Tonight, I meet Toby’s sister, her husband and their baby. If they don’t like me, I will surely freak. (I’m thinking booze, booze will help). I’m nervous. Why am I so nervous? Ugh. I’m not really going to drink my head silly circles, up my chances of making a TOTAL ass out of myself, but I’m thinking of finding the biggest jerk I can on my way to meet them so I’ll fall to the wayside, and be able to freak silently, ignored. So later he can say,

Hey S____, what did you think of Michele?

And she’ll answer,

Hmmmmmm I don’t remember her much, but that other person was a TOTAL asshole.

Anyone know anyone like that in the area? I’ll pay for their time. (Bonus cash if they make jokes about southern inbreeding and know all the lyrics to Georgia on my mind).

After a lot of thinking, I have decided to NOT buy the Volvo. It’s not the money (I don’t mind spending the 3,000.00 bucks on a car that I love). And I am not pleased with my decision at all. However, I can not justify giving a someone, (anyone), more money per year than what I spend on the car itself. I can’t do it. I have a PERFECT driving record. I’m over 25. A Volvo is a safe car. And still the rates I was given by 9 different insurance agencies (for the lowest liability coverage) were between the $3,200.00 and $3,865.00 range. This is so beyond the making of any sense, I can’t be bothered thinking about it, getting angry and trying to fight a losing battle. I can’t know that I played the game and lost by giving them my money. It’s not a matter of money at all, It’s a matter of principle. On the brighter side, I have decided that the cost I would have dropped into the adorable car and insurance per year, would be substantially more than if I just rented a car whenever I choose. And even better, I don’t have to worry about fixing the damn thing if some mental midget hits it on the highway. That being said, I rented a car from Wednesday of next week till the following Wednesday, unlimited mileage, unlimited amount of fun and fully insured. So, bite my perfect-record driving ass, Progressive, Geico, State Farm, AAA, Farmer, and all the little independent satellite bitches who wheel and deal other peoples’ shit. This is one person you won’t get. I win. (But tell me, how do these people sleep at night?)

What do you think is missing from your life? Right now. First thing you think of. I think my answer would be

ease

. That’s off the top of my head. But if you had to answer three things, what would they be? (This is a loaded question. I’m sorry).

Another phone call from a company I sent my resume to. Interview Monday. Guess what state. Go ahead. Guess….

Dear mister Firework person, It’s bad form to shoot off a massive firework display over the East river 7 days before the 4th of July at 10:30 pm. for (what I can see) no real reason at all. You may have taken years off of my life. And Toby’s as well. It’s bad form to assume that folks here have forgotten about what they saw last year. It’s bad form to do so without any warning at all. It’s bad form to do so from Midtown Manhattan. It’s just bad form all around. Please be kind enough to think about others and know that some of us aren’t instantly going to be running, gleefully for the fridge in search of another bud, slapping the ass of the nearest person and shouting, “HAPPY FRIGGIN 4TH, BUDDY! AMERICA FRIGGIN RULES!!!” I do love this country and I plan on having a veggie burger come Thursday, but if you don’t stop randomly shooting off firework displays outside my window late at night, I might not see Thursday. At least a Thursday in New York City. Thank you. Have some Pop Rocks. mihow

Anyone want to take a day roadtrip and drive me to Albany? Hmmmmmmmm?

The still life of the carnival

And last night, it was in full swing

Last night I watched American Idol. And if that’s not bad enough, I was reminded of this story.

I was in the fourth grade. I was 10. I had just moved down south from Pennsyltuckey to North Carolina. It was rough. A new place. A new school. And I was dumped in the middle of a classroom, plump, freckled, dressed (often) in brown, trying to figure out a way to get rid of all the frizzy hair and all the chub-a-lub childhood rolls which (though barely) still clung to my sides. I was miserable, but willing to make the best of it. (I guess).

There was a popular boy, Mike B. (I just had a conversation with Toby about putting full names on line. It’s not fair. So I’ll call him Mike B). He was one of those guys (and even in the fourth grade) future easies would, when in his presence, apply more lip gloss.

Mike B. rode my bus. He did. And no one really talked to me. But I’m not complaining. Not at all. I had a walkman. I had music. I loved music. It took me places. It did. It took me off of that bus no matter what went wrong that day. I often listened to “Careless Whisper” full volume and I would pretend I was level super-cool.

One day, Mike B. handed me a red, construction paper heart which read, “You’re cute.” And I was all giddy with excitement and rewound “Careless Whisper” picturing him singing the part of George Michael. To me. Yeah. He’s never gonna dance again, all his guilty rhythm, got no feet and I was the sudden shit. I was Molly Ringwald. I had a red heart. I had proof of level super-cool.

I rode that Mike B. wave for about a week. And the bus became my favorite class. And the moments to and from bus to classroom.

And then one day, I was talking to a girl. She was of equal status to Mike B. only on the Pink Ladies side. I can’t remember why she spoke to me. This was not normal. Perhaps it was all part of ‘the hilarious plan’. I sort of bragged about it. To her. I said,

Mike B. thinks I’m cute. He said so on a red heart. He gave it to me on a bus, coming home from school.

She looked at me and giggled.

Oh that, yeah. We dared him to do that. He was only kidding. Isn’t that funny?

(Yes. Very funny. HA HA HA).

Years later, I slimmed up, grew tits, tamed my bitchin hair, and gave up on level super-cool. I found friends and punk rock music. I was 14. I was not hot. But Mike B. asked for my number. Mike B. didn’t remember the me he was mean to so he asked my tits out. We said yes. I wonder if he was upset when none of us showed up. I wonder what he’s doing now. I wonder if he’s still playing football and grabbing other man-asses.

