kamakazi.

I sat in the brown faux leather chair that made my shirt stick to the sweat on my back and my bare arms. I could feel my hair swell because of the humidity in the bun i wore atop my head.
We were all laughing, drinking kamakazis not knowing how much that said about us.
I fell in love when he whispered in my ear that he would always email me back, a response to my complaint that he hadn't. His breath was slightly more hot and damp than the air outside - deeply contrasted with the cooled air in the smoke filled bar. I ignored him and pretended like what he said and the way he said it hadn't affected me. In my mind I was kissing him a million kisses, fucking him a million orgasms, bursting forth his children, yin-ing his yang. In my mind I was his for as long as he would have me.
After the bar closed and we separated into our respective castes, stumbling toward hotels, I called out to him to come to my room: room 111. He would turn to look at me, walking backward, giving away his intentions with his mischievious stares. His friends would pull him along and mine me. Pulling us in separate directions.
It was no use. You can't change the mind of a kamakazi.

BMW - 7 series

Last night as I left a crowded restaurant bordering Hillcrest, I locked eyes with a man standing in line as I tried to squeeze myself into the tiniest possible me and get out of there without a panic attack. I knew he was gay because I was watching him earlier, wrists flailing, weight resting on one leg as he stood talking to his boyfriend. I wanted him to smile at me when I squeezed past him, to say something funny, like I've known gay men to do, to comfort me, as I was obviously (in my own mind only perhaps) distressed at being with all these people in such close quarters. Instead, he looked at me with level eyes that sort of said, "I don't have time for you. I'm tired of people like you, women. I don't even care enough about you to make me sick."
So as I was walking to my car I was lamenting that I've never had a gay man as my friend like so many women seem to. I have always CRAVED that sort of closeness with a man who I knew would never want me sexually. Gay men always seem to hate me, as do most women.
I was pondering this as I drove down the Mission Hills and merged onto the 5. Immediately I was blocked from merging because a BMW - 7 series was blocking my way, going about 45 mph I might add. The car made me think of a story that Alex, my boss told me last week about his neighbor, who he said drives him nuts and drives a BMW - 7 series - and when he said the 7 series part he rolled his eyes back and sort of let his jaw go slack so I knew he meant the guy was a pompous ass. Alex said that the man is very anal, that he measures the height of his lawn with a ruler, that his kids - in high school - are forced to dress alike. He said the lights in their house go out in eerie synchronization at very specific times, 9:00 for the kids, 9:45 for he and his wife. I commented what his relationship must be like between him and his wife if they only get 45 minutes together a night.
Alex ignored me and went on with the rest of his story while I smiled politely, but I was really thinking how sad a life like that must be. What power that man must have over his family if they allow such rules - and with teenagers too! The wife must drink, or take pills, or perhaps she is a devout Christian. Then I thought Alex might be projecting. He is a bit anal too so I was unsure what exactly about his neighbor might be irritating him because he won't even let us pop popcorn in the office because he hates the smell.
So as I struggled to merge onto the highway, past the BMW, I was thinking about the Alex's neighbors. Why do so many people drive silver BMWs? I decided that they were the sharks of the road, and that people who drove them must be similar in character to sharks, too. Sort of driven, always going, never slowing down, ruthless, soulless. I thought it was fitting that Crush drove one too. I thought police cars are the killer whales of the road. Black and white, usually peaceable, capable to murder. I wondered what my red Jetta said about me.
finally! A chance to merge, and I did. As I passed the BMW, I looked to see what the person looked like who was driving. Where they foreign, old, what could account for such poor driving manners? As I passed, all I could see was a slender arm attached to a skinny watch on the dainty wrist holding the wheel with a tiny hand, backlit by the orange lights of the dashboard. I wondered if it was Alex's neighbor's wife.

Cali & Tex by collin english

Collin: … And night blooming jasmine! I love the Mediterranean. I
may be what i like most about California -- that it reminds me of the
Mediterranean.


Trish: Me too. It's like the Med married a cowboy. Love it!
I always thought of California as Texas' girlfriend. Strange?

C: California as Texas' girlfriend. That's so funny. And cute. Why does
that seem like something you would think?

T: I'm a hopeless romantic.

C: Yes, but with a grand view. Talk about an interstate love affair: California, the hottie with the cool ocean breaze in her hair, toes in
the sand, pacific across her feet. Texas, the, uhhh, ass in dusty
boots and a huge hat being all: "Howdy ma'am" and stuff. i can see it
now.

T: You totally understand me.

C: He looks at her and says: "You're as clear as a sweet spring day, Miss
Cali." He tips his hat and smiles.
"Aww, Tex," she blushes,"...you're so sweet... hey, you're stepping on
my towel."

T: Towel..? What? Because of the ocean?

C: Cali tugged at the towel under the toe of Tex's dirt burnished boot.
The waves washed across her feet and onto the towel. "Why am I on a
towel so close to the ocean?" Cali asked the narrator. The narrator
paused thoughtfully and replied: "Good question."

T: what is your obsession with this towel?

C: then as suddenly and as mysteriously as it appeared the towel
vanishes. Neither Cali nor Tex noticed because at this moment their
eyes were locked in a moment of such portent and anticipation that
Cali had to look away. The waves shwooshed across the sands.

"It's been so long Tex."

"Two years, Cali. That's a spell. And don't you look as sweet as ever."

"Why do you have to go up there this afternoon? You just got here?
Stay. We'll have lunch. Have some drinks. You know: get reaquinted..."

"I'd love to baby, but I gotta get this business out of the way first.
You look so good honey. I feel like I'm seeing the ocean for the first
time...Why didn't I take you back to Texas with me?

"You tried...remember...? You did try." She laughs and glances at him,
his eyes glitter with the light off the ocean.

