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Looking up from my book to see it's only 8pm and wondering why I'm so content to sit home with books and a hard drive instead of being out with men and their wallets and their cologne. Why does the male host on the t.v. shopping channel give me more amusement that any man I've come across in months. Worse yet, he's more amusing than any man I've ever dated. New year, new beginnings, but the total and complete inability to go out and find him. You're not attractive. You're not funny. You're not even smart and who wants that?
The old woman on t.v. asks the caller, "Have you ever looked at your genitals?" "Yes." Then the woman points at the diagram behind her and points out where the clitoris is for the caller. "You see, the clitoris is like a small penis. Unless you're aroused, it won't pop out. Do you know how to pleasure yourself?" "Ummm. No." YOU'VE NEVER TOUCHED YOURSELF? I find this hard to believe.You'll give your boyfriend a blow job in the corner of the room at a frat party but you cringe at the thought of sticking your hand down your own pants?
The ways that people lie to themselves are amazing. How many times has she said to me , "I don't understand why I'm fat. I don't eat a lot." Five minutes later she's stuffing Doritos in her face from the bag she bought at lunchtime. She's the single best motivator I can have for staying on a healthy course. Watching her makes me sick to my stomach, really. Watching her chew, listening to her breathe heavily, seeing how her stomach sticks out past her breasts. It disgusts me. I wish I were a better person but she makes me sick.
Sometimes I'm so sick of the Internet that I want to shut my computer off and never turn it on again. It's a place where it's OK to be cruel. It's full of cliques worse than anything you'd find in a high school. It's a place built on illusions. There's no such thing as an online friend. Friends are people you can look at in the eye, spend time with, share your life with. Friends aren't people who only see what you decide to present to them. It's really a sick, sad little world. I don't know why I'm here.
I looked in the mirror just now and all I saw was a disheveled mess with dark circles under her eyes. I slept all day so I don't know why I look so horrid. Maybe it's because I lie awake half the night, dreading the morning, dreading my job, dreading my clients, my co-workers, my bosses, my life. Maybe it's because I think that by staying awake all night I can delay morning a little while longer, or maybe completely. Maybe I can stay like that, in my bed, never having to leave, or to face anyone, or to breathe.
Snow is supposed to be light but all I heard today was each flake landing around me with a hollow thud. Grey, cold, dismal. Slippery roads making us all drive 20 miles an hour, the ride home an eternity. Stuck in the house all night, clausterphobic, tired of the computer, tired of television, needing to get out. I suppose it would be easier to take if I were in a movie scene where the leading man playfully tossed snowballs at me while I pretended to be outraged. We'd fall into the snow as the moonlight made a halo around us.
Hey, you. Yes, I got your emails. And I don't know why I didn't answer them, other than laziness. Oh, and let's not forget the holiday blahs. You broke up? Why? I thought she was your ONE. We need to grow up and settle down. What's wrong with us? Why haven't I managed to get it together and find a nice man and pop out some kids and have a mini-van? I hate mini-vans and a kid would ruin the glamorous big city life that I'm sure I'll have any day now. It's all much too depressing to contemplate, really.
Dark hair. Tall. Well-built. Well-read. Biting sarcasm. Quick wit. Kind. Nice to waiters and waitresses. Good listener. No pretensions. Ethnic. Wordly. Knows which fork to use and when to use it. Broad smile. Broad shoulders. Large hands. Intense stare. Thoughtful hesitancy. Looks good in a suit. Expensive shoes. Black turtlenecks. Gold watch. Respects women. Cut the umbilical cord. No hidden sexual freakiness. Dog lover. Sly wink from across the room. Attentive. Left the frat behind at graduation. Supportive. Polite. Wickedly intelligent. Eloquent. Down to earth. Thoughtful. Artistic. In good shape. Not a drunk. Mature. Classy. He's everything you never were.
I'm completely aware that what I seem to be lacking in my life is a solid female friend. I have a few "friends" of the chick persuasion but there's not one woman that I could rely on for anything, anytime. Well, actually, that's not true. There is one. She'd do anything for me and she'd do it immediately. We spent our holidays together this year. We're almost like family now. But how comfortable can a friendship be when a common ghost hangs over it? How can I ignore the very thing that brought me to her in the first place?
So tired tonight that the words aren't coming. I generally don't like sleep. I guess I'm afraid that I'll miss out on something. Or I'm trying to stop the morning from coming so quickly. But tonight I can't wait to get crawl under the covers. I'm exhausted and I'm cold. It's snowing again (like it has for the past month). The roads are a mess so I was stuck inside…again. It makes me cold and bored and tired. I have absolutely nothing to say tonight . I'm just hoping that I get to 100 words as quickly as I can.
