nanowrimolsg08

Part IV

Wed, 05 Nov 2008 19:04:17 GMT

Today's commuter playlist: "I Would Do Anything For Love", Meatloaf; "Bohemian Rhapsody", Queen; "It's All Coming Back To Me Now", Celine Dion; "Total Eclise of the Heart", Bonnie Tyler.
Total Eclipse of the Heart. You love that song, don't lie. Everyone loves it, and if you don't you're either lying about it or you're missing out on one of the greatest pleasures in life, by which, of course, I mean shouting hokey lyrics at the top of your lungs and feeling unabashedly stupid. I have this theory that feeling stupid once in a while is good for you.
When I was still sleeping with Trent, we'd hang out in my apartment with a packed bowl and a hip flask of rum, and in between Radiohead, Vampire Weekend and Imogen Heap, Bonnie Tyler would come on and we'd put on our best dramatic voices and sing along to that ultimate profession of love. One of the things I liked best about spending time with him, besides the sexy stuff, was that I always felt stupid around him, so I never had to worry about moments like that when I was being stupid on purpose.
There's nothing quite as satisfying as a melodramatic pop song. It's one of the few things in life that make you let go of all your pretensions. Even Trent could do it, and he's probably the most pretentious person I know… Jesus, him and his goddamn lip ring and his tight pants and his bass guitar. Sexy, yes. Quality? Not so much.
I'm being harsh. I always had a great time with Trent. I guess I'm just still a little bitter about his inability to commit, thanks to his bicoastal lifestyle, which, by the way, he doesn't even like. It's just, you know, anything for the band.
Trent's band, for the most part, is located out in L.A., and every goddamn time they need to record or play he has to fly out there. Personally, I don't see why he doesn't just move there permanently. He says he'd miss New York for the girls, but his taste isn't exactly sophisticated, and I'm sure he'd be fine on the West Coast with the fake blondes and their fake breasts. He's totally the type to date some wannabe actress. Come to think of it, I'm completely unclear about why he spent any time with me to begin with. I mean, yes, the chemistry was radical and I loved his band and his bassist hands, and we would sit on my bed and talk about music for hours. I'd put together a playlist every time he called to say he was coming over and by the time he left he'd have asked me about half the bands I played for him that he wasn't familiar with. I liked being able to do that, introduce him to new music. I love doing that for everyone, but because he's so pretentious, it was more fun making him feel musically illiterate. But that's the thing, you know? I'm just so smart. And he can't handle smart. He likes having the upper hand, being the impressive one. And I never was willing to dull my sparkle just to make some stupid boy feel better. Which is why I'm chasing men now. Well, supposedly. At the moment, I'm really just at work, doing some more filing. Ocean liner of monkeys.

The phone rings. Not my cell phone, but the actual business phone that sits on my desk, which is currently littered by various faxes that have come in today. I pick it up. That's in the job description.
"Mark McGill's Office," I say, putting on my best professional voice.
"Is this B? It's Leiv."
For a moment I wonder why he'd call the business line, but then I remember that I've been doing this new thing where I give people my card. It makes me feel important.
"Good timing," I say. "My boss just walked out. Now's the time to get away with personal phone calls."
"Will he be back soon?"
"Why? You looking for him?"
"I'm considerably more interested in talking to his assistant, actually," he says.
"Better make it snappy, then," I say, smiling into the telephone. "He should be back any minute."
"Can I take you to dinner tonight?"
"Pretty snappy!" I reply, laughing softly. "I'd like that."

He tells me he'll pick me up at my office and I double check my bag to make sure I have lip gloss with me. I'm excited, and a little unprepared. Most of all, I'm anxious for the workday to end, because so far, Leiv is very promising and my job is eight hours a day in hell.