"Will I see you at the Hurley's little soire tonight?" She asked.
Looking out to sea again and feeling his eyes on her neck and
shoulders, "or are you going to be too tied up with your business up
in Bakersfield to get back tonight...?"

"I'll be there, baby. I didn't come all this way just to miss a
magical evening with my best girl". His smile is warm and broad.

snapshot of that damn hippie

i am torn between loving her for her lust for life and hating her for her inability to be loyal to anyone but herself or fun, or the moment. people like her, her spit at life and get rewarded for it make me physically ill. their hapiness astounds me. touring about the world, smoking pot, pullin' up stakes as soon as the wind shifts... what sort of life is that? and friends? who has friends with a life like that? that's what i mean about the lack of loyalty.

not enough

a man stopped me in the parking lot today and asked for my phone number. I was flattered. he called tonight and made small talk. within two minutes he told me that he liked my figure; that it caught his eye. my heart sank. i told him i wasn't comfortable with that sort of conversation. he said perhaps i would feel more comfortable talking over lunch. i said i would. we said goodbye.

sometimes I get sentimental ...

Mom, baby Nicky, me. Isn't my mom beautiful?

snapshot of judith

english isn't her first language, yet she's an english major. not that i feel her first language should impact her ability to interpret literature or write in english, but it does. tonight she ranted on and on about the fact that our teacher refered to Virginia Woolf's essay, "A Room of Ones Own" as a feminist manifesto. in her (unswayable) opinion, that is an insult. she feels as if Woolf's words do not speak for all women. when i tried to point out that they may have been profound at the time they were written, she retorted that there must have been other, better fiminist manifesto writers at that time. ...
she constantly asks for explanations of seemingly simple things like the meaning of sentimental.
she is passive agressive.
she wears her bangs cut straight across her forhead
she constantly reminds us that she is 30
she tries to bring christianity into every facet of conversation, literary or otherwise

the walls aren't exactly falling down

I feel at war with almost everyone i know right now.
my parents: don't love me enough, therefore i must cut them out of my life. that will show them.
my boss isn't standing up for me at work and my work is suffering because of it. i vow to be extremely professional in our interactions so that she can't see how much her actions wound me. that will show her.
i kept a place reserved in my heart for a man, in case he decided to love me one day. he loves someone else now. i moved him off my myspace top 8, that will show him.
i'm building up the walls around me. not that there weren't walls to begin with, now there are just more of them, higher ones, with larger stones.
if you don't value me, if you can't make me feel valued, i will suffocate in my walls and die.

The Night of the Living Dead.

Throughout my life, and especially lately, I've been struck with the fact that I (as well as every other human being, or lump of atoms for that matter) am very alone. Not only alone as in lonely, but separate from everything else. I'm not sure why this is becoming so prevalent recently but it is. I guess it's always sort of been clear to me, this sense that we're all in it with nothing but ourselves to fall back on, but the gravity of it had just registered. It's a culmination of things, I guess. Maybe it sprung from my disbelief in love or the capacity of humans to love or be loved. I mean, what's left after that?
So now I see our separation everywhere. Most noticeably in pop culture. Abercrombie and Fitch is the metaphoric thread tying together an entire generation of high schoolers and college students who can afford it. The iPod lets you personalize your belonging by what you choose to load it with. But what's left is just a sweater that's too short and shrinks when you wash it, or a bunch of bytes and bits on a hard drive. There is no bond created, no joining of any person together. That would be impossible.
What's really there then? Even your family, friends, husband, wife can't share the same dreams as you. When you die, they can only hold your hand until you're dead.
And then there is God. Is God real? Could that be what makes everything one? and if so, why don't I feel that?
Oh, the futility of it all.

the wrath

I am at war. The wounds are evident in my eyes: swollen. My skin is parched from fighting too long without rest.
I feel my enemies crouched, waiting for me to engage, waiting to continue the fight.
I will never stop fighting until I am dead. You can fight against me, but I will always win.
In a battle royal, I will emerge victorious.

what's up Plano?

Hello, Plano!

So,those of you who pay attention may notice that I have a tool which allows me to view some information of people who view this blog. Specifically, where they view it from.

Well, someone from Plano, Texas sure did some looking!!! I just love knowing that! Is it pronounced "plain old"? Like "plain old Texas"?

memoir of a drunken night

Henry's Pub in downtown San Diego has karaoke. It also happens to be a magnet for drunk Trish and Laura. We have ended our nights here twice. Once on my birthday when I sang my heart out to Loretta Lynn's "Coal Miners Daughter" and did a duet to Merle Haggard's "Think I'll Just Stay Here and Drink" with some Army officer who was too drunk to care.
The night this picture was taken, however, is too fuzzy to remember. We were drunk for sure, and the focus of the picture is fitting, because that is exactly how I remember Henry's looking. Incedentally, we took a cab home that night and could not, for the life of us, remember where we parked her jeep the next day.

i know you missed my bitching.

very few things irritate me more than women who giggle or smile incessantly. Perhaps I am jealous that they are so happy that their laughs and their smiles overflow from their beings.

also irritating is misspelling their (there, they're) or to (too, two), or than (then). it's elementary.

Musings on an evening drive home

It occurred to me while driving home tonight that my family and friends might think it odd that I haven't had a boyfriend in a while. In fact,I've never really had a long- term boyfriend except Crush and since nobody ever saw me with him or met him he might be considered "not real" by even those closest to me.

It has never bothered me, not having a boyfriend, but I began questioning the reason and here's what I came up with:

I love sex. I don't love being pressured for it when I don't want it. It gets really annoying and I hate feeling the need to make excuses or feeling guilty for being so gosh darn sexy as to always keep my man hot and bothered.

I want sex on my own terms.