What kind of insurance agent tries to charge more than HALF that of the actual car EVERY 6 months? I could buy a Volvo EVERY YEAR for that price. WHAT THA?! Wow. When reality takes a hold of a blunt object and starts beating you over the head repeatedly you just gotta kinda laugh. Holy cow, that’s just a damn kicker, ain’t it? I called another, they’re getting back to me. We’ll see.

Ok. Car or no car. Do I bid or not bid. This is too much. I go back and forth between thinking,

Hey, you only live once. Just do it. It’s just money.

And saying,

It’s money. (Money). And it’s an old car and you will have to put money into it. And you might run over a bird or something. And cars are mean.

I don’t know what to do. For a long time, I thought it would be great if I didn’t drink so much and smoke so much and I took better care of myself and got some exercise. And now I have accomplished all of that. So I’m also thinking I deserve it—you know as some stupid reward. I’m thinking, if you calculate the amount of money I once spent on booze and cigarettes you would have yourself three cars. Ugh. What to do. Others have real problems and decisions to make (I know this) mine is just silly. It’s just a car. But it’s mine. And we can all be selfish bitches at times. What to do. What. To. Do. :)

This just in from my father…. Dad’s email:

Wooooo Hooooo! State College has arrived. We are getting a Starbucks in the old Manhattan Bagel site.

My response:

Settle down, Homer. It’s not a Krispy Kreme.

Dad’s response:

Forgot to tell you (I called Rob immediately when I heard) Krispy Kreme already announced they were building in the Target or Wallmart shopping Centers. I talked to their spokesperson at a seminar. It just doesn’t get any better than this! I may apply for a job there.

I am here. I feel boring today. Not really much to say. I finished Blue Angel. I reallly enjoyed the book. When I was discussing it with Toby yesterday (I won’t say what I was discussing as it will completely ruin the story) he said,

Sounds like good writing. If you go back and forth on how you feel about the main character so much.

I can’t really say much more without giving away crucial details in the plot and (assuming that someone else might read it) I will just shut up. I began reading Moody last night. We’ll see how that goes. :) Recently, I have also been in contact with a friend of mine I haven’t seen or spoken with in years. And it seemed the more time that went by the harder it was to break the ice. On Friday, after a small shove from Toby, I called her and left my number and email. And it’s been great speaking with her again. She still has a great sense of humor and she’s still very much the consistant, pleasant person I remember from back then. It’s really done a lot for my mood the past few days. When you find you don’t really have much of a past outside of family and your head it starts to make you feel as if you’re floating—you may even begin to wonder if it was all true or if you remember it all wrong. So, this has given me smiles as of late. And I really like that. I’m sure I’ll write more about this in days to come.

Today is a good day. Though I have yet to leave my house, I think it will be good. We’re riding in. I am drinking juice and searching Ebay for stuff I won’t buy. It’s 8:03 a.m. I probably should hit the road soon. Toby is hosing off. The Volvo was put back on Ebay, I’m having troubles deciding if I should do it or not. Augh, I hate making choices. It would be nice to have though. Ok I’m off, more from the other side of the river in a few.

Songs about paranoia. GO!!!

I always feel like (somebody’s watching me): by Rockwell

(also featuring M. Jackson).

The Coney Island Boardwalk and Toby’s head.

Pictures from the wekend. There aren’t many. I got bored.

(Here’s my attempt at a normal post). This weekend we saw Minority Report I won’t go on and on about this and I will sum it up in one sentence The movie would have been better if directed by someone other than S. Spielberg or if he had been told he had a (realistic) budget and they removed the giant spoon from his hand first. On Saturday, we set out to ride our bikes to Coney Island for the Mermaid Parade only to find me a flat tire in the middle of the ghetto. We walked the bikes to the G train, rode it back home, changed both tires and left again. We left home after the parade had ended but rode to Coney Island any way. The boardwalk was so jammed pack, full of inebriated people, stumbling around half-naked, we stayed for about 5 minutes and headed for dinner instead. (I have pictures).

This weekend was sort of hectic. Nothing really happened but I spent a lot of it freaking out over little things and nothing at all. I hit levels of paranoia I have never felt before. I came up with ideas and stories that didn’t really exist. At one point, on Friday night, I blew a large fuse. Thing is, I have (as of late) started to actually believe my mind’s stories, in my head. I’m not sure if I need Toby to stop it, or if it’s gotten out of mind because he’s now there to help. Maybe I’m not strong enough to push it aside, but instead I rely on him helping me to do so. And, if he does not, I become worse off. I can believe almost anything at all. This weekend I convinced myself that the people who live on our floor are all plotting against us. Actually plotting against us. Like any of them are clever enough to do so. I contemplated removing this website from the internet in hopes of hiding. From what? Things in my head. That’s all. (This ended with the removal of my email [which I am sure will be put back up eventually], the ‘I am’ section and my picture). When did this begin? It’s annoying. (I know I’m acting silly). When does paranoia become real? When do I begin to change my every day life? I just want to write it down. I’m sure I’ll get paranoid and change it as soon as I hit send. I can’t shake it sometimes. It just eats the rational side and throws the remains out of my head. They skitter around looking to return as Mr. Paranoia kicks me inside out. I don’t know. It’s not something I can control sometimes. This weekend was one of those times. Is anyone else paranoid?

Volvo. Brown. Yum. I am seriously considering buying this car off of Ebay (well, at this point, directly from the seller. We’ve done a lot of emailing over the past veiw days). If this works out I could possibly puke from excitement. It’s a good deal. It’s brown. It’s a Volvo. The guy loved the car. It’s old. It has a sun roof. There are round headlights. I want it to be mine. Yes. I am sort of giddy with even just the idea. And I promise to still ride my bike to fix my sinking ass. :)

When you unexpectedly run into people, how many of those times are you actually pleased with the surprise sighting? Say it happens 10 times, how many of those are you thinking,

SHIT! Now I have to talk to them.

