the big boss passes by, looks at me and says
“If I had time I’d punch you in the face.”
I tilt my cheek up.
“..but I just don’t have the time.”

my mother doensr understand that drinking + skinny = drunk, and tht when i say "go fuck yourself,
i do it out of love. but really when people are not drunk and are just stu[id than they really just should/ you know todd. but relally you guiys, i just drove usd home so fuck that shit. Nicole's word's of wisdom: if you accept a ride fromyour daughter who is drunk than suck you in your stupid ass. the end.
off to philly tomorrow:) i am swwet like a candied yam.
p.s. livejournal suycks balls

"I would rather be a slave to a dominant female than charge half of the rent on my place. I put 50 dollars down, but if you can't afford it, the rent is negotiable. You'd have your own room, and you'd set the parameters. I would obey your every command without hesitation, and I would enjoy doing so. I firmly believe in female supremacy. I would wait on you hand and foot, treat you like a goddess, and cater to your every whim. If this interests you, please send me an email."


(this is in or around hollywood)

"Seeking those comfortable with nudity and yogic minded. Small house 1block from the beach, sleeping is community style, loft, no private bedrooms. We have a room downstairs that can be used as a massage room, or for other private uses. Seeking those open to personal growth and heart centered living"

"Hi,everyone,

I come from China(male,34,5'11")and studying here.I speak English&Mandarin. If you want to learn some Mandarin and have a great interest in chinese culture,I 'd like to help you.
In return it is my pleasure to exercise my oral english at the same time. Please reply if you consider seriously . Thank you"

Thanks craigslist chinamale. I was sitting at my desk, letter opener to wrist when I came upon your post. And I must say, with all the serious consideration my black little heart can muster up, I accept your oral english proposal. Open heart and mouth.

Sincerely,
Nicole

This is a test post from Photobucket.com

Date:	2005-09-21 23:43
Subject:
Security:	Public
Mood:	crappy

The discrepancy between one individual’s perception and another’s is so vast that I am amazed we ever reach a consensus. It is, perhaps, a miracle that such a word even exists w/in the human language.
Hmm…a little enthusiastic about our classes, are we?
Well, yes. And it feels really good.

From the start, I knew this philosophy class would kick my ass. Philosophy, on the whole, seems to require a certain degree of maturity in order to comprehend the conceptually dense, abstract methodology of reason – which, to a feebly ineffectual intellect such as mine, is like being punched to death by iron-fisted seagulls. In other words, my mental/emotional indecision and trepidation gets its teeth knocked out routinely – which is great b/c it challenges my b.s., and leads me toward being a less despicable character. I just might benefit from employing an air traffic controller to direct the mental gridlock of concepts going over my head, is all.
When I actually get something, it feels fantastic – it feels like I’m the smartest person in the world, and I can die happy knowing I’ve accomplished such an enormous feat.

But over the past week I’ve noticed something about myself – something significant with no viable resolve in sight. And that scares me. Describing this phenomena is going to be difficult b/c I am terrified of being wrong or getting some portion of it wrong, but I’ll bite my lip and try anyway. Here goes: (I think) I am, by nature, a highly curious and inquisitive creature, which (I believe), has served to sharpen my intuition. And when this quality is unsullied by reservation, my judgment, (more often than not), is proved right (though this seldom occurs and I am, perpetually, riddled with doubt and apprehension). And so, the series of events that follows such an affliction is always the same: when validated, I feel empowered and my soul sings with joy. But when I don’t receive the reassurance I (subconsciously) seek, my emotions churn in tumult, and I am wrought with resentment and anger. This is generally what ends up happening.
The sad thing is that it doesn’t take much to improve my mood: a simple nod in agreement will suffice; but lord oh, lordy-lord-lord does it make all the difference! Once validated, I suddenly have all the confidence in the world, and am miraculously fearless –cocky, almost. But I find this behavior is so supremely infuriating, that I want to chop off my own head and spit on myself in total disgust. Why? B/c a simple “That’ll do, pig,” or “I concur,” is all that separates misery from joy. But I have no alternative to this – nothing else seems to induce the necessary effect. I think that’s why I hate interpreting poetry so much: b/c I have all of these ideas about what it represents (or at least what it means to me), but I am always wrong (according to xyz teacher) and so I get really freaked out and nervous and embarrassed.
Monday night it rained for the first time in months and months and months, and now the city reeks like a sweaty, throbbing cavity of putrid sewage. Oddly enough, the restroom seems to be the only place that doesn’t smell – in this building at least.

