Lately some “friends” have been asking me why I write my blog? They don’t understand why I obsess about writing something I don’t get paid for, I don’t get laid from, I basically don’t get anything “perkish” out of, but still I sit and write and write and …well, you get the picture.

It’s not an ego thing, although c’mon I am documenting blips of my life. I describe it as practice for my writing career, which it most definitely is. And it requires that I have discipline, because wanting to update my blog keeps me writing on a regular basis. But these answers are still biting at me, the way I bite at my nails on a regular basis. Why, Why, Why must I write this blog all the time?

I don’t really have an answer, except that well, in addition to the two aforementioned reasons, I really, truly do enjoy simply writing about nothing. Since I’m one of those people who talks about nothing on a regular basis, and was recently reminded by someone who does the same that I should learn to cut down on my ramblings, I find this is an outlet to ramble on and not actually offend anyone with my scratchy, husky, no I don’t smoke cigarettes, pack a day sort of drole.

So. Why do I write my blog? Because I want to. That’s not the best reason…but for now, it’s the only one I got.

————————————FLIP THE SWITCH——————————-

I will never watch Goodfellas again. I think I’m having some sort of past life regression. I hate loud noises, explosions, firecrackers, gunshots, bombs, balloons popping, blood…things like that..and I couldn’t stand the goryness that is “Goodfellas.” So, now I’m thinking…I must have somehow been involved with the mafia in a past life. I must have somehow been killed (I’m thinking by a gunshot) in this past life, and while I don’t remember more than this…this explains why I’ve always been terrified of big noises…but I don’t think I was ever afraid of the mafia…really…until now…

I used to work with this lady. No. Really.

I’m not watching the Academy Awards.

They’re on now. I missed the first two awards, the two that matter, and I tried to watch when The Incredibles accepted the award for best animation, which, since when is their an award for Best Animation, but I got bored. I tried a little harder and really, really wanted to get into Drew Barrymore as she announced the nominees for best song, but that’s when it clicked…

I don’t give a flying sh** about anything Academy Awards. I don’t care who wins, who loses..I don’t think I’ve even seen one of the movies nominated for best picture.

You watch the Academy Awards, I’m watching Goodfellas..another movie I’ve never seen. So while I catch up with movies from what, like 20 years ago, you watch who wins this year. I’ll get there eventually.

But still the Acadmey Awards..they aren’t my thing.

Why don’t I sleep like a normal person sleeps? Am I even a normal person? Or am I not a normal person anyway?

No. Seriously. I can’t sleep ‘in’ at all. On the days I think I’m sleeping late - I’m waking up at 8:22AM!!! Even the cats let me sleep in this morning and I couldn’t.

I can’t go to bed early either, because, then, forget about it, I’ll be up at the crack of dawn, and the only crack I want to see in the morning isn’t rising at 6AM (I have no idea what I just wrote, but it kind of makes you squeam, right?).

I can usually make the 6:45AM yoga class. Not a bad thing, I know, but who really wants to get up for a 6:45 yoga class? Or maybe it’s good to get up early, it’s just that most of the world doesn’t agree with me.

I think getting up really early reminds me of working in an office or going to school. I usually wasn’t looking forward to the day ahead. Although not so much so when I started producing, then I think I liked going to work. Well, most days anyway.

Still, I want to sleep til 10AM one morning.
……Wait, I think I did on Monday.
…………….I think I at least slept til 9:30
…………………………That’s getting closer.

Okay, next question, same day.

Why is it only happening once a week?

The Hitachi Magic Wand. (Maybe Too) Powerful Vibrator. Excellent Back Massager. Really.
————————————————————————————-
I’m catsitting for my friend L., whose mother taught me this weekend that miracles do happen…that is, if you believe. I don’t know how much she’d want me going into any detail, but let’s just say - I believe!!!