I’m curious.

Pictures from last night.

360 view of Union Square and the mighty dog park. It still won’t work for me, so I have not a clue as to if it’s right. :)

Mister Toby came up with an idea for a game. Instead of explaining it again, I have pasted his words below. If you don’t get it, just leave a comment here. If you don’t want to play, (to quote freakgirl) ASS YOU!

search ebay for 2 terms. they cannot be specific and cannot be in quotes. (by not specific, i mean, no names). click the box to search the body of the listings. try to find one with NO results. Also, list what you searched and how many results there were

(I may use this again or for a while. Who knows).

Is bidding for cars on Ebay bad?

Pictures from today. (One from last night). A car I want. I mean, I REALLY want it. I want to find one. Gimme gimme gimme. :)

I am blown away by the levels of laziness I see on a daily basis. But today’s example hit a level astronomically high. We have two elevators in our building. One is the front entrance (directly off Broadway) the other is the freight elevator which is down the street about 30 feet, turn left on to Spring street, walk another 20 or so feet and there it is on the left. It is dark and basement-like. There are mouse traps, there is moisture, and there is trash. Lots of trash. The note on the door this morning read: ELEVATOR OUT. PEOPLE USE FREIGHT. I walked in figuring, hell I can walk my ass up the stairs.

A woman exiting said to me (because I can’t read)

The elevator is out. We have to use the freight

Me:

Can I use the stairs?

Her (grunting)

I mean, I GUESS you can. If you really WANT to.

Me:

I could use the exercise.

So could you, I thought.

Does anyone see the absurdity in this? It took more energy for her to walk to the scary freight elevator, then to just haul her ass up the damn stairs. I don’t get it. Why are folks so lazy? What happens to us as we age? When we were kids we didn’t even really think about it. What happens to us as we get older? She must have been my age, maybe a bit younger. Is laziness a disease? Does it eventually cripple people, forcing them to live a life sitting on the couch, eating potato chips, and drinking hot fudge? It makes me sad. Even if I do live longer they won’t be around for me to say,

I told you so.

I don’t have a lot of patience for the lazy. Zilch. Zero. If you want to be lazy, that’s fine, but don’t stand it up in front of me. (And [if you’re capable] you could move your ass a bit quicker on those subway stairs as well). (I’ll probably get hit by a falling air-conditioner or a bus today).

Setting: Pennsyltuckey. Elementary School. Gym Class. Rated: G (for Gross).

Gym class was a major contributor in childhood trauma. No matter what it was you were told you were to do for that period of the day, there was always someone who could do whatever it was better than you. And the humbling experience of failure wasn’t enough, said champ often rubbed it in as well. Kickball. Flag Football. Frisbee. Dodgeball. Baseball. Gymnastics(?!). Track and Field. There was always some (one day screaming, beer-drinking, belly-barin) bully who would just tear shit up and make the weak cry.

But not on Parachute Day. That’s right. Parachute Day: The Communistic approach to Physical Education. The day where everyone is really just the same, (unless someone in your class had the unfortunate experience of not having hands). I loved Parachute Day. Every day in any way. Parachute Day was up there with snow days, summer break, substitute teacher day, pizza day, and Halloween parade day. I loved it.

Except for once.

I hadn’t felt so well before leaving the house. But unlike these later life days, I was a school junkie. I loved it. I never missed a day. (Once I even received an award for my perfect attendance). So as sick as I may have felt, I went to school. And it’s a good thing too,

IT WAS PARACHUTE DAY!

I took my spot in front of that huge piece of mammoth material and all it’s godlike glory, next to other girls and boys. I was so happy, I nearly forgot about my tummy ache. We watched it rise, let it fall. We got under it, we got on top of it. We kicked our feet. We spun.

And then the throw-up came. It moved from my belly into my throat in slow motion. Eventually, I had it in my mouth. My cheeks filled up. It was in slooooooowwww motion! I swear. I turned (slightly) to the girl next to me and I pointed to my cheek with one hand. It had to be one hand because I didn’t want to actually let go of the parachute. But a one-handed, SOS didn’t do too much for me. She just stared at me. (I’m not sure what she could have done anyway).

By that time, I knew it was too late. It came out, full force upon another emptying thrust-up from my tummy, there was no more room for what my lips were trying to deny. Vomit flew all over the parachute, to the floor, below my shoes and the kids kept swooooooshing the damn thing up and then down again, my throw-up going along with gravity, what else was it to do? Up and ebb, drop and roll.

Parachute Day didn’t seem so sweet anymore.

I was sent home. And I never went to school sick again.

Great, odd, strange lyrics… GO!!!

Is there a doctor in the house? In the house of pancakes.

Sometimes my brain skips on one phrase or word, over and over again it repeats the same thing. I can be anything, a song lyric, a movie line, something I said incorrectly, whatever. Today it’s

budunka butt.

I don’t know why. I need it cleaned. My head. (Not my butt). Even worse was I said it in rhythm with the wheels of my bike this morning. I must have said it a thousand times, who knows.

budunkabuttbudunkabuttbudunkabutt

. What is this damn thing? Does anyone else have this problem? (Not with your butt, but your brain). (I blame Tracy Morgan and TobyJoe).

