reversal of reversal of reversal of fortune

okay.

i have had a busy afternoon.

first of all, for the past one and a half days i have been temping. for a place that sells valves and nozzles and various other weird equipment.* yes, intriguing, i know. so very me. first the auto papers, now this. soon the fucking local IBON (International Brothers of Nozzles) and various other union types are going to be clambering for me to join. i probably qualify for a goddamned honorary membership.

i know. i know. i sound ungrateful.

well, the truth is, i kind of am. actually, not so much ungrateful but feeling like i deserve something not so horrendously unsuited to me. i come in on time, i do my job. i do my job. even though it takes all of my energy not to light a match under a fire alarm, light my own hair on fire, and run out of the place screaming.

i do. my job.

for the past two days i've been way too grateful that i was placed in a job that requires me to do nothing. i guess what happened was it was readily apparent that i had nothing to do. my entire job description was answer the phone. i volunteered my services to everyone else in the office, but all of the extra-work jobs went to the other temp, a lovely about-to-be-sophomore, from my town and studying math at wellesley, who had done her penance of boredom and now was the Office Girl. she was always spectacularly cute and well-dressed, overly-so, i would say, sporting a classy pale blue shantung ensemble yesterday and today, an actual suit with a skirt so mini it gave me a headache. but! i liked her. she spruced up a place where everyone else was wearing basically beach-cover-ups. seriously. this one lady walked in in a totally transparent bit of cotton with fucking primary colored beach umbrellas jovially hopping around her decolletage.

so, yes, the whole thing was a comedy of errors.

despite the fact that the templady had assured me the job was a "temp to perm" opportunity, i did not get the vibe there that i would ever have any real work to do. at least not in the forseeable future.

and i left early today, at one, because i had my phone interview for unemployment approval -- which i have been waiting a full month for and was not about to just ignore. i let everybody know i wouldn't be working, and it seemed okay. especially since templady had assured me it would be okay, and everyone there already knew. in fact, they had been informed of this prior to my acceptance of the position.

anyway.

when i got home there was a message on my answering machine from this lady who a. tutors for. i submitted my resume to her ages ago, but now she is like chomping at the bit and desperate to see me. i can't wait to meet her. she sounds way out o' control and is basically legendary among our friends, even though we have never met her all of us have spoken to her and/or heard her out o' control messages to alex in which she does everything but call him "bubbalah." she sounds fantastically fun. and teaching! me! teaching! tutoring, but still. dispersing knowledge.

anyway. so then the unemployment lady calls. we have a good conversation. i get the sense that she believes me, especially because caligula has not returned her multiple voicemails, and she is going to make her decision based on my testimony and the law. i make it clear that, yes, i was not fired, but i was harrassed and made to feel that the workplace was hostile and sucky. so hopefully that'll come through.

and then templady called me and said they don't need me back, they're basically going to have the wellesley girl do her new tasks as well as the new ones. because. duh. that would be ridicuously simple and logical.

so anyway. i will not let this make me feel like i have screwed up. i rilly rilly hope i get the unemployment stuff next week, and i rilly rilly hope i get the tutoring job.

rah.

*i would provide a link but i fear the confidentiality agreement i blindly signed...

let the muse roar

i can do anything. anything. you hear me? i am equally capable of walking down fifth avenue nude as i am of sitting behind a desk all day doing nothing. yes. nothing. i am capable of being good at this nothing.

did i mention nothing?

'cause that's precisely what i'm doing. na-effin-da.

i don't think you people know quite how goddamned scandalous i am. a boy who shall remain nameless told me at least five times in the past week how much i turn him on. which is nice, because the feeling is indeed mutual. he told me his idea of sexy is a girl wearing no makeup, who looks like she just stumbled out of the jungle, innocent in appearance but dewy-skinned and ready to fuck.

that's what he said he likes: girls who aren't afraid to be dirty, no matter how dirty they are. and girls who don't seem dirty but really are. i guess that's why we have chemistry. i'm certainly the former, but i'm not so much the latter.*

whenever i have fantasies of myself i'm always this innocent character. totally the kind of girl he described, innocently full of lust instead of complex and evil and full of lust like i am now. why is that? why do all of my fantasies involve suffering? seriously. it must be the ex-catholic working-class guilt. i couldn't dream up a happy ending sans drama if my life depended on it. do such things even exist? i've been around enough "happy, drama-free" people to know it's all a crock of shit and they're all hiding chlamydia and misdirected scorn.

but i'm so pissed with the "drama queen" label. because what the fuck is "unnecessary drama" anyway? isn't it just a code word for what ex-boyfriends don't want to talk about? when it comes from someone else it's an important issue. but coming from me it's unnecessary drama.

not that anyone has said this lately. i'm just being unnecessarily dramatic about all of it.

i'm writing "sharp and adult"
with my finger on the steam
on the mirror in my bathroom
and i'm applying shaving cream

which would suggest that i'm the foamer
but how can i be the lather?
and something tells me
it's the opposite i'd rather...