HOWEVER, I do not like to initiate sex or to be dominant during sexual occasions. Frankly, weak men make me sick, and any man who lets me dominate him is weak.

So you see now that the reason I don't have a boyfriend is that no masculine, strong, sexy, intelligent, witty, rich, traveled, charismatic, man would try to guess when I wanted to have sex and then initiate it. God! Why do I have to be so complicated?

Why can't I be like a regular woman and settle for some regular guy? Why can't I just force myself to enjoy an illiterate buffoon groping me?

So what was it about Crush that kept me interested for over 2 years?
I know he liked me, but other guys have liked me too.
He did constantly grope me, in fact,I can't recall an occasion we spent together when sex wasn't a part of the agenda.
He wasn't particularly sexy, or muscular.
But he was strong and a bit witty, although we had different senses of what was funny, he was traveled and charismatic, intelligent and rich. And although he wasn't conventionally sexy or iron-man muscular, I thought him the equivalent of a Roman God.

Ugh. Did I love him.

No other men measure up.

And I wonder if it's because I never really had him that made me feel alright staying with him.

nothing to say

How is it that at 27 my greatest thrill is sitting on my couch and seeing how fast I can get drunk so that I can pass out and not be bored to death? I guess life isn't boring per say, I just can't seem to bear it. I hate the finality of it. I hate time. It goes so slow until you need it to, then it's too fast. I find no joy in joyful things. I find no love in the lovely. Somehow this life isn't what I signed on for. This life is something that I would like replaced or refunded.
And don't go thinking to yourself, "god! this chick is something else! she should get over it, stop whining." Easy for you to say. You are a normal person, I guess; if you think that way you must be. Easy for you to say when you find joy in socialization, in standing for something, in your morals and ethics. To me, those things are useless, futile. They are you know. What the fuck difference does it make that there is genocide in Africa, what the fuck will it change if you join the peace corps to help. You can't stop genocide. You can't stop the hate that causes it.
The fact that you are happy, as I sit on my couch watching mindless 80's specials on VH1 and stalking people on myspace says a lot about you, about me. There is a whole existence happening all around me, but I am the vacuum, the absence of existence. My spirit was crushed a long time ago and I am merely a shell.

I was pressed against the wall in the bathroom of a taco shack, somewhere in Rosarito, Mexico. I was leading him on, making him think I was going to fuck him because that's how it would happen in a movie, a book. Flashes of the green tile. The dust revealed as the sun streamed in through closed shutters. Mariachi played over speakers outside.

something I love

the time of morning or evening when everything goes gray, green, gold. it's so ethereal; this is the time of day when anything can happen...

Fuck spelling

I can't help but think that there is some kind of covert operation occuring aimed at brainwashing mankind into thinking that spelling = education. Everywhere I turn there is some spelling ploy: a movie, Akeelah and the Bee, which I assume is about a little girl named Akeelah and her touching story of winning a spelling bee. Great. Every time I walk into Starbucks I'm slapped in the face with an interesting word, a word like prospicience and I instantly look around for the definition and find none. It is SO irritating. What good does it do me to know what a word looks like, read: how to spell it if I don't know what it means?
The problem was exasperated by a commentation I heard on NPR this evening about the importance of teaching the multi-colored youth of America to spell. The commentator argued at length on how if we as a nation did not teach the "multi-colored" (a term he frequently used) youth of America to spell we would end up with "crabby old white people" and ignorant colored people. He concluded his opinion by painting a picture of what he envisioned the future of multi-colored America to be: a green eyed, brown skinned, dirty blonde with dreadlocks. Cute, huh?
What does spelling have to do with it? Spelling in modern society is useless. One word will justify my last sentence: spellcheck. If not spellcheck, a dictionary. I say we teach kids the meaning of the word, and if necessary, how to remember how to spell it by referring to its root. Something a little more intelligent than memorizing the order letters appear to form a word.

What a difference a night makes

After a restful night of sleep, I awakened this morning feeling less anxious about the Ben situation. Ben can do whatever he feels like doing. He is free to date whomever and feel however he wishes to.
I however am afforded the same rights. I choose, at this point, to not care.

My aversion

I can barely stand to go on to myspace anymore. I guess a more accurate statement would be that I have such an aversion to myspace at this point in time that I can barely tear myself away from it. It's sort of the same feeling one might get if they passed a car accident on the side of the road. I can see pools of blood even before I see the dead, mangled, exposed bowel bodies, yet I have to look, to see what such horror really looks like. Maybe it is a bit drastic to compare what I perceive to be a relationship between someone who is not even my boyfriend, (never was and probably never will be) and some girl (who I've never met and who could potentially be very lovely) with a fatal car crash, but it feels like an accurate parallel. I guess it's worse because it's thrown in my face, or on myspace, which is almost as intimate as my face. I guess it's worse because she lives in California and so do I, she got to visit him, gets to have inside jokes with him, gets to share emails, phone calls, what-have-you with him and I don't. I guess it's also worse because I feel like I did something wrong because he won't talk to me and so now all I can do is guess.

Hey, jealousy.

I am a very jealous person. I literally become sick when I think of guys who I have loved/currently love canoodling with other women. I just can't get over the fact that these women invariably have something that I was incapable of keeping. It's not that I'm competitive, it's more of an abandonment issue. Don't leave me/come back to me. Love me.
All very sad. All very much issues from my childhood that were never dealt with properly and therefore will plague me my entire adult cardigan and cat filled life.

Elexa

Today I purchased my first condoms. Not that I haven't used them before, I just never felt that they were my responsibility. The people at Trojan have finally figured out that marketing condoms to women will make us buy them. I'm so serious that it hurts. I would have never thought of buying them before Elexa.
I feel like having a lot of sex just so I can buy more condoms.