It was a great day back in elementary school, when the older kids, tip-top the ladder on the 4th and 5th grade rung, got to go to the Environmental Room and touch the fossils and the stuffed dead things and the lizards and run outside and play with earth worms. I enjoyed the smells of the outside world more so than the inside one. And after a day in a stuffy classroom, Environmental Room was a the blissful end to the endless purgatory of mating and divorcing numbers and conjunction-junctions.

And there was one day, we were led there, single-file past the 3rd graders and the other kids, heads held high. We were proud. We had our markers and our trapper keepers (you know, for notes) and we marched our eager butts to the Environmental Room. Little did I know that that day would prove to be different, a starting line in the eventual anxiety-ridden human life I had before me; Thrusted full force, headlong into the holy crap! what will I find this time behind velvet door number 3? (Little did I know then that door number 3 will (one day) take on future forms of bill cradled envelopes, corners on familiar streets, medical test results, and black toilets).

There were about 7 boxes placed next to one another on the 3 foot high, red topped tables. Each box had a hole large enough for an arm. Each hole had velvet lining the opening. The exercise was to guess what might be in each box, using only your sense of touch as a guide.

What FUN!

I thought.

I’m so going to win this!

And then the screams began. First it was nothing. A few jumps, a few hisses, a few yelps. I was probably number 17 or so in line. As I got closer, my tummy started churning (you know that uneasy feeling you get right before you get found during a game of hide and go seek). I felt nervous. My head filled with massive question marks.

WHAT’S INSIDE THOSE BOXES!

My turn. My hand felt around. The first one, a very soft, cuddly bunch of animal fur. Not so bad for me, not so good for the animal. The second box, something feathery. Hmmmm ok. What’s with all the yelps? I moved on like this. But then I reached the fourth box.

WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?! Is it a human HEAD?! Is it a monster brain?! Is it Tracy? She didn’t really move! OH MY GOD! TRACY’S HEAD IS IN BOX NUMBER 4!

And that was when a few changes took place.

1). My imagination came on like a blinding light, (much like the 140 watt bulb that same imagination would make me sleep with)

2). Environmental Room is not always nice and easy and it’s much worse than that heart-stopping game “Operation”

3). Putting an animal skull into a box for 4th and 5th graders to “guess upon” is not always a good idea.

The black toilet causes me enough distress, but this was just too much.

Hello everyone.

I do realize we are all very busy and sometimes even taking time out of one’s busy day to use the toilet is a hassle. But please, I beg of you, take about 5 more seconds and (at the very least) grab a new roll of toilet paper before leaving the bathroom and place it within arm’s reach for the next person. It’s not hard. And we all know, drip-drying sucks. It doesn’t take a lot of time and it will make people happy. You don’t even have to put it on the actual dispenser. :)

Thank you muchly,

Michele

This is pretty cool. Perhaps I’ll play along. It’s been so long since I entered anything. Peeps should all do so, up the visual clutter, work the magic. Let’s play, eh? What d’ya say? (Thanks, NIfkin).

Yesterday I visited the bookstore as I finished the other three. I spent about 45 minutes in search of the perfect novel. I asked about Naked Pictures of Famous People. Totally sold out. I completely brain-farted about Cat’s Eye until I got home (typical movie store, music store, bookstore move, forgetting everthing upon entering). I was in search of a brainwash

swish swish

cleansing after finishing that book, “Good in Bed” (which I refuse to link for fear that someone might actually buy it—if you must waste your time, I would love to waste some of mine and send it too you). This next book… it has to be good, or at the very least, decent. If it’s as bad as the last one, I might lose my reading streak. And I am rather enjoying it. Toby said,

Just put it down if it sucks.”

But like that last bit of cake on new-employee day, I must finish even a bad book. This time I left the store with Rick Moody’s, Demonology and Francines Prose’s, Blue Angel. I will go back for the rest. I will write them all down this time, backwards written, on my forehead.

Times Square at 360 degrees (maybe slightly less). And I can’t help it with the cars. And the friggin people kept moving. I guess you need Tom Cruise to shut the place down for a day. And some of these don’t line up. But it was done quickly. And for some reason the entire image won’t show up for me. hmmmm oh well.

I am superman. I feel like superman. Only not nearly as strong or cool or manly. And I don’t use a phonebooth but instead a bathroom housing a ferocious black toilet built by evil himself. But I am blue. And there’s more red at home. Given the new rules regarding dress code, I pay more attention to the threads. We rode in today. I wore cutoff shorts, a tank and some Converse All Star sneaks. In my bag I packed a skirt Toby once said reminded him of a Jon Waters’ film, and a the new shoes some folks despise. It’s a predominantly blue outfit. I am predominantly girl-like, it’s predominantly believable that I do indeed know what I’m doing. Faster than a bolt of lightening I am changed to fit code, ready to fight this losing battle called work. I am superman and I can’t do anything.

This will be long. That’s ok. I hope to not look back on it one day and say, “YOU MORON! YOU’RE SO STUPID!” Who’s paying attention anymore? Who’s keeping score? Fuck-a-little-score. I’m tired of score. Cut it open; pull it out, “You win.”

People say it’s a good idea to spend some time alone to really figure out what it is you want and how it is you want it. I used to think this was what folks made up to help make break-ups and single-life more tolerable and “necessary” and it probably is all made up, but I don’t think I would change things even if I could.

So I spent some time alone. Alone. Ugh. (Even the word looks sad). But I did it. I did so and I moved my ass to New York City—possibly the loneliest city this side of Orion’s Belt.

I woke up some days miserable. Empty. And completely amazed at the speed in which I got here.