Monday I drove downtown to the Public Library in an attempt to conduct the most ambiguous search known to man:
Go through LA Times archives from 1983 and 1989 (dates unknown), and find any possible ad(s) listings for the company – maybe in Classifieds, maybe in Real Estate. Write up(s) may advertise two buildings, though “you might as well” search for any ads under any of the (26) buildings. Note that all LAT archives exist only on microfilm.
So basically, I was looking for some number of ad(s) possibly placed during 1983 and 1989, advertising two – or twenty-six buildings, placed in unknown sections, of issues of the Times, possibly. And I should keep my options open….
Well, suffice it to say that plan didn’t go over very well.
But at least I got to drive the 10 and the 101 (ayieee!), see (as much as possible whilst driving, getting lost, and cursing the one-way streets) downtown and the center branch of the pl, which is actually v nice. It was fun.
Plus I wore a skirt (pink) and felt, for the first time in years and years and years, slightly feminine. Esp. b/c the skirt would dance around my calves when I descended the stair…or escalator.

Tuesday morning I rode the elevator w/ my parking neighbor, a suspected photog who, judging from a bumper-sticker is from Texas. Hmm…spying into other people’s cars is fun J. Anyway, I’ve seen him once – maybe twice before, and when I do I spend the rest of the day filling in the character holes by imagining who he is and what he does. More than likely, he’s a casting something or other b/c he’s always got tons of headshots in his backseat, but he looks too young and not sucktastic enough to be industry-related like that, so in my mind, he does headshots to pay the rent. Anyway, he got a haircut since the last time I saw him (in like, march), so mayhap he’s trying to chic-en himself up.

Put on my headphones and walked back to my car with a foolish grin pasted gingerly across my face. I was too busy watching the sky moving behind the trees (one of my favorite things) to notice the sidewalk below, and so I slipped on a banana peel. That’s right, a fucking banana peel. Thanks for the good times, life! I sure love to be the punchline.
I got back to the dirtiest car ever. So, I decided to go crazy and sing to my car during our ride home. The song involved a lot of frenzied Jajii-speak (R.I.P.), in addition to excessive swearing (to suit my needs, of course). And it was during this time I realized that, in the way that brown is the new black, golfy-poo needs be my new Jajii-cat. I don’t mean in the literal sense, b/c nothing will ever replace that pinky-pink-pink nose, emeraldine eyes, and the downy fur on her warm fat belly; it just seems to me that Jag1tongue is far too valuable a commodity to abstain from. Since I found out about her…untimely demise, not a drop of that wonderfully haphazard word salad has sing-sung its way from my miserable lips and broken heart. But now, perhaps I have a friend (and a confidant) to coo lovingly to once more.
Anyway, I am too cheap to pay $70 for a parking permit, so everyday I park 7889093274 miles away from campus, beneath massive trees. Because of this, my poor car has been covered by a hideous blanket of big fat berry/seeds, and the awful shit-colored, seedy spooge which they spew forth. As much as I hate to spend the money, I really should take the car in for a nice wonderful wash. I know, it’s the least I could do – esp. since I accidentally backed-up too far into the car behind me, whose asshole of a license plate carved an unsightly hole (though it looks more like a cigarette burn) into the butt of my car.

“It's the sense of touch. In any real city, you walk, you know? You brush past people, people bump into you. In LA, nobody touches you. We're always behind this metal and glass. I think we miss that touch so much, that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something.”
This weekend I watched Crash (yay netflix!), and have since been riding the euphoria of watching such a sublimely fantastic film. For the first time I felt a connection b/c of los angeles

Speaking of things that are deserving of being sodomized by a spiked dildo, my ticket was finally processed (only 21 days after the fact) by the
Lice-infested
Ass-licking
Paper-Mache
Douche-eaters

(The extent of my anger is beginning to scare me too)