His tattoos ran completely up both arms. They were faded, cloudy looking. I was fixated on the tattoo on his wrist. I thought it odd, for a man to have a flower tattooed there. Mostly, I looked down at wrist so that I didn't have to look up at him while he rang up my items. He looked like a serial killer. He wore large, thick eyeglasses and a baseball cap, his braid hanging out the back to his waist. He kept looking at me and smiling. I suppose he was waiting for me to smile back. Keep waiting, man.
I try to block it out, but you really can't do that forever. When you live so close to it, you eventually end up back there, whether it's to attend a show or to visit someone in the hospital. You drive down Coventry and remember Sunday morning brunch and shopping. You remember the Cedar Lee. You drive through Little Italy and remember that sub-zero winter night when the car stalled at the top of Murray Hill and you had to walk all the way back home, thighs beet red and numb when you finally collapsed inside the door. I remember.
He talked of being in Paris, sitting at a glass table, ordering a Coke. It arrived in a glass encased in a metal container, like a milkshake would. The sound of the metal hitting the glass was sensual, he said. He said it was the best Coke he's ever had or ever will have. The way he described soothed me, like someone running fingers through my hair. He said that my voice was like the sound of that metal hitting the glass, sensual and memorable. And I believe that he meant it. But he runs away when the sun rises.
I think you reach a point in your life where you just can't deal with games anymore. Or patterns that repeat themselves and never move beyond where they are right now, or where they were back then. I've reached that point. You can't keep doing the same thing over and over again, knowing full well that it never changed in the past, so why would it change now. You know you're done with it when you don't even get angry anymore. You just roll your eyes and sigh a bit and say, "That's it. Game over." And then it is.
Not sure what to write tonight. I have a million things that I could write about but that don't seem appropriate for public consumption. Should I write about her? No. Or what about him? It would make a great story, but I can't do that to him. Or what about her, you know the one. Should I talk about my disappointment in her? Nah. Not really even worth it. What seems OK to say is that one need to surround oneself with people who aren't full of anger. It only makes everyone around that person mean sons of bitches too.
I'm sorry but you piss me off. You float in and out of my life when it suits you…when you're not with anyone. You get on the phone and say sweet things to me and you don't want to hang up. Then I don't hear from you for months. How many times has this happened now? Seven? Eight? Twenty? Guess what. Game over. I'm too tired, too old, to play it. You want to be close to me? Then be close to me. You want to talk to me? Then do it. This duck and run game is played out.
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I'm a high-maintenance woman. Cosmetics. Exfoliators. Body scrubs. Body lotions. Neck cream. Eye cream. Hair wax. Hairspray. Straightening iron. Diffuser. Tweezers. Wax. Shaving cream. Mach III razor. Moisturizing masks. Nail strengthener. Nail polish. Vitamins for hair, skin, and nails. Eyelash curler. Eyelash comb. Magnifying mirror. Cuticle cream. Cuticle oil. Pumice stone. Twenty-three makeup brushes. Eighteen lipsticks. Eleven lip glosses. Forty-three bottles of nailpolish. Shea butter. Olive oil body lotion. Three shower gels. Facial Flex facial exerciser. Travel toothbrush. Travel toothpaste. Crest whitening strips. Sonicare toothbrush. Three mascaras. Epilator. Eight lipliners. Four blushes. Two eyeliners. Twelve eye shadows. Four face powders.
Celine Dion's new Chrysler (I think it's Chrysler) commercials are seriously infectious. I've been listening to her version of "I Drove All Night" well…all damn night. First of all, I'm starting to like her music. Christ, what's next? Menopause? Secondly, it's club music. Lastly, it's a CAR COMMERCIAL. But you have to admit that it's a good song. Who wouldn't want some lust crazed lunatic driving all night just to get to you? Don't even try to lie. We all want someone who would do anything to get us. If you want me, act on it. Drive all fucking night.
I'm a little nervous about having everyone read my entries this month. It's my first 100 words attempt, so that's a bit stressful. But I've been reading through some archived months here and people seem to let it all hang out here. They say things that are really illuminating and a little surprising. I try to guard myself more now than I did at the beginning of the month. Will you like what you read? Will you be disappointed or offended? And why do I care so much? This is supposed to be for me, not for you. Is it?