I went from 5th gear in life-speed straight into reverse here—woke up gasping. Ouch. Sobering. And one day there was this. This person. I met a boy by a total accident (what wine, a night out with an ex, and several months of gutting oneself over top the same old scar can do with a life). It’s like being stripped down, stark naked, exposed, everything I have never really liked about me and suddenly I’m forced to stand it up and pay it some mind and not that “ass-beating” kind of mind, but the “cold washcloth on a jumbled, feverish forehead” kind of mind. It’s hard when someone comes along and they like you and you have to figure out why. It’s really hard.

(I feel like one of those morons at the self-help center who finally gets the trade in the silver folder for the all-mighty gold, shiny one. I have finally realized I am living a life of someone I used to only envy. Forgive me if this might sound like a brag, this is more of an ode).

There is nothing I won’t tell him. There is nothing I can’t say. He fills in these silly blanks, which never made much sense before now. (Madlibs). Movie lines make sense now, even the bad ones, even the silly ones. I added color to my wardrobe. No more only black and shades of black and beige. (Primary. Yum). I have green sheets. My carpet has a pattern. I painted my shelves red. There are plants and wind chimes hanging from a ledge in an apartment we may need to leave soon. (Who cares). Removing pride in front of someone who won’t kick you when they see pink is the single most liberating feeling in this life so far. Having someone to show that to is like learning how to do all those things you can only do once in a lifetime all over again—like losing baby teeth, or taking steps, fumbling all over the place, giggling madly. (Who cares). I’m doing it over again. All together. All at once. (And remembering it this time).

I realized Saturday that everything has shifted. I now have something to lose. I wish to prove to someone else that I am and will be there for him or her. (Integrity). I am starting to sort of like myself. (Strength). I have a bigger toe print and a larger hand. I want to leave marks. I do actually live here. (Here). This planet. Earth. And no matter how much is spins and how sick I feel there is proof that I was here, even if it’s just for today and even if I do owe it to a boy. I am here.

“See?”

(The end of part 1 in an infinite series).

A story called “Making Friends” by mihow (This is a photographic story about how a cat and a boy became friends in a loft at 1205 Manhattan Avenue). (I could have written nearly 200 captions underneath each picture, but I figured I’d let it go cuz I ain’t so clever today).

I am trying to get the Times Square 360 view to work on here. But I suck and I don’t know what I’m doing. So I might just put that crap up tomorrow. Or maybe I will play more when I’m not busy. In the meantime…. Best use of a song in a movie. GO!!!

Kicking and Screaming: Bad Reputation

This is hard, there are too many and I can’t think of any.

The 59th Street Bridge. 180 degrees from where I plan on going to where I came from.. Indeed. Yes. (Here she goes again. And I have more).

What an amazing weekend. Well actually, what an amazing Sunday. Sometimes everything just makes sense—falls in to place and settles down hours later with a sigh of relief. My legs and my sides are screaming at me, joyously but still screaming. I am aware of their existence more so today than any other day. We went on a long bike ride yesterday. We rode to Manhattan by way of the 59th (Queensboro) Bridge. We continued on into Central Park, stopping for pictures and gulps of water (only) along the way. Central Park is like finding a 20 dollar bill in the pocket of your old jeans (you never wear anymore). It’s right there, I have walked through it a thousand times. I have sat and watched the dogs. I have even played Frogger trying to cross the bike/rollerblade/horse trail. But up until yesterday, I hadn’t realized just how exciting, long and beautiful it really is. And I thank myself for the work out. My body thanks myself. And not a drop of any booze either, early nights, early mornings. It’s good to feel this way. Why hadn’t I started sooner? And if the weekend hadn’t been so fulfilling, I would be spitting on my monitor over the 1 and a half hour commute I had this morning. Alas, such is life. I will not complain. (Rise above it, you big bitch).

I’ll post my pictures in a few.

Happy DAD DAY! YAYA! Though my Dad he don’t got no internet no access in Pennsyltuckey, But he does get up earlier than I do on Mondays and the other four which follow. So this post’s for you. Happy Dad day. YIP! (The vette’s in the mail).

It appears, that since it’s N____’s last day here, there are three huge cakes in the kitchen. Days filled with cake can’t be that bad, right?

For the desperate fucks looking for pictures of young girls. Get your mind off your dick, get your lazy, ass off the internet and go do something productive. You make me sick.

Here is a picture for you….

Someone, anyone, for the love of humanity and all that is still fun, bring back something like the Go-gos. Please? Thank you.

I am going to see Beth Orton tonight. I feel like I am 13 and I have front row tickets to see Bon Jovi.

I worked as an AIDS project volunteer during college. Before helping we had to go through long classes so that when someone asked a question like

Can I get HIV from Water Sports?

you had to know what it was they were actually talking about. Someone once answered,

No, the chlorine will most likely kill the virus as it is actually very weak.

(D’OH!) So this next game is dedicated to my time training as an AIDS project volunteer and (indirectly but most importantly) Jon Bubb. Terms for masturbation. (male and female) GO!!!!

Clearing the Snorkel

Rubbing one out.

Pictures from today and (2 from yesterday).

We rode in again this morning. This time the bridge nearly had me walking. It is quite steep and I began to wonder if I had the strength to pedal my ass up the damn thing. Alas, in the end,

Looks like we made it!

. And today I brought my camera AND its cord. When I arrived to work, I was told by Cowboy that I could never ever bring a bike in the front entrance, that I must go around to the freight elevator in order to get to the fourth floor. I did so. Waited for the guy to come down and collect me to go to work upstairs. The lift lets you out in the back of our office where the trash is kept. There are several huge, stinky trash cans and it’s dark, nearly pitch black as a matter of fact. There is no such sign of daylight unless it manages to crawl into the elevator along with me. And I can’t imagine why it would. When I was waiting for M__ to let me in, I was standing there and my eyes began to adjust in the low light coming from the elevator shaft, it shown on the floor near my feet. And much to my horror, I saw a sticky trap holding a half-dead mouse. He moved upon ever motion I made. He squeaked and moaned and wiggled about. M___ could not have come soon enough. Perhaps this is where people should go when they are bad—Of Trash, Mice and Men. I want to smoosh the poor little guy so he doesn’t suffer any longer.

