I'm giving away things. Yes, they are different-- altered-- from slipping through my hands. But it's time to let them go and move forward into the future.
Brezny asked me "What has changed within?" I wrote that on a sticky note at work, and somehow it made it's way to my shower-- and now stares out at me while I'm nude, asking that vaporizing question.
What has changed within?
Well, two things:
I don't want Brian. I don't want Jeff.
I don't want to consider myself a bad person for not wanting to work a 9-5 gig that gives me absolutely NOTHING to look forward to.

I want Art.
I want Adam.
I want to find myself worthy-- I want to stop convincing myself that my karma is dictating to me to have shitty jobs and be miserable. "Master the shitty job and then..."
Maybe I'll never master something that I don't care to master. Maybe I'll never master it. I keep banging my head against this wall--
That's what has changed within: There is something finally banging back.

EDUCATION

so, here it is: i moved to downtown pioneer square-- lovely old fashioned ghost haunt that it is. but i'll tell you a secret-- i am going to call the director of admissions at UNLV and BEG-- I mean BEG to get in.
i need to go back to school so badly, it as if i have a disease waiting to be cured.
i am bored. i am so damned bored i can't imagine what i will do for the next year. i really, honeslty, truly don't have a fucking clue about how to maintain my interest in life by sitting out the next year working at this job. i've worked in offices for more than a year now. i've done my time here-- i am going to be so idle- i feel so ignorant.
why is this happening? i need to read. i need to go to the library and commence a strict reading schedule. that's the only way that i will be able to do the time. let the time serve you, as they say in prison. and i have to think of this as prison, with time off at nights and weekends.
i wear the "business casual" uniform, which is uglier to me than an orange jumpsuit.
i steal my breaks and smoke like a fiend when i get a chance to step outside.
i survive my food, my tedious, lame-ass day labour -- which i am truly grateful for--
i am truly grateful.
i just want to go back to school, sit in class with people, my god. to only have that again.
now that just seems like the greatest blessing of man outside of love: EDUCATION.

AW! I'm such a big BABY! (said affectoinately)

Well, I am a monk living a moder life, as i said to Kelly McGuire just now in an email. My air mattress, my 3 suitcases piled alongside my bedroom wall. That's about it. I acquired a chair from Brian's. Oh btw, I gave him a cat. I picked one up from a blind lady and gave it to him. It's name is Seattle. Brian loves it. More on that later.

Veggies and the prognosis

remember the time you were so sick with the - - - - and you were working for the judges and that pretty, clean cut girl and you were starving and you had to eat all that free junkfood they provide for the clients just to stay alive? and it was heartbreaking because there we beautiful red peppers, vegetable plates to prepare everyday, and you remembered a time when you were healthy, happy, eating only those things which grown naturally from the earth? when that plate of vegetables would have been all you touched? even more-- a thing you truly CELEBRATED!?

ENERGY CRISIS

This planet isn't the only one with an energy crisis on its hands. I call in as evidence this little inhabitant of earth, sitting here at this desk, her eyes ready to fall out of her sockets. Yes, the one in the midst of existential anguish--- boredom--- death within life.
I have no energy. I crave some.
I crave the chance to sit on a veranda, reading a book, the warm breeze helping me flip the pages--- I crave help. That's all.

