Um...oops
FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU. DON’T STEAL OTHER PEOPLE’S BLOG POSTS.
Okay motherfuckers, here we go. I’m not proof reading this, it’s too long and painful.
This past weekend I revisited my inner child and did a fuck load of coke. When I say my inner child, I mean my inner child over the age of 16 as I wouldn’t want to be considered unfit to care for my inner child. And when I say a fuck load, I mean why am I not dead from an OD because I clearly don’t know when to say when but I am pretty sure that I should have stopped sometime on Saturday morning, but instead went all the way until Sunday morning.
Bruce hates this shit. He’s already expressed all the reasons why and what for (mostly I have no argument or recourse because it is kind of illegal) that he hates this (this being my wanton wantonness). I know that I should grow up and blah blah blah, but the truth is I don’t have to, for now.
I knew that this weekend in New York was going to be epic, we all did. I have been preparing myself for this for a month. Bruce was told that I was going to go off into the wild blue yonder and bury myself Pacino style (say hello to my little friend). A lasting hurrah before I moved.
(Someone brought to my attention the fact that I haven’t been totally clear. I am moving away from Boston this fall. Soon I will be coming to you from the other coast. San Francisco to be almost exact.)
So, because I am absolutely not allowed to be a coke whore when I move.
and before people get all shitty about this: I am really ready to stop doing drugs. I know it seems like fun and I am so very good at it. My friends here are concerned that I am sacrificing a piece of me to make Bruce happy. I just think that they forget, while they were all being good boys and girls and leading productive adult lives, I was doing K in London nightclubs and wondering why everything was moving so fast. I was dropping E while messing around with the gay glitterati living the life. Also, I was vomiting blow on the feet of the Virgin Mary. Quite frankly, I am tired of being so banged up all the time. I hate loosing my Saturday and Sunday because I played hard on Friday night. This shit is too good and too much fun and too heavy to go on much longer. It’s also not cool to get to an airport and worry that you might have a bag left somewhere that you forgot. Residue will get you 20 and I have no intention of going to jail for what happened last weekend, especially as I am not the one who caused all the trouble.
Ages ago I told Bruce that this past weekend I was going to go out and go hard.
See, that is the other thing. The Boston crew here keeps saying that they don’t think it’s right to have to hide shit blah blah blah. But I don’t. I know that they don’t believe me, but I really don’t. I wasn’t the one hiding from my best friend all night because she would be upset knowing that I was using drugs (that was the Pretty Boy) and I wasn’t the one saying that my significant other has no idea about what I do when I am away (that was Angry A). I am getting heat from the people here because they don’t get the fact that as up tight as Bruce seems (sorry babe!) we will never keep things from each other. Back to the point.
The Boston group found our way to New York, I flew down on Friday after work, which is normally easy except the Big Dig tunnels are closed because a ceiling panel fell on a car a crushed a woman to death (oops). Friday was manic and by the time I found my way to Calamity and Jane’s apartment I was ready to lay down and sleep. A bottle of wine prevented that and as the crowd trickled in and the lines were laid out, I miraculously found a wellspring of energy. Funny that.
Cut to Saturday morning, 4 AM and people are leaving the apartment and I have a moment of clarity. Except I’ve forgotten it now. What good are drug-induced epiphanies if you can’t remember them?
Saturday became a day of rest. Saturday night became a night of unrest.
We came to the party to party like it was 1999 (pot brownies and E were the plans) but the dealer fell through so we called in a back up (there is always a back up) and did what we do best. (Why hello Ben, so lovely to see you again, would you mind if I use you as a straw?) We also knew that we were going to get screwed on the bar tab (like always) so we set a plan in action. Our plan failed mostly because Calamity was too busy stealing the drugs from the drug dealer.
So, if you read the original story of Calamity, you know, already, kind of fucked up. But we’re his friends so we never think about what it really means when we say that he’s a mess. On Saturday night, Calamity noticed that the dealer was a mess (looked like a K hole to me). Calamity decided to take the drugs and not pay for them. He also decided to then leave the club, without telling his girlfriend or best friends.
The dealer comes to and realizes that he’s missing some money or someone took his stash. It was at this point, he loudly proclaims that he is going to kill the motherfucker who stole his drugs. We take this as a sign that it was time to leave the club. Which was a pain because we were in a perfect place (VIP lounge with no cameras so we had free reign to behave as we saw fit).
Returning to Calamity’s apartment was an ordeal of course because you know how it is. Who wants to go back to the apartment of the guy who’s about to be shot? After the endless drunken/high debates we all went back the Calamity’s place but the mood was decidedly dejected. Seriously, what the fuck?