Sitting here, in her apt., with full use of an internet connection, three cats, one of whom used to be mine…and as my grandmother describes him, he (or she since she always calls the boy a girl) “has the nicest fur she’s ever felt on a cat.” He’s super lovey, like right now he’s staring adoringly at me and rubbing on my computer (like mother, like son), and I feel like I’m couch surfing once again, even though I’m (thankfully) not. It’s just reminding me of not too long ago. Now Silly, the cat that has two mommies, has just crawled into my lap. I’m feeling the love.

Five minutes later and now he’s gone and my mind is wandering to thoughts of what guy’s often do when they have nothing else to do..and I’m not talking about watching TV or picking my nose (although I do love the latter anyday)…why am I always horny?!!!

LIKE
The funny thing is I don’t want to be hooking up with random strangers right now. I don’t have the urge, the itch, that burning desire that is not associated with vaginal yeast. I like a boy and when I like someone I’m more monogamous that when I don’t…which makes perfect sense…but I’m even more monogamous than most of my friends who aren’t all that monogamous.

What I don’t believe in is forced monogamy, which is why I am harping on the subject of being monogamous now. I guess cause it’s not forced at all right now, because of that, it’s just the way I feel like being. We are all human beings, all animals, we like to hump each other, we aren’t really supposed to be limited to one mate. But for now he’s the only boy I want. And even though I have the option to do what I want, I don’t want to do anything. Well, not anything, I do want to do some work, and get some sleep and spend part of any day in a room with the someone that I like. A lot. For now. Is that addiction?

WORK
There’s decisions to be made about work. It’s as if I’m surfing yet again, but this time a wave and not a couch, and while I use balance and the power of thought to stay on the board, I need to just relax and let the wave take me on its ride as well. Cause then it just might happen. This whole “next level” thing just might happen

HOME
Even though I’m sitting here with a bag I’ve packed for the weekend, when the weekend is over I’m going back to my home, the place where I still need to connect to the freakin’ Internet *which, thanks to Time Warner Cable is happening next week. But still three months ago I didn’t have a home and that started to suck.

LIFE
I’d say the last three months have given me perspective. A whole, new perspective. I can’t believe how much my world has changed in just three months.

I think this weekend I’ll enjoy the reminder.

My fingers are all dry. Especially around the cuticles. I have OCD, or ADD, or whatever they diagnose kids with these days, and even though I’ve never been diagnosed by anyone outside of my siblings, who both happen to be in medical professions, I know this is true. As I sit and stare at my fingers, trying hard not to pick off all the dead cells, I see living proof of my “habit”.

I can’t stop picking. It’s as if the skin just peels off from around the areas of dryness. I’ve been doing this for years, and for years I’ve been telling myself I shouldn’t be doing this at all. I can’t help it. When I’m bored, when I’m nervous, when I should be doing other things, I pick my skin. I know that eventually, if it hasn’t already altered my long term skin growth, this habit will destroy me.

My sister has a fucked up thumbnail. Like alien-esque, messed up. She’d probably be pissed at this description, but it’s true, her thumbnail is a phenomena to me. It’s all warped. I think it’s from the picking and even though I don’t want a thumbnail like that, I still can’t stop my habit.

A couple of my fingers are aching now. Aching - because in the time I’ve been typing this update, I’ve also been taking the time to pick my skin.

It’s as if I’m addicted. Maybe I just need some lotion. In fact, lotion would be the best place to start to nip this addiction in the bud.

Lubrication. One of the most important elements of life, and sex, and good finger maintenance.

My Kitchen.

There’s something nostalgic about the 22nd of every month. Perhaps it’s that my birthday falls on the 22nd of October, okay, I know that’s what it is, but there’s something pensive about the date. It’s that the 22nd serves as an easy marker for me to remember exactly how old I am. I have currently spent 30 years and 5 months on this planet, which does not include the time I spent inside my mother’s womb. I guess it would be hard to celebrate birthdays if we included the days from the moment of inception.

Imagine the birth annoucement if we considered our “inception date” as the day we were born. Instead of calling it birthday, we could celebrate our day of formation. My formation-day was somewhere in January. I came out a couple of weeks late, but here’s what I imagine the birth announcement would read. Today our daughter Jamye was born, at over 9 months and 2 weeks we welcome her out of her shell.