At work, I amuse myself by letting the FM radio that is my brain take over. In my head, I'm just listening to music and bopping my head or tapping my toes along as I sort through mail, print schedules, and file. Of course, with my luck, my boss tends to walk in as I'm slow dancing with a manila folder to Blondie's "In The Flesh". I always try to pretend like I'm stretching or doing something else, but he's not stupid and I'm sure he's caught on more than once. He never says anything, though, but from what I've heard, his old assistant used to do sit-ups in the office when he wasn't looking. So I guess I'm a step up?

It's 5:15 and I'm popping a breathmint in my mouth and adjusting my skirt. Thank God I wore a skirt to work today. A silver car pulls up and the passenger side window rolls down. Leiv peeks his head out to let me know it's him and my first thought is, dear God, who drives in the city? Nevertheless, I smile at him, open the door and slide into the shotgun seat.
"How was work?" He asks.
"Over," I say. "On to bigger and better things!" I buckle my seatbelt. "Where to?"
"You'll see," he says, and we drive westward in silence. We hit Riverside park and he parks the car. I look at him, confused, and he opens the trunk and pulls out a picnic basket. It's adorable.
We find ourselves a quiet, grassy little area and park ourselves there. And Leiv starts unpacking the basket. First, a champagne bottle appears -- good champagne. Then, a tupperware container filled with mushroom ravioli in truffle oil; I can smell it before the lid even comes off.
"This is really nice," I say, as a box of really fancy chocolates practically flies out of the basket.
"I'm wining and dining you, I guess," he says, smiling sheepishly. He's trying to impress me. Maybe a little too hard, but I appreciate the effort. Lastly, he sets a flameless candle down on the ground between us, you know, for effect. I should marry this guy.
We eat, and talk, and he's looking pretty good in the glow of the flameless candlelight. He tells me I look pretty and I thank him even if, to be honest, I could look better. It's not my fault; he kind of sprung this romantic picnic on me a little last minute. The sun is down and it smells like grass and truffle and champagne and chocolate and New York City air, and I have one of those moments where I wish I had a reality show so that someone could capture this perfection. He's smart and funny and charming and makes twice as much as I do... not that I particularly care.
He raises his hand to touch my hair.
"I always thought I had the personality of a brunette," I say.
"No, no. You have a fire in you. It only makes sense your hair should be the same color."
It's cheesy, I admit. But he looks so sincere when he says it. I lean in to kiss him, and our lips just touch. His left hand, still stroking my hair, moves to the back of my head to pull me in closer. His mouth is warm and wet and his lips are gentle and I think, yes, I think this is the best first date ever.
When engaged in liplock, my brain likes to scream things at me like "hey, kissing! YAY!" which means that I'm hard pressed to notice anything else, even the details of the kissing. It's just action and reaction, as it happens. He does something I like, I respond to it. He does something I don't get, and, well, I take the opportunity to do something I think he'll really like. Like gently nibble his bottom lip. That's a favorite of mine. Unless the kissing is unbearably bad (which is rare, but it happens), I don't actually stop to think about how good or not good it is until later. And yes, I've lost interest in a guy for poor kissing skills. If you can't look forward to kissing someone, it's just not going to work.

When I get home, I take the time to think about the evening. Leiv had walked me to my door, held my hand, kissed me good night... it was pretty much perfect. The kissing, now that I could really think about it? Not bad. Not perfect. Needs some getting used to. But definitely, definitely not a lost cause! And I'm happy. This could really be something.

Part III

Mon, 03 Nov 2008 01:15:15 GMT

This is probably a good time to mention that I am a complete homebody. I don't really like to go out, except to shows and restaurants. Music and food are big passions in my life, but I haven't been to a bar or club in at least six months. It's not that I don't drink or I'm antisocial or anything. Actually, I love to drink. But the occasions that I drink, I like to be around people I know, maybe at a friend's house, so that when I get pissed drunk and make a really stupid decision, I'll have somewhere to pass out.

That's another passion of mine; sleep. I don't get much, mostly because I just don't have the time, but deep down I always want to be in bed.

