Darlings,
Just a note that I will be on vacation for a few days. Yes, I know, with how little I post, it would seem I am on constant vacation, but really I am just working on that little novel of mine.
Plus, there hasn't been much to write about datewise, though I did (gasp!) go on a date this past weekend. As for that one, I ran through the entire range of emotions, from: "hmm, not as cute as I thought he would be" to "hmm, he's really cute" to "wow, this guy is so funny and smart and outdoorsy and I bet we're going to get married" to "hmm, i don't know if we have much to talk about" to "Hmm, I would go out with him again." So it seems we will go out again, should I return from my vacation without dying in a fiery plane crash.
And I have another date lined up next weekend with a local-hot-stud-quasi-celebrity (how's that for a noun stack?) Not that I care about celebrity or money or looks any such thing! No - all I care about it - how large is their - I mean, I care about the inside! The heart! The soul!
That's it for the personal ads. I got a crop of respondents, picked a few promising ones, then hid my little cleavage-baring self away for now. We'll see how these boys play out.
It feels odd to be dating again. I am creaky and out-of-practice. But one small step away from my ex-boyfriends is one giant step from mankind. I shall return Monday evening, barring fiery you-know-whats.
XO
BB
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Friday, March 25, 2005
OK, I am coming out of my dating slump. Not that you would know it by the amount of time I spend clinging to ex-boyfriends, with whom my relationships are - if not dead -- then in a persistent vegetative state. But this, too, will pass. Spring is in the air and so is s*x for Breakup Babe! I mean love. Well I mean if I can't get love, I'll take s*x. You know what I mean!
Becuase you just can't keep me down for long. I have an unquenchable thirst for boys. And I've been down for long enough! Three months regretting this, mooning over that. It might take me a bit longer to adjust to a drug-free life, but once I do watch out.
As for the personal ads, they yielded their usual mixed bag of sleazoids, old dudes, bad hair, and remote possibilities. But I have to thank my applicants for responding to me yet again. For looking at that picture of me and my perky cleavage and thinking, "Yeah, I gotta have me some of that!" You've quasi-restored my ego.
(I do have to say that yesterday I looked like I'd just tumbled out of bed with Jake Gyllenhall. It must have been my fluffy shirt and my tousled hair, but my goodness, the men couldn't keep their eyes - or hands - off me. So what if I'm reaching my golden years! I still got it! )
Anyway. There is a boy who has been like a little rosebud in the desert of my love life. The thing is, he lives far away and I've only ever talked to him on the phone. But every time I do, it reminds me that sweet, considerate, unf*cked up men exist. Men whose mission it is to make me feel good every time they talk to me.
How rare is it to talk to a boy and have them want to know all about you, rather than blabbing about themselves? It is rare, I tell you. How rare is it for a boy to say I'm going to call you this weekend, at exactly this time, and then do it? How rare is it to find a boy who does all that, and has a good job, and does fun stuff, and is happy with his life and not in need of anti-depressants?
I hope, someday, to meet him. Until I do, he's a reminder that all the most beautiful flowers are waiting to bloom.
Becuase you just can't keep me down for long. I have an unquenchable thirst for boys. And I've been down for long enough! Three months regretting this, mooning over that. It might take me a bit longer to adjust to a drug-free life, but once I do watch out.
As for the personal ads, they yielded their usual mixed bag of sleazoids, old dudes, bad hair, and remote possibilities. But I have to thank my applicants for responding to me yet again. For looking at that picture of me and my perky cleavage and thinking, "Yeah, I gotta have me some of that!" You've quasi-restored my ego.
(I do have to say that yesterday I looked like I'd just tumbled out of bed with Jake Gyllenhall. It must have been my fluffy shirt and my tousled hair, but my goodness, the men couldn't keep their eyes - or hands - off me. So what if I'm reaching my golden years! I still got it! )
Anyway. There is a boy who has been like a little rosebud in the desert of my love life. The thing is, he lives far away and I've only ever talked to him on the phone. But every time I do, it reminds me that sweet, considerate, unf*cked up men exist. Men whose mission it is to make me feel good every time they talk to me.