LMAO?

What does that mean? I am so not hip to these abbreviations.

Pet Peeve #7

Myspace.
I hate seeing people on the site that I haven't seen in years. I know I should love it like everyone else does, but it does nothing but make me depressed. I hate the fact that nobody really changes or maybe a better word would be grows and maybe I really hate that about myself and not everyone else. I hate the fact that the whole damn world is on myspace and that it always displays that banner telling me that so-and-so is in my extended network - as if I'm supposed to feel all zen about how myspace is the spiderweb that binds us all together. I hate that girls use profile pictures of themselves that are sexually suggestive, and that guys post bulletins with the subject line "what would you do to me if you had me for one night?"
Myspace is gay. I hate that I have it, I hate that you probably have it too... but if you do have it, add me as a friend.

blush

  

Pet Peeve #6

Cell phones.
To me there is nothing more shallow/rude/shelfish/needy than a person whose ear is perpetually attached to thier cell phone. I recently spent a week with a person who fit this bill. I think she thought it made her "cool" to always be on the phone; like she had so many friends she couldn't wait until an appropriate time to speak with them. She would talk on the phone while riding in a car with us, therefore disabling any of us to converse (it's rude to talk while someone is on the phone!) and she didn't seem to care how loud she was being or that we all could care less about her conversation and that we might not want to hear it.
Recently, another acquaintance lost her cell phone at work. She didn't seem to know how she was going to continue living. She lamented over her lost numbers and felt that she would never be able to get in touch with people if she lost her phone. I might be crazy, but the people I care about know more than one way to reach me and I them.
The bottom line is that cell phones should not be an extention of oneself.

Pet Peeve #5

Girls who wear hats.
There is an air of condescension to them. Or maybe it's pretentiousness. I can't put my finger on it.
Anyway, I mean any kind of hat: baseball cap, a beanie, or those seem-to-be-cool-right-now cabbie hats. All of them. Above all I loathe the ones that seemingly have not purpose such as the cabbie hat. It doesn't have a brim that would keep the sun out of one's eyes, nor does it protect the ears from bitter cold. Why? I don't know.
The iceing on the cake is that girls with hats always seem to be attached to a guy. A cute guy. I wonder what he thinks when she takes off the hat and gets an eyeful of what's sure to be hat head.
My final words on this will be this: I thought hats went out after Blossom was canceled.

Cowards are my favorite

A few days ago I posted about my disdain for the band, U2. I promptly recieved a reply from "Anonymous" about how I was "something, something, something,... Get over yourself."
Well, I don't feel it neccessary to publish posts from people who choose to remain, "Anonymous" and who have nothing important to say. Fuck off. OR:
Try saying something smart. Maybe give me a new perspective on U2, although I'm pretty sure that's impossible since they are SO one dimensional.

My face is a big, red stop sign (II)

Listen. Can you hear me? I thought so. So why is it that when I say hello to someone, or try to catch someone's eye, they act as if I'm invisible OR (and this is even worse) they say something smart, not knowing, of course, who the fuck I am. Listen, I will kill you. Well, I probably won't kill you, but I will light a red, "Ecce-Homo Gran Poder (great power)" candle that I got at the supermarket and pray that you will get what is coming to you.

It's official, my fat ass isn't welcome anywhere.

I heart drama. I've been known to create it if there's none areound. This weekend was a triad of it.
St. Patricks day is a day begging for drama. When all you have to do is drink (as opposed to the other holiday's where drinking is also the main activity but you have distractors like a turkey or presents) there is bound to be a person or two who sets the drama ball a-rollin'. In this case it was not me.
I was minding my own business, freezing my ass off as only a California ass could in 50 degree weather, trying to catch a cab home from the St. P's celebration in downtown SD when this dude cut right in front of my friend and me. We said something to alert him of our rightful place at the front of the cab-hailing line, but this guy was not caring. After much back and forth between he and us I walked up to him and, very seriously, informed him that if there were not police on every corner around us I would stab him in the eye with the filthy heel of my shoe. Whithout skipping a beat he told me to fuck off. I searched his eyes for a shred of fear, of remorse at being such a prick, but he was empty. Visions of him wooing girls into loving him and then raping them in the ass because of his repressed homosexuality flashed before my eyes. I saw him killing kittens as a child and knew he was the sort of guy who would tie a girl up for days whilst savagely beating her in which case I thought it best to leave him be. As I crossed the street to search for another cab-hailing spot he yelled out, "get your fat ass out of here!" Not again. Be original.
Later that night, Laura and I were entertaining two gentlemen we met earlier at the festivities. Peter, the one who I was interested in, lives down the block from us and I found him entirely charming. His charm soon faded when I noticed that he and Laura were holding hands. I let it slide though because Laura was plastered and he might have been holding her hand because she grabbed it in her drunken fog - even though I had discussed my attraction to him with her several times during the course of the night. The whole night turned into a nightmare when I heard Laura invite him up to her apartment. Not five minutes later she came back and informed me that he was in her apartment and she didn't know why. I told her it was because she was a whore and had invited him up even though I was the one who liked him. I went to bed questioning the human race.
In the morning light I decided that although Laura had wronged me, I was better off forgiving her. She apologized, claimed she didn't know why she did it and we proceeded to drink Mimosas.
After we ran out of orange juice we went to the local Pub to see what we could get into. After a while a rowdy bunch rolled up in a double-decker bus straight outta Merry Ol'. These people were dressed like they loved Ireland: green, orange, and drunk. We wondered aloud how one could join such a ensemble. What better place to find out than a trip to the bathroom, right? Wrong.
I walked into the head and was not greated with smiles of the jolly-drunk, but scowls of bitchy girls. "You guys look like you're having fun. How does one go about getting on a tour such as yours?", said I. "You join at a place called AA!", remarked the anorexic girl whose hair was thinning and skin was sallow. "HA, HA! No, really, is it through a travel angency or what?", I asked. "I'm serious. You join through AA.", she quipped.
Instead of smacking her fucking face, I wrote it off to what must have been too much alcohol. She was, after all, 89lbs. Surely one beer could do a number on her. Oh, but God has a sick sense of humor. Whenever I behave well, mind my manners, turn the other cheek, he makes sure I feel the affects. The next time I went to the bathroom she was in there and can I just tell you that she looked me straight in the face and said, "Oh my God. It's like I bad omen that I've seen you twice." I said something about how she didn't even know me and how it was probably a good omen (still trying to be Christian about it and all). What I should have told her is that I could be her worst nightmare and that if she knew what was good for her she would shut her ugly, fucking face before I grabbed her by the hair and slammed her mouth against the counter and knocked out all of her front teeth.
I let it go though. I'd had enough drama for one weekend.