* "when you find out you're the foamer/be careful what you foam..."

i haven't been writing a lot here lately, and i'm not really up to explaining why. but i will give it a try.

i guess i've been trying to focus on the Positive. i guess it doesn't feel right to write about things i either can't or won't deal with in my actual life. like. d. the ex. our little respite from our respite (or break from our break) typically resulted in him calling me at 9 am in the morning, from work, to lecture me about how our "agreement" is still in effect. about how i need to get that into my head.

meanwhile, back in reality, he was the one who called me first. to ask for little things. to ask for big things. i only resumed contact once he had broken the seal. and he admitted to being a dick. he said he was "desperate" and that's why he asked for my help.

desperate. because there's no other reason to call me, right? don't bother with me when you're happy. i'll only bring you down.

and nevermind how much fun we had @ grey fox. it was capped off by a bitchy exchange betwixt katie and i, where we both lost our cool but of course i end up being punished for it. nevermind that he spent two hours at my house after the event, drinking beers with my dad and letting my parents show him pictures of their hippiemoon in nova scotia when they were still teenagers. nevermind.

nevermind, because he felt i needed to be lectured about our "boundaries" again. you know, the boundaries that exist between us. the ones that only exist when i want something from him, and never the other way around.

i don't even care anymore. that's not true, but if i keep writing it and saying it i am hoping that it will be true eventually.

i saw a beautiful mind yesterday and there was a priceless quote:

i prefer to think of myself as a lone wolf, but the truth is, most people just don't really like me.

also:

my first grade teacher said i was born with two helpings of brain and only a half helping of heart.

i depend on the brain to kick in and obliterate useless weepiness.

i'm so not good at rising above.

it is good that i'm a dreamer. it keeps my mind busy on days when i'd otherwise be massively bored and mentally atrophied.

it is bad that i'm a dreamer. it keeps me mooning over the past and the never-happened on days when i'd otherwise be productive.

today is a day sort of in the middle. i'm temping, which is good. when i went to the agency and registered, the temporary lady and the permanent lady both made a big fuss over my alleged "skills." you know, typing 70 wpm with no errors, apparently testing as an idiot savant in word, excel, and powerpoint.

i guess i should feel excited. because how fast i type and my ability to merge documents and insert clip art will really come in handy one of these days.

even better, my old boss, caligula, used to be a client of theirs. a client whom they refuse to service any longer. because every single person they placed with him had a problem with the job, with him, with the environs, you name it. so it was a relief not to have to explain anything about him, a relief to know that i wouldn't have to explain to them what an asshole he is.

so it's a refreshing thing for me to be working again. refreshing to get up early and earn some money, even if i am bored out of my mind and basically useless in this position. but the good thing is, no one here seems to mind if i sit around and read books, play on the internet. they're fully aware that there's nothing else for me to do and remain cheerful about the fact.

i dream about winning the fellowship i so recently applied for. i envision a check for seven thousand dollars in my sweaty little palm. i envision myself paying my bills, getting an apartment, doing all those things that require money.

the other day i renewed my relationship with richard simmons. i tried to do the broadway sweat video, but i could not figure it out. i love richard, but his choreography seriously sucks. despite the fact that i own five or six of his videos, there is only one i can actually do. that would be sweatin' to the oldies 3. i think the fact that there's a live band involved really helps keep the beat straight.

not to mention the fact that i found myself inexplicably choked up during an awful studio rendition of "tomorrow." tears streaming down my face as i chassed and grapevined across my basement floor. with richard saying, "you're so special. i'm so proud of you for doing this. there's always tomorrow. and there's only one you. you know that? only one you."

there is only one me. and yes, sometimes i need richard simmons to tell me that.

could you write the saddest song
turn around and make it a singalong
the heart scratch melody
means there's more than this for you and me

if words could be combined
to describe your trademark look tonight
i'd write it out to boost my career
but you know that writing always takes me years

yes, this is a sloan follow-up post.