How rare is it to talk to a boy and have them want to know all about you, rather than blabbing about themselves? It is rare, I tell you. How rare is it for a boy to say I'm going to call you this weekend, at exactly this time, and then do it? How rare is it to find a boy who does all that, and has a good job, and does fun stuff, and is happy with his life and not in need of anti-depressants?
I hope, someday, to meet him. Until I do, he's a reminder that all the most beautiful flowers are waiting to bloom.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Oh. My. God.
I know I said I would never be cranky again but that is before I remembered I was going off my drugs! @#$!*^%
There is not even a quarter-dose of Celexa floating around in my little brain, and lemme tell you something. I am crazed!
Crazed as in a lionness pacing her cage wanting to get the h*ll out and go somewhere, f*ck someone, eat something, buy sh*t, climb a mountain, run, move, POUNCE, anything but SIT IN A LITTLE CUBICLE AND EDIT THE MOST BORING STUFF ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH.
Ahem. I am restless. Yes, that would be the word. Restless. It doesn't help that there is nary a romantic prospect in sight on which to unleash my tremendous energy. Hellooo boys! Can't you see me here? Cute as a button and hot to trot? What is the MATTER with you all? What's all this BAGGAGE you're dragging around? Don't you know we've got one life to live and I'm in heat. NOW?
So I "unhid" my personal ad. Because what's a girl supposed to do when the men in her life are ex-boyfriends? MOVE ON, that's what. I can't look at the ads myself because all I see is this - "I'm a 36-year old guy looking for women ages 20-21!" - but I can let them find me and see what happens. It's always good for a laugh or two, a way to dull the sharp edge of boredom.
My demons are on the loose, people - boredom and loneliness and anxiety - all fighting for a piece of me. They won't win, of course, because I can always go back on the drugs. Meanwhile, I'm gonna battle them myself, but that noise in my head is awful loud. Excuse me while I crank the Green Day to DROWN IT OUT.
I know I said I would never be cranky again but that is before I remembered I was going off my drugs! @#$!*^%
There is not even a quarter-dose of Celexa floating around in my little brain, and lemme tell you something. I am crazed!
Crazed as in a lionness pacing her cage wanting to get the h*ll out and go somewhere, f*ck someone, eat something, buy sh*t, climb a mountain, run, move, POUNCE, anything but SIT IN A LITTLE CUBICLE AND EDIT THE MOST BORING STUFF ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH.
Ahem. I am restless. Yes, that would be the word. Restless. It doesn't help that there is nary a romantic prospect in sight on which to unleash my tremendous energy. Hellooo boys! Can't you see me here? Cute as a button and hot to trot? What is the MATTER with you all? What's all this BAGGAGE you're dragging around? Don't you know we've got one life to live and I'm in heat. NOW?
So I "unhid" my personal ad. Because what's a girl supposed to do when the men in her life are ex-boyfriends? MOVE ON, that's what. I can't look at the ads myself because all I see is this - "I'm a 36-year old guy looking for women ages 20-21!" - but I can let them find me and see what happens. It's always good for a laugh or two, a way to dull the sharp edge of boredom.
My demons are on the loose, people - boredom and loneliness and anxiety - all fighting for a piece of me. They won't win, of course, because I can always go back on the drugs. Meanwhile, I'm gonna battle them myself, but that noise in my head is awful loud. Excuse me while I crank the Green Day to DROWN IT OUT.
Monday, March 21, 2005
Darlings, I am back among the living!
The Scary Medical Test is behind me now, and not only was it nothing serious, it was nothing at all. Except yet more proof that I am (and always have been) talented at imagining the worst.
