It's always embarrassing to walk into a brunch place alone on Sundays. I mean what else so clearly says, "Hey world, I slept alone last night!"



But you know what - I've done it a lot before and I'll do it a lot again, I'm sure, because the bottom line is, I like brunch, and I like to write while eating brunch and these days there's a dearth of people to have brunch with (hello, whatever happened to you K.M.?) -- so there you have it. I write alone at Sunday brunch. At least I don't drink alone at Sunday brunch. Yet.



At least I have company on Saturdays now. My good friend and talented writer Odious Woman has started to join me at various haunts around town (El Diablo Coffee Company and Uptown Espresso in Belltown are two new favorites) so we can be angst-ridden together.



I'm getting used to solitude in the evenings, though. I walk into my sparkling condo, so comfortable and clean, and think Aaah. I find that, instead of wanting to stay out late, socializing with whomever, I just want to retreat to a place of quiet. I still require much social stimulation - don't get me wrong. Probably more than most. But lately it's been more concentrated to just my close friends, rather than the vast web of second-tier friends and acquaintances that I could call on (and usually do after a breakup).



Then, around about 10 p.m., I just want to go home. I don't want to blaze into the evening in a slinky dress or flirt with people I don't know. It's partly that I'm sad. Still. And partly that my brain is just tired.



This book seems to suck up every last ounce of emotional and intellectual energy I have. Even if I'm not writing it, I'm thinking about it. When I wake up in the morning, it's the first thing on my mind. And it stays there - all day long - taking up space. Lots and lots of space. Which is why it's a good thing to have quiet in my life right now. This book makes so much damn noise - in my head, in my heart - that I need a lot of down time.



But there's a fine line for me between down time and too much down time - which gets me really down. So far, though - despite feeling sad and defeated about love - I seem to be doing OK. More good hours than bad.



And that's on only a 3/4 dose of Celexa!

Thank you my dear fans, detractors, and commenters, for not making me feel so alone in this big, bad world! For offering to get me illicit drugs, for empathizing with my loneliness, for telling me to back away from the phone, and even making pleas on my behalf to the men in my life! You rock.



Now I really don't have much to say today, but I thought I should say something anyway, since you all hang on my every word (kidding).



I'm reading a book at the moment, called The Forest for the Trees, that has all sorts of explanations as to why writers are neurotic, mentally ill, and ofen alcoholics too boot! I plan on quoting it next time anyone accuses me of being "moody" or wondering how it is I can write while drinking a glass of wine. Of course I can write while drinking -- I'm a WRITER!



Anyway, 'twould be best for me to log off now, seeing as I'm taking up space in a chi-chi restaurant where the waitress keeps shooting me dirty looks as I nurse my glass of wine and the dinner crowd pours in, but you know what - SHE'LL REGRET IT WHEN I'M FAMOUS.



xo

BB

Well, I picked a fine time to go off my meds!



When I’m recovering from the loss of not one, but two relationships!



Clearly I was on drugs when I made that decision!



Or else, things just hadn’t sunk in. Like how much I hate being alone. Or not so much being alone. I actually love it. I love being alone when I write, I love watching Sex and the City and eating Thai food alone, I love going to bed alone with a good book in complete and utter silence. I even like going out to eat alone.



But it’s much harder to be alone when I feel lonely and sad. And I think you all know, if you’ve been reading this thing long enough, what does when BB feels the void of loneliness yawn around her? She does anything to avoid crossing it, include use her reserves of charm and sex appeal to find a boy – any boy! – to fill it.



And we all know where THAT’S gotten her. Yes, yes, besides a lot of hot makeout action and a book contract with a major publishing house.



It’s gotten her…here. Again! And Good Lord, it’s time for a break.



At least a week, don’t you think? Aw, come on! Whaddya mean not long enough? But it’s been ages since I’ve experienced the delights of the quivering manflesh! Library Boy and I, if you must know, were rather chaste the second time around, and for good reason – everything was a house of cards.



Sexy Boy has kindly forgiven me for my treachery, but is understandably not willing to let me rush back into his arms. At least right away. Not that I think I should, either – we had our issues, and they were serious, and to his credit, he took them to heart.



But damn if I’m not tempted to call him every single day.



I won’t, though. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t! Let him date those ditzy dimwits at the gym or the Thai restaurant or wherever he finds them, or his supremely screwed up ex-girlfirned, I don’t care.



See me not caring? I have better things to do!



Like be alone. So. Much. Fun.

Well, I picked a fine time to go off my meds. Wen I’m trying to get over the loss of not one, but two relationships.



WTF? Or rather, WWIT?! (What was I thinking?!)



Clearly I was on drugs when I made that decision. Or it all adnt quite it me yet.