There’s more blow, but at this point, we’re just chasing a high. At a certain point, there is nowhere else to go but down, and while it’s great to put the down off for as long as possible, everything comes to an end eventually. Most of the crowd wandered off into the day (the day being Sunday) except the hanger-ons. The hanger-ons are the people who hang out until the coke is gone. Then they split. Never fails. The hanger-on in this case was possibly the biggest fucking tool I have ever had the pleasure of meeting (I FUCKED THIS UGLY GIRL WITH MY LARGE DICK. YOU WOULD FUCK ME WOULDN’T YOU? IT DOESN’T MATTER THAT I AM UNATTRACTIVE. YELL YELL YELL. I AM SO INSECURE AND ANNOYING I WILL KEEP TALKING ABOUT ALL THE SEX I WAS GETTING IN COLLEGE FOUR YEARS AGO). The guy was so full of shit and terribly annoying. Who admits to going hogging because they don’t think they can get attractive woman to a group of strangers? When he turned to me and tried to be very impressive I was my usual self and cut his small dick down to size (scorch scorch scorch: how do you like me now bitch?). Needless to say he didn’t have anything to say to me for the rest of the night (morning).
Dumber and his friends (who were brought to the party by someone we knew, but the someone we knew left at 2 AM) left at 10 AM on Sunday and we proceeded to sigh with relief. Sunday disappeared in a haze of sleep and hamburgers and bled into Monday.
Shit, Monday was yesterday. Yes. Indeed. My yesterday was fantastic. Especially the three hours in the middle of the day. I think I lost them. They were simply nowhere to be found. Flying home on Monday morning was terrible, but the idea of being on a plane on Sunday night was unfathomable.
Today is better. I no longer feel like my large intestines are fighting their way out of my body and the shakes have stopped. Always good because I have a big presentation today at work.
$360 will get you: roundtrip Boston to New York airfare, five cab rides, 1 bottle of wine, 2 pot brownies, several eight balls, a bunch of vodka, four packs of cigarettes (also I had a green curry, half a hamburger, and a piece of apple pie. Some Girl cannot live on drugs and alcohol alone).
PS. And when I said that Bruce seems up tight, he’s not, it’s just because he wears pleated pants and he tucks his shirt in and he hasn’t been to the beach in forever and couldn’t remember the last time he walked on a beach barefooted, but really, he’s not up tight. I swear. Okay, maybe a little but only when compared to my complete inability to be any sort of tight. Next to a normal person, Bruce is entirely normal. Well, that might be a bit of an exaggeration. That might be a ginormous exaggeration. Bruce is so not normal. What he is, is terribly annoying (you know you deserve that don’t you).
Lately I have been feeling blah. And having to write this entry twice has done nothing to improve my mood.
How can I ever replace the organic goodness that was that last post? I can’t. I just can’t ever. Crap. Ain’t that the truth, can’t ever crap. But you really don’t want to know what that really means, so we’re moving onward and upward (spiralling down awfully quickly here).
So, to summarize (if you had ever had the chance to read the lost post, this would all make more sense): I like being in charge of Bruce’s move. I get all of the fun of finding places to move and none of the stress. Well except for the stress of moving my life cross-country.
Also, I am no longer amused with the random and largely unexplained general malaise I am feeling these days. Whatever is making me funky needs to be run off so I can defunkifiy. The stomach thing has gotten kind of bad these days and to my horror I woke Bruce up in the middle of the night moaning. He kind of shook me to ask what was wrong and I remember clutching my stomach and saying that I was nauseous. That is damn attractive.
And I just sent a print job to my network. The document is almost 100 pages long and signifies a crap load of work. This is the first full print of all the documents so I am kind of excited. I never print out the full document until the end of the project, mostly as a protection thing (you never want to be the person who provided the bitch who will publicly flame you for the incorrect use of a semi-colon with the kindling for the fire) and mostly because I like to control my work (with an iron fist) so I minimize who gets a draft until I am happy that someone isn’t going to try to pass my work off as their own (this has been quite the year with quite the learning curve).
Finally, I received word from Atizzle that my captchas weren’t working. I had just fixed them with an IM walk through from the not so angry Pete. I figured that I should be able to fix whatever was wrong. I was right. Yay me.
Also, this is how I ended the conversation with Pete two full months ago:
Some Girl: oh, hey, while you’re here
Some Girl: I get this funny message:
Some Girl: Warning: Your installation file is still on your server.