Because I have survived, I now must live up to my oath that I will never, ever be cranky another moment in my life. I will be pure joy and lightness all the time, because what, really is there to be upset about when you have your health? So don’t expect any more whining from me! Ooh, it’s sunny. Boo hoo! Ooh, I don’t have a boyfriend and I’m going to die old and alone! Smack! I mean, I am young and successful and the world is my playground, and isn’t this frighteningly sunny weather we’re having just dee-lightful? Now pass the champagne, s’il vous plait!
Speaking of the boyfriend issue, however. I relied just a little too heavily on certain ex-boyfriends during my most recent trauma, and am now paying the price. That is, in the face of my mortality, I grabbed for comfort where I could find it, and oh my, was it comforting. It made me feel like a whole person again, connected to the earth, connected to my body, connected to someone else, the way it should be – and then, in a shimmering instant, it was gone. But life, as I’ve realized, is mostly about moments anyway. They come and they go, the happy and the sad, and there’s no point trying to hold on, because before you know it, the next moment is there.
I had another moment on Wednesday. The day I went outside to ruin my Good Hair in the glorious rain and hail. I walked around company grounds, lined by corporate buildings and parking lots. Let the rain penetrate my soul and tried not to feel scared about my upcoming Scary Medical Test, no less scary because it was set to occur on March 18 - the day my father died 7 years ago.
Then I saw a hummingbird. He lit on a flowering tree to drink from a magenta flower, heavy with rain. And he drank and he drank, letting me watch him. But then he did something I’ve never seen a hummingbird do. He sat his phosphorescent, trembling little body down on a branch and looked at me. Not only did he look straight into my eyes, he talked to me. Without speaking, he cocked his head this way and that, “It’s OK, little girl. I’m here to take care of you, just like I always have been. Don’t worry. It’s OK.” For a full ten seconds, he spoke to me. Reassured me. His tiny body shivering in the rain, a heavenly being not used to sitting still. Then he took another drink and was gone.
I wished he would stay, of course, but I knew he couldn't. I also know he'll come again, because that's he way life is. Moments come, moments go, people come, people go. Comfort is usually just a memory, but mostly that's enough.
The Scary Medical Test is behind me now, and not only was it nothing serious, it was nothing at all. Except yet more proof that I am (and always have been) talented at imagining the worst.
Because I have survived, I now must live up to my oath that I will never, ever be cranky another moment in my life. I will be pure joy and lightness all the time, because what, really is there to be upset about when you have your health? So don’t expect any more whining from me! Ooh, it’s sunny. Boo hoo! Ooh, I don’t have a boyfriend and I’m going to die old and alone! Smack! I mean, I am young and successful and the world is my playground, and isn’t this frighteningly sunny weather we’re having just dee-lightful? Now pass the champagne, s’il vous plait!
Speaking of the boyfriend issue, however. I relied just a little too heavily on certain ex-boyfriends during my most recent trauma, and am now paying the price. That is, in the face of my mortality, I grabbed for comfort where I could find it, and oh my, was it comforting. It made me feel like a whole person again, connected to the earth, connected to my body, connected to someone else, the way it should be – and then, in a shimmering instant, it was gone. But life, as I’ve realized, is mostly about moments anyway. They come and they go, the happy and the sad, and there’s no point trying to hold on, because before you know it, the next moment is there.
I had another moment on Wednesday. The day I went outside to ruin my Good Hair in the glorious rain and hail. I walked around company grounds, lined by corporate buildings and parking lots. Let the rain penetrate my soul and tried not to feel scared about my upcoming Scary Medical Test, no less scary because it was set to occur on March 18 - the day my father died 7 years ago.
Then I saw a hummingbird. He lit on a flowering tree to drink from a magenta flower, heavy with rain. And he drank and he drank, letting me watch him. But then he did something I’ve never seen a hummingbird do. He sat his phosphorescent, trembling little body down on a branch and looked at me. Not only did he look straight into my eyes, he talked to me. Without speaking, he cocked his head this way and that, “It’s OK, little girl. I’m here to take care of you, just like I always have been. Don’t worry. It’s OK.” For a full ten seconds, he spoke to me. Reassured me. His tiny body shivering in the rain, a heavenly being not used to sitting still. Then he took another drink and was gone.