The way I see it, if this po-po were so hot to uphold the law – to the point that he felt the need to pull two people over simultaneously, don’t you think he should exert an equal amount of enthusiasm when filing the necessary paperwork?
And isn’t it morbid that this city finds itself in excess of rim-licking, ticket-happy-ass-pirates, but when it comes to actually protecting and/or assisting civilians subject to theft, rape, battery/domestic abuses, etc. the pigs are either never there, or the ones perpetrating the abuse (so glad to see we’ve grown since Rodney King).
Sure part of this is me trying to wiggle my way out of an unjust amount (hello I died from charging the ticket and the traffic school and the random fees – oh yeah, and the ungodly amount deducted from my paychecks for god only knows what (fucking brats and old people, who, by the way, I have no desire to support if the same cannot be guaranteed for my future), but to be perfectly honest I have no remorse for speeding. The fact is that I drive ten times better than 99% of the douche bags that drive the speed limit or under – and if I’m asshole enough to get into an accident, it’s my responsibility to suffer the consequences. Being frightened and humiliated to the point of tears and oh, I dunno vomiting bile, doesn’t make me cognizant of why its bad or wrong to speed, it simply makes me want throw a tantrum, or rise up against the system. If I honestly knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that a po would help me if I were robbed, or attacked or whatever, I don’t think I’d have as much of a problem. But I know that this is not the case. Because when people are in serious danger and the 911 dispatcher puts them on hold (b/c there aren’t enough cops to go around), traffic tickets are the least of our problems.

You could say that I am incapable of taking responsibility for my actions – I have been getting really angry lately…suddenly…frequently. Perhaps its related. But I wouldn’t say that this is entirely true. Maybe it is.
I can see for the first time, how/why my mom has clung so fervently to diagnosing me as manic – but then again, I don’t know I’ve ever fit the description as adequately as I do right now (but not yesterday). If I’m not crying on my way to work (yeah, that Annie Lennox…really knows how to work the tear ducts), trying not to cry in general, trying not to succumb to the viciously uncontrollable hunger, pawing at the chunks of fleshy-fat intermittently dispersed over my body, not fulfilling a potential that’s worth much of anything, than I’m simply resorting to random acts of fury. Damn Nicole, those trivial ordeals sure are worth all that hot fuss. Dumb fucking cooze. oh yes I have been getting angry.
Okay that be enough.

allowing someone to demean and ridicule you relentlessly is just awful.

so is never standing up for yourself.

it's esp. bad if said person tells you that YOU are "mean" and "cruel," "have a bad attitude," and should "shut up" when you tell them that you're going to leave so you don't bother them anymore.

...and if this person tells you that you are "shameful" and an "embarassment" b/c you are going to a "junky school" instead of ucla -- which you already feel just wretched about (seeing as everyone you used to know is now graduating), but recognize that it is a necessary step

...and if this person tells you that you should not eat food so that you loose weight, even though you look perpetually tired (you are), and sick (you are) and all around miserable (yes) b/c....god only knows

...when this person is hateful and evil and terrible to be around and yet you try to help them b/c you feel morally obligated -- even though it hurts and makes you feel even more worthless and shitty than you normally do

you want to scratch out their eyes and holler and scream at them for being all of these things but you never do. b/c maybe you're an okay person, even if it hurts and you cried today. maybe it was okay. even if you don't like yourself that much, at least you know now that all these months of wretched treatment were unwarranted. maybe you don't deserve to be so cruel to yourself, either...

maybe maybe maybe

My head aches. I walk with my eyes closed.

Inside, I write this I look and see a tiny black whisp of a bug I have never seen before crawling along my left knuckle. I blow it away. It’s about twenty dregrees below zero inside this office, and the cooling system adjustment will make it even colder.

My mind is full of things I’d rather it weren’t:

“Studies show that childhood obesity and diabeties is due to overeating and inactivity. Reduce your child’s caloric intake and make sure they receive at least one hour of physical exercise each day.”

A long, tall, skinny guy from another office grills me relentlessly as we wait for the elevator, as we wait in the elevator, as we walk out of the elevator and do not say goodbye:
“Do you work in the office nextdoor?”
“What do you do?”
“You’re an assistant…for Souraya?”
“Are you in school? – College or highschool?”
“Where do you go?”
“We’re into exports – and we’re all pretty much the same age. We’ve seen you around around and wondered if you worked nextdoor – everyone there is old.”
I smile hesitantly, aware that there is something between my teeth, that my head aches, and that I am in no mood to do a song and dance routine before a judge with no reward in sight. I wonder what this guy wants – to be nice? Hmph. No such thing here in los angeles.
We exit the elevator and I wonder whether or not I should say goodbye, as people often do when they ride the elevator together – regardless of whether or not they speak. I don’t and he doesn’t either. He walks slightly behind me on the side walk and then disappears as I cross the street, his voice bouncing around in my head and me chasing after it while frantically shouting “goodbye!” Why couldn’t I have just said it?
The rest of my (brief) walk I fret about being stupid and hating myself and wanting his goddamned voice to cease vibrating within my head.