See, the thing is that I went through this period in college where I literally had someone in my bed every night. Not necessarily in a sexual way... it's complicated. But I don't think I ever really got over it, and ever since I've hated sleeping alone. It's weird; I used to hate sharing beds. I would get sweaty and self conscious, particularly if I was in bed with someone I liked or if I wasn't wearing much. But now, every time I get into bed, I lie there, awake, shivering and missing body heat. And I haven't shared a bed with anyone in months. It's not an emotional thing or some desperate sign of loneliness. It's completely physical. And I really don't get it.

I don't know, actually. Now that I think about it, maybe it is emotional. I never used to be cuddly, either. Now I feel like I need it all the time. But it's a physical compulsion. It's not about being sad or anything. It really is a body heat thing. Maybe I have an iron deficiency... I should start taking vitamins.

Anyway, I'm at work, filing, which is, as you know, my favorite activity. And my cell phone starts vibrating. I set the folder in my hand over the files in the open drawer and reach for my phone; it's Jordan. I pick up.
"Lunch?" She says, without missing a beat.
"Can't," I say. "No time. I have to finish my filing by five if I want to get out of here at a reasonable hour."
"Fair enough. Speaking of a reasonable hour, Trish is having a housewarming party tonight. She just moved to Murray Hill. I promised I'd go but Cale needs to work late and I can't take Trish without some moral support. Please come?"
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I hate Murray Hill. I hate it almost as much as I hate Trish. She has this hyena laugh and she thinks everything is funny and she always invites her ex-boyfriends to her parties and gets mad at you if you talk to them. I wonder why they even bother showing up. It's not like they get anything out of it. Except maybe free booze and appetizers.
But I feel bad, and I know that if I let Jordan go alone to that party that I will get an angry drunk dial in the middle of the night and it's just not worth it.
"Fine," I say. "But you owe me, big time."

When we get to Trish's, we're horrified to see that her new apartment is completely decked out in western party decorations. Trish is bending over the coffee table, setting down a tray of those mini hot dogs I secretly love. She's wearing a wifebeater, daisy dukes, cowboy boots and a hot pink cowboy hat. And oh God, I can see her lime green thong peeking out over the top of her impossibly short shorts. Gross. We walk over to her and say hi, and she greets us with her hyena laugh.