I wished he would stay, of course, but I knew he couldn't. I also know he'll come again, because that's he way life is. Moments come, moments go, people come, people go. Comfort is usually just a memory, but mostly that's enough.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Two miracles occured today.
It rained. Finally! Not only did it rain (is still raining, oh thank you Lord) it hailed. Hard! Even in my unquenchable thirst for precipitation, even I couldn't stand outside in it for too long.
Gosh. Do you remember the days that playing in the rain was just something you did? Running around with your friends, splashing through the gutters, getting as wet as can be? Without a care for what it might do to your hair, your clothes. Which brings me to Miracle Number Two.
I am having a good hair day. Otherwise, I would go run around in that beautiful, wet weather. Hmm. Maybe I should anyway.
What could possibly be next on the list of miracles? A hot boy to make out with. NO! I am pushing my luck. Thank you, o powers that be for the rain and the good hair, I dare not ask for anything more!
Love, Breakup "All I ever talk about is the weather" Babe
It rained. Finally! Not only did it rain (is still raining, oh thank you Lord) it hailed. Hard! Even in my unquenchable thirst for precipitation, even I couldn't stand outside in it for too long.
Gosh. Do you remember the days that playing in the rain was just something you did? Running around with your friends, splashing through the gutters, getting as wet as can be? Without a care for what it might do to your hair, your clothes. Which brings me to Miracle Number Two.
I am having a good hair day. Otherwise, I would go run around in that beautiful, wet weather. Hmm. Maybe I should anyway.
What could possibly be next on the list of miracles? A hot boy to make out with. NO! I am pushing my luck. Thank you, o powers that be for the rain and the good hair, I dare not ask for anything more!
Love, Breakup "All I ever talk about is the weather" Babe
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Darlings, I have to commend those of you who are sticking with me in this period of draught (literally and figuratively), When all I do is talk about the weather and Scary Medical Tests (Did you know I'm really 77?) Perhaps I should start updating you on bowel movements too!
So here's what I have to say today. It's cloudy. Yay! The sun seems to be sneaking in, though. No!!
I had a dream last night in which Vince Vaughn was my boyfriend and we cuddled on the couch. It was the best dream I've had in a while next to that hot s*x dream I had about Sexy Boy the other day. Yay!
My friend M. is here from Taiwan for a week and life is better when he's around. Yay!
GalPal #1 is moving into a big house with The Professor where I can go over for dinner all the time - yay!
My editor told me that if everyone was as "easy to edit" as me she would be "vastly overpaid." Yay!
So here's what I have to say today. It's cloudy. Yay! The sun seems to be sneaking in, though. No!!
I had a dream last night in which Vince Vaughn was my boyfriend and we cuddled on the couch. It was the best dream I've had in a while next to that hot s*x dream I had about Sexy Boy the other day. Yay!
My friend M. is here from Taiwan for a week and life is better when he's around. Yay!
GalPal #1 is moving into a big house with The Professor where I can go over for dinner all the time - yay!
My editor told me that if everyone was as "easy to edit" as me she would be "vastly overpaid." Yay!
Monday, March 14, 2005
Ode to a Half Cup of Coffee
My favorite time of day is halfway through my first cup of coffee. At this point in the day, I have usually been writing for half an hour, and as I hit that halfway mark in my coffee cup, I am also struck dumb by what a brilliant writer I am. Damn!
My mood is further improved, when, checking the weather forecast, glumly expecting more blinding sun - what do I see but clouds and showers for the next ten days! Of course, the forecast is probably wrong, and soon we'll see pasty Seattleites busting out the shorts and tank tops for more 80-degree March weather, but a girl can dream of some comforting clouds, can't she?
