I saw this in an August/September issue of Budget Living (probably 2003) and promptly ordered one in each color. They’re way cute, make great gifts, and one of these days, I’ll work the soft scrub and actually take a baff in my bafftub.

Also, spent much of this weekend with Photoboy. dot dot dot

Isn’t it ironic that soldierboy included this song on his mix CD for me? Particularly in light of the following heretofore incomprehensible lyrics that my best friend pointed out before knowing this song had been included on said mix:

“Well, it took a lot of work to be the ass that I am
And I’m real damn sure that anyone can, equally easily fuck you over”

Obviously, anyone can equally easily fuck me over, as evidenced by photoboy. (I take that back. It’s not the same at all. Not even the same planet.)

DARK CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE
I might disintegrate into the thin air if you’d like
I’m not the dark center of the universe like you thought [x2]
Well, it took a lot of work to be the ass that I am
And I’m real damn sure that anyone can, equally easily fuck you over
Well, died sayin’ something, but didn’t mean it
Everyone’s life ends, but no one ever completes it
Dry or wet ice, they both melt and you’re equally cheated
Well, it took a lot of work to be the ass that I am
And I’m really damn sure that anyone can, equally easily fuck you over
Well, an endless ocean landin’ on an endless desert
Well, its funny as hell, but no one laughs when they get there
If you can’t see the thin air than why the hell should you care?
Well, it took a lot of work to be the ass that I am
And I’m really damn sure that anyone can, equally easily fuck you over
Well, I’m sure you’d tell me you got nothing to say
But our voices shook hands the other day
If you can’t see the thin air what the hell is in the way?
[repeated lyrics]
Well, God sayin’ somethin’, but he didn’t mean it
Everyone’s life ends, but no one ever completes it
Dry or wet ice, they both melt and you’re equally cheated
Well, it took a lot of work to be the ass that I am
And I’m really damn sure that anyone can, equally easily fuck you over
I’m sure you’ll tell me you got nothin’ to say
But our voices shook hands the other day
If you can’t see the thin air then what the hells in your way?

And so, I retained some legal counsel.

There’s a portion of the law called equity or chancery. Most of the
law is “at law.” Some of the law is “in equity.” It used to be that
there were separate courts-courts at law and chancery courts. Most
states now have courts that do both, except DE which still has a very
influential chancery court. At law basically refers to past court
decisions and statutes, etc., what you think of as the law. “In
equity” refers to the court’s power to create fairness between the
parties, by, for example, making them perform a contract to sell real
estate, or preventing someone from carrying out a harmful act by
granting an injunction. The idea is that you need the court to do
something for you other than award damages. Now, if you come to the
court and ask them to use their powers “in equity,” the other side
gets to argue that you aren’t so innocent and you have “unclean
hands,” so the court should ignore your request.

That’s my take. I’m sure a law professor would find ways to quibble
about that description.

Which basically means, adding up everything, I can basically do whatever I want, no matter how balls-out crazy, to soldier boy. His unclean hands make it a-ok.

Here I go! Commence fun multimedia art project! Hooray!

Life is not all stinky turds that have been lurking in your closet for years.

Cretins of the Year - 2004

To do:

* work on ’sense of touch’ piece for mr. bipolar
* scrabble night
* drinks with prender (?)

I saw Million Dollar Baby this weekend and cried like a two dollar whore. First, I emoted because of the plotline. Second, I cried because I at once was reminded of that powerful urge I have (always juiced when I see movies like G.I. Jane or Girlfight) to learn how to box, to kick people’s asses, to continue the fight with my mom. I don’t want to fight any more. I don’t. I lay down my arms. But letting go of all that, it’s difficult.

Particularly when these past few days I’ve felt such anger and resentment. Mom called me last night and for once, I didn’t call her right back. Still haven’t called her back. I’m brimming with anger. Why did she have to drag us down into her shit, punish us for the transgressions of another? Weave your web and all that shit. Ignorance really is bliss; this newfound knowledge of mind is heavy, yo.

But! Or shall I say, butt. The cleans that I’ve been doing since Photoboy broke my heart (caved and emailed him) a couple of weeks ago are finally paying off. Even though it’s not much — 1 set of ten reps of forty pounds — my ghetto booty is slowly but surely returning. ‘Return of the back’…

So, pretty soon the chip on my shoulder can turn into junk in my trunk. That’s a fair trade, IMHO.

And, saw an Academy friend who has spent the last decade or so completely stoned / tripping / out of her mind on drugs. She’s not totally sober these days (definitely did K on Friday night) but she’s so much healthier than when I saw her three years ago — that was a dark, scary place she was in. It’s good to have her back.

It’s good to start having me back, too. I don’t know where the fuck I’ve been the past 10+ years or so.

“AND WE’RE BACK!”

I realized after seeing Accidental Nostalgia that I’ve buried a lot of things from my childhood. Talking with my older sister on Saturday morning bubbled up a lot of stuff that I haven’t thought about in a dozen odd years. Specifically, all of the emotional abuse suffered at the hand of my lunatic, emotionally unstable mother. Which is difficult to admit much less put into writing because I love her desperately and have bought into the party line that she is a victim, that she is the martyr, she is King Baby and do not ever question your mother. There were terrible things that happened to her, terrible unjustices that she suffered at the hands of abusive men, terrible terrible terrible.