My head hurts too much to tolerate a full half-hour walk at my normal gait, so I decide to cut it short and buy some bottled caffine. I feel guilty.
At heart, I am obese. Morbidly.
I pass by people who look as if they’ve come from the gym. I feel guilty.
“Studies show that Americans are inactive and obese.” I feel guilty.
I think about all the lower sugar/sugar-free teddygrams, juicy-juice, and kudos and I feel guilty. I feel fat too, because I loved stuff like that before it came w/o sugar.
“Studies show that sleep deprivation leads to obesity…”
“Studies show that french fries lead to cancer…”
“5’3” 95lbs! Loose ten pounds in ten days!”
“Say goodbye! Say goodbye you dumb bitch! Act interested! Be nice! Be engaging!”

I want to bash my head against a wall to stop the incessant whirrling of unwanted noise.
I want to scream and yell and tell everyone to shut shut up and hump a fridge. Or fondle a sweater. Or smear mud on their ass.
I want to live in the wilderness and tape bears and then get eaten by one.
I want to run nextdoor and tell that guy I’m glad I didn’t say goodbye.

8/17
Tonight is Bonnie’s going away party, which I suppose means that she’s going to be leaving for Berkeley…very soon. Bonnie is the only friend that I’ve managed to accrue during my time out here in Los Angeles, which is sad considering that 1) I’ve been here for approximately nine months, and 2) I haven’t seen or talked to her since I came back from SC. Which is why I don’t know exactly when she’s leaving. I mean, it’s not for lack of trying, but I also recognize that moving is extremely stressful (let alone changing schools), and I’m not exactly a priority.
Anyway, I can’t even make it to the SURPRISE! part of her party, as I am contractually bound to a therapy session I scheduled all the way back in June (the last I had). Hmph. I’ve had absolutely nothing to do since I’ve been back (besides cry and mope and contemplate the dark side) until this one night when the only things I could ever do happen at once. If this were a sitcom, and my two social engagements were dates hilarity would ensue. But it’s not, so no one is allowed to laugh…ever.
Right now Big Hits of the 90’s is on, as I shiver from the inside out and contemplate the irony of paying out-of-state tuition at a junior college. My stomach is full of like two rasinbran muffins and I am actually thinking about eating lunch. My appetite is a voracious pit of despair, from which I – nor no one, can ever return. I feel grossly unsuccessful on every imaginable level, and completely incapable of getting out of the hole, and/or getting to a place of worth. It seems the more I hope I have, the more there is to be disappointed about.

8/18
After circling the block no less than 587265317586 times, I finally found Piper’s apartment and made it to the party. There, amongst the strangers peopling her apartment, I stood with all the grace and charm of a thistle in a rosebed; suffice it to say I was (still am) timid and awkwardly out of practice when it comes to human interaction. Three weeks of solitude can get a fool like me drunk off social contact in no time flat. But now I don’t know when I’ll make contact again – with anyone: the opportunity to be around people my own age is so seldom that it borders on nonexistant, and I though I know school will change that, I am concerned about the likelihood of finding another willing friend – much less one who might have a want or need for me.

8/19
Among other things, I ache for human contact; so great is my deficit that I fear it is destined to remain that way for all time. What am I supposed to do with this cavernous expanse of emotional need? Why can’t I just be satisfied with what I get – whatever it is, as it presents itself to me in the moment? As soon as I receive any morsel of attention, I gobble it up ravenously – before I even have the time to taste what’s in my mouth. I just suck and swallow and consume like the filthy greedy beast I am. And yet it’s never enough. Why can’t anything ever be enough for me?
Establishing new relationships in the absence of safety or comfort is a difficult task – one that I shirk away from wholeheartedly. In the end, I suppose I choose the hellishness of solitude over the possibility of disappointment and rejection, because it’s less of a gamble and less agonizing. I know I will inevitably bitch, and wail, and cry, contemplate, and curse the luck of, and be wholly incapable of soothing the violence of my own skillful hatred, if I allow myself to remain alone. But “putting myself out there” is like kneeling on a chopping block, waiting for the axe to fall: vigilantly awaiting the possibility of a disapproving glare, haughty smirk, or sigh of disinterest; wondering if they’ll call, or if they’re secretly dreading a call from you; wether they mean “yes” when they say it, or they’re just saying it because you’re so goddamned pathetic; going mad from wondering when and where and how and what they’ll do to tell you to fuck off.

The truth is that I don’t feel like this all of the time – I feel more confident, secure and trusting when I have support from the familiarity of of a preexisting relationship. But when I don’t physically have this in my life, everything falls apart. I feel very much like Mary Lennox, minus the garden and the bloody robinredbreast, but in excess of the crochety gardener, and evil headmaids. I feel sickly, yellow and unwanted.