WANTED: TO DO SAVORY THINGS

The axe comes down-- and in the middle of familiar routines life forces a change upon you-- rarely is it a singular change, but usually many-- one sparked off by the other, igniting a little trail all the way down the street that you once knew so well and walked to work on.
i'm not going to lie, blog, i'm blue.
the complete frivolous affair that was my relationship with brian. can u believe it? i dont have any words for that. not now, maybe not ever. but i've done with writing about it. there are two songs-- and lately, my mind has been just, plain cramped space-- no need for words, for diatribes, no words-- nothing. it's been like a mechanical gear, just grinding out the answers to equations and puzzles of what the fuck is going on. see, people with karmic debt have a lot of confusion. people with bad parents have a lot of confusion. they were never trained to see straight, to walk straight, to point themselves, to focus.
today i am feeling lyrical. god bless it. wouldn't it be great if i were working o a novel, some fiction, maybe? but my brain is too damn tired-- unless i coop myself up like a 16th century leper after work, sleeping at 9pm like a pre-teen bobby-soxer, my brain can't function. my body is delicate. so delicate, my constitution so fragile sometimes that i think, christ i must not be long for this earth.
and sometimes, i'm just a step away from an oncoming car.
i dont want to live like this.
i am too poetic a soul. and this is killing it.
i wish i had better parents. i wish i had a future.
i had stopped complaining. i just started donig something about it.
today my phone was shut off because my mom's husband was in charge of the bill. fucking fuck.
getting home last night to find out the phone was shut off made me sick. i mean, fo rsome reason, i scarfed 5 cookies then went into the bathroom and vomited. i vomited a lot, for a long time. i was sick.
i was involved in this fuckedup relationship-- all i want is to be around someone i care about. i could get so angry, but that doesn't help--- what the fuck helps?
i am going to dream, just dream from now on, about the life i want to live. i'm going to think about it. imagine myself in it.
i did that today, in fact as i walked around the block on my ten minute break. i dreamed about living in new york, young, beautiful, a wonderful man, the smartest man in the world just popped the question, a lovely lovely wonderful home to come home to. and friends. emails waiting for me. a book tour.
i have an hour to sit in front of this computer and my mind is ferociously bored. i am seeing brian at 5om today, and why the fuck am i seeing him? so i can be the wendy girl from ZOOLOGy?
i am not the wendy from zoology--
this is all bullshit.
my life feels like-- the life i'm living feels like bullshit, like, do people know who i am? the world loves me, do people know how awesome i am-- how etc etc?
this all feels pointless now.
i can't complain. i was made too afraid and to wise to complain. complaining just sets the stage for situations you dont want. for all kinds of bad things.
so let me raise my glass, and toast, to the world that i came to live in, here i am, ready to rock you like a hurricane, as soon as i can figure this out.
i want a break. i really do. i'd love a vacation.
now see, this is all too painful for me, it's something you probably dont realize, because i have not worked, i have had 27 years of crazywild freedom. it's been horrible. i've been entirely dependent on other people's money. and absolutely no dignity.
im sick of doing unsavory things.

The Axe Comes Down

It's official. I'm not going to law school in 2007. Not the right thing for me, apparently. While I can say it was my score, the overwhelming number of applicants, and cite every figure that made it a longshot in the first place, I'd rather look at it as a cahnce ot remedy a cosmic urge to pursue other things, a cosmic destiny, a lesson.
Like I closed off with in my last blog-- I have other things to do, too.

To be or not to be?

Geez.
I am waiting, waiting, desperately waiting for the very last of my law school ap letters to come back. It should be in my mother's mailbox within the hour. So far, no other law options I've been waitlisted twice-- at Seattle U and at Rutgers. What a drag.
I applied to no "safety schools"-- no 3rd or fourth tier bottom of the barrels. I decided to only go for what would make me happy- places that seemed a good fit for me. And because of my decision, I may end up OUT IN THE COLD for the next year and a half. I'll keep applying, cause once I dig in, I dig in.
I've already decided to become a lawyer. There's a reason I've went through all this-- studying for the exams, taking the exams, working at a law firm-- and my friends and family have invested in "the dream" also.

If I'm waitlisted again.. oh, perish the thought. But if so, then so be it. I jsut don't want to hang on, expecting to get into a program. After all, I have a life to live! I have choices I have to make. This isn't just... Okay, breathe....

I'm keeping my fingers crossed. I will be grateful for the chance to go to UNLV. I talked so much shit about that school-- I can't imagine being on that campus again. That's where it all started, where I took my first college class years and years ago. Ending it there would be... kind of morbid. But I'd probably look into transferring out anyway.
If I got in.

There's nothing I can do now but wait. Something in my gut tells me that it's not going to happen-- that I'll be waitlisted or rejected there too.
But I have other goals and dreams, too, you know.

Kisses~ S

pizazz!

Blog baby,
new haircut saturday. need one desperately! holy hell is tomorrow really friday?!!!!

Well,
This is such good evidence that all storms pass. Al those angry posts of yore, all of them, are nothing like how I feel today. Current mood :) satisfied.

I had a huge steak last night. And some apple pie a la mode. A treat by Monsieur Le Strobel. My buddy.

John Brewer and I had a falling out. But he's moving to Maple Leaf. And oh yeah, we're friends again.

The hair is growing in on my face and it hurts. But I got an appt for Sat March 10th.