Hello, Tucson?

Who are you? Do I know you or are you a random reader?

Santa Patricia's Day

Tomorrow begins my birthday month. One month from tomorrow I will be 27 years of age. Feel free to take a few moments to thank the good Lord above for bestowing me apon thee.
In other news, today I got debriefed on my eval. It was an EP, 4.67. I'm pissed. I know I should be grateful because it's an EP and a 4.67, but I am not because out of the two IT2's at the command, we both got EP's. Since we are transitioning to a new command, they made my eval a special eval and his a regular, that way we could both get an EP. That's all fine and well, that sort of communism, but I really busted my ass for an EP. For Christ sake, I've taken 9 college classes since Fall on top of volunteering every weekend since then! It just hurts not to be recognized... again... always.
Speaking of that, I had planned to extend my trip to Pensacola at the end of the month to include a visit to Jacksonville in the spirit of visiting Ben. Turns out that he's too busy to have me visit for a weekend. Well, Ben, that was the last bit of effort I will exert for you. I'm tired of not being appreciated.
Happy Santa Patricia's Day!

I hate U2

Goddamnit, do I hate them. Bono thinks he's so cool and I can hear it in his voice. I literally want to vomit whenever one of their songs comes on the radio. I fucking hope that Bono gets herpes in his throat from sucking the dicks of underage boy prostitutes in Thailand and can never sing again.

Pet Peeve # 4

Classism. Friday night at the Airport Lounge (my new favorite place in Little Italy) brought to light the rampid classism that apparently plagues, not only the military, but the rest of humanity as well.
My new friend and neighbor, Laura and I were offered a ride home by our new friends, and bouncers at the club, Karl and Donny. We were also invited to a party at AJ and Justin's apartment, friends of the owner of Airport (or so they claimed). Truthfully, I would have much rather not have gone to their apartment, but Leah, Laura's friend was taken with one of them, so we were obliged to go. Laura and I invited Donny and Karl with permission from AJ and Justin. While walking out to the car with AJ and Justin, Justin made this comment: "so, slumming with the help are we?" and I just couldn't believe it. I quickly let him know that what he just said was rude and that Karl and Donny were people and not just bouncers at the club his friend owned. I couldn't even look at him the rest of the night.
Another case of classism occured one week prior when I ran into Bob, Crush's friend, outside of a restaurant. We chatted and I suggested we get together sometime for coffee since we both lived in the area. He said that would be great, but before we could exchange the obligatory phone number or time to meet, he exused himself from our conversation and got into a cab. Before I knew what had happened, he was gone and I was left, jaw agape, wondering how someone could be so mannerless. Fucking jerk.

A woman of duty.

The smartest thing that the boy Ashley ever told me was the theory of "Karmic Duty." In this theory, it is acceptable to do what you feel instead of what you think is right. The theory justifies this by explaining how even if your deed seemed wrong at the time, it may have been neccessary in the grand scheme of life.
I used to feel bad about myself, about the fact that I frequently treat people exactly the way I feel about them regardless of what I actually know about them. But thanks to Karmic Duty, I can feel confident that my actions are serving the greater good. So next time we interact and you walk away thinking, "God, what a bitch!", just thank your lucky stars and know that you are still in it.

It's not going to stop

All living things have 9 characteristics that makes them unique. One of these characteristics is the ability to sense and respond to stimuli, both internal and external. The ability is so innate that it is actually part of our DNA; so why is it sometimes so hard for us to face reality, even when it is smacking us in the face?
I have an issue. I see my life marred by very precise, very nauseating black spots:
1. unable to interact well with authority figures.
2. forming relationships with men who are "unavailable", either emotionally or otherwise.
3. expecting insignificant things to change my life. "If I buy this shampoo my hair will be bouncy, people will notice me, life will be fabulous!" (I really think that way).


I'm sure I possess more of these personality flaws, however, these are the three that come to mind first. I see these "patterns", I see myself repeating them. I see it like I see someone else doing it. I can see that the woman acting out this way does not care about the outcome of her actions. She only cares about the moment. She only hopes that this time it will be different.

"Insanity: doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results." ~ Albert Einstein.

Pet Peeve #3

Tatoos. I hate them. I really do not understand why people get them. Admittedly, I have never been a person who values accessories of any kind, and that is exactly what I view tatoos as: accessories. They are the earings that you loved in the 80's, you know, the big florescent orange hoops that matched one of the two pairs of scrunchy socks that you scrunched over your pegged jeans, only you can never get rid of it. Sucks to be you (if you have a tatoo that is).

Yeah, though I walk through the Silicon Valley, I shall fear no evil.