This hunger business is for the birds.

Let me take this opportunity to profess my undying love for the wholly dysfunctional, inherently false society in which we live, who implores its members to value and uphold the motto “what doesn‘t kill us only makes us ugly.”

I have come to learn that in order to register as an acceptible (i.e. fun, fun-loving, happy, well-rounded, powerful, attractive and successful) woman, it is supremely important that you fall into only one of two categories:
A: You must be able to party all the time, eat junk food, have tons of fun always, never exercise, love candy/fat and ability to eat whatever, whenever, never stop being popular, and always be very thin.
B: You must shun all “bad” food, uphold the principles of a “healthy,” “carefree” lifestyle, by adhering to the religion of Yoga, Pilates, Spinning, running, weights, having three children, a husband, a house, a successful demanding job, never thinking about food or bothersome, dirty things of that nature, and be alawys be very thin.

Presumably any and all cases which cannot be so categorized, shall be lumped into a separate category and referred to as: American women are horrible, obese, greedy, lazy, dirty, slobs, whose overall worth is confined to the punchlines they incur. These women shall be condemned to a life spent lamenting their inablity to execute A or B accordingly, and will gauge personal success on their ability to not eat x,y,z or be miraculously thin.

Case in point:
I went online and was assaulted by the following ad:
“5’3” and 95 lbs: Loose 10 lbs. by xyz date!”
I’m not sure whether the ad was telling me to loose 10 so I could be 95lbs. or be 95 lbs. and loose 10 more.

When did 95 lbs. become an acceptable weight for any non-eating disordered woman of height greater than 5 feet? Furthermore, when did 105 lbs. become a weight worthy of weightloss, and 85 lbs. become a weight even thought to utter out loud?

I suppose it’s to be expected in a society whose summer line up includes a pilot for a sitcom about eating disorders.
“Starved: a New Comedy About Splurging and Purging” premired last night on the FX channel and has been receiving rave reviews from critics who revel in lines like “If you were a dog, I’d kick you in the face” shouted at a man who ate a piece of cake out of a garbage can. Man, that is a hoot!

Oh! Oh! Let’s try this one on for size!
“Emaciated: A New Comedy About Malnurishment, Osteoporosis and Vital Organ Failure!”
or perhaps
“Vegitables: A Delightful Romp About Heart Failure, Esophageal Ruptures, Pancreatic Cancer, Premature Stroke and Heartattacks!”
Yeay! Why stop there?!
“Incest: A New Comedy About Raping Everyone But the Milkman!”
“Addicts: An Action-Packed Comedy About the Desperately Delightful World of Substance Abuse – Who Will OD Next? Who Will Loose A Limb? Who Will Be Beaten Sensless/Butt Raped In Jail?”
“Suicide and Cutting: What Will Those Adorably Crazy Depressed People Do to Themselves Next!”
“Gang Bang: A New Comedy About Abducting, Raping And Torturing Children!”

I haven’t, nor do I plan to market a scrapbook chronicling the sex change I never had, so why do so many people feel the need to create, or advertise an affliction/lifestyle of which they know absolutely nothing? And I’m not saying that there isn’t any humor in the world of dysfunction – there has to be, otherwise we wouldn’t be alive to have have these scars, but the humor is far too dark to be appreciated by anyone other than a fellow survivor. Just like I don’t joke with holocaust survivors, I don’t appreciate random people joking with me about child abuse. Happy-go-lucky people have no room in my world joking about battery, molestation, rape or abuse of any kind. The fact of the matter is tha I seldom, if ever, joke about it myself.

I suppose it has more the gilded-cage-syndrome of idolizing anorexics by accepting their bodies and attitudes toward food, than with an actual idea of what it means to literally be wrought with the affliction. The only women I seem to see advertised are (at this point I can only assume) grossly under weight. But then, I won’t fain a healthy concept of shape and body, because I no longer have any semblance of it. All I know is that what I see makes me feel uneasy and offended – though I can’t pinpoint why because it also seems to be acceptable and logical. As does weighing 95 lbs. or my grandma telling me to loose weight. Maybe most of us feel this way. Maybe this is how we can ridicule the emaciated Lara Flynn Boyles, and the Mary-Kates, and Nicole Richies, and then call them “svelte” after they’ve gained ONE POUND of flesh. I don’t know. All I know is that I seem to have enough sense left to be frightened by it.
Five years ago I shirked away from the sight of a protruding bone, and now I seek it out each and every time I pass a mirror; I didn’t see or ridicule people for being “fat” because I could discern that they were, in actuality, healthy. My fear is that further media saturation dictating weights of 95 lbs. and the like, intended to desensitize us to disordered views of ourselves and disordered eating could prove itself fatal.
Ideally, I’d like to go without thinking about it ever – or at least not internalize it to the degree that I have. However, it comes from all around. The girl eating the meager salad, running the extra xyz miles, saying no to the fat or the carb or the protein, fitting into the smaller size, loosing the extra pound isn’t just praised by the media, her behavior is reinforced by family, friends and co-workers, who in turn reprimand themselves for their lack of control and conviction.
I don’t claim to have an answer, but I do see the difference – I feel like I have to, for myself. I just don’t know how to take the next step.