The DEMO. Oh my God, the demo. 3 weeks. And I'm getting nervous.

My bills are out of control. Yes, they are. And I'm supposed to get a haircut AND go to yoga tonite. Another 15 bucks. God almighty. How can I do it? There's just not enough money coming in. $12 an hour, minus the rent, lord. My underwear are threadbare. Literally, they are.
But I have enough for cool sunglasses!

Yoga. That's about it. Consistency with yoga. But how will I afford that? Plus Dr. Berman, plus dental appts-- 3 cavities, wisdom teeth extraction, bonding on upper left-- Blogs are nasty places sometimes, ain't they?

But in other news, Jim Drennan, my buddy from UNR, is having a tough time in London. I applied all my pearls of wisdom (beads of sweat equity) from my rough times to his, and it helped him.

And that's it. Job is a bit better. Things are okay. Hair removal-- bills-- demo.
Those are the 3 things on my mind today.

You know, I'll probably get fired for what I did.

Worthless Post

I laugh. I bear witness to the disintegration of all my romantic relationships.

"Not necessarily a bad thing" my mom's husband replies.

HA HA.

J Brewer, you are a right-wing nut.
B, you are a... I still don't know what the hell you are. That's the problem.
J West, I love you. Still. But the romance has died. Probably a long time ago.

My appointment with Dr. Berman went well last night. It ended with him giving me advice to wear condoms and that's that. Won't need one.

But I am going to keep dating. 1,2,3 dates a month. That would be super awesome!

I'm wearing skinny jeans today. Look cool but feel.... so not cool.

Wrote Brian telling him I miss him. Want him back. Sort of.

Out of the blue I sent him a link and just siad "miss u" at the bottom. He wrote back "I miss you too."
Yeah. Great.

So, that's the way.

I'm sad today. Current mood =(.

Martyrs Made of Crisco

Like a puppy in an oven,
Our attraction to each other died a slow, roasting death.
yes, it was doused with paint, yes it's nose was melted to the glass.
For a second, I felt as helpless.
But then, I imagined a martyr.
And guess who that martyr was? The puppy.

These situations, where one person is attracted to another intellectually and sexually, these cosmopolitan things are about as substantial as a bag of gas. The only thing is time.
What happened with John Brewer? How did someone I liked so much go so wrong, and I for him, in the span of an hour?
I guess when that thing that divides you is as fundamental to your selfhood as, say religion and politics, it can turn rather ugly rather quick. The knives come out.
The knives always come out.

Why don't we put the knives away, people? It sounds naive, but really. When can we put the knives away?

I feel an urge to write the same email to Brian and John Brewer. They both work inthe same office. They are diametric opposites. And I had strange relationships with both of them. But I want to say thank you. I want to stay friends with them. I want to LOVE them.

Why, why, why in Seattle, do people do this? They simply raze their fondness for someone lickety-split-- there's a cruelness, a coldness, a calculating way to the daters out here. To the people out here. It happened with two of my close friends. Who moved here. They now thrive here. I guess it's because they were built for this place. They were able to carry knives with them all the way.

I can't carry knives. I'm a down-home person who wants to talk about it. I'm warm, I'm earthy, I'm into a person forever. Even if you're wrong for me. I'll still want to laugh with you, and love you, and have a barbecue. I'll want to drink beer on the back of a pickup truck with you. I'll want to count on you-- and let you know you can count on me. These things, these are un- presumptuous things, when you think about it. Yes you can know me. Yes you can know my family. Yes you can be a big, fat, heaping part of my self, like crisco in a cherry pie.

But this don't happen here. Not from my experience. Not yet. Maybe it takes time. But the "Seattle freeze" the hypothesis that dating and friendship making here is murder, not for the faint of heart, seems a noble-little flame, emanating from a scared, naked person on a waterfront pier. Don't be scared, whoever you are-- I'm listening.

Real Rage

Peeled, paltry, and withered, the African daisies at my office died prematurely after a long weekend in the sun. Their lightning-quick death seems like a cosmic joke, because there they are still eerily fresh and colorful-- kind of dead but smiling.

Like a dolphin slaughter in Japan, they all died together in one big, wild group. But I'm not envious. I'm not into the collective thing.
See, here's the theme for this bit:
"Please Use Revolving Door"

Everywhere you go in Seattle you'll see it. Banks, businesses, libraries. Relationships. Wherever there's a damn revolving door you will use it. YOU MUST: Conserve yourself! Conserve traditional values! There are messages from everybody: Everybody is trying to get you to conserve something!