What can I say?

It’s been a very productive day . And I hear it’s hot out there. I heard via messenger in vator-down earlier, it was to be even hotter come later.

Yewww reddie tah fry mah ladee? You reddie to hit the heeet? Toooday ees guna be ahot one!

I wasn’t quite sure what he was saying at first. Along with the lack of my hearing, his accent (though self-created) was a bit tough mid-daydream, dead-center. But once I figured it out, I chuckled and said,

It’s a cold, meat locker upstairs, too cold for my liking. I prefer the heat actually. I’m ready to fry.

::finishes water::

::puts on helmet::

(mihow has left the building).

Sometimes I wonder if it’s just me. Do I just not get certain things? (Thanks, Tobyjoe for the images)

Yesterday we saw Insomnia and went to eat at Old Devil Moon in Manhattan. Here are a few pictures.

I woke up blue, what can I say. Dreams about Robin Williams taking over Toby’s mind. My friend Danielle is finally moving to Texas and I have not called her since February or March. And I had dream about running into her the day before her departure (which I know is June, I just have no idea when, but it’s in June). Standing on a street in NYC wanting to say,

Wait, let’s talk. I know you’re leaving tomorrow but there must be some way we can make the past few months go away and keep in touch now. Oh yeah, and I’m sorry. I am sorry for not calling. Why haven’t you?

But instead I just say,

Bye. Take care. Be careful and I will miss you.

And I really mean it (in the dream).

Some of the choices I have made and some of the things I have done I feel quite strong about at the time in which they are happening. And I was sure I had done the right thing. And days after it happens or the days following it’s right there, and I might think about it nearly every other minute and feel good about it. And then weeks and months go by and it becomes more faint perhaps I only think about it when their a name is mentioned or I glance at an old email and I wonder if the friendly voice written there will ever be used with my name above it ever again. But it does go away. (Somehow). And then BAM! you have a dream and you’re right back where you started. Only this time doubtful and sort of sad.

I never intended for it to be quite this way, some way, yes, but not this way. How much is too much time before it’s just too late to explain? The dream sits on my head rather strongly. It’s 8:30 a.m. and nothing has happened yet today. Perhaps after some coffee and a bagel I won’t feel this way at all.

Sometimes you just gotta wonder if it’s held together by rubber cement. Somehow it works out, we’re a few steps behind (always) but it works out. When I was in school I think there were about 200 times a project would blow up, run amuck, dart like a bolt of ugly down lanny’s-gunna-kill-me-street, and I would whip out the rubber cement, pull out the brush and desperately work a make over.

TADA!!!

It wasn’t perfect, but somehow I never got it too bad come crit time. And I’m starting to think, that if there is a god, not only is he equipped with a huge sense of humor but he must carry a HUGE can of rubber cement making small corrections to our ungraceful human fumbles. Today, I worked a little magic, and even though the computer has taken over and eaten mister rubber cement and the ‘good ole days’, I pulled out that little can of joy and smeared a bit of get-me-out-of-this-juice all over a 50-person, corporate pile-up.

Amen

And this next thing? This bothers me so. Where does this thing come from? See example below. (My voice is in blue).

Hot damn, that pie tastes good!

I KNOW, RIGHT?!

Yeah, right. I just said it.

Now, sans voice, this is really hard to explain, however it’s everywhere. People here at work do it after every comment. I just wonder where the ‘trend’ came from, if any one place. Or if it’s just a thing people do like “FACE!” or “I like pie, yo!” or “I know you are but what am I” (that has a direct relation to Pee Wee—I know) or whatever. But where does this one come from? I know, right? (I hope someone gets this, otherwise I sound deranged).

Pictures from today. One of these days, with my luck, someone searching for something weird will end up on mihow, see themself, and then kick my ass on the B61. But oh well.

What a hideous morning. If it were human, I would make it wear a bag. I had too much wine last night. It was either that or the garlic. My head is full, near ready to pop like a huge teenage zit. My stomach feels uneasy and my skin is tired. My hair looks like straw. I ran into a wall near the bus stop. Enough of that.

Yesterday I was annoyed. I won’t deny that. I hated the shirt I was wearing and the internet turned into Captain Howdy and then it took over my mind and I felt just angry. My shirt was annoying to look at and annoying to the touch and I think it smelled, though that could be my addition due to the other two. It was 4 p.m. and I just felt mad. But even more so because I bothered Tobyjoe about it. Who really just wanted to do his job and not deal with “Melrose Place” (as he called it). But he came through, took care with one hack, made things happen. And it was sweet. (Sidenote: I never thought that site could but put with the word ‘sweet’ but these are new times indeed) Never-the-less, I was so annoyed with me I went shopping and bought a new shirt in search of a new me, I settled.

I am now wearing that shirt. And damnit, Janet, I do love it. So I just ate yesterday and made out with today, even though she did slap me with a wall. Today’s looking pretty hot, even though she’s crying.

I remember when I first started smoking, it was a blast. And that got old-not as fast as many (and myself) may have liked but eventually it did. And I remember when I was 13, I got drunk for the first time. I mean actually drunk. And that was fun, still is (sometimes). I did other ‘things’ (left out cuz I might run for president some day) that were fun, even in excessive doses, for a time. I found habit after habit after habit-all were a great time for at least a little while.