Things I am:
Cold
Almost always in love with hot foxxy drummer boys 


Things I am Not:
Warm
Happy about the 45 minutes of work I have left
A fan of too many women

Last night I dreamt I’d traveled to some distant land at the request of an unknown tribe of natives. I was not the only one. In fact, they had created a website detailing the alleged intentions of their beckoning. So we traveled and some of us met up along the way in classrooms, restaurants, coffee shops and the like to talk about things and look at the website and whatever. But I began to feel uneasy – suspicious almost and some of us tried to slip away and escape. But they knew and began to peak out from the woodwork to make their authority known. The website had something like three different options or descriptions of their cause – something to do with a god or a higher something for whom they are morally obligated to something for. Kind of like Mars Attacks in the sense that they came “in Peace” except they really didn’t. When we walked around the open planes and fields which were also wooded at the same time, we came upon a heap of bodies – presumably the first round of names requested. Later, in the open, we found an enormous mass grave, covered with a white sheet that stretched out into the gray country skies at the horizon. By the time we got there it was too late. Some of those people I knew before were already dead. They spoke to us without talking except I didn’t know what it was they said and we all dropped to the ground and covered out heads as a hail storm of arrows rained down upon us. We came to understand that the previous groups had not been thoroughly exterminated, resulting in numerous survivals and escapes. We came to understand we would not be so fortunate. We were warned before each series of arrows, and each time we hoped would be the last but it wasn’t. At first, I covered my head and felt pricks penetrate my back and legs but later forgot to cover my head adequately and was punctured at the base of my skull as a result. I could not fathom how so many people could survive so may arrows, and I couldn’t understand why I had been struck so many times and not yet managed to die. I tried in vain to pretend I was already dead, but I’ve never been a very good actress so the point was moot. They told us it would be nine more hours. I guessed that anyone who was left was allowed to be alive then. But then it was over and I didn’t know where the time went, just that I was alive and in a shop with a girl trying to pull the arrow out of my head. I found the tug to be uncomfortable, but the arrow’s presence was not as painful as it was scary. I told her not to because I wasn’t dead but I probably would be if she removed it and ripped out all of that brain. I recalled my psych book with the blurb about the guy who’d miraculously survived a freak accident with a metal shaft impaling his head, after which he was never the same and resorted to a life of deviant behavior due to a part I forget (hypothalymus?) being severed and preventing him from controling his morals.

Spent last night at a pity party thrown only for those unfortunate enough to miss out on BenBen&Rufus. I was the only one in attendance.

Being back in Los Angeles has been…difficult. My departure was so chaotic and rushed that I spent the two plane rides and layover completely indifferent – until the plane touched down at LAX, and I felt the warmth of tears flush my cheeks crimson and fill my stinging eyes. In true LosAngeles-Nicole fashion, I managed to tighten my handle on the internal/mental vice grip and stave off the impending flood, thus restoring the staus quo of apathetic aloofness. Now it feels as if I never left the miserable monotony of my life here – the only difference is that it’s far less tolerable to me now (after sc) than before I left. However, the prospect of moving back to sc isn’t as comforting as it was before I left (sc), which is confusing and sad at the same time. I don’t think that I want to stay here, yet I am ambivalent and timid, which basically says that I’ve resigned myself to a life of purgatory/hell, depending on the glass you choose to see.