Listen, the best thing I ever did in my life was isolate myself. I know what you're thinking. How can I live year after year, day after day, minute after minute alone? Well, I'm not technically alone. I mean, I have friends. It just so happens that the only people that I choose to let into my life are people who can't really come in. I think it works best this way. Keeping people at arms distance is a fail-safe way to make sure that nobody really gets to know me. I ensures that the Trish you think you know is just that: a girl you think you know. This really is a win-win situation because it allows you (the person who thinks you know me) to invent in your mind the girl you think you know while allowing me to remain a vacant shell. You see, it is much easier for me to just be who I think you want me to be. Oh, yes. It is far easier to do that than to actually be myself. The fact is, I have no personality. I don't have an anti-social personality, just a lack thereof. This handicap makes it difficult for me to do things that normal people such as yourself find common place. For me it is more soothing to stay at home on this Friday night, watching what I want to watch on TV, eating what I feel like eating and not worrying whether someone else is full or enjoys my cooking. It all becomes so taxing. I don't have the capacity to care about anyone except me.
My father had a friend, an old man named Brody who lived as a hermit in the hills above Silicon Valley (before it was Silicon Valley). We visited him once, his body was visibly stiff at the presence of people. He lived a very simple life, even washed his own handmade clothes with water he drew from a well. I wondered at the time why he chose to live alone and whether he got lonely. I used to imagine that he was immensely intelligent and that he chose to live apart from a society so obviously not as progressive as he. I imagined he was alone by choice. I now know that it is some sort of virus, this need to isolate. It starts out as a tiny seed of insecurity and grows into the full blown wall of a hermit in the hills or the characteristic lady with cats and a cardigan. I guess we can all see which one I'll end up being. My only request is that we all stop keeping up appearances and get on with the inevitability of it.

Pensajacksogulassippi!!!

An emotionless sleeve.

Project Runway has quickly become one of my favorite television shows (my favorite is Daniel {swoon [too bad he's gay] }. I can't pinpoint what exactly it is about the show that brings me back each week, but I think it has something to do with personalizing fashion designers. Until now, I had been oblivious to the fact that fashion was, in fact, designed by people. Fashion, and clothing in general have never been things that I was particularly passionate about. I am happy with jeans and a t-shirt. Vogue is a magazine I read to look at the gorgeous women and wish with all my being that I was taller, thinner with brown hair - no platinum, or whatever is in fashion for a model at the moment. I always thought clothing was sort of fundamental. You need to cover X amount of parts on X parts of the body: piece some clothe together and viola! An outfit.
And then there was Project Runway and I had an epiphany. Anybody can sew clothes. All ya do is get some fabric, needle, thread, and there ya go. I bought a sewing machine once in the Oregon years. I don't know what I was thinking; I can't even thread the bobbin (or spell it). I don't think I ever sewed anything either. I just liked to think of the white machine being available to me if I were to need it.

Pet peeve # 2

Every morning while driving to work I can't help but notice the alarming amount of people who are talking on their cell phones. My surprise doesn't come from the fact that they are talking on their cell phones while driving, but the fact that it is seven in the morning and they are talking on their cell phones while driving. I can tell that their conversations are casual because I catch a glimpse of the expressions they wear on their faces as I try to avoid their erratic driving. If they were phoning in to work to report car trouble or whatever, they would look sort of nervous or distressed. These people I see each morning are laughing, smiling. Who are they talking to? I can think of no one, not even my favorite people, that I would like to talk to on the cell phone that early in morning. It's just strange I think.

hold your breath when you read this.

hey trish,
i'm glad you emailed. thank you for speaking your mind and thank you for your kind wishes. i do think about you a lot and, regardless of what you used to sometimes think, i did love you too. i am truly sorry that we could never and can never be something more than we were. so we resign to try and be something more than just acquaintances, i hope.

i have found someone wonderful and she makes me very happy. getting married in November. i hope you can find the same happiness too. that's cool you hung out with Bob, i was just down in SD and should come down often over the next few years. would you like me to give you a call sometime? take care of yourself, *crush*

Because that's just the kind of girl I am, that's why.

I just sent Crush an email congratulating him on his engagement. Maybe I was motivated by insane anger and jealousy, but I really don't care. Part of me hopes that he feels like a huge, herpe'd penis when he reads it, but another part of me hopes he won't care and won't respond with an apology so that I can continue to hate him forever.
Incidentally, the sermon at church last Sunday was on the subject of forgivness; how it is neccessary and how if we have not forgiveness in our hearts it only serves to harm us. It's true. Crush doesn't care that I can't forgive him for butchering my heart. Only I (and maybe you, Reader) care. Who benefits? Not me. I am not at that point where forgivness makes sense.
Personal note to Ben: Now I understand your need to call Pointy Face. At the same time, I wonder why we feel the need to ask them why they don't love us, when not loving us should be reason enough.

date and india

Tonight I had a date. It was my first "typical" date ever. I mean the guy literally stopped me on the street and gave me his number and asked me to call him. Since my mom is always telling me not to shut people out (she says I tend to be defensive and therefore may be missing out on terrific relationships with terrific people)I called him this afternoon and asked him to meet me for a drink.
We met at the Princess Pub in Little Italy; there was a marvelous man playing covers of Elton, Jeff Buckley, (what I think may have been)Billy Joel, etc. My date was not my type, however, he was not so "not my type" that I couldn't accept another date. I just can't see me marrying him. Why waste the time? I guess I have nothing better to do. Getting drunk with someone else is much more fun than getting drunk by yourself.
If the Navy has taught me anything, it has taught me that nothing is certain, not even love or fate. It has taught me to seize the moment, carpe diem. I cannot wait for love or fate to find me, I must find it. ...
This is my distress signal: rescue me, I am lost. be my friend, I am lonely. unfold me, I am small.

