Laughing All The Way

Friday, July 28, 2006

Even reading it again, I laugh

I think that my regular readers have noted that I have been rather gentle with the expos� de Bruce. I do like to protect him (I am the only one allowed to call him annoying, stupid, or an ass) from the prying eyes, of well, you. However, this afternoon we had a conversation that I have to share. I am practically duty bound to let you all in on this one.

Enjoy.

The set up: Bruce booked something for me on-line and instead of my first and last name there was a typo that left my name as SA SD. This is confusing because there are no “s"s in my name. This led to an early morning phone call to dear Bruce who had just gone to bed. Bruce has rectified the situation, but it will be a long time for this one to be forgotten. Also, Bruce never calls me by my common nickname. Everyone I know, even co-workers call my by this name. Bruce didn’t believe me until he met my friends and family. After meeting the crew, he commented that people call me my nickname. I know, that is the purpose of a nickname. I never said that he was smart.)

Spam Bruce: [nickname]ie [nickname]
some girl: yes?
some girl: you never call me that
some girl: what’s wrong?
Spam Bruce: nothing
spam Bruce: someone just called the san jose mercury news “the merky news”
Spam Bruce: so I thought I’d try it out
Spam Bruce: worky work
some girl: you never call me [given name nickname]
Spam Bruce: I know!
some girl: are you going to still do that?
some girl: or is it back to SA?
Spam Bruce: i think “miss sd”
some girl: “Yes Alex, could I please have weird things I’ve called my girlfriend for $100?”
some girl: misty?
some girl: we should have a couple’s blog: Bruce and Misty
Spam Bruce: ok
Spam Bruce: except I want to be called “special agent megabruce”
some girl: Spam Bruce it is.
Spam Bruce: ultrabruce?
some girl: Under Bruce…that sounds kind of dirty
Spam Bruce: deputy assistance underbruce
some girl: I hope the deputy assistant under Bruce gets to be Misty otherwise there could be another Monicagate.
Spam Bruce: indeedy
some girl: so SPAM Bruce
Spam Bruce: nooooooooooooo
some girl: what are you plans for this evening? are you going to find a nice piece of white bread and get cozy with her?

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

In my dream, I was in the midst of a break-up scene with Bruce in which I was exceedingly emotional

I like to play this game called “Is He Dead?”. Last night I played with Hank Kissinger. I was watching TV with the roommates and Condi Rice came on to speak about her assessment of the Middle East thingamajig. I turned to roommate two and said: “Where is Kissinger when you need him?” Roommate one answered, “I think he’s senile.” Being the person I am, I said, “Really, I thought he was dead.”

A Wiki search later revealed that the big HK was not only not dead, but according to his web site, the Old Kiss’er is still active and not in the least bit senile.

I got that really wrong.

What I didn’t get wrong is how annoyed I felt at the couple next door that decided to have a protracted conversation regarding the dregs of their relationship. I probably wouldn’t have been so annoyed if A) the conversation hadn’t happened at 3 AM and B) she hadn’t been sobbing hysterically.

Edited for clarification: This conversation happened outside on their front porch. My bedroom window faces their porch. Their house is separated from my house by a driveway. This all means, that my head was about 3 yards away from their conversation.

From what I can gather, she and he have no business being together. I base this on the fact that her caterwauling woke me from a dead sleep at 3 AM. Also, based on the fact that she shouted at him: “What I do at lunch time is eat lunch. I don’t call people and go eat lunch with them. How could you do that to me?” (also you should read this in that tone that young women have learned from Sex and the City which implies that she is speaking in highly logical terms and the man is clearly a knuckle-dragging moron). I gathered that the he in this situation had eaten lunch with another she. The first she found out about the second she, and apparently not from the he. The first she flipped the fuck out and felt that she was entirely betrayed.

In my sleep-addled mind I remembered thinking, what a twat. Seriously, she sounded A) crazy B) insane and C) like she was out of her mind. I also had the very real thought that on any given day Bruce eats both lunch and dinner with women. I am neither concerned nor threatened.