At this point, she also feels optimistic about a dashing, literate person she's been set up with, who's been writing her oh-so-well-written and funny e-mails, and who finally - finally! - got around to asking for her phone number. Because a girl can dream, can't she?
Ah, coffee.
My favorite time of day is halfway through my first cup of coffee. At this point in the day, I have usually been writing for half an hour, and as I hit that halfway mark in my coffee cup, I am also struck dumb by what a brilliant writer I am. Damn!
My mood is further improved, when, checking the weather forecast, glumly expecting more blinding sun - what do I see but clouds and showers for the next ten days! Of course, the forecast is probably wrong, and soon we'll see pasty Seattleites busting out the shorts and tank tops for more 80-degree March weather, but a girl can dream of some comforting clouds, can't she?
At this point, she also feels optimistic about a dashing, literate person she's been set up with, who's been writing her oh-so-well-written and funny e-mails, and who finally - finally! - got around to asking for her phone number. Because a girl can dream, can't she?
Ah, coffee.
Sunday, March 13, 2005
OK, I could really use a boyfriend tonight. Not only to finish the gigantic onion rings I just ordered, to put together the furniture I just bought, to watch a movie with me, but to just generally provide comfort at the end of another stunningly sunny Sunday in March. (MARCH. SUN. Is something wrong with this picture?)
But I am not going to complain about the weather. All weather is good when you're alive, right? Right. Which leads me to the next item.
You'll have to excuse me if I'm a bit stressed out this week because Friday I have to get one of those scary medical tests that assseses where certain things are perfectly harmless - as my doctor assures me -- or whether, despite feeling perfectly healthy, I am on the verge of expiring before ever getting to meet Jake Gyllenhaal. "Ninety-nine percent of these things are benign," says my doctor, breezily, writing out the referral for aforementioned scary medical test.
This week will be like an extended plane flight for me. Certain, at any second, that I am about to plunge earthward, when, really, what are the chances? Low, low, low. And even if it is something evil, my chances of surviving are better than a plane crash! But can I see that possibility! No! All I can see are fireballs and flames!
In any case, some good s*x would take my mind off my mortality for at least five seconds, if you know what I mean. Sometimes being mortal is awfully hard work.
But I am not going to complain about the weather. All weather is good when you're alive, right? Right. Which leads me to the next item.
You'll have to excuse me if I'm a bit stressed out this week because Friday I have to get one of those scary medical tests that assseses where certain things are perfectly harmless - as my doctor assures me -- or whether, despite feeling perfectly healthy, I am on the verge of expiring before ever getting to meet Jake Gyllenhaal. "Ninety-nine percent of these things are benign," says my doctor, breezily, writing out the referral for aforementioned scary medical test.
This week will be like an extended plane flight for me. Certain, at any second, that I am about to plunge earthward, when, really, what are the chances? Low, low, low. And even if it is something evil, my chances of surviving are better than a plane crash! But can I see that possibility! No! All I can see are fireballs and flames!
In any case, some good s*x would take my mind off my mortality for at least five seconds, if you know what I mean. Sometimes being mortal is awfully hard work.
Wednesday, March 9, 2005
You poor things! You must be deathly bored if you have resorted to commenting on my spelling.
But who can blame you? My (lack of) love life is deathly boring these days. Have I even the remotest of remote hot action to report to you? Except for overly long hugs with ex-boyfriends, and flirtatious phone calls with long-distance cutie-pies - not a single thing. Even the setups are running away in droves.
You know what, though? I don't really care. I mean, I'm kinda lonely, yeah, and I'm kinda h*rny defintely, but I got sh*t goin' on, you dig?
Besides, as the magical pink pills dwindle , I've convinced myself that I'm suffering from yet another terminal disease (never mind which one), and while it would be nice to have someone nurse me through my wasting illness, finding blissful love now would only make a mockery of me since I have, oh, maybe six months left to live! (There is an entire section in this very interesting book devoted to why writers are so neurotic.)