Now I’m only on ¾ of my drugs and I MISS THE OTHER QUARTER, OK!



The head doctor said I wouldn’t start having symptoms of withdrawal until six weeks down the road when I stopped

I am - DEEP BREATH - facing my demons right now, and not only that, on a 3/4 dose of a Celexa!



My demon, my #1 top demon of all time is (drumroll, please!)... Lonelines!



Yes, it is a Sunday, a pale, gray, humid Sunday on which I woke up completely alone and will go to bed completely alone, and will probably spend my day competely alone except for that one hour I'm going to spend checking out the potential bandmates I solicited on Craig's List. ("Hot female keyboard player, can't really play rock but will sure look good on stage - seeks collaborators!" The responses have been pouring in!)



I know that my parent-friends are drooling right now. "Ohhh, alone. I would cut off my right arm for an HOUR alone right now!"



The day got off to a rocky start when, craving eggs, I searched for a brunch place in Wallingford, where I could plug in my laptop and not have to wait for a table, but alas, I found the place overrun with yuppies willing to queue up for hours while drinking their Starbuck swill.



So I moved north a few blocks, to Tangletown, and lo and behold - jackpot! Free wi-fi, good coffee, no line to get in, and a breakfast menu. In addition, no big groups of happy people to make me feel pathetic for being a LONELY, TORTURED ARTIST, and *bonus* friendly male waiters provide excellent service, and who chat me up when they're not busy. Heh.



Now, for the rest of my day, instead of calling up ex-boyfriends and begging them to hang out with me, therefore falling prey to my Dark Side, I am going to meet my future potential bandmates, then treat myself to a fun, culturally enriching evening sans anyone except my delightful self.



For example, I think this movie sounds like fun, don't you? After all, who needs a man when you can watch Mt. St. Helens erupt?

So, as the Library Boy drama plays out to it’s final conclusions, it turns out he is…not well. Depressed. Freaked out. Going through some major sh*t, which is not surprising, given how much sh*t he went through as a kid.



“I was afraid to tell you,” he says now. I thought I’d never be talking to him again, but I’m not so hardhearted that I can resist someone crying on my voicemail. “I should have trusted you enough to tell you what was really going on.”



Maybe I’m being manipulated, was my first thought. He feels guilty; he thinks I hate him, so he’s trying to get my pity.



But as I listened to him talk about how scared and lonely and depressed he was, he did get my sympathy, though I kept an icy tone in my voice. Because though I did – and maybe do – care about him deeply, I’m not in a position to help him.



The most surprising thing of all was that he covered it up so well. He played the role of Mr. Grounded, as I said, to a “t,” so much so that I decided to trust him with my love. To lean on him, because I thought he was a fount of stability. Meanwhile, the foundation was crumbling and the nails were falling out of the walls.



I hope he gets the help he needs. Because there is a wonderful person in there, who could be grounded and stable and nurturing and loving, and all those things I thought he was. That he is. He just won’t be those things for me- or for anyone - until he can get to the heart of what ails him.



Meanwhile, lock your doors and batten down your hatches, because, I, people, am going off my anti-depressants. Yes, it’s been two and a half years now that General Celexa has kept me on the straight-and-narrow but damn it, I want to see if I can survive with out him!



Please don’t worry – it will be a very slow process and I am under strict doctor supervision (could you loosen this straitjacket PLEASE, and when do I get my next TRANQUILIZER?!) so take a deep breath, have a Black Currant Margarita on me, and let’s see how it goes, shall we?

Now that I see Library Boy for what he was - just another confused, immature, and territorial male - I thank God he showed his true colors so quickly this time around.



I mean, who needs another Loser? Who needs another Indie Rock Dad? There is a subset of man out there who just flat-out lack integrity. Who say one thing and mean another; who say one thing one day, then another the next; or who just don't know what they're saying when they say "I love you." Who don't know themselves well enough to know if they mean it or not, all they know is they see a pretty thing and they want it. Today, at least. Tomorrow, well. That's another story.



I thought by now I'd be able to spot those kind of zygotes from a mile off, but some of them can act pretty darn well too. Hell, LB deserves an Oscar for his portrayal of Mr. Grounded. Step right up to the podium and accept your gold statuette for Best Oscar, LB, because you fooled even the cynical Breakup Babe - not once, but twice! But first -- see a stylist.



Anyway, what I meant to say when I started this little rant was, in fact, that I feel more relaxed than I have in quite some time. For near about three months now, I've been agonizing about my "choice." Not knowing which boy was better for me, stumbling, grabbing greedily because I wasn't used to such apparent plenty.



But it's all over now. The LB bubble burst so quickly you could barely see it shimmer, and thank God. It was all mistake. But I made it, and there's nothing I can do about it now. Except take a deep breath and enjoy the momentary quiet in my head.