Noir 99% de Cacao

I bought this bar of chocolate for myself for Valentines day. It's entirely symbolic you know. I tasted it and it's bitter, like aspirin.

stop signs

Crush is engaged. I found out last night. Just over one year since our "relationship" ended and he's already engaged. I almost threw up when I found out.
It took me all night and all day to sink in. It hurts so bad because now I know I really meant nothing to him and that I wasted all this emotion for all these years on him. And then, of course, I think, "why didn't he want to marry me? What does this girl have that I don't?" And then the spiral of self doubt and loathing begins.

Pet peeve #1

Spitting. This morning I was walking down the breezeway in front of my office and I saw the most disgusting puddle of phlegm and saliva ever. I cannot stand when people spit. Why do they do it? That's why God created SWALLOWING, so you don't have to spit. It's like a little miracle that spit can go right back into the body - it doesn't need to be expelled from the body.
Typically, I see mostly men spit, but today I say an old lady spit out of her car window. How lady like. You know, my father coached a lot of sports teams and I can always feel some pride for the fact that he didn't let his guys spit. Now that's class. A sports team that doesn't spit. There just isn't a need. It's almost like me peeing wherever I wanted to. I could go on, but I won't.

Evil incarnate.

 
Cameron was a guy that I knew back in the Oregon days. I still remember how my cheeks would get hot from embarassment everytime I would walk into the 2nd Street Beanery with that day's sandwiches and he and Chandra would sing out, "Sandwich Girl Barbie." I wanted to die. I felt like I was in high school all over again. I think I even told my boss that I wouldn't deliver the sandwiches anymore because they called me "Sandwich Girl Barbie", that's how much it affected me.
Stupid Cameron. One time, Ashley spit on him and wanted to fight him because he was her boyfriend at the time, but really, he's gay (but that's not why she wanted to fight him, it was most probably because he's such a woman, and sometimes a bitch needs hittin') and he just layed down on the ground, crying. I didn't actually see this happen, but Ashley told me the story so now I feel like I can relay it.
Anyway, this picture was taken during my Polaroid phase and it came out exactly like this. Scary. 

Dear Anonymous,

Again, I'm sorry you are so upset about my experience in Pensacola. If I were you I wouldn't worry about what I have to say, after all, who am I? You like Pensacola and that's all that matters. Just as a point of interest for you, I am mostly negative about most things. It's just the way I am. I revel in seeing the glass as half empty because I loathe sickly sweet positivity. While I did enjoy the color of the sand on Gulf Breeze, it did not outweigh the fact the my hotel room smelled like Kentucky Fried Chicken (I started to refer to it as my "Kentucky Fried Room")or that there were more Waffle Houses in the whole town than I bet there are students at PJC. And another thing, the poverty was striking. I cannot imagine living in some of the houses that I saw there and thinking "this is alright, I'm living a great life". Not that material things are everything, and I understand that the entire South was devastated by hurricanes, etc., but when is enough enough? At what point do Pensacolans get out and move to a place where everything doesn't smell of mold or Kentucky Fried Chicken?
This is not a personal attack on you or Pensacola, it is merely an observation from one week I spent there. By the way, I have to go back in early March so stay tuned for more rantings.
p.s. Why have you taken the time to post all these comments but you stay anonymous? I hate that. Give us a little info on you beside your passion for PJC...

God! Get off my back

OK. There were tolerable parts of Pensacola. I did marvel at the sand's resemblance to snow. I did like the quaintness of the downtown area. It was nice to see the Gulf of Mexico. I also enjoyed knowing that the sea stories I have heard about fast food of the South were true. I ate at a Waffle House. I saw Whataburger and Chick-fil-a. It is amazing what a difference a coast makes.
I love California though. Just as all you Pensacolan's love Pensacola, I love California. What makes you love humidity makes me love the temperate climate of California. This is where I was born and raised so I love it. Who am I to knock what you love, right? If mold makes you happy, then what can I do about it?
I'm sorry if anyone was offended, but let's face it, grand generalizations are much more humorous than level-headed rationalism.

Pensacola: you can't even say it without a slack jaw.

Things I discovered during my trip to Pensacola, Florida:
1. My hair does not react well to humidity.
2. Pensacola is the poor man's Guam. If you've ever been to both, you know what I mean.
3. Pensacola bathrooms rarely provide toilet seat covers, however, if they do, they will not be in individual stalls, but provided near the hand-drying materials. You must know this and have the foresight to bring your own into the stall with you.
4. There are really places in the world where people say "y'all" and mean it; Pensacola is one of them.
5. "how's y'all's sweet tea?" is not an uncommon question in Pensacola.
6. Pensacola Junior College does exist, and people are so proud to have attended that they display stickers on their cars and various other belongings with the abbreviation: "PJC," seemingly disclaim their intelligence.
7. California really is the greatest state in the nation.



disclaimer: all comments about Pensacola and the South are not meant to hurt or offend people. While I am not sorry that you are hurt or offended, please know that I am sorry you are from Pensacola and the South. Sorry Jim. You're okay.

Change of heart

Five, even three years ago, my ideal boyfriend would have been a rebel; like Paul in the Beatles: not too wild, but wild enough to make a girl scream. Today, my tastes have changed. I prefer more of a Ringo or a George to that of a John or a Paul. Experience has taught me that those are the keepers. Those are the ones to fall in love with.

p.s. Ben unhooked his computer today. I am a dork, but somehow I feel deserted, abandoned by this event. I know it should really make no difference to me, he's on Washington, I'm in California, and he is going to Florida... I will still be in California. It's the "one that got away" syndrome, I guess. And I won't even get to see him as he passes through San Diego because, ironically, I'll be in Florida, his destination where he will arrive just as I am leaving. Also, I lied when I posted my favorite memory of him on his myspace. I told him that it was of us watching Abre Los Ojos, and that's true, but I left out the magic of that night: when he leaned me against the wall and asked if he could kiss me and then he did and after that he picked me up and carried me to my bed. It made me swoon... and it still does.

