All this before 9:30.
Friday, September 29, 2006
This morning I grabbed a cab to work, Bruce was here and at a hotel in town, so I stayed with him, plus I have a mutant blister on the bottom of my foot. The cab driver must have assumed that I was an out of town visitor and promptly took me in the opposite direction from where I wanted to go.
When I looked up and realized that we were what would have been half the distance to my work, but in the entirely wrong direction, I asked where he was going and why. He then gave me some song and dance about traffic in the financial district and he was going around it. To go around the traffic in Boston, I am pretty sure you have to get on a boat and go to Canada (hey Livi!) then take a bus down through Maine and then parachute from a helicopter above the Charles River then float into work with my life preserver.
When I pointed this out to the cab driver he said that he knew what he was doing, I said no he didn�t and accused him of trying to pad his fare. He took umbrage at this and threw me out of the cab. I demanded that he drive me back to the hotel. I got out, refusing to pay the man, and got in the next cab waiting. The fare is normally about $9. The cab driver in the second cab felt bad about sitting at a light too long in traffic and turned off the meter at $7.35. I gave him $10. It�s nice to get someone who doesn�t totally suck.
Plus I lost my favorite sunglasses. I know I wore them home last night. I remember my looking at my shadow as I was walking up Tremont Street and the glasses were on top of my head. When I went to pack this morning they were gone. They aren�t in either of my bags and I called the hotel to see if they were found by housekeeping. Nothing. I am sure they fell between the bed and the nightstand or something. Dang. I love those glasses. It�s going to be a long time before I find another go-to pair like those.
It Don’t Come Easy
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
To the Russian women (?) writing emails asking me to date them, I really appreciate that you dig me, but I don’t dig you.
To the Russian women (?) writing emails asking my boyfriend to date them, back the fuck off bitches (or bots). I will cut you.
To the random myspace people who IM me and send me emails, no I don’t want to join in on your “nekkid” web cam chat.
To the children playing outside on Sunday morning, your eardrum shattering screams may have been all fun and games but some of the grown-ups were thinking of ways to smother you in your sleep.
To the cafe staff people, a little Nair goes a long way, and no, women don’t normally have that much facial hair.
To the person who catches the 6:45 bus with me in the morning, you are the weight of two Lohans and thusly should not be imitating her leggings and t-shirt ensemble.
To the guy who married a goat, just no.
The Discovery Channel
Monday, September 25, 2006
I’ve always hated people touching me. I know, for someone who really enjoys sex, that seems odd. I suppose I should qualify my statement, I’ve always hated certain people touching me.
My grams touches my face and I just want to scrub my face with bleach. I don’t know. I love my grams, but she touches my face and I just want to crawl out of my skin.
At clubs the boys would dance around me. I wasn’t an amazing dancer (well, actually, I am pretty good), rather, I needed the protection from elbows and back and other body parts that were flailing about in a coke induce arrhythmia.
On airplanes I try to snag a window seat so that I have something I claw onto when the person next to me moves their elbows (and more recently legs, GET ON YOUR OWN SIDE BITCH). Bruce was a little surprised to see me so messed up from the touching thing (that flight was the first one where I was driven to tears at the thought of being touched).
Public transportation clearly has no place in my life, except for the fact that I take it every day. Great.
But there is more. I have realized that I might not be okay. I was reading a blog by a father in a separation and heading to divorce. He wrote about how he talking to his daughter who sat on his lap while he mowed the lawn. “Next it was time for the big girl. She was with me the rest of the time which was for about an hour or more. We talked, as best we could, about what she did all day and things she wanted to tell me. I kissed her shoulder a lot and held her tight. We got to just enjoy each others company.” I read it and thought creepy. I didn’t think too much of it until yesterday on the T. There was a family heading home after the Red Sox game and the youngest child, a boy of about 7, kept leaning into his father and bouncing his head off his father’s stomach when the train lurched back and forth. A joke was made about his paunch being good for something and then the young boy TOOK A HANDFUL OF HIS FATHER’S STOMACH AND SQUEEZED. For his part, the father didn’t even flinch. Dude was totally at ease with someone messing around with his stomach fat. I shuddered at the thought.
And yet, now I wonder, is this me? I know I have friends who don’t like to have their face touched, but it seems to be a universal preference rather than in regards to a single person. And why would I get so messed up by my grams touching my face when we touch hands and link arms all the time? And why do I start having anxiety attacks on airplanes when someone’s elbow jostles me? Is it normal to want to claw off your own skin just because someone’s elbow touched your blanket-covered, jacket-covered, AND shirt-covered arm?
Also, I have noticed that the more chemically impaired I am the less affected by all this I am.
I am so messed up.
I cantilever myself for you
It’s perfectly clear that the decisions are not mine to make. I am merely here to offer up suggestions, but at least have the grace to pretend to understand my wisdom. I have supporting documentation indicating that I give good advice.
Good idea
Friday, September 22, 2006
Considering the way life is, maybe you shouldn’t call the grandchild that takes care of you inconsiderate and selfish, because really when you need someone to do something for you and you have no one there, you’ll regret being so short-sighted.
Stitch in Time
Thursday, September 21, 2006
The possibilities are endless. With every step the options fan out like a pantone color palette waiting for the perfect combination of blue and ivory to be paired.
With the infinite options come the brain shattering fullness of migraines that beat back hunger, fear, excitement, resentment, joy, lust, whelm, and balance. Evey step through a new door crams yet another alternative into a jam-packed future. My future’s so bright, I gotta wear shades.
Brightness and hue are only the frick and frack, not the body of time. Corporeally explained time does very little to support anything other than the blatant lack of time. Whiz bang stumble and fall, time will catch you up and call you out.