after the show on thursday night alex and i were so incredibly psyched but also a tad bummed that the show wasn't more high-energy on the part of the audience. "we must do our part," we said, "we must do our part for sloan."

so friday afternoon we made a huge sign on pink posterboard that said "NYC WELCOMES CANADA'S AMBASSADORS OF ROCK!" i walked into the show with bracelets of inside-out duct tape around my wrists. all the friendly bowery ballroom staff let me bring everything in, giggling at the silliness of what we planned to do. once in the venue, we hung the sign from the balcony above the stage and hoped for the best.

so we're watching the opening act, the sunshine fix, when i turned around and noticed that jay, sloan's guitarist, was standing not two feet behind us, leaning against a pole and looking all cute and mini in his sweet little polo shirt and jeans. instead of being freaked out, as i have been in the past with other celebrities of dubious reknown,* i was totally calm and scored a pen from the girl next to me, grabbed alex's just-purchased cd, and marched over to jay, saying:

"i'm sorry to be such a fangirl, but could you sign this for me?"

he giggled and we chatted about the previous night's show. i assured him they rocked the house and he said "we were okay, i guess. we're definitely going to rock harder tonight." i let him know that i thought the canadian and american singalongs were different. he seemed interested in this observation. i informed him that america loved sloan, and i hoped they liked it better than patrick's old tour diaries would indicate. he grimaced and said "it's not like that anymore. for the past few years it's been great!" alex joined in, asking him where they were playing next. dc, he said. blah, blah, blah.

eventually jay retreated backstage and we got ready for the show. we bonded with other excited sloaners, including two cute kids who had run home from work to make iron-on teeshirts that said "SLOAN U ROCK" and "SLOAN 4 EVA." the show itself did not disappoint. i found myself digging the stuff from pretty together, the new album, more than the night before. and they repeated songs i definitely wanted to hear again, including money city maniacs, the lines you amend, and the good in everyone.

the best part of the show was when alex told me to try and get chris' attention, to make him look at the sign. i somehow managed to do so in mere seconds, and he mouthed "your sign?" then grinned with his big pretty teeth** and got on his knees, playing TO the sign. then he turned forward again and played directly at us, thumbs-up and all. all the kids around us were freaking out, because they all knew it was our sign. "he was totally playing to the sign!!!" a girl next to me screamed. and the thing is, he totally was.

so alex and i were thisclose to going to dc on saturday but were knocked down by lack of money (me) and illness (him). but we did pinky-swear to go to canada together, because we've got to see sloan on their home turf. so there you go.

swimming out to sea
trying to find something else
while i'm skipping stones
and i'm listening to the shells
and i won't forget you
if someone else comes along
you'll always come to mind
whenever i hear that song...

*yes, i am referring to delta burke.
**yes, lawra, chris has the prettiest teeth ever.

SLOAN.

it's a simple word. one syllable. but that one syllable encompasses such degrees of hard rock, i cannot even begin to tell you.

so alex and i went to the show last night. it was at the delicious bowery ballroom. we were a little bit late, as alex was driving and had to work and rather than take the train in and meet him, i decided to wait.

first of all, they started singing an incredibly telling song as soon as we waltzed in -- anyone who's anyone:

everyone has played a part
we're all together now
everyone who's played a part
should stand and take a bow
anyone who's anyone
should be here today

let's lose this crowd
anyone who's anyone's invited
we were all loud
maybe on our own but as united
we're insular
wherein cooler
things can happen if we stay

so, in other words, as soon as we entered the venue, it was clear that anyone who's anyone was, in fact, here today! the crowd was an interesting mix -- a lot of nerdy boys wearing glasses and the front-stage crush of blonde girls just begging to be trim-coordinated.* i think everyone was psyched as hell but kind of low-energy, which al and i plan to amend tonight by no joke, hanging posterboard from the balconies that declares our insane love of sloan and encouraging them to play america as often as possible. it was really not crowded, and definitely not sold out. but they were INCREDIBLE.

