Monday, January 15, 2007


I like them. I guess you probably already knew that, since the blog is dedicated to them and the things that made them die. But what I mean here is that I like the live ones, the general boy population. I mean this right now. This may be a brief window so I figured I should probably exploit it while it can. Then I can come back and read this when I start hating on them again.

I forgot how cute they can be. On my birthday I went dancing with NU and my sister at a hipster bar on Britpop night. I had no idea that dudes 10 years younger than me could know the words to "Metal Mickey," but some do. And they are adorable. There were three of them who danced with us that reminded me so much of my first boyfriend and his Morrissey-worshipping friends--they kind of emanated a sexual confusion or frustration that was acted out by jumping on each other. This looks horrifying in print, but trust me, it was cute. It made me nostalgic, especially since we were dancing to all of my anglophile college music. Later, one of them grabbed me. I turned around to look at him and he gave me a totally stoned and adorable smile. Hours later I realized I could have gone to some dark corner and made out with him...yes, I'm still kicking myself. He was probably 24, tops. Also a gay guy hit on me. Maybe he wasn't gay. Or maybe nowadays gay guys want to date girls; I haven't dated in a while. He was really cute too. Was probably unborn when the Smiths song we danced to was popular.

I know I need to date older guys. I like them too, I think. What I'm saying here is that I kind of remember now what the big deal was. Why I spent most of my life boy-crazy. I like them. It's ok to like them. I like myself too now, so liking them will probably be different. I like the weird ways they attempt to emote. I like their clothes and their glasses. I like it when they travel in awkward packs. I like trying to figure them out.

I sense that there will be drama in my future.

Tuesday, January 09, 2007

Oh Yeah, I Have a Blog

I'm so damn tired pretty much all of the time that all I can do is look at my life and say "what the fuck?" But due to all of the tiredness it comes out more like "...the fuh..." and is followed by several minutes of staring into space while my dog whines for dog food, my laundry out on the clothesline gets rained on for the 2nd time (I finally brought it in, soaking wet, where it now sits mildewing in the middle of the kitchen while I wait for a nonexistent person to tell me what to do with it), and one of the maintenance guys at work actually comes up to me and waves his hand in front of my face to see if I'm still alive ("barely" is my answer).

I used to be a different person. I'm a Capricorn (my birthday is in 3 days). I got shit done. I balanced my checkbook every week, paid my bills early, flossed, made my bed, brushed my dog's teeth, sent out my poems and entered contests (with the aid of detailed spreadsheets), all while recovering from an abusive relationship, getting married, getting divorced, and preparing to move. I look back at last year and think, huh, that was pretty easy (though deep down I know it wasn't). Somehow I seem to be shutting down. I'm fucking up in major ways. I'm hurting people because I'm too distracted and fucked up to empathize. I don't eat balanced meals. I don't take vitamins anymore (this feels like sacrilege). I am becoming a bad person. And by bad I mean messy.

I could blame it on my job or the transition of moving and learning to be alone again. That would be pretty easy to do. I know I kind of conflate badness with messiness because my mom did this--she grew up in such a chaotic messy environment that I spent my childhood believing that a water glass left on the counter was pretty much equivalent to the aftermath of an earthquake. Here's what I feel like: I'm losing control. Even though I firmly believe that I'm not in control of anything. My head believes this, but somehow the rest of me is breaking down. I don't like it. I don't like it one bit. But I don't think I have any choice but to accept it, because I'm too tired to figure out what else to do.

Here's some things I can still do in the middle of my messiness: Write (weird, strangled things). Dream (though I don't have time to work on them). Work (somehow I'm not fucking up too bad there. Only occasionally. And I'm there 10 hours a day). Sometimes I sleep on a pile of dog toys, the week's clothes, and the several creased books or poem drafts I tried at one point during the weekend to read. Sometimes I wear the same pair of pants two days in a row. Once I ate a Fluffernutter for dinner.

I know you're probably rolling your eyes and thinking "what a pansy ass lame-o," but order is important to me. I don't know why (oh yeah I do--I already forgot that I just wrote about that. See?) That's what I'm thinking about: life if hard whether or not I have enough toliet paper to get me through 6 months. Charging my cell phone every day doesn't really help the fact I feel like I'm sort of crumbling apart. This sounds awful, I know, but I think maybe this is all a good thing. Maybe I'm Learning Something. I'll let you know if I figure out what it is. Right now I'm going to need to stare at the ceiling for at least an hour or two until I remember to go to sleep.