We head into her bedroom, which is hot pink and black from floor to ceiling (gag) and set our coats on her bed.
"Fix me a good, strong drink," I say to Jordan, and we return to the tiny living room.
A moment later, I'm clutching a vodka cranberry and sitting in a rather cozy looking armchair in the corner. Jordan is on the other side of the room, talking to some Indian girl who apparently works in her office building.
"Howdy, partner," says a stranger standing to my left. I throw him a death glare. "You really are a Yankee," he continues.
"Born and bred," I say, sounding as disinterested as I feel.
"I'm Leiv."
"B."
"What's that short for?" He asks.
"I'll never tell." Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Trish glaring at me. Clearly, I am fraternizing with one of her former toys. Suddenly I am incredibly interested in Leiv.
He notices her glare, too. "Jealous, much?" He says, nodding his head in her direction.
"It's her party and she'll cry if she wants to," I reply.
Leiv laughs and sits down in the armchair across from mine. "You would cry too if it happened to you."
"Da-da-da-da-da!" We sing together. Both of us are off key. We laugh about it and I take a sip from my drink.
"Leslie Gore," he says, shaking his head. I am somewhat impressed that he knows who originally performed that atrocious song. "Songs shouldn't have sequels," he adds.
"Britney Spears does it okay," I reply. We lock eyes and laugh.
A brief yet awkward silence passes.
"B is short for Bridget," I say, "but nobody calls me that. Seriously."
"Why not?"
"I'm not sure. No one's ever really called me Bridget, except my late grandmother, and that's only because she stopped being able to take in any new information after my birth certificate. I'm just B. That's who I've always been."
"I guess it's just a name," he says, shrugging.
"What do you do?" I ask, attempting to make polite conversation.
"I'm in law school at Columbia right now," he says. "But to pay the bills, I answer phone at the admissions office. It's a barrel of monkeys."
"Sounds that way."
"And you? What do you do?"
"I'm a personal assistant," I say. "To this guy who writes books about how to make money on the internet."
"Barrel of monkeys?"
"Ocean liner of monkeys." Wow, that was lame. I am so lame. In spite of my lameness, Leiv laughs. He has a nice laugh. It's sort of quiet, and his shoulders shake a little. "So you want to be a lawyer?" I ask.
"Kind of. I'm hoping to inch my way into politics, eventually."
"Big dreams."
"Oh yeah," he says. "And you? What's your dream?"
"I want to write for a music magazine. A good one," I emphasize. "CMJ or something. One day. I'd like that."
"Ah, so you're a music junkie. Favorite band?"
"The Beatles, obviously."
"Why is that obvious?"
"Well, think about it. If you were stuck on a desert island and could only listen to one band for the rest of your life, how could it not be the Beatles? They covered a lot of ground."
"That makes sense," he says, nodding. "Except for the desert island part."
I drink more. Leiv is actually turning into a decent guy. And I know it's not the alcohol. After another moment of silence, he speaks. "They're not the band you're most passionate about, though, are they?"
Ah. So he does know music. "Jeff Buckley. Okay, technically not a band. But I live and breathe for Jeff Buckley."
"That's a music junkie's response."
"You get it," I say, tilting my head slightly to the left, a half smile creeping onto my face.
"I love music," he says. "I never really thought of it as a career option, but I used to intern at EVR."
"Shut up!" I say, adjusting my position in the armchair. "I love EVR!"
"It was really fun, but it didn't pay. I guess I'm lame and need money too much."
"We all need money," I say, sighing. "Why else would I be working my shit nine-to-five?"
"Point." He takes a swig of his beer. "What are you doing now to keep yourself sane?"
"I go to a lot of shows, live vicariously through my bad ass musician friends."
Leiv's phone rings. He looks at it for a moment and turns to me. "That's my alarm," he says. "I have an exam tomorrow. I set it so that I would remember to get home and study for at least, like, fifteen minutes."
I laugh. "So you have to go," I confirm, nodding my head once.
"Yeah. I'm sorry." He looks it. I kind of am, too. "Can I get your number? I wanna know more about your bad ass musician friends."
I give him my number and a flirty little hug, and he heads out. Jordan makes a beeline for my armchair.
"Whooo was that?" She says it just like that, with the extended 'who' and everything.
"He's someone," I say. "Let's get out of here and I'll tell you all about it."

Well, he's cute, in a Seth Cohen kind of way. Tall and Jewish looking in an appealing way. His skin's a little dark, which makes me wonder if he's Israeli or part Israeli. Or sephardic. I don't even know. I think about it for a second and I'm unable to comprehend why a seemingly smart guy like Leiv would ever date a girl like Trish. Must be a shiksa goddess type thing. One of the perks of being a redheaded Jewish girl is that it usually gets me around that syndrome. Pity I never like Jewish boys. Well, usually. I can make an exception, and Leiv certainly seems like a reasonable one.
I think about it on my way home. Jordan's certainly enthused. I mean, I think she thinks I'm desperately unhappy or something and the only cure is a boyfriend, but sometimes she forgets I'm not her. Nevertheless, the more I think about it, the more I hope Leiv calls. That's the problem with thinking, though, isn't it?

I'm glad we left early. It's barely eleven, but I do have to be at work at the Trish's-ass-crack-of-dawn and I haven't even really eaten anything today. Which explains why I'm feeling so lightheaded. Well, it's probably a combination of hunger and Jordan's hurricane vodka cranberry. It's looking like EasyMac for dinner.