I said the other day to tobyjoe and danny,

I have what they call an addictive personality”

(YOU DIDN’T JUST SAY THAT?! Yeah, you did. moron). And I quickly felt ridiculous. Toby answered (I’m paraphrasing),

everyone does, it’s how you choose your addiction, that’s what matters.

Most of them (my addictions), ended up choosing me. Meaning, no matter how hard I tried to keep it under control and deem it as ‘fun’, it would end up backfiring and treating me as if it owned me. I guess I’m just sort of weak that way. (But strong enough to admit it).

And this one? I created this one. This blogger thing-though I wouldn’t actually call it that-it’s more of a way I can eventually make (some) sense of a time because it sure the hell doesn’t make any right now. (To me). I think some day I might empty all of the contents out on to the floor like one does with pictures and think back on how great (or fucked up) it all was. This time I actually have an ‘addictive goal’ in mind. I do. And I want to keep it. I really do. But it’s not owning me—It’s actually really friggin hard to want to keep up, but I do it just the same. Smoking never took work. Drinking never took work. Design never took work. This is actually taking work. It’s not fun right now. Then again, neither were hangovers or empty pockets, but I drank myself silly all the same. This post is for me. (I just realized it). I am going to keep doing this, like I kept smoking and drinking and doing all sorts of self-destructive things. We’ll see what happens after said addiction’s time is up. I ask that you (you know who you are) leave this one alone. It’s mine. And I will do just the same for you.

Pictures for today. Not many. Oh well. :)

I am reading Down and out in Paris and London now. It’s very good. But I have discovered something entirely too annoying about myself. I am only on page 43 and the title pretty much sums up the book (at least during these early stages). A guy (George Orwell) talking about being down and out in Paris and London and he speaks of living on 20 francs a day or that something cost him 200 francs or that he spent 1000 francs on a prostitute. And each time I think,

Hmmmmm how much is that?

And then I read on and never really figure it out. And it’s been about 4 years since I went to Paris or London (though the book hasn’t gotten to London yet) so my conversions are rusty (if there at all). Am I that lazy that I won’t find the answer before finishing the damn book? My translation is this,

Well shit, if he’s ‘down and out’ 20 francs, well that’s gotta be like… nothing

while I scratch my ass, eat a not dog and drink a bud. Does anyone know this off the top of their head? Convert me please.

You know me, I’m just like you, it’s 3 in the morning, and I don’t know anybody

I don’t know what his damn jammies looked like…they had Yodas and shit on them.”

(leave out the titles for now, I want to create things that bug me).

Toby bought me a new helmet. And here is the toilet.

I was in the loo and figured what the hell. I’ll show you the monster. Not me, the toilet. I am not monster!

Please note: I am not walking out. But is there anything more liberating than doing just that? Some guy (who has been here for over 4 years) just walked out. Said,

I can’t take it any longer.

and left. I can’t ever do shit like that. As soon as I hit the pavement, I would probably start drooling, fall to the ground in terror and anxiety and just give up all together. End up a pancake or something.

We have black toilets at work. Black toilets worry me. I ‘get it’ and everything, but somehow it just doesn’t seem right. It’s like dark ponds or quarrys. They freak me out a bit too. Only this is a toilet. I can’t see the bottom, I know it’s there, but I can’t see it. I have no idea what might be down there. It’s disconcerting.

Here are some pictures from today and yesterday. We went uptown to get tickets for Toby’s sister. We took the 7 train into Long Island City when we were finished and walked home by way of the Polaski Bridge.

With age, I am learning, seems to come this weird need for minimal amounts of control. I think it happens to people as they realize that life is basically spinning just slightly out of control at all times. So what does one do? We might as well settle for all those freakish little things.

Can’t control the traffic or the length of your commute?

Outlet: Mash the elevator button 153 times when I have already hit it once and I’m standing there, patiently waiting, ahead of you.

You might lose your job?

Outlet: Make sure you stay in that exact spot on the subway, blocking any new comers from getting on to the train. Don’t give that up, if you do then you will surely have nothing.

The life you’re living is going nowhere?

Outlet: The next time someone asks for directions, give them the BEST directions you can. If you’re angry, take your time, and send them somewhere else.

Your boss hasn’t given you a raise in over a year?

Outlet: Stand, on the very edge of the subway platform, grunt, moan, bicker, and complain after every lean into the direct path of the oncoming train. realizing that train, it ain’t comin yet.

Cuz these things? You think you can control them. But even the little things are just little moons slightly out of whack and off their axis in the big chaotic, out of control universe called life.

I will write it on the bathroom wall at a bar in Manhattan. It will be on the right wall if you’re facing the door. It will be above the toilet tissue dispenser. It will be written in blue ink. I will try not to smear it, but I’m afraid to sit down and relax. One never knows what might be on that seat. I will write

____m

above the rest, so you will know it’s from me. Take a lighter in there with you, it’s often dark. There might be a line, but I’ll try and make it worth your wait. While you’re in there, and only after you’ve read it, look in (what is left of) the mirror. Don’t look too long, others are waiting. After you have left, take a pen (color of your choice) and write something elsewhere. When you are finished, give me a hint. I’ll seek it out and give it meaning. We’ll do this because little to nothing else makes much sense.

brushes off hands

nods head

Toby and I finally sat down and watched our rented dvd of Bully last night. I was worried as I do not like to watch violent shit, I tend to hide behind someone or cover my face with my hands. In more recent times, l just stopped watching it period. But last night, even though I hated the film Kids, (for reasons outside of holy cow look what that 15 year old, zitty kid just did with his dick shock-value tactic) I watched Bully. It was (at best) an x-rated After School Special, heavy on the pedophilia. I was not shocked or put off by the violence. It wasn’t horrible. It wasn’t amazing. It didn’t make me angry or upset or mad or sad. I watched and sipped water. I waited until the end. It could have been done in about 1 hour on 20/20 or A Dateline Exclusive (45 minutes if you count the commercial breaks). Only then we wouldn’t have been able to watch a young girl poor red wax all over her bare-chested, man-lover who may have (I’m not sure) had bigger breasts than she. I did wonder, however, why was the Marty’s sentence was death and the other active stabbers and beaters were just given life?