Shall I conserve myself? Should I-- must I-- dump and dump again to be happy? Should I keep on til I'm-uh happy?

No one lives up to the expectations of the individualistic, intellectual daters in this community-- NO ONE. That means I don't--live up to theirs-- and they don't-- live up to mine.

The story of my Seattle relationships. Plays out like a bunch of silly, dead flowers: They look fresh-- but they're DEAD.

Do not come to Seattle to get married. And if u are "hell-bent" (pardon the pun) on marriage, I suggest going to the Mars Hill church in Ballard. The new-fundamentalist hipster church will make you a fervent believer in NEVER getting married-- it will make you an individualist, a feminist, a Wiccan, even, before night's end.

A muslim. A moroccan. A teletubby. Anything, anything, but a marriageable Christian fuck.

The anti-intellectualism of this neo-church is maddening. The rhetoric is frightening. The way they bash you over the head with orders to procreate, to dress-up like they did in olden days and smile pretty and gap-toothed at a man so he can later have you barefoot an pregnant in his kitchen-- it's terrible, terrible, terrible.

And if there's one thing more frightening than going to the Mars Hill church, it's seeing the guy that you thought was cute, your date who brought you to this thing, poised like marble, like Abe Lincoln's statue, head down in prayer, in harmony with these nuts.
It's the biggest turn-off EVER.

"One person only-- ever-- and kids, kids, kids!"

Yeah, it sounds cute... But What's the price? Tell me John Brewer-- At what price?

At the price of never knowing yourself.

I thought it would be hot to fuck a conservative jock with values. But I got a cult-freak. And my libido turned off. And that was the real beginning of my rage.

My old bf, 40 and wheezing his way to VD and male-pattern baldness (I'm sorry, Babe) was single forever. Which you will read about in my last post. Even though he is a fervent individualist-- je suis ma libere-- he's extreme about it now. Because he's too late.

Tell me Brian, at what price will you never marry?

At the price of knowing only yourself.

Where's the medium? I don't have the answer.

But for John Brewer, yes you say I wished imminent death on you before in a dream, and 'tis apt: Die now. Die during beauty. Your ideals for matrimony, for happiness, OR EVEN STRICT INDIVIDUALISM will only make you fat, ugly, and limp at 40-- you won't know yourself cause you never had time to be acquainted-- and you will hurt, and pine away for the days when the thought of atheism, the thought of real romance beat in your young, muscular breast. And it will be too late.

Al-Chlamydia

If you can imagine this-- that the tantalizing memory of every thrust, every orgasm, every achingly intense moment you and your lover shared, was also being shared by a fanatical group that uses ignorance as a weapon-- you can imagine what terrorism is.

This terrorist was not recruited by Al-Quaida. This terrorist does not want you to change you religion.

It is far more twisted than that.

This mini-terrorist was actually recruited by someone my lover stuck his dick into. And this terrorist wanted him to change partners. Frequently. Which, apparently my lover did with such yes-man enthusiasm that he doesn't have a fuckin' clue about which pussy recruited his dick into Al-Chlamydia.

That's right. My Lover. Without knowing it, I joined.

I am now part of the ring that possesseth the power to destroy another generation by producing infertility in women who go untreated.
I hold the evil weaponry designed to mix tears with the fire that burns through the urinary tract like hot solder.

And I own the most sickening trait of this evil regime: The ability to infect unborn children with the disease I contracted. Children born from Al-Chlamydia infected mothers also suffer the barbarism of this little bio-terrorist, which is the number 1 cause of early infant pneumonia, not to mention conjunctivitis, and other nasty complications during pregnancy.

So, happy Valentine's Day.

I now have played my part in terrorism. And my part in educating against it.

Through ignorance, lack of information, and credulousness, I have become part of something that I never wanted to be: A harbinger and representative of all of those things. Al-Chlamydia is, thankfully, not strongest network of terrorists out there-- and there is a cure for the body. Sometimes, Al-Chlamydia even cures the brain of making the same stupid mistake twice...

But it is deadly stuff for relationships.

So check yourself. This Valentine's Day, give your lover the greatest gift you can: a clean bill of health. A worry-free orgasm. And check with your partner to make sure he/she sees eye-to-eye on this real war against terror.