For security purposes, please remove the file called install.php from your server using your FTP program.
Some Girl: what am I suppose to do with that?
Pete: You need to delete the install.php in the system folder of EE. You can go in through either FTP or File Manager from CPanel.
Pete: That way, some hacker doesn’t come through and re-install everything, and delete everything you’ve done.
Some Girl: so the file that says: install.php…I just delete
Pete: Yep.
Some Girl: okay, that I can handle
Some Girl: I think I’ll do it next month
Pete: yeah. Don’t strain yourself with three clicks that you could use for something worthwhile.
Some Girl: I know you’re just looking out for me and my carpel tunnel thingamajig
Pete: Exactly.
Today, two months after I was told to do something super easy and very important for the safety of my blog, I finally deleted the install.php file from my server. Pete must be so proud knowing his words made such a massive impression on me. Seriously, normally I would leave something like that (A GIANT RED WARNING) on my server for years.
I am nothing if not vigilant about my safety and protection. Now, I shall wander the mean streets of downtown Boston, while drunk and on a cell phone. Fantastic.
An employee in my area did a big no-no.
The person went into our registration system to get the phone number of a co-worker and patient here.
The is the type of action for which we could be sued (not likely) or given a poor mark when we are judged by the accreditation groups (most likely), either way patient information is such a sensitive thing, we are regularly reminded about how to maintain patient confidentiality.
I overheard the conversation and said something to the effect that what my employee did was a direct violation of patient information regulations (we call this oral counseling). The person kept defending the actions and I suggested that we take up the matter with our manager. My manager was more emphatic than I’ve ever before seen. There will be some sort of corrective action.
I feel like shit.
Dear Britney Spears:
You are a hot mess.
But I still adore you.
Keep on keeping on…just maybe not so trashy, and maybe a lip liner, and one less accessory, and learn how to apply fake lashes, and brush those extensions.
The gum chomping, however, loving that!
SG
PS. Matt Lauer, put on some socks.
You know how when someone confesses a crime, they always claim: “It was an accident.”?
I didn’t mean to sleep with him, it was an accident (like you accidentally fell pussy down on an erect dick?).
I didn’t mean to stab that old lady, it was an accident (like the old bird ran in to the knife you were holding blade out?).
I didn’t mean to snort that line, it was an accident…well it really was. Okay, maybe not an accident, but there was this party…and it was so casual…and I didn’t think it was a big deal. But I didn’t tell Bruce (I tried and I know it’s so fucking passive to do this).
Bruce is away on business. He said good-bye via text message. Right.
I know that he’s a neophyte to this whole grown-up dating thing, but to send a text, knowing that we weren’t going to speak for the better part of a week, it’s just that sometimes I feel like I shouldn’t have to teach certain social queues. After all this time, he still does this shit that makes me kind of wonder. And just to validate that I am not over-reacting, I check in with other people, turns out I am not expecting too much.
I’ve always been told that I expect too much, so I try to temper what I expect with what I say that I expect. I don’t want to be too overwhelming or too demanding. I get that and create a well organized system of checks and balances. I edit my internal monologue and craft my message to read softer than what I hear shouted between my ears.
Now if only I could have this conversation with Bruce without being pissy. Good thing I am being slightly passive aggressive and I know that he will read this and be all Doh!
Passive aggression: a sure way to avoid a fight.
PS. Look at all the categories that this one fits!
Yesterday was going to be the day that defeated Some Girl. I am not sure that there was a plan or if the events were random. I think I would prefer to believe that a plan was set in motion to just piss on me because then I can comfort myself with the thought that every plan has an end. Random events can go on endlessly…and that scares me.
I didn’t know that Monday was going to be a bad day, but I had planned on going to the gym. Little did I know that I would go to the gym with a vengeance. A take no prisoners get the fuck away from me no you can’t get on this specific elliptical machine I do mind if you jump into the circuit and did you not wipe your nasty ass sweat off the seat kind of gym day. Needless to say, I got home tired and still pissed off at the crappity crap of everything that piled into my Monday.
I’ve been thinking maybe I need to find a better way to deal with my stress. Oh yeah, I forgot, that’s the function of my blog. Good to know.
I’ve also been thinking about image. My image is not exactly in line with what I think my image is:
Her: From one girlie girl to another, this is the best mascara I’ve found in YEARS!! Woo!! The brush rocks.
(Link: http://cover.com/cgcollection/eyes/mascara/mini_lashexact/index.jhtml)
Me: do you really think I’m a girlie girl?