Perhaps my attitude is due to the fact that I think I’ve caught cold or flu, because everyone at work has been very nice and welcoming, and I know that it would have made me cry before I left (for sc), but now I just feel impatient and nonplussed. I want to get the hell out. But then the questions come and come and come. What is it that I think I’ll find here if I have to spend it alone? And I mean, I’m not knocking solitude because god knows I’ve been the self-appointed brochure of judgement and disapproval of codependence since day one, but why do I have to uphold myself to those standards when I already know the life they yield – for me. Even when I say it though, it feels like a cop-out. Going back, possibly fulfilling the role of big fish/little bowl seems a great defeat, in spite of the fact that I’d be gaining the warmth and support that I lack here. But if I stay here it’s just little fish and solitude in the vast sea empty nothingness. Sometimes I think I could be satisfied with a family and a life and that’s the full extent of what I can think about. But then it hits me: this nagging something without a face, name or even inclination, it’s just there maybe waiting for me to find. Could be, could be not. Is that what brought me here? Is my subconscious capable of identifing the thing I seek? Does my mind/heart/soul even know what that thing truly is? Or am I just a tremendous fool for risking potential contentment for potential misery. Could be, could be not.
The thing is – and this is what I contemplated during my trip, because I’m probably not going to live an exceptionally lengthy life, can’t I make the easier choice – for once? Perhaps indulge the lie and perish with a smile? But then I think, Who’s saying this? Wasn’t I always a fighter? Aren’t I the one to bite and scream and froth at the mouth in order to get my way? Isn’t that the part that wants to stay and fulfill the (highly improbable) idealistic life of success, travel, intelligence, sex appeal, savvy, power, strength, wisdom, authority, creativity, demand, and most of all, passion. The part that eats dowdy small-town-codependent-wifey-mother-types for breakfast? Where are you? Why can’t you come out and kick some ass all over the place all of the time? Please? Otherwise, I fear we’re going to fail: you, me the denmother, the mind, the body – all of us will go down in flames unless you take over. Or maybe it’s me that should.
God damn you Freud! How can I prove you right? How can I be a shining example of your shoddy theorizing?!? Mother Fuck!

There is nothing that I regard with more contemtuous loathing than wieght-related commentary (specifically, but not limited to, my own), and it’s perpetrator. From childhood, I have been pestered relentlessly about wieghing too little by disappointed individuals who wanted a substantial child to fulfill their sterotypical ideal. Thereby leading me to discover that no one (mother included) wants a “bony butt” upon her lap – at least not on a regular basis. Neddless to say I spent a considerable amount of time alone.
While I’ve always resented this treatment, I prefer it to the condemnation I receive for being perceived as “healthy” (or more appropriately, not sick), and subsequent encouragement to loose weight. Such was the case with my grandmother on Monday night when, in response to an alledged comment from mom, she forbid me from eating sweets (so I won’t “get fat”). She then instructed me to “work out your legs to get rid of the jiggly fat” which I can only assume would over take the planet without proper discipline. All this may have been in response (or rather, retaliation) to my mother’s concerns about my current loss – whatever the case, she wanted to make it clear to me that a.) I am in no way too thin b.) my mother is out of her mind, and c.) that I could even stand to loose more weight.
At this point I have to remind myself that this is the woman who encouraged me to drive home while visibly intoxicated; who blames me for my mother’s inability to quit smoking (and inevitable future death); calls my mother “cold hearted” and “cruel” to my face; drones on about how no one should help anyone ever (with the exception of her) and is, in general, a biggot, a drunk and an all around miserable human being. However, she is also of the oppinion that she and I are “the same.”
I am no stranger to the back handed compliment. In fact, I seem to emit b.h.c. inducing pheromones. Either that or my holographic alter ego is a trash bin for misplaced hostility and disapproval. The threats of impending wieght gain have become so commonplace at this point, that I should be able to pay them no mind. But I just can’t. Like a dysfunctional pack-rat, I am drawn to the memories of past remarks: thumbing these shining jewels of unwarrented disdain over and over again in my mind.
This is by no means a passive way of attaining positive reinforcement, so please don’t sigh in disgust at me, or offer up any plates of steaming pity. I am simply looking to expel the thoughts and feelings that time/circumstance won’t permit me to talk about at present. Whatever. I’m done talking about this now. Bottom line: the only one who calls me fat is me.

It occurs to me that I’ve never done it like this before, so here goes!

Saturday:
Dinner and a movie with Bonnie and Scoot, at his new restaurant (so fun)/ Fantastic Four (not so fun).
Bonnie doesn’t leave for Berkeley until mid August, which is good b/c we’ll get to say goodbye and do some last minute hanging out after I come back. At the same time, I’m sad about it because, well, I like her. She’s the first friend that I’ve had in ice ages – and it’s taken me so long simply to begin to trust in her. Like within the past few days. I know what I am and I know I make it hard for people to like me. I make it hard for me to like other people as well. Meeting people is difficult, finding common interests’ a joke, and bonding seems impossible. I have to say out loud that I am afraid to be alone.
I am alone right now, it’s true, but not so much as before Bonnie. Before her I was below freezing, I was a desolate tundra of solitude. And now the caps have melted just a bit – a tiny bit. i fear it. I fear the contrary. I am afraid.