biscuity patrick even sang my favorite song, penpals. this song is hysterical because of the broken english. the premise is that the song is the text of letters written between a little preteen girl from algeria and a little preteen boy from norway. and just because i am obnoxious and sloan-mad i am going to post them all here:

i write you from a far country
in north of africa
it is algeria
and my city is oran

i know you'll find this letter strange
that is because i am strange

my first name is amal
and i'm a girl, i'm a girl, la la la
my first name is amal
and i'm a girl, i'm a girl, la la la
my first name is amal and i'm a girl

i am a norwegian boy
which have some question
i have only 13 years
and i am crazy of you

can i have a souvenir?
and if you can, a wick of hair?
send me documents
and a photo of you alone

here's my photo, dedicace
one of you would be canon
i worship all your handsome words
to me you seem giant

you're so cool, but you know that
i hope your letters never stop

you are surely special
i like you, i like you, la la la
you are surely special
i like you, i like you, i like you
you are surely special, i like you

should i tell you about patrick's mick jagger kicks? the keyboardist (either chris or jay) who looked like a little blonde-haired patti smith if she were a twelve year old boy and his darling polo shirt? the fact that i felt like i was doing crack the whole time, that sloan is the ultimate happy place in my heart and the balladeers of any rock and roll future that currently exists?

and they played "the good in everyone" as an encore. i don't even know what to expect from tonight. all i know is it is going to be so much fucking fun. so if you are reading this and have access to this venue and sloan, i will see you @ the bowery ballroom. because you DO NOT KNOW WHAT YOU ARE MISSING. i have never meant this so much.

SLOAN.

*this is from american psycho. patrick bateman, who hates live music, nonetheless attends a U2 concert with his girlfriend and some friends and associates. when the girls go to the bathroom, they say someone tried to get them backstage. another friend cuts in and says that his cousin used to work rod stewart or some shit as the "trim-coordinator." in other words, the guy who coordinates the trim. you know. pooswah. vagina. whathaveyou. i would so not mind being trim-coordinated by sloan. in fact, i welcome it.

so i spent the weekend at the aforementioned bluegrass festival. it was a great time. i am covered in bug bites, though, like you would not believe. when i got home yesterday my feet were so large and swollen that it looked like i did not have ankles. literally, my feet resembled rowboats. and there are at least forty, count 'em, forty bug bites on the back of my right leg alone. i'm thinking i have something like a hundred total all over my legs and feet.

anyway the festival was awesome. me, k, and d were all working, which means we got our tickets free but had to work four 4-hour shifts over the course of our time there. as soon as we got to the site, we got our schedules and set up our little village of tents in the only place we could find, which was totally on a huge fucking hill. it only took about 15 minutes to set everything up, but by that time so much sweat was pouring off of my face i thought i was going to die. we retreated into the woods which were conveniently twenty steps away to cool off. not long after i purchased a sporty grey fox visor, which definitely lent to the camp counselor vibe of my personage, and also protected my entire face from burning and peeling off.

my first shift was friday morning, 8-12. i was lucky enough to be stationed at the exit, which means i got to sit next to a silo under a yellow-and-white striped ez-up in a chair, with a big orange flag and a walkie-talkie, making sure the only people who came in were the ones who had the proper credentials. in other words, my job was a lot better than directing traffic in the dusty-ass parking lot at the entrance, or working up the hill from the exit where i'd have to be on my feet all day.

here are the instruments that you'll see in almost every bluegrass band: fiddle, banjo, and mandolin. three of my favorite instruments in the universe. the best fiddle player i saw all weekend was definitely natalie macmaster. she looks like britney spears but she's this amazingly talented fiddle player/clog dancer. i know it sounds weird, but imagine someone playing the fiddle lightning-fast whilst stomping around in that nutty irish jig fashion.

i also fell hard for the yonder mountain string band. i've seen them once before, at berkfest two years ago, and they were incredible this time around. not to mention their biscuity mandolin player, jeff, resembles james spader. and they played crazy train. as in the black sabbath song, but with an upright bass, mandolin, fiddle, and banjo. so you can only imagine how cool that was.

i worked the exit two more times. my favorite shift was from 12-4 on friday night/saturday morning. i was with d and this amazing lady named theresa who told us rowdy bluegrass jokes and smoked us up and jammed the fuck out on her guitar. i think this is the night that i got eaten alive, but i don't know for sure. i was pretty damned drunk the whole time.

anyway d randomly said to theresa "you know, she (me) and i used to date for three years and people think we're like, brother and sister." out of nowhere. i asked him why he said that and he said "well, she just seems crazy intuitive, i thought she would be picking up some kind of vibes." um, okay.

there is more but my feet are itchy as hell.

i recieved a rejection letter from a journal i submitted to today.

yay! rejection! at least it's something.

Forensics

Rusted pennies pour through sullen kisses.
Somewhere the sun spills pink milk
into the sea. The coy moon shows half her
breast, but tonight this body is not afraid.
You will see everything.

For a poet, love is a forensic expedition.
Inverse blazon. Your hair, I will say, is
a restless crown of seaweed always missing
the ocean. Your skin is Saharan sand, but softer.
Yellow flowers wilt in your corneas. And so on.