Me: Bruce asked if I was always a girlie girl
Her: yes
Her: i think you’re definitely a girlie girl
Me: and I said, I’m not really a girlie girl now
Me: and then he laughed at me
Me: huh.
Her: i would too!
Me: serious?
Her: yes!
Her: you’re always meticulously dressed, your make up is perfect, you know about accessories.
Her: you’re a girl.
Me: right but I haven’t gotten a hair cut in months, if I didn’t have painfully dry cuticles I wouldn’t bother with manicures and being able to match a button down shirt with black pants doesn’t take that much effort
Me: so I am a girl, but not a girlie girl
Her: no, i think you’re a girlie girl.
Me: I demand a recount
Her: I’m asking [Atizzle] (ARE YOU HAPPY NOW???)
Her: i think she’s already at lunch though
Me: I object to your secondary source, she’s biased
Me: unless of course she agrees with me
Her: ha!
Her: why not poll on your blog?
Her: [Atizzle] says only “sorta”
Me: see
Her: (13:17:19) [Atizzle]: well, like, i don’t see her liking dresses and shit, but i see her liking accessories, which counts.
Her: HA!
Her: See?!?!
Me: sure I like my pink heels and stuff
Me: but I am not officially girlie
Me: you were all “YES”
Me: and I knew I wasn’t “YES”
Her: do you think I am a girlie girl?
Me: actually, no
Her: me either.
Me: I think you have girlish tendencies, but you’re too grounded and have an affection for things that fall outside of the the girlie purview
Her: I agree.
Me: so why I gotta be called girlie girl then?
And the thing is, there is a friend of a friend who is all about an image. She sat and read the Boston Globe while the Oscars were airing. She made mention of the fact that she saw Crash and it was amazing as was every other slightly political/deep movie ever made. But then…I had to explain all the political references made through out the show. It’s like she makes the effort to look like she’s into something but doesn’t really grasp some of the finer (and not so fine points). Don’t take this to mean I don’t like her, I really do, and we are friendly and chatty when she comes over to the house. I just started to wonder about image and the whole weirdness of her being came to mind.
The other thing, Bruce has said that I seem softer in person than I project on-line (email and blog). He’s not the first male to say something along those lines, somewhere in an old post (may or may not be up) I talked about this already. But when I did my informal poll, which was essentially asking her, she was all, not really.
I wonder.
I’m the girl that laughs at funerals. I can’t help it. There is something so terrifying about death and all its surrounding aura that I start laughing. It’s not the I’m stoned and you just fell down laugh, it’s the hysterical oh god no someone save me laugh.
The other thing is that all big disease scare me. I mean if you’ve got something that could be bad, and you’re my best friend, I will do everything in my power to completely forget that it exists and that you are unwell. Like him. I always forget, and then I remember and it’s sad and terrifying and worrying. If you know me, you know I don’t do sad, terrifying or worrying. You want the truth? I just can’t handle the truth.
The problem is, and I’ve been skirting the issue, Deb. I like her, and I think that if I were in Houston I would drink with her and we would have a laugh and we would be all cracking jokes about what other people are wearing. We would be the funniest girls in the room. But she’s sick, everyone knows this by now. Whereas I use to read her blog multiple times a day, I now have to force myself to check only once a week or so. Not because I don’t like what she’s writing but because I can’t pretend that she’s not sick. It’s right there all the time. And I get a little teary eyed and I can’t cry because them I am sad, and we all know, I don’t do sad. Not functionally anyway. Some people are all good and deal and sad is just of their repertoire. Me, I get all confused and disorientated and strangers ask me if things are all right and I have to ask for directions home.
I suck, I know. I’ve sent books and pretty things (which are currently being stored elsewhere but the storer knows she has them and will be getting on it soon…right?), and I donated blood in her name when I was last in Houston. Giving blood is pretty easy (unless you’re her and then you get all cracked out and the lab tech starts calling you mama) * for some reason this link REFUSES to work, go here and check out Friday 20 January 2006* so that was a gimme. It’s just that every time I resolved to become a daily visitor and be supportive and part of the good will, I get freaked out and I am afraid I will say something like the time I was walking though a building at school and happened upon a blind man (as you do) and he was clearly trying to get out of the building. So I asked, “Are you looking for the door?” LOOKING…he’s fucking blind, he’s not looking for anything. Of course I immediately realized what I had just said and started giggling like a fucking hyena.
Please note, this is in my “Things to work on” Category. I’m totally going to work on it all. First I resolve to stop laughing at the handicapped. I am sure that will go a long way in sublimating my desire to laugh at all things that make me feel so completely uncomfortable.