Sometimes I feel restless. It started a week ago with a headache, one that causes me to not want to move, and it is that paralyzed that led to the restlessness. I need to do the dishes, I have a headache. I need to write a paper on the Windows XP plug and play features, I have a headache. I can't even watch my TiVo and Charles Osgood's voice makes me nauseous. I want to take a bath, but I took one two days ago and didn't wash out the bath oils afterwards so now there is a ring around the tub that I would have to wash before taking another bath, and I have a headache. The Excedrine Migraine I took one hour ago isn't helping, the 64 ounces of water I've ingested, the essential oils applied to pressure points, none have helped. I bought some wine at the commissary, buy six, get 10% off (what a deal), and that helps, but only for an hour or so. I need some distraction.
I went for a walk after church today, I walked past the Princess Pub on the corner of Date and India, there were groups of friends enjoying breakfast and bloody mary's. I walked past a family of Italian-American's having coffee at the coffee place next to Vincenzo's, the father alerted his son of my presence in Italian, the son said good morning. I went to the art supply store and looked at all the pieces of paper they had for sale. So many colors, textures. I asked a lady who was also looking at them what they were for, she didn't know. I went to the chocolate shop to buy a bar that was 99% pure but they were out. I got a mocha instead. I went to Mona Lisa's and bought a sandwich. I took a nap, I still have a headache.

God bless gay men.

This evening, I decided to stop into a little place called Bath and Body Works, just to browse. Within minutes of me setting foot in the store a little guy came over and asked if I was finding everything alright. I said that I was, and he immediately let out a tiny squeal and said, "Oh my God, you are so cute, I love your hair!" I was, of course, flattered. In fact, before I left the house earlier that evening I was most self conscious about my hair. This compliment from a complete stranger was enough to make my evening.
After I completed my transaction at the store, the same little guy met me at the door to wish me a good evening. "Have a good night, thank you for shopping at Bath and Body Works! Oh my God, I love your bag! And your jacket is so great, you are so cute!"
I haven't had that many compliments in such a short amount of time ever. Thanks Bath and Body Works!!!!

Thanks a lot

LOST is the pinnacle of my week. I set my TiVo to record tonight's episode which started at 9, and at quarter 'til, while blowdrying my hair, my breaker tripped and so did the fucking TiVo. It took me one minute to flip the breaker switch, but that damn TiVo took half a hour to start back up and that is half an episode LOST>

The ones that got away

When I think back on my "love life" what stands out the most, beside the very obvious heartbreaks, are the ones who got away. These were the men who, in retrospect, could have been "the one" if only one of us would have given just an inch or two more to the relationship. I can tell you truthfully that it has always been the retrospective loves that I miss the most. These men were inevitably "just my friends" and I guess I was waiting for the grand gesture, the gesture that I never got from my boyfriends, the gesture I am still waiting for. Perhaps those men were waiting for a grand gesture from me, although I am historically vulnerable/submissive/a doormat in my relationships. Contrary to popular belief, I don't want to wear the pants.
This retrospective love life of mine seems to be the pattern from which I cut all of my male relationships. I crave attention that I know I can't have. Freud would say that I never got attention from my father. He would be right, but to be fair, I am an glutton for male attention. Ask any of my female friends (the few I have) and they will tell you I am the worst when it comes to men. The real question, the one I am trying to discover along with its answer, is what do I do about it?
I guess my first instinct, one that has been overwhelming me since I broke up with Crush, is to find one of these restrospective loves and make happen what never did not initially. I tried it with Marc, it didn't work. I've even considered contacting some of the guys who I was "just friends" with and trying to spark an interest. The bottom line is that desperation is an ugly, ugly thing and right now it has a hold of me. Another underscore (I guess, the final bottom line) is that the Navy is not relationship conducive. All the retrospective loves, potential rekindles, etc. do not live anywhere near me. Some are in the Pacific NorthWest, some are in Japan, some are in... I don't know. I just need to resign myself to the fact that I am terrible at relationships, I will never have a meaningful, fulfilling relationship with a man that is truly good and who brings out the best in me, and I should just stop trying. I've already started going to pet stores in search of the first of what's sure to be MANY cats, and when the time is right I know that the Goodwill will have the the perfect cardigan waiting for me to purchase.

on the corner

it has always been my fear, when standing on a street corner, that passers-by will think that I am a hooker. I mean, I don't dress like a hooker, I don't even wear blush or tease my hair! Well, this Sunday, that fear was realized, when on my way back from church (of all places) I was waiting on a corner for a light to change and a truck full of yokels sped past, the passenger leaned out the window and yelled, "how much?"
I still had the program from church in my hand, the cross from Our Lady of the Rosary clearly visable. I was wearing black slacks and a grey sweater. Nothing about me said hooker.
The first thing that came to mind was what kind of hellfire God had in store for a dumbass like that guy. Who looks for hookers at noon on a Sunday? My faith in humanity is slowly, but surely deteriorating.

ode

I miss Ashley. I wish she would leave her little boyfriend and move to California with me. Who wants to live in rainy, old, Oregon anyway? California is warm, sunny, even in January. And I miss you, Ashley. Don't forget about me, OK?

cable.

Today the cable company demanded that I go down to their office and show my ID before they would start my cable/internet service. I went there and started crying uncontrollably. All the people waiting in line were sad, poor looking people. Nobody had brushed hair, the air smelled like a bar smells in the morning, a mixture of stale smoke and shattered dreams. I must be one of those people. The cable company put me in their category. I am now a marked woman, my destiny determined by a database somewhere.