I swab your finger, your lips, your
unmentionables. I take these things with me.
Marked and dated in plastic bags.
I make a list. Yes, he has lips, and I have
touched them. They have touched me.

You must become an explication, love,
a collection of fairy tales and Greek tragedy.
Verse is immortal. We are not so.
These notes, these scientific notations
must serve as my only proof.

Meroe Not in her power to flee?

High Priestess Not in her power,
Since nothing holds her from outside, no fate,
Only her foolish heart--

Prothoe That is her fate!
To you, steel fetters seem unbreakable,
Is it not so? Yet she might break them, see,
But not this feeling you hold up to scorn.
What force compels her, only she can know,
And every breast that feels is an enigma.
She strove to reach the highest prize of life,
She touched it, grasped it; now her hand refuses
To stretch out to another, lesser thing...

Penthesilea Too high, I know, too high --
In flaming rings, eternally removed,
He circles playfully around my aching heart.

Heinrich von Kliest. Penthesilea.

so i sent in my fellowship application today. nine poems. in a nice little orange folder. a bullshit "career resume" that i plunked down at the last minute and forgot to include all the relevant things on. a lame artist's statement.

but. most importantly. nine poems.

and i have this heinous pre-period breakout. but now i have my period so this crap should go away soon.*

and, most annoyingly, d. is saying now that he's "not sure" about this weekend. as in grey fox. as in the festival he, k. and i signed up to work at about two or three months ago. and he's saying that every weekend is this kind of decision for him, busy, busy, busy, and i'm understanding but peeved. that may be true, but he blew me off for the trey show last month. and i was looking forward to going to a show with him. one damned show. is that too much to ask?

apparently it is. all i can say is, he is going. because if he is not it would be so not cool. back out at the last minute much? i hope he's just being dramatique and stressed. he's even supposed to drive.

bah. i am sick of running after people and never getting anywhere.

*i'll bet a certain lil' cullen does too, or just finished hers! heh!

so i went out tonight.

i asked k. to call me before she went out, but she didn't. then i went out by my damned self around 10, and i saw her and a.'s cars, but although i went to all bars within walking distance, i did not find them. i was pissed that they didn't call me, pissed that i couldn't find them, but whatever. i called d., because i was ready to call in a favor. last week i helped him finish his paper, and since i am applying for a fellowship that is due monday, i wanted him to read what i have prepared and give his opinion.

so i called him from south orange v1llage with my phone card. and we agreed to meet @ the bar in half an hour. and we did. and he gave me some very amazing opinions about my poems, some that mirrored those my brother has given me, actually. and he was helpful. and thoughtful. and it was nice.

and the best part is this. see, d's first girlfriend was this chick named naomi. see, naomi is now engaged to this fellow whom bess and i used to casually refer to as "chisel."

see. chisel was this guy whom we immediately noticed at college. because he was FECKING GORGEOUS. lo and behold, he happens to be from my hometown. once bess sent him an email that said "i just want you to know that you are, in fact, chiseled out o' marble." and that was the ONLY email the kid received that semester, thanks.

anyway, tonight d's ex/chisel's fiance was at the bar, avec chisel. and d. asked me if he could ask naomi to read my poems, since she's the literary type. i'm all, um, okay. i was kind of shy about it. and then naomi strutted up to our table, avec chisel. THANKS. i pretty much died. i did everything but sing the dickinson theme song. basically i worked dickinson into my conversation with naomi as swankily as possible, until chisel, who was talking to d., casually noticed that i had mentioned our alma mater. then we had to have a totally labored conversation in which i pretended to not know that he was, in fact, a graduate of dickinson /slash/ that bess and i had not stalked him ev'ry chance that we got. it was basically hilarious.

anyway naomi liked my poems. and chisel and i had a lovely conversation about how much we both love dickinson /slash/ hated it whilst we were there! rather loved to hate it, thanks.