The next day, at work, Jordan calls again, to ask if I've heard from Leiv. I tell her no, and she launches immediately into the life changing event that was last night. Apparently, when she got home, Cale was waiting for her. And they did it. For the first time. Golly! I don't mean to be a judgmental bitch about this, I really don't. Those are Jordan's words. I'm happy for her because I know she feels relieved that he didn't immediately dump her, and I am, too. I'm not completely insensitive. If he would have done something like that to Jordan I would have popped a cap in his ass. Jordan's a good person and a good friend and in spite of my bitching about the little things, I'm loyal as hell to her.

Part II

Sun, 02 Nov 2008 16:07:28 GMT

Weekends are so much better when you have a full time job. Take it from me; I'm a personal assistant. I work for one guy. And when I'm at work, my social life effectively ceases to exist. Like, when you're in school, your social life doesn't just stop. Your friends are all around you, in between, before, and after class. The weekend isn't much different, except for the fact that you don't have to conform to a pain-in-the-ass schedule. My weekends are cherished like diamonds. I have just those two days a week to see my friends, of which, by the way, I have many. These days, however, even my weekends conform to a kind of schedule. I raise hell on saturdays and take my sundays to recuperate and make sure I get enough sleep before the start of yet another harrowing work week. God, I am so old.
So it's a saturday afternoon, and I'm in Grand Central Station, leaning against the info desk in the middle of the concourse, waiting for my friend Jordan to get in from Connecticut. I spot her, holding a couple of shopping bags and looking very, very excited to be back in the city.
"THANK. GOD." She says, setting her bags down to give me a hug. "Why the hell did I think it would be a good idea to go to freaking Westport?"
"Oh, the things a girl will do for a date," I reply. Jordan had spent the night with her new boyfriend, Cale, a computer programmer.
"Seriously," she says, pulling her blonde hair back into a ponytail. "Coffee?"
"I thought you'd never ask," I say, picking her bags up off the floor and handing them to her.
A couple of minutes later, we're sitting in a Starbucks with hot drinks in our hands, when Jordan asks me what time the show starts. We're seeing a friend of mine from from Philly play in a little place we frequent called the Sidewalk Cafe.
"Eight, I think, but I wanna get there around six so we can hang out. I haven't seen him since his last tour," I say.
"Great, that gives me plenty of time to stop at Margot's."
Jordan, despite working in real estate, still lives in Hoboken with her senile grandmother, so she stays with friends in the city as often as possible. I'm glad she has other friends in the city now, because she can be kind of a pain in the ass. I love her but she's pretty high maintenance. I ask Jordan if Margot's coming tonight.
"She's working late," says Jordan, "but she'll get there when she can."
My relationship with Jordan is pretty complicated. Sometimes I like her friends more than her. I mean, she's been a great friend to me and I'm glad to have her around, but she can be a lot to handle. And sometimes she tries to compete with me, which is ridiculous. She can't compete. I'm really fucking glad she found Cale, because worrying about bruising her ego can be a lot of work.
See, when Jordan meets a guy, if he's not too hideous, she'll immediately want him, because she's desperate. And if I like him, she says dumb things like "may the best girl win". I always win. It's not that I'm the best girl. Even I was, I'd never claim to be. But it's like, a day after I make out with the guy and decide I'm not interested she'll say something like "he's immature" and I'd have to stop myself from gagging because she couldn't have him anyway. Maybe this is kind of selfish of me. Maybe I have to admit to myself that I really think I am the best girl and just accept the fact that I am an egotistical bitch. Well, I guess everyone has their moments.

After we drop Jordan's stuff at Margot's (who, it turns out, would not be joining us at any point in the evening due to a frightening case of strep throat), we amble up Avenue A. She's telling me all this stuff about some girl at her office who's sleeping with Mr. Boss Man, her hands waving wildly with her words. And I'm just pretending to listen. I am such a shitty friend sometimes. I really am. It sounds terrible, but I am pretty much incapable of paying attention to any kind of conversation that doesn't directly involve me or something that seriously interests me. Like music. I can listen to someone drone on and on about music, even if that person is terribly boring. But if the most interesting person in the world starts a conversation about, I don't know, like, fishing? It goes in one ear and out the other. It's really not Jordan's fault that I'm such a shitty, egotistical bitch.

