My mom stresses me out. No, you cannot move in with me, back off.

Boys stress me out. No, you cannot move in with me, back off.

I stress me out. Stop it with the obsessing, the emoting, the general being-a-freak tendencies.

* sigh *

To do:

* Attend Craig’s opening
* MCV
* Scheherezade with my sister, not Photoboy (*sniffle*)

My friend JRC is an engineer at Apple, and sent me the link to submit one of them there switcher stories. I wrote the following in about eight minutes and submitted it. We’ll see.

I remember being six years old and tooling away at a $10,000 IBM with two big fat floppy drives. It was me, this dogeared book about BASIC that I purchased through Scholastic, and the green screen. It was my first love affair; I spent hours in front of that bad boy crafting programs laden with inputs and gotos and cls.

I remember being annoyed when I arrived on the Yale campus and the computer labs were filled with Macs. I wanted myself a nice DOS prompt. Was that too much to ask? Once I entered corporate America, I demanded an IBM laptop even though the majority of the company was on Mac. Only a piteous fool would want to use the dumbed-down interface of a Mac. Give me shell access or give me death!

And then, something happened. This beautiful machine began appearing everywhere. Billboards. Retail establishments. The desks of art directors. I would find myself inadvertently reaching for its smooth curves, transfixed by the sleeping pulsing light. And anyway, who logged in to a DOS prompt anymore?

It was over. I was sold. My knees buckled, my wallet opened, I bought myself an iMac. And the rest, as they say, is history.

Perhaps it is simply coincidence that since purchasing my iMac a year ago I’ve started enjoying my music again after three years of silence, writing again after a five year hiatus, started drawing again after 12 years off. Cause or simply correlation, I don’t know. But I do know that the Apple sticker is proudly on the back of my car, and I folded and renounced my MiniDisc in favor of the iPod mini, and I proselytize my friends about the wondrous small ways in which Apple can reengineer their relationship to their computer, nay, their world.

xoxo

Done did:
* Saw Joe and Rishi and Mia at the Mercury Lounge on Tuesday. I love being with the band.
* Received the best, best email ever from photoboy. A really nice, warm, ‘fondlier’ email that essentially said, “You changed my life, and I’ll remember you until my last breath. I’m so grateful to have met you.” Now, where are those tickets!
* Chatted with the boy I met on Lincoln’s Birthday who really has driven home the “obnoxious, funny, and true” nature of the thin upper crust. He took the bait and agreed to my upsell of attending Boozy Show on Saturday night.

I’m alive.

I had a date last night. He didn’t show. Had a conference in Cali that he was leaving for this morning and had forgotten some stuff at his office, so didn’t have time to make it down to see Matty Charles @ The Living Room.

And you know what? I don’t care. Old me: freak out, obsess, get all insecure. New me: enjoy the great show anyway, buy my fat ass a tasty crepe, have a great evening anyway.

It’s not a land of scarcity. Options exist. “If ya look hungry, ya starve!” (From Lynn during drinks with her & Jordana Wednesday night.) I spoke this morning with someone who matches my current Checklist For Hotness: objectively hot, artist (sculptor), witty.

It’s nice to chill the fuck out and not get all freaky-deaky co-dependent. Don’t get me wrong. Photoboy was. He knocked my socks off. He’s an incredibly special human being. But maybe our paths will intersect, maybe they won’t. That’s not something that I necessarily have any control over. I do know that the scent of his skin is intoxicating, and my spirit aches for the nearness of him. But if we are to have any holders-of-hands, lips-blue-from-cotton-candy episodes, they won’t be time now. I’m not in that place, he’s not in that place.

Perhaps it seems that aching for him and releasing him are contradictory. It may simply be my inner Kierkegaard, turning it over, infinitely resigned. Or maybe, maybe I’m just making progress down the path of inner completeness, contentment, SERENITY NOW, and dare I say, actually loving myself.

To do:
- Hang out with Academy friend Adrian, who is in town for internship interviews
- Design Is Not Art with Adrian and his GF?
- Figure drawing group near Prospect Park

I get home from a nice evening with my dear friend Little 13, and wouldn’t you know it, there’s an email from photoboy requesting that I hook his friend up with Sandeman. It could actually be a mutually beneficial meeting, so of course I emailed his friend.

But it got me thinking. About photoboy. And his beautiful eyes and his tasty lips and the scent of his skin and the way we were together. The chemistry. Like. A. Drug. It was all I could do to not drunk-text him this past weekend.

Yes. On the one hand. I think things would never work out. But is that me believing that, or is that my bruised ego? I mean, what the hell do I know? When have I ever actually been able to articulate my own opinion, separated from the voices of The Other? Do I feel things because *I* *feel* *things*, or is it all one giant reactionary clusterfuck?

Photoboy said at the end of version 1.0 that he could go either way on whether or not he wanted things to work out for us at some point. I’m feeling the same way now. I could take it, give it another whirl, taste the deliciosity of that rush. Not now, certainly — now I’m not good to me and sure as heck wouldn’t be good to him or us. I could leave it, too. He was fantastic and fun and delightful, and I sincerely wish him the best. But I’m not going to live an impoverished life if he’s not in it. Ya heard?

This is a marked departure from the old me. The old me equates loss of boy with loss of life, utter devastation, let’s lock ourselves into our dorm room for three days at a time. But I’m beginning to learn that wait-a-fucking-second. Life is not one of deprivation. This is a land of plenty. I gotta lotta shit going on. People like me. There’s another boy right around the corner. And if not, well shit, I have me, and pretty much, I kick ass. (Paraphrasing from a friendster’s testimonial for me.)

Miss Zinegrrl, I don’t believe you when I hear you say things like it would have been okay to just have NSA with photoboy. I don’t believe you when you say that it was just about the physical stuff. I don’t believe you when you positively rule out a LTR with him. You’re too good at weaving in what you’d LIKE to feel (in order to seem cool, unhurt, “above” … again, continuing the mom-battle) with what you REALLY feel (vulnerable, heartbroken, sad).

To do:
- Drinks with Jordana & Lynn tonight?
- Watch Josh play bass tomorrow
- Attend first figure drawing group mtg near Prospect Park on Saturday
- Fall in love with self