Stay safe, folks. And enjoy the holiday of love.

Thatcher B.

My mother's hands and feet are falling off in layers. There is nothing she can do.
She asks me to help her push in a thumbtack. It will split her finger open if she does it herself.
She wont go see a doctor.
I yell at her. "You're a fucking leper and you don't care! It's disgusting, ma. Really."
She says she's too busy. She clips on a pair of earrings and throws a shawl over her shoulder. "Looking real good, ma. Just bring a pair of gloves. And forget about the sandals. They'll run away in disgust before you even show them the house."
My mother is kicking off her real estate career at 56. She got a lucky break on leads, and now gets bankruptcy referrals out of the ears. She's found her calling. Her own bankruptcy, when I was 13, has given her an empathetic understanding of her clients. It's all so far behind her now, but still she carries the sadness from those evil years deep within her, neglected. Just like her hands and her feet.
She rushes out of the door and gets into her $50,000 lemon, a black BMW that looks more like a vehicle for transporting gangsters, hitmen, mafia, or the dead. She paid for it in cash.
"Ma, I'm leaving for Washington state. I'm driving north tomorrow."
"Yeah, right. You're not going alone. Bye!"
I'm 27 years old, and have lived all over the US, and traveled across Europe solo. Before you go thinking I come from privilege, let me say this: I was more of a shoestring traveler than anything. I slept in libraries, streets and benches. I hunkered down under trees during lightning storms and begged the police to find a place for me to rest when they treated me like a bus depot bum.
"This isn't a bus depot" they said to me once, as I stood chattering, chatting to my long-distance love, a man 14 years my senior, (who had a cutting problem and serious anxiety disorder). That was at Swedish hospital in Ballard, a suburb of Seattle.
Obviously, I made it Washington state. My mother hasn't visited. But she says she will.
There's nothing I can do, though, to keep her ship on an even keel. It seems destitution never lingers far behind her. The bubbles keep an ebb in her cash flow: she never manages it well. Feast and famine. The story of our lives.

Brewing

By now, at a ripe-old 28, I should have been married. I should have miscarried several of my ex-boyfriend's children, been seduced into marriage by my hormones. I might have even changed my name to any one of those that I scribbled naively in my notebooks, with a Mr and Mrs in front of it. But no. Gwen Stefani, though you may have made 1950's hairdo's and husband trolling popular again, this was not my biology.
Serisouly, Gwen did it. It was soon after the "Simple Kind of Life" song came out that "Desperate Housewives" debuted on whatever network. Girls rushed back to the pages of wedding magazine and flirted with their destiny by pointing a flowery fingernail at the dresses of their dreams.
It all started.
People rushed out to buy real estate. Home prices flew high and then crashed. What? the American dream spilling over into reality?
Now, 51% of women are living single. That's right, so if you're not paired up yet girl, you can count yourself in the majority. That doesn't mean it's the new black. I just think it means people may actually be using judgment, rather than society, to dictate their lives.
Once you say "I do", the letters need to stop going, and coming. The perfumed stationery must be thrown away, or burned. The hidden connections cannot be explored, and the water must be still and deep. Life as a head-banging, ball-crushing, soul-pervert must come to an end.
There may be little hope in losing your libido, keeping your crushes from gushes, and hands on the wheel rather than on the er, lever; as long as you're like me: A lusty, crazed, eccentric with a flair for drama in their soul, a willingness to take chances, and a divorce card waiting in their pocket. But the therapists say no. The priests say no. Even some religious boys who would make great fucks say no. And I applaud them.
But still, Pandora's box has been opened to reveal games, gadgets and gizmos that strikingly resemble feathers, leather cuffs, strap ons, and other pleasure giving devices. And next to them are the faces and bodies and souls of those who you KNOW would like to be satiated, soul-satisfyingly, and that's the problem.
All artists are lechers. I am one of them. I am bad. I am repugnant. I am damned.
I am sorry, Mr. Youngbuck, for dancing on your youth with my heavily callused, age-old, time- hardened, worn-old feet. I am sorry for liking you so much that it nearly disrupted the universe's promise to be nice to me in 2007. And I am now going to fully apologize to every delivery boy, bike-messenger, UPS man on the street I've winked at over the passed few months. And I am sorry to my boyfriend, for nearly breaking our fragile contract that binds us.