Anyway, so by the time we make it to the Sidewalk Cafe, Jordan is desperate for a drink, so we're sitting in the back at a little table nursing rum-and-cokes and waiting for Eddie to get there. He does, pretty soon, with about ten bands worth of equipment, which he sets down to give me a hug. He asks me how I am and I respond with a general "fine". I introduce Jordan, who is, by now, more than a little tipsy. I don't want to bother Eddie too much so I retreat to my seat and finish my drink.

Eddie is amazing. He does about a hundred things at once during his set, all of which sound good and put together. His fangirls are the highlight of the show, though. They stand in the front, dancing like a bunch of whores and applauding his every move. I mean, hey, I'm sitting in the back, my mind blown by pretty much everything he does, and I'm clapping too. But I'm not fangirling. There's a marked difference. I'm not wearing a miniskirt.

All of a sudden, Jordan turns to me and says, "there's something you don't know about me."
"You already know Eddie?" I guess, "you're allergic to rum and coke? You're a hermaphrodite?"
Jordan laughs. "I'm a virgin," she says.
"You're kidding!"
"It just never happened," she says, shrugging. "I think it might soon, though, with Cale."
"Does he know?"
"Yeah. I think he likes the idea of deflowering me."
"Huh," I say. "That's awkward. Well, uh, let me know how it goes, I guess? I mean, it'll hurt, you know that, right?"
"Obviously."
"And you'll be about a hundred times hornier once you start?"
"I didn't think that was possible," she says, giggling.
"You'd be amazed," I say, downing the last of my drink.

Eddie rocks me hard with a righteous guitar solo. Oh, God, and his voice. His lyrics. He's magic.

You'll never be a miracle,
Lord knows you're not a dream,
You're real, you feel, you fuck it all up,
But I can sleep comfortably knowing
You're on my team.

He's so damn sensitive. It's cute, even if I'm pretty sure it's a lot of bullshit. Nobody's really that sensitive. Nobody really cares about the cheesy love shit from the movies. The reason people see those movies is because it's not real and they want to escape to a world where people can feel that much for each other. I have this theory that love is essentially just the maddening fear that we'll all end up alone. And I guess lots of people are scared of being alone. But being alone is not the same as being lonely. At least not to me.

After the show, I tell Eddie he's fabulous, part with Jordan and head home. It's pretty early, but I'm kind of glad to go home and sit in my little apartment with my stereo and my laptop. I am the last person to mind being alone. I mean, sure, I like company and all, but me time is like medication for me. If I don't get it at least every once in a while, I can't function. And hey, I'll even be home in time for Craig Ferguson.

Part I

Sat, 01 Nov 2008 16:04:50 GMT

My name's Bridget, but the only person who ever called me that was my grandmother, and she's been dead for six years. To the rest of the world, I'm simply B. Or "my short friend". For the record, I am NOT short. I'm petite, thankyouverymuch. And, my God, I am tired.

Doing nothing can be very tiring. Once the holidays were over, I suddenly seemed to have an abundance of free time, which I naturally filled by consuming copious amounts of caffeine, listening to the same records on loop, and using my period cramps as an excuse to trip on high dosage painkillers. I assure you, you haven't lived until you've combined a vicodin with a double espresso.

Speaking of double espressos, work is as monotonous as ever. The office smells like fresh coffee and donuts, thanks to my boss's breakfast of champions, and my stomach is rumbling. I'm waiting on another assignment from him, but all I can think about is the Starbucks down the block. It's the end of October now and all those warm, seasonal drinks are beckoning.