Don't worry, though, I will finish the book! It is due in less than six months, so we should be fine. If worse comes to worse, I will dictate with my eyelid, as described in that amazing memoir, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.
Strangely, for someone with a horrible disease, I am feeling quite fine (except for the remnants of the Bird Flu I caught on the bus). Meanwhile, my friend's cat has a much funnier blog than me.
But who can blame you? My (lack of) love life is deathly boring these days. Have I even the remotest of remote hot action to report to you? Except for overly long hugs with ex-boyfriends, and flirtatious phone calls with long-distance cutie-pies - not a single thing. Even the setups are running away in droves.
You know what, though? I don't really care. I mean, I'm kinda lonely, yeah, and I'm kinda h*rny defintely, but I got sh*t goin' on, you dig?
Besides, as the magical pink pills dwindle , I've convinced myself that I'm suffering from yet another terminal disease (never mind which one), and while it would be nice to have someone nurse me through my wasting illness, finding blissful love now would only make a mockery of me since I have, oh, maybe six months left to live! (There is an entire section in this very interesting book devoted to why writers are so neurotic.)
Don't worry, though, I will finish the book! It is due in less than six months, so we should be fine. If worse comes to worse, I will dictate with my eyelid, as described in that amazing memoir, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.
Strangely, for someone with a horrible disease, I am feeling quite fine (except for the remnants of the Bird Flu I caught on the bus). Meanwhile, my friend's cat has a much funnier blog than me.
Friday, March 4, 2005
You'll be happy to know I survived the Day O' Little Sleep without falling into a deep trough of despair, but I do appear to have caught whatever that disgusting drip on the bus was passing around - we can only hope it's not the Bird Flu! Thanks, mister!
In other news, I picked up some photos yesterday, which I will guiltily admit to you was my first round of attempted author photos, taken by the talented photographer GalPal #2. Yes I know publication is still a year away! But I want pictures taken of me before I age any further! While I still have flowing tresses and a slender body and a look of deceptively dewey youth about my eyes!
And besides, can you blame me? I've been waiting to take this author photo for 25 years now.
I ripped them open, impatient to see how glamorous I looked in black and white. How hip and authorial and alluring. I had blow-dried my hair for the occasion, put on lipstick, and a dab of eyeliner, maybe even some eyeshadow.
And alas, despite GP #2's relative skill with the camera, I am in desperate need of a stylist. When photographed from the side, my hair looked like a layered quasi-mullet straight out of my 9th grade yearbook, and my chin was nonexistent.
As much as I would like to be photographed au naturel, outdoors with little makeup, hoping that my natural beauty will shine through, I now know this: it won't. It needs help. And much as I'd like this to be a family affair, I'll probably hire a professional photographer, too. One who can shine the rightlight on my face and make it look like I actually have a chin. And beforehand, I will have my hair done by someone who actualy knows how to wield a blow-dryer.
I admit, I'm a vain person. Vain enough to think that I have just enough glamor - if photographed correctly - to help sell a book. To strengthen my marketing campaign. I'm no Catherine Zeta-Jones but I'm cute! My mommy told me so! But even Ms ZJ, I'm sure, doesn't appear on the red carpet without spending several hours with her style professionals.
Besides, most women my age have been married at least twice by now, which means I've missed out on getting made-up and photographed (yeah, I'm one of those people who like getting my picture taken, if you haven't guessed by now). So here I go to find me a stylist!
What? What's that you say? Shouldn't you finish the book first? Is that what you're saying? What - are you my mother? I'm trying, OK? I'm working at it. It's just that getting my author photo taken is so much more fun!
In other news, I picked up some photos yesterday, which I will guiltily admit to you was my first round of attempted author photos, taken by the talented photographer GalPal #2. Yes I know publication is still a year away! But I want pictures taken of me before I age any further! While I still have flowing tresses and a slender body and a look of deceptively dewey youth about my eyes!