I was a jaundice baby. I was born yellow, and my mother left the hospital a couple of days before I did. I don’t really know what they do for jaundice, but apparently the doctors didn’t do anything to me. I still think I have a yellowish tint to my skin. It makes me feel special, like I have a little added color or something, and seeing how much I like color, it kind of makes sense. Or no sense at all. Depending, again, on how you view things.

And then of coures there’s the fetus vs. baby debate. And since I am pro choice, not anti choice, I can side with the right for a woman to choose what to do with her body, without being told that it’s murder. But that’s a deeper debate, and I’m keeping things light. Although I always have to go dark at the end, just for a minute.

Whatever. Today is about the 22nd of the month, and how it will always remind me of how far I’ve come. Or how far I’ve still got to go.

The Gates. CP style.

I think saying No is one of the hardest things to do but that in order to maintain any sort of sanity and direction in my life, I need to learn to do just that.

“No.”

It’s a day to day process. Today I said no once, and of course I contemplated if I was a bitch for doing it. But I’m sort of proud of myself at the same time. Because I realize that saying no is something that we all need to do. And no, I’m not preaching. And no, that’s not the kind of no I mean.

Yes is so easy. It’s good to feel like we can do everything, but I’m learning the most important lesson to date, that no, nobody can.

No is about picking and choosing and cleaning out cluttered spaces. Yes is about adding more to your life. It’s not a bad thing from time to time, but it’s okay to say no as well. See, I’m a big fan of clutter. I’ve been a collector of shit for way too long. From bandaids to magnets, I’ve collected a lot of useless items. *magnets are not useless items

So I need to clean things out to move on. You can’t move forward with too much stuff. It just gets too heavy to carry it all. Metaphorically speaking. And you have to say no.

One more thought:

Has anyone ever watched Growing Up Gotti? What’s up with Victoria Gotti? Her kids can’t stand her, and she thinks life is dandy. Her kids are rude pigs and she’s out of her mind wacky. And what’s up with the plastic surgery and fake tans?

I now understand why out of towners think that everything in New York is so damn expensive. I had breakfast at the very trendy Balthazar’s this morning, where a basket of bread costs $14, and eggs with spinach and artichoke $15.50, and at 11AM the crowds of tourists that lined the place where out the door, and I realized that this, this sort of experience is what makes New York expensive.

It was crowded. I got pushed a lot. I don’t think I’ll ever have to eat there again. Except that the slices of chocolate bread were really damn yummy. I’m talking the best surprise of the morning.

I can’t go to bed early. I mean I can, but if I go to bed too early, the only thing that happens is that I wake up early as well. Last night I was in bed by 10:20PM. This morning I was up at 5:38. I tried to go back to sleep, I watched the sunrise over the water, even masturbated a few times, and I think eventually I fell asleep for maybe another 20 minutes. So, from now on, I’ll have to go to bed at an unreasonable hour, just so I can wake up at a reasonable one.

I’ve taken two days to regain my mental health, and while I’m not at the top of my game, I feel the energy re-entering my body. Speaking of energy, I’ve seen some crazy shit this past week, energetically speaking, but I’m not really ready or sure how to explain it. I will just preface any later explanation with this…I am not crazy, nor do I think I’m going crazy, but yes, life is crazy. It’s this whole molecule thing, I’m having a hard time grasping that we are all just made up of molecules…and…oh, fuck it, I don’t want to go into it now.

In fact, I don’t want to go into anything at all right now. Except maybe my bed for a few more good hours of slumber. But it’s Saturday and that means I have other things to do…

It’s a really strange experience, actually living in the projects. Not that I haven’t noticed some things in the past, but today, today I spent a part of the day at my physical home, and in spending time in the middle of it all, I began to see things in a different light. I usually come home after 10PM. Today, at 4PM, I felt like I had a front row seat to the tension that I’m now calling - “Days of Our Lives: Project Style”. I’ve lived in the projects for only 2 months, or over two months, depending on if you’re a half empty, half full sort of person, but today was the first day I was actually home at 4PM.