Haven't men learned by now that they shouldn't f*ck with me? That if and when they do I'm going to decimate them for the reading pleasure of millions of fans around the world? That I'm going to reveal them for the utterly weak, immature, and two-faced rat bastards they are?



Apparently not.



But methinks they'll learn soon enough.



Love,

Breakup Babe

OK, now that everything is in pieces, the veil is lifting.



What if I revealed to you I broke up with Sexy Boy because he kept his heart locked up with a golden key? He loved me enough, I believe that now. He just didn't, in the immortal words of Madonna,"express himself." And I am nothing if not expressive. Nothing if not in need of expression and from those I love.



The first couple weeks we were together, I couldn't believe my luck. I had wanted this boy for *so* long. And all of a sudden, after I'd long since stopped expecting it, he was mine. Or seemed to be. We went on a road trip together, through the mesas of Arizona, the rainy foothills of Utah, and the snow-dusted mountains of New Mexico. And every single night, I went to sleep in a blissful trance. He's mine.



I felt lucky. And I was. Because it's not every day you find someone as handsome, as kind, as spontanteous, and as sexy, of course, as Sexy Boy. It's not every day you can fall in love with one of your best friends.



But then, when our idyllic road trip ended and real life intruded, I found myself getting impatient at his seeming lack of passion for me. He didn't seem that into me. He didn't hold my hand or give me spontaneous hugs or tell me I was beautiful. And so, because he kept himself at a distance, I had to do that too, curbing my natural instincts for affection.



If I wanted to hug him (which I always wanted to do), I checked myself. He won't like it. If I wanted to hold his hand (which I always wanted to do) I checked myself. He won't hold it back. If I wanted to kiss him in a public place (which I always wanted to do), I checked myself. He'll be embarrassed. The only place he seemed truly into me was the bedroom.



So I got impatient. I got frustrated. I told him how I felt but gave him very little time to react before I cut and run. It was not that simple, of course. Because there was Library Boy, swearing he'd learned from his mistakes, then getting down on bended knee and promising me what SB couldn't seem to give me. Affection. Attention.Adoration.



But what I should have learned last time is that his promises were lies, and that red roses don't mean a thing, and that just because someone stares into your eyes and tells you your beautiful, it doesn't mean a f*cking thing. Oh, man how I should have let sleeping dogs lie.



But no. I was stupid. I got greedy and I got impatient. I trusted someone I shouldn't have trusted and I hurt someone I didn't want to hurt. Who had never done a thing wrong except be afraid to open himself up, for fear that I would do exactly what I did.



Which was to ruin everything.

So you want to know about my love life, do you?



OK, I've said it before and I'll say it again: I'm going to die old and alone.



What more do you need to know really? Maybe the reason I haven't talked about it it because it's just the same old sh*t, over and over. Just insert different acronyms.



And can I say I don't believe in astrology anymore? Way back in September, my horoscope promised me 13 months of "romantic bliss." Now I admit there have been moments of true bliss since then. But these moments s have been surrounded by a whole heaping helping of turmoil; I would venture to say more turmoil, than I've been through in a long-a*s time.



But, I've said it before and I'll say it again, WHATever. I have a book to write and I don't have time to mope around. Deadlines don't wait for broken hearts to heal. Oh sure, the publisher gets a clause written into the contract for Acts of God, etc, but me? I have my deadline and I have to meet it, come what may.



Meanwhile, not only do I work in a windowless office, soon I will be living in a bubble. Yes, my new and beloved condo will soon be - ahem - "tented" from head to toe for an entire f*cking year. I knew this was a possibility, but I hoped, prayed, that maybe they would do half at a time or some reasonable sh*t like that. In addition, I have to fork over a whole lot of dough so they can do this construction and cut off the light from my big south-facing skywall, my source of sustenance, my view of the Sound.



Perfect! Maybe I can move back in with A. and J, they who sheltered me during the Great Unpleasantess, who've seen me through many a Minor Unpleasantness, who are always there, rock solid, feeding babies and making peanut butter sandwiches.



They have windows, and I know they'll do anything to get a bigger part in the book.

This is much too late for me to be up writing. I am not one of those writers who gets their best work done late at night. Nope, my brain shuts down at 10 p.m. I am more of a morning-type-writer. Say 11 am to 2 pm.



But today I was forced to be at work at the ungodly hour of 9:30 a.m.. Good Lord, you’d think I had a real job or something! Of course, there was no time for me to get any writing done seeing as I had to leave for work at 8:30 because to make sure I wasn’t late and with the hellish traffic around here, you just NEVER KNOW.