My older sister told me how, after an elementary school presentation on alcoholism, a lightbulb went off in her head and she started measuring alcohol in the house — certain it was the explanation for mom’s psychotic behavior since the presentation read like a checklist. Namely. Never knowing if it was going to be safe when you got home from school (mom taking a nap: good. mom awake: run for the hills). Never knowing what was going to unleash her torrent of fury. Never knowing what sort of mindfuck game you would have to play at the age of 8 in order to get your mom to stop screaming at you, stop telling you to go to hell, stop putting you out on the porch in the middle of the night and locking the door behind you.

I’d forgotten all of this, swept it under the rug, tidied things up, ran off to the Academy and never looked back. But sure enough, I read through my childhood diary this weekend and there it was, buried in between a detailed list of boys I liked and awards I’d won.

Mom is so hard to live with sometimes.
Mom can be such a bitch.
Maybe I should take Mom’s advice and just go to hell.

‘I keep trippin’ over the same damn rock instead of kickin’ it out of the way.’

It came to me, babbling like a brook, burst out while making steak fajitas on saturday evening. I remembered it all. Floating up and disappearing while she screamed at me. Going numb as I saw the bottom of the vacuum cleaner above my head; watching it come down towards me. Mastering the art of not being present if it was safer to emotionally disappear. Mastering the art of being a chameleon. Getting straight As because maybe it would make her happy. Joining every afterschool activity because I did not want to come home. Being a control freak because ordered gridlines was the only place where I felt safe. Seeking out confrontation because confrontation equals love, mindgames equal love, screaming and bawling and abusive behavior equals love.

Being the only one in my family who didn’t play an instrument. Acing the singing solos in elementary school except when my mom was in the audience — then I fell hard (forgetting lyrics, voice cracking). Because when I was 4 I used to hum myself to sleep and mom would burst into the room and slap the shit out of me.

I have the right to sing, dammit. I don’t have to fight the world; fighting the world is nothing more than a continuation of the battle with my mother.

I lay down my arms.

Perhaps this is too much information. But it feels like the more I address it, stare it in the face, recognize it for the truth that it is, the closer I can come to figuring out what to do next.

My godparents quote unquote are in town from PDX and took me to see Cynthia Hopkins in Accidental Nostalgia last night. Their son is the bassist.

Reading through the descriptions, I thought it might be a little weird and the guy I’m kind of dating (new one, not the emotionally unstable photographer fucker) said it looked a little ‘off’. But when I saw it, I was blown away — so many interesting almost Kierkegaardian layers of intrigue. On one hand, it’s superficially entertaining — great music, interesting multimedia uses, full frontal nudity. But dig deeper, and it’s an interesting exploration of how we define ourselves — by what we are not (what we choose to forget — since the process of memory necessarily involves forgetting the majority of whatever happens to you) and who we wish to become (by selecting that which we choose to remember).

Anyway, post-fucko(s), I thought it was awesome awesome awesome. Yes, part of me was thinking, photoboy would love this and I wish we were ‘holders of hands’ right now enjoying this together so we could talk about it later. But, instead, new boy texted me last night then called me this a.m. when I replied and ‘still in love‘ by the stills doesn’t necessarily hurt to listen to. Anyway, it was new boy that lent it to me anyway.

To do: head to ICP to see exhibit, see Jules & Jim, go to Maggie’s bday partay, remember that I am a vibrant amazing passionate woman and that yes, some men actually can love you one minute and a few hours later insist that they’re not sure they ever want to be with you again…

But the thoughts we try to deny
Take a toll upon our lives

Actually, no, there will be no Scheherezade in February, because I just mailed my ticket to you know who, who announced last night that he doesn’t want us to get back together again.

I cried so hard my eyes are still puffy (cover: I’m allergic to cats).

I am so sick of being the few-week fling of men (LCG, Guy Smiley, now DTB). It’s like, intense and amazing and soul-shaking, and then suddenly, POUF.

What. The. Fuck.

Is it me? It’s me, isn’t it?

Happy one month anniversary! Now, let’s call a TV time out because we’re just not ready to deal with the kinds of feelings that we’re having, shall we?

Who needs to visit Cedar Point when you can have a roller coaster from the comfort of your own bedroom, from laughing so hard at 5 a.m. that you suspect you may very well get evicted to curling yourself up into a ball in a dark place while your lover holds you knowing exactly what you’re going through. And then, in twelve hours, having things cut off.

Well anyway, perhaps it’s for the best. Lord knows that being called girlfriend was at once thrilling and something I was definitely not ready for. I still feel terrible about the JJC situation and haven’t processed the Guy Smiley affair either.

But Lord. What I felt for DTB was so fucking authentic and honest and beautiful. Even if I knew we had an expiration date, even if I knew the pace we were going at was untenable over the long haul, even if I knew I had all the shit from JJC and Guy Smiley to process, even if I really wanted was some god-damned space these past two days.

There is always Scheherezade in February.