!!!CHISEL!!!

then i noticed my crush mvm was @ the bar. and so was a. a who had not called me! and i was pissed yet excited to see all of the above. i told a. that it was lame he didn't call me, and also lame that i could not find them. apparently i "missed" them, but i still don't understand how, thanks. i BLATANTLY looked everywhere they said they were. wtf?!?

anyway as soon as i said this he whispered into my ear: "marie, who do i call?"

and i was like, "i don't fucking know!"

then he grabbed me close and started like slow dancing avec me. which just goes to show, thanks.

long story short:

crush, friends, a., hannah etc came back to d.'s house.

we drank.

hannah and i made up.

crush gave me an extra-long goodnight hug and demanded that someone take a picture of us with his camera. ha!

i know these are all little things that don't matter. but they matter a little bit. because i am an angry poet who needs constant reassurance.

please send a postcard to the haiku postcard foundation. yes. YOU. it is the beautiful brainchild of keef and he knows what the fuck is up. you know you want it.

agh! i am a stupid retard and i want to kick my own ass!

i just completed a very informative survey and was busy typing out the results and all of a sudden i grabbed my mouse, and spastically and randomly clicked on the "back" button of my browser whilst finishing up!!!!!

anyway i guess it was dumb. i mean, a survey. how pedestrian. right? i should be sleeping, or at least, reading the ironically-titled insomnia. instead, here's a marie survey, called, "i have gotten to the point where..."

i have gotten to the point where i am ready to slice off bits of my stomach and feed them to the gods or at least the deer i sometimes see crossing main roads. as an offering. also because i am too lazy to otherwise dispose of my excess body, say, via exercise or diet.

i have gotten to the point where i am ready to bite off my entire fingers instead of my fingertips.

i have gotten to the point where i am ready to throw myself into the world, into the void, filthy and limbless, because i have nothing left to lose.

i have gotten to the point where i realized i have placed myself in a number of Bad Situations and do not know how to extricate myself from them.

i have gotten to the point where honesty is no longer the best policy.

i have gotten to the point where i still miss him. every day.

things i have to look forward to:

*the grey fox bluegrass festival. which is, holy shit, next weekend. there is even a little countdown clock on the website that points out it is just about 8 days until the damned thing starts. now, i am working at this festival, which is good, as i am poor.

*sloan shows. two of them. the weekend after grey fox. yay.

and i may or may not be going to berkfest. it pretty much depends on the kindness of my ex. because he told me this weekend he was thinking about buying a couple of tickets...which he would sell if he couldn't go. anyway, the lineup is great and i would be v. v. psyched to go if possible.

by the way, i need a job like, yesterday. i'm not expecting any unemployment checks (weak ones, at that) until i return from grey fox. which doesn't help me. i almost regret quitting my job. note i said "almost."

other than that there is not much to look forward to. but i am still looking forward nonetheless. you know how it goes.

are you gonna tell me soon
what the hell i'm supposed to do
to make it feel all right
i've got more to say than you
but i'm not sure what that proves
steppin' 'round the same old flame
it's not my fault i'm not to blame
dancing 'round the same old flame

it's a major cause of damage between us
it's a major cause of damage between us

cigarettes that burn too fast
but the same old flame justs lasts
i've got more to say to you
but i'm afraid to follow through
are you gonna tell me soon
what the hell i'm supposed to do
to make it feel all right...

this unemployment thing is way too f'n complicated.

they have sent me about eighty thousand different pieces of mail since i applied for benefits just over a week ago. great, right? no, not so great.

three pieces of mail informing me that i have a phone interview this wednesday, and that my boss has been invited to participate. one of those three pieces with a stamp saying i might not be eligible for unemployment benefits because i was "DISCHARGED."

huh?

another piece of mail telling me that to claim my benefits for last week, i must call them on july 17th. not before, not after. exactly july 17th.

um, okay.

another confusing packet including the totally irrelevant unemployment handbook, and several things i should send back were i to claim dependant benefits, or allow 10% tax to be removed from my benefits.

okay.

and today, a sheet that breaks down my last year's employment.

only my current fucking employer isn't on there.

the three restaurants i worked in for a total of about six months are on there. shit, the restaurant i worked in for one day, never to return, is on there.

but my current fucking employer isn't.

so my benefits are so pathetically small. and i don't think this is right...but any alteration of these facts will lead to another "21-day-wait."

could the government make this any harder? no, really. because people who are out of jobs are so enjoying their unemployment, obviously. they deserve as much annoyance as it takes, right?

growl. snarl. fuck.