Not only that, I narrowly avoided having to be in at the even-more-ungodly-hour of 9 a.m. tomorrow! But the Thing I was supposed to do got cancelled. Phew! I am still required to be there by 11:30, but I can almost handle that.



In any case, that is a long-winded explanation for why I’m up writing so “late.” Another thing, I’m just plain lonely and sad tonight. And words are my solace. Like they have been over and OVER these last 2.5 years.



Speaking of which, I love my editor. You know why? ‘Cause she loved my first five chapters! Now that’s my kind of editor! Twenty five more chapters and we’re there, baby!



Yeah. Ok.



Let’s see, what else can I talk about to avoid talking about my love life?



Well, the weather. A perennially interesting topic – don’t you think? It has not snowed, to my great chagrin. OK – it did snow on Sunday, but it was over and melted (mostly) before I woke up. At noon. Now what kind of wimpy-ass snowfall is THAT?



The sky won’t even do me the favor of a good rainstorm. It just sits there. Silent. Gray. Sullen.



Kind of like me. Wait! I’m not sullen!



I’m the perkiest little Celexified writer chick there is, but SOME people lately (names shall not be named) have termed me “cranky.” “Moody.”



CRANKY? Who, ME?



Can I just say I know A LOT OF PEOPLE WHO ARE WAY MORE EFFIN’ MOODY THAN ME???



But that aside. Granted, I can be moody. In a mercurial sort of way. My moods come and go like swirly little gusts of wind, but they don’t last. Beneath it all, I’m a drug-fortified rock. Mostly happy. Mostly content. Mostly optimistic and people-loving.



So gee whiz. My feelings are hurt, OK? I’m an artiste! Aren’t we allowed to be just a little bit moody?



And isn’t someone going to love us anyway?



Tonight I’m not so sure about that. Which is why, as always in times like these, I turn to you my dear readers. Because you love me, I know you do. Even when, ESPECIALLY when, I’m in a bad mood.



Xo

BB

I wish it would just snow already - jeez! Everyone has been mentally preparing for the one-inch of snow we're going to receive, looking forward to their snow day, staying home from work even before it snows (because their might be ice on the road in two days!) talking about the damn snow - which, of course, has yet to appear. I'll believe it when I see it.



Meanwhile, I'm going to be a warrior and brave the bare, wet roads today to do my time at the Company - God help me if it starts to snow while I'm there and I get stranded! I'll have to live off vending machine food and criminally bad coffee,and find a stranded gazillionaire developer to snuggle up with, and perhaps marry - one who will probably have have stringy hair down to his waist with a bald spot on top (but I am so evolved I no longer care).



If I'm lucky, he will whisk me away to his McMansion in Bellevue where I can quit my job, hire a live-in chef, and work daily on my novel (commuting, of course, to the west side for coffeehouse culture)and spend evenings lounging in plush, new furniture watching movies on a giant screen TV while hubby geeks out at the office to make us more millions.



Well, you might ask, to what do we owe the honor of your attention today, Ms BB? Why aren't you off writing your book or breaking hearts or trying to work off that four pounds you gained over the holidays?



For one, I lost it already - ha!



For two, I just sent off five chapters to my editor last night, who has not yet gotten back to me about my first five chapters, which has caused a frenzy of insecurity - DOES SHE LIKE IT?? AM I DOING IT RIGHT?? CAUSE THERE ARE ONLY 7 MORE MONTHS TIL I HAVE TO FINISH IT! HAS SHE DECIDED TO CANCEL MY CONTRACT WITHOUT TELLING ME?!



Meanwhile, I must plunge ahead. I'm about to embark on rewriting my next five chapters and after that I'll be on to new material (a first draft exists of my entire book, but it is, of course, laughably bad). These revisions hurt my head, especially for the first week. I look at this stuff I've already spent SO much time writing and think how, HOW can I rewrite this AGAIN! (To fill you in, Random House wanted me to "reformat" my original submission: thus, the rewrites).



But with enough coffee, the revisions get done - SLOWLY- and then I refine, and refine, and refine. And then of course, go to work and try to summon the energy to get promoted so I don't get my a*s fired.



That, my friends, is where I really need the luck.

Darlings, I have been too heartbroken and preoccupied to blog as of late. I hope you are getting your fill of sex and lies somewhere else.



If you must know, I have been living up to my name and breaking up with someone. Because I seem programmed to seek out drama and to flee from love at all costs, lest I might actually be content one day and have nothing to write about.



Let's just say this: it was not the merriest of holiday seasons. Although at least I did not start of 2005 by falling off a barstool, which, as you may recall, how I started 2004. I started 2005 by watching fireworks, drinking champagne, and feeling sad.



Hope you are merrier.



Love, BB