It's only January and this is already a long, hard winter. The temperature being in single digits for the past two weeks is wearing me down. I'm exhausted. I need warmth. I don't want to leave my house. I can't wait for Spring and blooms and sunlight and buds and grass and fresh smelling air. I feel like I'm being buried under the two to three inches of snow that we literally get every day. My skin is grey, the sky is grey, my mood is grey. I need yellow and orange and red and green. God I want Spring.
Is it wrong of me to just want this damn month to end because I'm running out of things to say here and finding it increasingly more of a pain to sit down and do this every night? One on hand, this is truly fun, but on nights like tonight I have nothing to say. NOTHING. I'm determined to finish this damn month. If you look at the stats, very few of the people who start the month finish it. Maybe I just have no inspiration because I'm cold and depressed. Maybe I should take a new direction with this.
What would we do if we went on a date? Would we go to dinner at a little diner or would you bring me to one of the finest restaurants in the area? Would we go to a movie afterward? When the lights went down would you reach over and hold my hand while you leaned into my ear to whisper to me, "Is this OK to do?" Is it Ok for me to kiss you, the way I've wanted to for so long? After the movie would we go for coffee and sit and tell each other our stories?
New year. A lot of looking at one's life. What I'm stuck on is why I can't attract a sane man with no secrets or hidden agendas. My past has been really fucked up in the love department. Hey, if you're gay and you can't admit it, date me! Or if you're a macho ass who can't relate to women at all, I'm your girl! If you want to go out with me and fuck someone on the side, give me a call! I'm tired. I'm tired of being a second or third or fourth choice. Or an only choice.
I've been writing about men a lot lately. And whining. The truth is, if I wanted to date, I could. If I wanted to make the effort, I could. But I don't. And I ask myself why. I really don't think it's fear. It feels like disinterest, but I'm not even sure how true that is. I mean, I certainly see men that I am attracted to and think, "Ohhhh he'd be nice." So what's holding me back? It's not the last one. It hurt. It hurt because I felt stupid. Maybe I don't trust myself to be smart again.
It's days like today when you're just tired. You're tired of trying, of wondering, of doing, of seeing, of talking, of wishing. Your mental obsessions become too much and you completely shut down. You're not pleasant to be around. You're a bitch, in fact. I'm a bitch, in fact. But that's just it. I'm not, really. I'm actually quite nice. I actually don't swear a lot. I'm tough, but I'd give you the proverbial "shirt off my back" if you needed it. But lately I've been something that I don't like. That I hate, in fact. It will pass, right?
"Look at my date," he said to the waiter. "Isn't she gorgeous?" And she was flattered. And she blushed. And then she took him home. They saw each other every night that week after that first night. They drove downtown, they ate take-out on her floor. They watched movies. He took up residence there and didn't leave. One night they were talking about a friend of hers who had a fuck buddy. And he laughed and said to her, "Well, isn't that what we are." She tried not to cry, thankful that the room was completely dark. "Yeah," she said.
I'm a horrible manager. The essential problem is that I don't have balls. Not literal balls, but figurative. I don't have the guts to fire the people that need to be fired. I'm passive aggressive. If you fuck up I just tune you out rather than telling you how and why you fucked up. I let people take off for stupid reasons and never say no. Granted, we are in an easy going office, but people tend to abuse the allowances that they're given. And that's where I sit right now. Plus I hate all of my clients. Period. Ugh.
I hate you. I hate you and your old woman helmet hair and your 300 lb girth. I hate the way you chew. I hate the way you breathe audibly because you're so fat. I hate the way you sit and complain about being fat while you shove a bag of Doritos that you bought at lunch in your mouth. I hate the way you make fun of me for trying to eat well. I hate the way you say snottily "Oh it must be nice" when I have my hair colored. I hate that you make me hate you.
Dear Mommies of the world. Yes, you have an important job. I want to be in your ranks someday. But enough with the posing. Enough with the miltant breast feeding crap. Enough with the whole "my tits are lifegivers" crap. You take the stand that you are the ones who are the victims, all the while you criticize other woman who choose not to breast feed and who choose to work, or HAVE to work. Having a child is special, but here this. You aren't the first woman in history to do it and you won't be the last. Enough.
Last day. I have to admit, this has been a pain at times. Everything I've written here isn't all pretty. They're things I usually don't post on my site because the blog world has become one where people misread what you're saying and feel the need to make your life hell in the process. The things I've said aren't necessarily how I truly feel. It may be a snapshot of a moment in time. But they're definitely thoughts and feelings that I've experienced this month. So, goodbye to January's batch but believe it or not, I'm doing February too. Ciao.
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