And besides, can you blame me? I've been waiting to take this author photo for 25 years now.
I ripped them open, impatient to see how glamorous I looked in black and white. How hip and authorial and alluring. I had blow-dried my hair for the occasion, put on lipstick, and a dab of eyeliner, maybe even some eyeshadow.
And alas, despite GP #2's relative skill with the camera, I am in desperate need of a stylist. When photographed from the side, my hair looked like a layered quasi-mullet straight out of my 9th grade yearbook, and my chin was nonexistent.
As much as I would like to be photographed au naturel, outdoors with little makeup, hoping that my natural beauty will shine through, I now know this: it won't. It needs help. And much as I'd like this to be a family affair, I'll probably hire a professional photographer, too. One who can shine the rightlight on my face and make it look like I actually have a chin. And beforehand, I will have my hair done by someone who actualy knows how to wield a blow-dryer.
I admit, I'm a vain person. Vain enough to think that I have just enough glamor - if photographed correctly - to help sell a book. To strengthen my marketing campaign. I'm no Catherine Zeta-Jones but I'm cute! My mommy told me so! But even Ms ZJ, I'm sure, doesn't appear on the red carpet without spending several hours with her style professionals.
Besides, most women my age have been married at least twice by now, which means I've missed out on getting made-up and photographed (yeah, I'm one of those people who like getting my picture taken, if you haven't guessed by now). So here I go to find me a stylist!
What? What's that you say? Shouldn't you finish the book first? Is that what you're saying? What - are you my mother? I'm trying, OK? I'm working at it. It's just that getting my author photo taken is so much more fun!
Thursday, March 3, 2005
I Am Tired
I got up at 5:30 today, I will have you know! Every once in a while I have to be at some completely unreasonable hour such as 9 a.m. The nerve! Not only does that require me getting out bed 4 hours earlier than usual so I can get a piddly amount of writing done it also requires battling traffic and other commuters on the Highway to Hell (aka Highway 520).
Dude, Take a F*cking Cough Drop
Because I am a Good Person who Cares Deeply about the world, I took the bus to work today. And of course, the one day I'm not carrying my headphones in my bag (which contains everything else I might need to survive a nuclear holocaust - including pharmaceuticals, make up, book manuscript, sheet music, laptop, cell phone, wallet, keys, and a complete printed set of Encyclopedia Brittanica) is the day I take the bus and the dude sitting next to me hacks and sniffles the whole. way. there. Through traffic. HACK. Past stunning views of Mt. Rainier in the mist presiding over a calm blue Lake Washington. SNIFFLE. Through the plastic suburban wasteland of Bellevue. COUGH! SPLUTTER! The guy probably has the Bird Flu, and now I am going to get it, all because I tried to make the world a better place!
Soon It Will All Be Over
Once my first cup of coffee wears off, my lack of sleep will start to wear on me. It will manifest itself first as a general malaise. Perhaps I will look at my uninspired outfit, thrown together at 5:30, and think eegads, could those pants you thought were sooo cool when you bought them, be any more unflattering to your butt? Could your hair be any more boring? And why don't you have more pairs of cool shoes like Carrie in Sex and the City, not to mention matching sets of lingerie?
As the afternoon drags on, a more existential type of angst will set in. Good Lord, was I put on this earth to be a corporate wage slave? I'll probably die in a plane crash before I get to be a bestselling author. Or catch a horrible disease. Hell, the horrible disease has probably already insinuated itself in my body. The Bird Flu! From the guy on the bus!
Clearly, I am destined to die before finding true, lasting, meaningful love. Is it possible I could at least have lasting, meaningful s*x before I die? Or at least hot s*x? Please? Given my boring hair, unflattering pants, and lack of sexy lingerie, not freaking likely!