That weekend at Elise's was a total bust. Turns out her friend, Rocco, is a complete tool. With bad skin. I knew it wasn't meant to be when he turned up wearing -- get this -- a Nickleback tour shirt. I'm hardly a fashionista, but if there's one thing I know, it's music, and I would never, ever date a guy who likes Nickelback enough to go see them live. Ever.
Okay, yes, I am a music snob. Hello, nice to meet you. It's probably my most obvious trait, so best I get it out of the way now. I can spend hours arguing about why Sgt. Pepper's is not the best Beatles album (and win!). Music is the one subject I really know. I mean, secretly, I still kind of want to grow up to be a rockstar. I even kind of aspire to raise my future children to be rockstars. I know the whole stage-mom thing is a little sick, but it's not about the stage for me. I just want those little fuckers to be punk rock musical prodigies. I really do. I want them to love it as much as I do because my relationship with music is probably the only true, loving one in my life.
As it is, I'm sitting at my desk, pretending to be doing something useful, still craving coffee and a donut, and thinking about the awesome bass line in Jeff Buckley's Last Goodbye. God, that is a sweet bass line. I love bass guitar. I love the way it sounds. I love its subtlety. And I love bassists.

I am not sure why this is, but I have always had a thing for bassists. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that they are obviously good with their fingers. Maybe it's because they're as quiet and subtle as the instruments they play. They lack the arrogance of the lead singers and lead guitarists. They don't try too hard like the drummers. They stand there, doing their thing for the music, and it just draws me in. This is a bad, bad thing. I have been hurt by many bassists. But it's good pain, and I keep coming back for more.

Christ. My leg is shaking like I'm on withdrawal from heroin. I'm not, for the record. I'm hardly opposed to recreational drug use, but I draw the line at needles. It's a friday afternoon and I can't wait to get my ass home so I can do nothing, which is what I'm doing at the office anyway. Except at home I get to do nothing in sweatpants. The truth is that I have a lot to do at home, which is more than I can say for my job. I make it that way. No one forces me to read three books a week or practice with my guitar, but I like being busy. It gives me a sense of purpose. Which doesn't make much sense, now that I think about it, because I only like being busy with pointless things. I've changed my mind; when I grow up, I want to be a professional recreationalist.
When I get antsy like this, my mind starts going. I freak myself out pretty bad with my own thoughts, sometimes. Like, God, don't get me started on sex. Somehow, thinking about sex produces some of my unsexiest thoughts.

Maybe it's just been too long. How long has it been, anyway?

Five months. Five months and three days, it's been. Almost to the hour. I guess it's sort of lame that I can tell you the exact date and relative hour, but I can be pretty neurotic about that sort of thing. I always know how long it's been; since I last kissed (two and a half months), since I last cried (fifteen hours), since I drank my last cup of coffee (I'm doing that right now). Time is a funny thing. It sort of fascinates me. Scares me, even. I mean, it doesn't even really exist outside the human brain. But it runs everything. Time has total control over everything I do, over everything anybody does. When to eat, when to sleep, when to file tax returns and when to die. It goes too fast when you want to stop and take things in, and it stretches endlessly when you're bored at work. And none of us can control it. Not even Superman, regardless of what the movie tells you.
The one thing time can't control is what you feel. I know that sounds sort of hokey, but think about it; you can know someone for ten years and not give a rat's ass about them, but you can fall in love with someone after five seconds. I know I can. I really can. Maybe it's not "true love" the way the world tells me things are supposed to be, but if the way someone plays with their own hair or walks down the street like nobody's looking makes me happy, who's to say that's not love?
It works with hate, too. You know it. There are all sorts of little things a person can do to make you hate them, even if it's just for a second.

But love, or hate, when it hits you like a pile of bricks like that? Sometimes it never goes away. And all the hours and minutes and seconds that tick your life away can't dull a feeling that satisfying.