I don’t have to worry though, soon enough I will have more than enough time, perhaps too much time.
Your Redemption Doesn’t Come Easy
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Moments roll by when I wish I could have someone else’s life. I don’t mean that I am envious of wealth, looks, or general good fortune. I mean that I wish I could be entirely enveloped by another. The idea of being a part of a larger whole. No, more than that, being part of a whole suggests that there are elements of heterogeneity remaining. I want to be subsumed entirely and not just so that I become indivisible where my parts are evenly distributed amongst the whole, but entirely non-existent.
I just think that sometimes, life would be just, easier. No decisions, no effort, things would just be. The other side, wherein I am, I am not. However, the logical, well-educated, well-read me knows that the I not is impossible.
There are those who actively strive for the I not. I’ve read the blogs of mostly women and a few men who are living a life of I not. Or rather, attempt to live a life of I not. I read with gluttonous rapture, like wild dogs cleaving meat from a dead carcass, trying to understand both psychologically and spiritually how some can be not just subordinates but properly subjugated.
These blogs retell with bravado and glory the extent to which they are not. They revel in the degree of nothingness they are able to attain. Accordingly, I know that Truth (with a capital T) seems to have very little interference with these blogs. The reality of surrendering control to another looks great on paper but lots of things look great on paper (Tara Reid, I’m looking at you). Also, so many of these bloggers seem so entirely damaged in a way that therapy and sedatives will never cure what ails them that I doubt they could be what they say they are and not then require a trip to Bellvue for a frontal lobe retune.
Whether the accounts are true or not, just as the moment came upon me in which I wish for the complete relinquishing of control, the next hairline fracture of a second rolls on and I realize that I am too much my own person to ever fall so entirely into a someone else.
The Kids Are Alright
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Something has been bugging me. In the back of my head I’ve been playing football (American) and ignoring something.
I have 12 more days of work. Then I leave. I am leaving my job. I don’t have a new job.
Bruce has vowed that he will care for me. Just as he cares about me. I understand.
I just look at this past month and wonder if he understands.
Bruce didn’t come to London or Frankfurt with me last month. He was invited but he chose to work instead. Bruce agreed to go one day, and a few nights ago he mentioned perhaps this upcoming spring time. But the back of my head says that the one day/some day promise is the promise that will forever pass time next time.
The next time will be different. The core group is spreading out and the quick hit of the present wherein I see EVERYONE in four days in one city won’t be possible. My life is slowly spinning out like an ever expanding galaxy where seconds turn into light-years over the course of a lifetime. The spread of people and dialects is not unfamiliar but the chance was unique. Unique: having no like or equal; unparalleled; incomparable.
I think Bruce really believes that the next time will be just fine and that he’s not missing out on some grand experience. The possibilities are not endless and limits are looming to illustrate the point that time is of the essence as time essentially fades away.
I just wanted him to see what made me alright.
where’s Andre?
Thursday, September 14, 2006
- I have left comments alluding to my recent “bad memory”. I know I left a comment on a blog. I only comment on blogs where I am a VERY regular reader. I can’t find the comment anywhere. I like to follow up and see how other people respond. It’s not to be found on the Internet.
I have a dress fitting for the October wedding. I hope the orange dress fits. I have to bring foot wear and under garments with me. If I start crying via email, you know what’s up. Just give me a bunch of gin and leave me to it. Thanks
My milkshake brought all the boys to the yard.
Stay with me now
Last night I broke my clit.
No really, it wasn’t working.
Well, technically it was working in the beginning, but by the end, I would say in my professional opinion, my clit was broken.
Bruce and I were talking on the phone (stop it you perverts) and we had a conversation that has been in the making for a few weeks. I voiced some very real, very worrying concerns and he answered them. I don’t know if I am satisfied but I can’t think about the what ifs for the time being. I have friends coming in from parts unknown (Houston) and I have a monster project at work that is going to necessitate some weekend work. I have my doubts, but I am nothing if not excellent at ignoring my doubts. I am very good at that (SimplyOops).
So, last night after the conversation, Bruce and I stopped speaking and I was suppose to be going to sleep. Instead I grabbed my vibe and went to work. I really did work. Work. Work. Work. It’s been a while since I’ve wanted to work, my libido was in a down-shift, it happens. I could feel the planets re-aligning my sex drive was quietly coming out of hibernation.
The first gear and second gear were easy as always, third took some doing, but like I said, I worked worked worked, and for all my hard efforts I was rewarded with a nice clitoral orgasm. But orgasms should be something more than “nice”.
But then fourth, we stalled out at fourth. No matter how hard I tried, I just could not get the G-spot. I mean, I twisted and rubbed and turned and thrust. Nothing. I have never had to work so hard with anything ever to get a orgasm. After a while I realized that I was chasing a ghost and turned my attention back to my clit.
After all, after fourth gear is fifth, and my third orgasm is usually the one that knocks me out to sleep. I knew that I had skipped the second one but didn’t figure there would be any harm.
Until I realized that with all the effort the get to my g-spot I had effectively vibed the hell out of my clit. The whole time I was focused on the g-spot the clit had been vvvvvvvv’ed and then rubbbbbbbed and then vvvvvvvvv’ed again and then…well you get the picture. I had gone too far and my poor clit bore the brunt of it. Poor clit.
So I broke my clit. I hope it gets fixed soon. I think I am going to need it again real soon.
Breaking up is hard to do
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Having spent the last four weekends in four different cities, none of which were my home city, I am exhausted.
I’ve been mindful to keep a notebook with me to track thoughts and bloggy bits, but honestly, I need a break.
I will be able to reassert myself in a few weeks, but for the time being, I’m on a mini-hiatus.