That's Just Today
Last night, I was on top of the world. I thought to myself: I'm exactly the person I wanted to be when I was growing up. Not only am I about to achieve my lifelong dreams of becoming a published novelist and playing in a rock band, I am a sexy, single girl with a Sex and the City lifestyle (minus all the shoes, lingerie, and girlfriends who have time to brunch with me).
But There's Still Today
Now that I am limiting myself to a two measly cups of coffee a day, I'm not sure I'll be able to get back to my clear-eyed appreciation of life's bounty. And now, for the most petty vent of all time: Perhaps if I weren't trapped out here in the sterile strip-mall land, I could hit a nice Happy Hour in Seattle, but noooo! I am trapped on the uncool side of the lake FOR EVERY HAPPY HOUR BETWEEN NOW UNTIL THE DAY I DIE! WHICH IS PROBABLY VERY SOON GIVEN THAT I ALREADY HAVE THE BIRD FLU.
I hope you got more sleep than I did.
XO,
BB
I got up at 5:30 today, I will have you know! Every once in a while I have to be at some completely unreasonable hour such as 9 a.m. The nerve! Not only does that require me getting out bed 4 hours earlier than usual so I can get a piddly amount of writing done it also requires battling traffic and other commuters on the Highway to Hell (aka Highway 520).
Dude, Take a F*cking Cough Drop
Because I am a Good Person who Cares Deeply about the world, I took the bus to work today. And of course, the one day I'm not carrying my headphones in my bag (which contains everything else I might need to survive a nuclear holocaust - including pharmaceuticals, make up, book manuscript, sheet music, laptop, cell phone, wallet, keys, and a complete printed set of Encyclopedia Brittanica) is the day I take the bus and the dude sitting next to me hacks and sniffles the whole. way. there. Through traffic. HACK. Past stunning views of Mt. Rainier in the mist presiding over a calm blue Lake Washington. SNIFFLE. Through the plastic suburban wasteland of Bellevue. COUGH! SPLUTTER! The guy probably has the Bird Flu, and now I am going to get it, all because I tried to make the world a better place!
Soon It Will All Be Over
Once my first cup of coffee wears off, my lack of sleep will start to wear on me. It will manifest itself first as a general malaise. Perhaps I will look at my uninspired outfit, thrown together at 5:30, and think eegads, could those pants you thought were sooo cool when you bought them, be any more unflattering to your butt? Could your hair be any more boring? And why don't you have more pairs of cool shoes like Carrie in Sex and the City, not to mention matching sets of lingerie?
As the afternoon drags on, a more existential type of angst will set in. Good Lord, was I put on this earth to be a corporate wage slave? I'll probably die in a plane crash before I get to be a bestselling author. Or catch a horrible disease. Hell, the horrible disease has probably already insinuated itself in my body. The Bird Flu! From the guy on the bus!
Clearly, I am destined to die before finding true, lasting, meaningful love. Is it possible I could at least have lasting, meaningful s*x before I die? Or at least hot s*x? Please? Given my boring hair, unflattering pants, and lack of sexy lingerie, not freaking likely!
That's Just Today
Last night, I was on top of the world. I thought to myself: I'm exactly the person I wanted to be when I was growing up. Not only am I about to achieve my lifelong dreams of becoming a published novelist and playing in a rock band, I am a sexy, single girl with a Sex and the City lifestyle (minus all the shoes, lingerie, and girlfriends who have time to brunch with me).
But There's Still Today
Now that I am limiting myself to a two measly cups of coffee a day, I'm not sure I'll be able to get back to my clear-eyed appreciation of life's bounty. And now, for the most petty vent of all time: Perhaps if I weren't trapped out here in the sterile strip-mall land, I could hit a nice Happy Hour in Seattle, but noooo! I am trapped on the uncool side of the lake FOR EVERY HAPPY HOUR BETWEEN NOW UNTIL THE DAY I DIE! WHICH IS PROBABLY VERY SOON GIVEN THAT I ALREADY HAVE THE BIRD FLU.
I hope you got more sleep than I did.
XO,
BB
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