Confuse what you can of the ending
And revise your despise so impending
'Cause I soak on the wrath
That you didn't quite mask
I'm getting it clearly through alternate paths
Or mixed in with the signal you're sending

my holiday weekend has been going really well so far, despite some kinks in the mix.

ben is visiting, which is always a great thing.

on the fourth i spent the day at a bbq with a bunch of people i pretty much only see on major holidays. twas great. i wasn't really expecting anything either way -- a nice, quiet time, i thought -- and although there were things that happened that made me want to to throw up in my mouth a little bit, mostly it was drinking sierras and watching the boys play horseshoes and eating pineapple. spent a lot of time talking to girls i only vaguely know, who have always intimidated me a little bit, and now i just feel kinda silly about that. it's almost like being afraid to talk to a boy because you have a crush on them, but even worse. i'm like that with people i think are cool sometimes, i get all palm-sweaty and dry-mouthed and i don't know what to say. but that is okay because i ended up having a grand old time and feeling like a grownup, in the best possible way. taking care of myself. an independent person amidst all these people who associate me so heavily with my ex, were happy to see me, just me.

took in the fireworks with a crowd of like twenty party people and a puppy who didn't make even the eensiest peep. we were so impressed by that. there were no whistlers this year, though -- you know the fireworks that explode and send out those swirling whistling flaming bits across the sky? yeah, none of those.

and the ex did show up at the party. but it wasn't a repeat of last year, where he showed up wasted with a bunch of his friends and a bunch of 18-year-old girls in tow. i knew he might come, he might not, but i genuinely didn't care either way. he talked to his people and i talked to my people, and there was no kind of ickiness or fighting. i was strong, iron like the lion from zion.

and we did end up talking, and he ended up driving me and another friend home. he made me stay in the car and listen to some of the sugarbush '94 phish discs that he is so obsessed with. which was kind of funny, because i've heard them a million times, but picture us in the car on my dark little street, blasting this happy summery music (i made him turn it down a little...) and me being the one who says i have to go.

and he called me in a panic yesterday, at one o' clock -- after he dropped me off, some of the boys had recirculated and they ended up getting wasted and then getting really wasted and having an all-night cola session. yuck. he hadn't gone to sleep since thursday morning, was still drunk from the night before, had spent all day thursday writing his paper which was already late, and now it was eight pages long and he didn't want to ask me, really didn't, but could i come over and just read it?

i don't know how i made it through this semester without you, he said. but i had to prove to myself that i could do it.

and we spent the day together at a very friendly barbecue.

saturday was another barbecue, thrown by tara and populated by myself, bess, and richie. it was good to see them, so good.

and i was going to write a terrifically long entry expounding on all of the above, but i started writing this the other day and already it sounds slanted and wrong. and i have other things on my mind. so there you go.

WOI-OI JAH RASTAFARIIIIIIIIIIII

i wish i could hypnotize all of you so you could listen to the exact reggae beats i am loving so much right now. that are loving me so much right now. seriously.

reggae music makes me feel better than anything else in the world.

i am not above installing a reggae midi. you should all be grateful i am technologically ignorant. or else your ears and cubicles and bedrooms would be assaulted with a tinny midi version of "many rivers to cross" by jimmy cliff*:

many rivers to cross
but i can't seem to find my way over
wandering i am lost as i travel along
the white cliffs of Dover**

many rivers to cross
and it's only my will
that keeps me alive
i've been licked, washed up for years
and i merely survive
because of my pride

and this loneliness won't leave me alone
it's such a drag to be on your own
my woman left and she didn't say why
well i guess, i gotta try

many rivers to cross
but where to begin
i'm playing for time
there'll be times when i find myself thinking
of committing some dreadful crime

i've got many rivers to cross
but i can't seem to find my way over
wandering i am lost
as i travel along
the white cliffs of Dover

many rivers to cross and it's only my will
that keeps me alive
i've been licked, washed up for years
and i merely survive
because of my pride

*i know he has another huge hit, wild world, perhaps? and also he is the adorable rude boy in the harder they come that rastamentary that i dare you to watch without subtitles, bra.

**i saw these whilst sailing from England to France. they totally popped out o' the mist suddenly. for a second i pretended to be a pirate or a princess, and then tried to give myself an exact time in history, but i couldn't remember much. so instead i fantasized abstractly that i was in ye olde fashioned times and tried not to concentrate too much on the nauseous feeling in my stomach.

now i go cash my check and put gas in the car and grab the paper when i get home and get thee to the cover letter writing and resume tinkering.