I ignored my city-style instinct to shout out my window that thing 1 and thing 2 need to break up and let me get some sleep (I’m Puerto Rican, it’s in our nature to holler from windows). I figured the poor girl was learning enough of a lesson and she didn’t need to know that the entire neighborhood was hearing her break down and beg for this guy to love her better than he has been, better than he can. As tough as I am, and as tough as I was inclined to be, I just felt so bad for this girl who was publicly displaying her tears. There is just something so disconcerting about witnessing the death rattle of a relationship. So I gave that poor girl something I would never want, the pity of a stranger, and I let her be.

But if the bitch doesn’t wise up and there is another public display of disaffection, I will be all leaning out windows and tell her to shut the hell up. It was 3 AM after all.

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

This is my independance day: To the women who know that this is for them, this is for you.

I read the first paragraph of another’s blog and a flash of words washed over me an instance ago. It is time for a manifesto.

I deserved better. I’ve been tamped down to fit the shape of a person that looks just like me. I’ve been pushed around, thrust out, held over, tied down, bound in, thrown up, lied to and generally maligned in not nice ways.

We all deserved better.

The women who write out their lives with bold choices and menacing decisiveness, we all deserve something more. The more I read, the more I know, we are being let down by a swarming them. The promises they told us were so shallow the concussions are unavoidable; we do jump right in believing the depth. It’s not there for the taking, the future that is. The letter and words we learned so well only set us up for a failure, because we are different. No separate but equal, only separate.

My cake has gone stale and now I am just hungry, proving the old adage true once again. It’s better to just eat, be fulfilled, have the experience in the palm of your hand and coat your fingers with a sticky sweet sugar frosting (always superior to butter-cream) and shove a fistful of life down your throat. Don’t worry about the caloric intake, we can always purge later. Everything is later.

The stories of stalking and trolling and fuckity fuck fucked men flexing their puny muscles (dicks) are closing in on me. I am not without my own brush with bad behavior. Fuck you for being like that, but you know what, no one is in the least bit surprised. You want to be some sad little boy throwing mud, go ahead, you’d be surprised at how easily I clean off and sparkle. You’re not the first and won’t be the last.

Also, the fucking google searches that find me, I know okay. I know. Stop being such a fuck head. God I had hated you so much and now I can’t even remember why I even bothered to waste all that time and emotion. Gah, I hate being so caught up in idiocy that is so sad and predictable. Hear that fucker, you are sad and predictable.

People are all capable of seeing what they want

Even though I’ve assured everyone that I am here for the right reasons (here being the metaphysical here, not the here here) I found myself wondering if my assurances are false.

But today, I thought about what if I am not here for the right reasons. What if I want what I want with such a vengeance that I am entirely unable to notice some obvious disparities?

And now, with these thoughts in my head, how do I give myself over to the cosmos to do what it will with me?

And is the cosmos female or male? I was going to say: “what she will with me” but I don’t know if I should keep the cosmos gender neutral or not.

And do people fall off of couches without arms? They look nice in the catalogs, but those four-inch stilettos looked good in the store yet those were a mistake.

And why does Bruce call me back when I hang up on him? I always say: “I have to go. I am hanging up now. Goodbye. I am going.” And you would think that would be an indication that I want to stop talking to him, so why does he keep talking? Should I just hang up and not tell him so he keeps talking thinking that I am there?

All these deep questions make me hungry. If anyone has answers let me know, off to find a stuffed burrito.

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Magic in Manhattan: When Calamity stole the drugs from the drug dealer

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).

Friday, July 07, 2006

All of my duck in a row, which is soothing to my OCD

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.

Thursday, July 06, 2006

I know

I guess I owe a summary of Bruce’s visit.

Bruce came and saw July 4 Boston style.

There done with that.

We spent this evening on the phone looking at places to rent. Bruce is looking for a bigger place and he’s considering moving somewhere that will be more convenient for me in terms of my commute. Not that I have a job, but I have a vague idea of where I will work post-move.

I’m doing this. I’m really doing this.

Tuesday, July 04, 2006

We interrupt this program to bring you a message from the President of the United States of America

I have been running all over Boston with Bruce. The fourth of July here is a big thing. Something to do with some sort of tea party. A little weird I guess, but that’s only because Boston has always seemed to be more of a beer drinking town to me.

I am also a little weary. I am a firm believer of learning from other people’s experiences and the experiences I’ve been hearing about lately make me wonder if blogging is worth all the pain.

When Bruce leaves I will resume the regularly featured program.