place to live. My own place with my own stuff so that my own friends can come stay with me and use my own Internet and my own bed. I am sitting in the Public Library in the town that used to be mine, but still belongs to my parents - and no, they don’t own it, I am speaking metaphorically here, so that I can use someone else’s Internet and tomorrow I head back into NYC to sleep in someone else’s bed.
I want a place to put my shit. The piles of it I collected in San Francisco, in London, Prague and the other places I visited. I need a place to throw my smelly shoes off and pick my big, green boogers out of my rather wide nose.
I’m not complaining just so you know. Not in the least. I’m just tired and when you’re flight lands at 7PM and you have to go back to your parents house to sleep in your brothers bed (I hate the mattress in my room) it makes you think how much more you want, actually need, your own place.
I am about to turn 30 dammit, and I wanna own a piece of land. In NYC I think, which may make me crazy, but at least it would be mine. I don’t have a “regular” job, or much money for that matter, so how can I become a property owner? And what is regular? It’s like normal, another word I hate, still I used it, so I own it and just ask the question anyway. Maybe I’m more annoying because I’m tired, or maybe I’m only annoying myself right now. If you annoy yourself, how do you stop? I am still figuring all of this out.
Damn, I ask a lot of questions…
Now onto more serious issues…
Isn’t it sad that it still takes a 47 year old man, 47 years to come out (Okay, not that long, but you know what I’m saying)..in New Jersey, Gov. Jim McGreevey is out of the closet and leaving office. The media is focusing on the fact that he’s gay, but isn’t there something to be said for the fact that he only came out because he’s being sued for SEXUAL HARRASSMENT?! What’s that all about?
Politics is such a dirty word.
Tell Me You Love Me