I HATE THE JOB SEARCH EVER SO MUCH.

i just want the paycheck and no stress.

bonne anniversaire, etoile!

i got my last check today from Caligula, master prick! it's funny, the signature on the check was all curvy and messy and fucked up, like it really killed him to sign the fucking thing. he's lucky, too, because i did my research on nj labor laws and i would have no problem siccing them on his ass.

it's a relief to have this money, as it is pretty much all the money i have in the world right now. these past few months of work definitely helped clear up my situation a bit, but not as much as i had hoped. i have nothing to show for my work, no savings! just a few less bills and some nice things that might help me in my future job search.

i am panicking greatly and constantly about my lack of job, even though it has been less than a week since i have not worked. i guess it has something to do with my parents' constant hovering over me, demanding details on my financial situation, tearing apart every thing i do. i realize that as long as i live with them this is just the Way Things Will Be but that doesn't mean i have to like it. example:

i go upstairs and root through the pantry to find some pasta. find some. leave it on the kitchen table and turn on the teakettle, pondering whether or not i will make pasta.

a few minutes later, my mother comes to the top of the stairs, sounding disoriented, annoyed, like she wants to start a fight:

"what are you doing?" she whines.

"making tea," i say.

"are you going to make this pasta?" she asks in a way that implies that if i were to, in fact, boil the 75 cent box of pasta, it would somehow destroy some huge master plan she has been waiting for all of her life, and it is just like me to ruin everything --

"maybe," i say. "i don't know, i was thinking about it." defensively. yes, defensively, i am always defensive.

then i can hear the exasperated sighing and clucking noises from the top of the stairs.

"what is it?" i ask, teeth gritted, knowing i am being baited into something stupid, stupid, stupid.

"well...i was going to maybe use it to make a salad, or something, (not tonight mind you) but whatever, you can go ahead and use it if you HAVE to."

"i don't even know if i want it."

"go! make it! i don't care! do whatever you want!"

"i don't even want it anymore."

"i don't care! use it! we're going to have dinner in a couple of hours but if you don't want it do whatever you want!"

ad infinitum.

it's not so much the debate over the pasta, the usage of the pasta that bothers me. it's the fact that every fucking small detail o' my existence is monitored and checked over with this kind of mind-numbing detail. the simple act of removing a box of pasta from the pantry and placing it on the kitchen table is taken as an ominous gesture, as some kind of threat, as an attempt on my part to fuck everything up.

i know that as long as i live here i can not be entirely well, i cannot know myself the way i need to or live as freely and happily as i should. and maybe it's the same for them. i know it's no excuse, but still.

they still drive me fucking crazy.

WARNING. WARNING.

if you are one of those people (either related to me or just a tender-minded friend) who is grossed out by me talking about fucking / being fucked, TAKE THIS AS YOUR CUE TO LEAVE THANKS. THE FOLLOWING ENTRY IS EXPLICIT/NASTY.

there's something about those super latenight, semi-wasted fucks. you know the kind. the ones where you can barely control yourself at the end of the night, from the party/bar or whatever into the parking lot, where you're smashing each other up against the car trying to count each other's teeth with your tongue. and it's more than just, oh let's make out like good americans, it's like, "holy shit, i am so aware of how fucking horny we both are right now and i think fucking is pretty much the ONLY thing we can do right now to deal avec this, thanks."

and there are other things. things i should sneak into poems, because they're too nasty to flat-out say. the way you get inside the front door and immediately your clothes are off, his hand is down your pants, his tongue is in your mouth, he's all hard and grinding into you. then you gather your senses enough to go inside and it's over. the perfectly placed moans. the way he thrusts. the way he looks at you with the endearingly almost-lost look on his face, like the experience of being inside of your pussy has astounded him so greatly that all he can do is furrow his brows and open his mouth and tell you how hot you are, that any boy who wouldn't want to fuck you on sight is crazy, crazy, they have no idea, no idea, oh god, oh god, thrust thrust moan moan. better yet, all he can do is make that almost-lost face and look right into your eyes, like he can't believe it, and not say anything, he will just look at you, right into your eyes, like you owe him an explanation for this, you owe each other something, then he will kiss you, because he doesn't know how else to express it, he doesn't know what else to do. and nasty girl! he will say, and this validates you, for you are a nasty girl, a special girl, a girl with gifts located primarily in her brain and her pussy, those are the areas where the most talent resides.

and these talents enable you to know exactly how to do him right, to moan in all the right places, to look amazed and perhaps -- cockfearing -- at all the right times, enough to build him up to the point where he can't control kissing you, everywhere, where he can't stop telling you how good it is to fuck you, how long he's been waiting, how much he wants this.

and, god, there's something so satisfying about that to me, about being a good fuck. seriously. it's a huge part of my ego, my persona, who and what i am. i take my sex very seriously. sex in general. it's a form of communication, a form of life, a form of celebration. i need it to exist. so tonight, tonight, i am satisfied and warm and full of dirty girl pride.