Prologue

Sat, 01 Nov 2008 15:08:53 GMT

I've been involved with lots of guys. No boyfriends, though. For some reason, all those pseudo-relationships never got that far. I've been wondering why until just a minute ago when I had this epiphany. I guess I just never really related to them. I mean, I could get to know a guy, like him, spend a lot of time with him, and think he's nice, or smart, or even just a lot like me. But in the end, I just couldn't relate, so the guy just ended up being another two dimensional caricature of a good looking person I'd in theory like to end up with someday. And that's when my heart would start getting confused.
A lot of my fuck-ups can be explained using this logic. I was seeing this dude, Trent, for about a month before we called it quits and decided we'd stay friends... the kind of friends who have sex on a semi-regular basis, anyway. Some people would call that an act of desperation; I call that genius. Trent was a great kisser and I really liked him as a person. We liked a lot of the same music. He was gorgeous, talented, interesting and fun. Someone who I, to some extent, really admired. On paper, we had enough in common to do justice to any (Vegas) marriage license. We just couldn't get underneath each other's skin. Figuratively speaking.
Of course, after the break-up (if you could call it that), my brain went hazy. I kept trying to understand why we couldn't like each other. My heart had done something to me that my brain couldn't process. And I guess I took out my frustration by having as much sex with him as possible. Even now, when I hate him most of the time, he's more of an idea than a person. I mean, of course he's a person. But I can't see him the way I see myself. I can't see his complications.
So from now on, when I'm being bitter, I should probably start reminding myself that it really does all make sense and that I should stop worrying about it. I promise you, Trent is not worrying about it.

Tomorrow is Yom Kippur; the Superbowl of Jewish Holidays. It's that one day a year when every Jew who doesn't give a shit hauls ass to the local synagogue or temple or whatever to repent for all the sins they're not actually sorry about. Gee, God, I'm really sorry about all the sex I've been having, all the booze I've been drinking, all the splifs I've been rolling. But I actually like Yom Kippur. Fasting and empty religious rituals aside, there's something nice about taking a day (off from work!) to reflect on what kind of person I've been in the last year and what kind of person I'd like to become. It's easy to become jaded, especially in New York, but when I'm not being your typical cynic I actually do care about being a good person. Being a good person isn't about God or religion or going without food, either for religious reasons or because you want to drop those last five pounds. It's about wanting the right things. Caring about the right things, and the right people. And I care. I even care about Trent, the douchebag. Just because I'm too self-aware to end up in a half-assed relationship with Mr. Wrong doesn't mean I'm inconsiderate. I just don't want to hurt anybody.
So I'm standing in my kitchen, baking fucking brownies from scratch, which, by the way, I have never made in my entire life, so that my family can have a nice meal before the fast. I don't even like my family half the time, but the once every couple of years I do, I show it. So that they can pretend I like them the rest of the time.
As I dump maybe too much cayenne pepper into the batter, I'm probably thinking about sex. How much I'd like to be having some. It's been way too long since anyone I actually know personally has looked at me with so much as a dirty thought. It's not that I want to be objectified. I'd like to be wanted for being interesting, smart and fun, too. But I'd like all those things. Is that too much to ask? And I drop half a cup of flower all over the countertop.
When the holidays are over I'll have more time for the boy hunt. My friend Elise says she's got hoards of possible toys for my amusement, but I can't help thinking they have to all be creeps if they're still single and they've never been involved with her. I mean, she's hot. Really hot. She's a complete whack job, but she's actually so hot that I would still do her. Nevertheless, I'm going to her house this weekend to meet one of these potential boyfriends. It sounds a bit like a job interview, doesn't it? I'm not desperate. I'm just bored. And horny. And, okay, maybe a little desperate.
Let me say this; I am cute. I've got the whole flaming redhead thing going on, but I'm not Irish, and your average Irish girl would probably kill for my curves. Full lips, symmetrical face, the whole nine yards. I am damn sexy. I was blessed with good genetics. I'll even grow old hot, if my mother's hot fifty-something ass is any indication. I'm also considerably smarter than average, and I've been told I'm a great kisser. I'm hardly after validation. I think I'm more interested in finding someone I can fall for, rather than the other way around. I guess I blame New York for making me so fickle. But my relationship with New York is the only one that's lasted, and it makes one hot boyfriend. New York never lets me down.