Songs you love but are afraid to admit it. GO!!!

“One More Try” by George Michael

“Beth” by Kiss

“Thank you” by Dido

This list could become very long for me actually.

Here is an image of a morning Broadway.. There are no cars. How odd. And I don’t know why I keep doing this. An idea is brewing. That’s all.

Images from today. I took a different route this morning. Today I opted out of waiting for the bus and took the G train instead. And much to my surprise it was not even close to horrible. Which was nice. Yes. Indeed. Nice.

If you could leave right now and pick apples all day would you do it? Perhaps it’s the Pennsylvania in me, but I have this overwhelming want for dirt and grass and fireflies and fruit and bugs and water sounds and places to go where there is no man made sound. It all reminds me of youth. When I was a kid dusk used to spook me, it meant there was night to come, night surely meant sleep, sleep surely meant fear, fear meant frustration, forced to lay there till morning waiting for the sleepers to come to. At night the kids were called in one by one as soon as the sun set and the sound of big trucks took a near distant highway with loads they wished to deliver before daybreak. Later that night I would swear to you those same truck sounds were the moaning ghosts of dead kids. I slept with a light on. I bright one. All night long, glaringly bright, keeping the monsters away from me and my goldfish. I loved the getting up in the morning part. Sleep never really was all that settling for me, I wanted to spend all that wasted time making new things and collecting wooly bears in the front yard, pretending they were pets. If I could be anywhere else other than work right now, I would want to be hiking in search of turtles and on quest for ripe fruit and vegetables for a massive afternoon salad. I would want a good conversation to walk with or maybe a decent book. Morning’s are still the best, they’re like a little secret others might not know about yet. They are untouched, empty pages waiting for scribbles and thumbprints, mistakes and memories, ouches and ahhhs.

I am trying really hard to complain less. I am. I’m not as angry as I may sometimes seem. Since I moved to New York “things” have enlarged themselves. Emotions, allergies, problems, suddenly I’m getting to know just how much I can handle and how ugly I can be. Things, which at one point, you may have brushed off your shoulders start to act as human paper weights and slowly bore painful little holes into your patience, wearing you down until pop, puncture, poke, and prod, your once screaming head has turned itself inside out emptying words onto the guy in the subway. I am trying to have a better outlook. I am. Please don’t think of me as merely angry. I can’t just be like that. It’s not that simple.

(As per request via Nifkin).

“Famous Blue Raincoat by Tori Amos”

(I just can’t deal with her).

Covers that are better than the original. GO!!!

“Sweet Child of Mine” by Luna

Here is the park. In the distance you can just barely make out all the church goers. There are hundreds of them, and they came from no where.

I did not take photos today as I was reading and not looking. So I will refer back to yesterday’s. (Since Bob was sans internet all weekend, I’ll cop out and post these again so he can take a look).

We lay in a park on a towel which reminds me of disco. We’re surrounded by bikes, sandwiches and sunblock. He is reading a smarter level of literature, while I sit with the safety of a NY Times best seller. There are people playing softball, churchgoers kneeling on the lawn, dogs running, there are layers and loungers, there is us and them. An hour goes by without a word exchanged by either one of us.

“Define empathy?”

“It’s the ability to understand another’s situation, or feelings.”

“How about apathy?”

“The inability to do so.”

“Sympathy?”

“To actually understand another’s situation or feelings. Relate to.”

“Ah. Ok. Thanks. Sorry to bug you.”

“No bug.”

This is what I love about him. I realize He enjoys and is willing to answer nearly everything I ask him. And he does so without a sigh or a hint of annoyance to the interruption. He does so without judgement. It’s as if he’s excited (almost). And we sit in silence again, absorbing words written by two people we don’t know and never will. And we understand.

It occurs to me while lying in a park on a blanket purchased for 11 bucks at the local Polish five and dime, that I am experiencing the now of one of those times created better during the retrospect, the time where you say to someone else “that was a great time. I wish I could go back. I was happy then.”

I am a negative. I have gone to certain places and experienced a certain amount of exposure today. And I might know the amount of time which went in to today’s experience and all that I saw. Time (right now) acts as a fixer. My skin will (eventually) let me know what disaster I put it through today. I can see it ever so slightly, forming beneath a now, low man-cast light. I am on fire. It is not pleasant. The wash will come to burn. And I am sure to toss and turn beneath a soft sheet as if it were sandpaper. Not even a repetitive, painful experience, can help a stupid white girl when she’s smack downtown, mid-day beneath a blazing ball of fire 150,000,000 KM away from claiming all of us as its helpless, stupid, white pieces of ash.

Today we are going on a big long bike ride. We’re headed south through Brooklyn. We’ll take the Brooklyn Bridge up over into Manhattan and then who knows. I am really excited. And though I woke up in the middle of the night yelling, “SON OF A FUCK” because of a crippling leg cramp, I am still looking forward to the exercise. Last night we watched the most amazing storm suck Manhattan clear out of view. It was truly humbling. I wish nature would kick the crap out of us at least once a week. Maybe we’d be nicer to each other. Who knows. More later after we ride, ride, ride. Does it scare the hell out of anyone else that it’s now June?