I’m trying to give myself a day of rest. A restish day. Sort of.

So, I waited for the elevator with an older African American woman (AAW) and a Spanish man (SM). This whole building seems to know each other, as if they’re one big community, which in a way is what they are (they even have a neighborhood watch group that patrols the building at least twice a week), and when I tried to let the AAW go ahead of me, she courteously held the elevator door open. Then she waited for the SM to step inside. And after that, she pushed her button and started speaking pleasant Spanish to the other man. As the doors were closing I heard the faint desperation of a man, “hold the door, hold the door.” I want to be a star resident, so I held the door for the voice.

It appears that I pushed some of her buttons too.

So, in walks an Asian man, his wife and their obviously retarded son. The son is sitting in a wheelchair, and he’s got lazy eyes, his tongue hanging out, and the innocent look of a retarded boy. The AAW starts yelling, “I’VE TOLD YOU TO WAIT FOR YOUR OWN ELEVATOR. DON’T BRING HIM IN THE ELEVATOR WITH OTHER PEOPLE.” She spoke to the boys parents (RBP) as if their son wasn’t supposed to ride in the elevator with the “normal” folk. It just got worse. She started complaining about the wheelchair, and how she’ll get stuck when she needs to get out, and screaming out what she perceived to be true stereotypes about Asians. Racist things like that.

It was strange. Really, really uncomfortable, kind of strange.

I hope that boy didn’t understand what she’s saying, although he probably did. When she got out of the elevator, a production in itself, she kept complaining about how she couldn’t move her cart and actually, physically get out of the elevator. AAW shouted at the RBP’s. I just wanted to yell back, “Shut up lady, don’t you think these people have enough to deal with already?”

I eventually told the RPB’s dad that it would be to their advantage if they’d help her get her cart out of the elevator, and eventually they got the hint about actually lifting her cart over their son’s wheelchair. As soon as the elevator door shimmied shut, and the AAW had left, the RBP’s turned to me and said, in both English and Spanish, I guess they were unsure of which I spoke seeing that all white girls like the same, but anyway, they turned to me and said “loco.”

“Crazy.”

The SM was still in the elevator, looking up at the ceiling. They all obviously hated each other, and here I was stuck in the middle of an interestingly tense situation.

In my life I have the ability to get into these places. Like Bucryus, Ohio - one of the strangest towns I’ve ever lived in.

Now I’m living in New York City, only with a bit of a twist. I’m really enjoying the experience.

I’m reading the Celestine Prophecy. I’m babbling.

I’m in the middle of something. But what?

I am so not into name brands, at least not anymore. But at one time I had to have what was cool. I think wearing name brands made me think I was popular, because anybody who knew me in high school knows that the truth was pretty much opposite of that.

I had one close friend. “Sally.” Sally came in second in the “best looking” category of our yearbook’s superlatives. I realize years later that I had a massive crush on her, (again another story) but back in the day, I got to spend a lot of time with Sally, and that meant I got to spend some time around the popular crowd.

Which meant, of course, I had to dress hip.

TOP FIVE THINGS THAT MADE ME FEEL HIP:
1. Farlows: Skin tight jeans that literally stuck to your body. I think farlow helped pave the way for cameltoe.

2. ID#: These shirts rocked, although I don’t really understand the fashion statement that goes with the “hey, let’s make a line of shirts that people wear inside out.” They sort of looked like pajamas, but they had really cool prints. Still, inside out?

3. Z Cavarrici: There is no excuse for these pants. Really. Can you say guido?

4. Gear: These bags were so cool, with their bubbly 3-D designs. I had one bag that had these hearts on it. The only downside is that they didn’t have straps and each bag was essentially a clutch. Ughh…

5. Justin Boots: Even though there were no cowboys on Long Island, you had to have a pair of $200 Justin boots. Accept no imitations.

I am so glad I’m not a label whore. I am so glad that I feel vintage these days. I don’t miss the labels. I don’t think I ever will.