Last week:
feel tired, fat, and disgusting – a far cry from Tuesday’s hot child in the city. Every morning, between the hours of 2:30 and 6 am, someone feels it necesssary to engage in one of the following acts: incredibly loud infomercial time/ incredibly loud baby crying time/ incredibly loud drunken arguments with no one (of course). Maybe it’s my own fault b/c I sleep with my window open, but the apartment was so stuffy last night that all I could do was lie awake in discomfort and nausea and fret about how fat I am/could be. It’s enough to make one crazy, assuming, of course that their current living situation wasn’t doing it for them already.
In a week I will be preparing to board a (greatly anticipated) flight to Pennsylvania, in traditional red-eye fashion; and as much as I adore little to no sleep (I don’t), in tiny, crowded and noisy places (absolutely not), around other people (god save me), I am looking forward to the 4.5 hr layover in philly (beginning around 6am) aboot 10 bajillion times less. Mp3 busted. What in god’s name will I do?

One Year Ago:
A semester at home proved that life could be far more miserable than at school.
I found myself here in Los Angeles, livin’ la vida EDCC.
Angela, Kari, Sallee.
Two weeks away from turning 20, I lamented at the prospect of a squandered youth.
The 3 year thing.
Hardcore walking went extinct when a rendezvous with a boiling pot of water and coffee grounds melted my tummy away.
Summer to the tune of: poetry and airplanes; Teitur.

Two Years Ago:
The misery that was freshman year lead to some funstuff w/ Em, Philly-kids and the legendary tenth-floor food-toss extravaganza.
Beth and Allison.
Weeks of hell led to a hardcore AMA jailbreak, Renfrew style.
We shouted UNCROIABLE! in unison for the Two years of relationshipping.
Liquid summer accompanied by Keep it Together.
Post highschool reunion a la Jess, Meg and ArmsaKimbo (complete with beatuiful cake!)
Loose the weight on 10mi a day!
Philly. apartment plans. Vanessa.

Three Years Ago:
After graduatating, jet-setted to VA to see Jessicoco.
Me + Pudgedout / Drunk = sweaty Brit lust in Bermuda.
SummerSoundtrack: Morningview. Incubus.
Potential roomates’ gorilla warfare at 15th/Pine.
I swear I went Target crazy.

Five Years Ago:
I was 15…going on 16 innocent as a rose? Meh.
Next stop: Independence!
Walking everywhere.
Science book penii, yearbook phone numbers, red cream soda, parks, walks, wood chips and boobs, first record heard: Fats Domino, Morrissey and pocket bushes and feeling so cool. Wyeth
Microwave massacre, sparklelavalamps, park excursions, pierced bellybuttons, spooge! chardonay conquests, nights in the parking lot with the friend my soul craved. Linzi.
Mission: have a happy 16th birthday! Cruzin’ S.C. Limo style, on a-my a-butt, yo!
Movin’ on up to the North Building.

Wheatgrass benefits:
1oz. is nutritional equivalent of eating 2 ½ lbs. of leafy green vegetables
Energizes/reharges your body and reduces fatigue
Improves digestion and elimination of food; assists with natural wieght loss; slows cell degeneration by adding O2 to blood; adds calcium – helps arthritis and muscle cramping
Stimulates hair growth and enhances luster
Increases function of heart, intestines, lungs and reproductive organs; stimulates/regenerates liver
Contains anti-caner agents including absciscic acid; detoxifies pollutants that have entered the body; combats ulcers

6/28Today I began the day to begin all days that begin with a wheatgrass shot. Unfortunately after today’s dose of “grass-blood,” I’m not so certain about the future of daily wheatgrass beginnings. I am aware that my body is desperate need of any chocked-full-of-vitamine/mineral/protein, but cripes! It doesn’t end when you drink it – it’s whole-grass-goodness lingers like a grass-tastin’ fiend. imagine that. Anyway, you might as well try to stomach the stuff, because the health benefits are incredible. And I mean, after the couple hours of nauseating, grass flavored burps cease, you feel pretty good.

Also:

Guys are so...I hesitate to say useless, because they do serve a purpose – however, I have yet to discover it.

Unless you consider wimping out and whining like a little bitch sufficient “Myah-myah-myah! I went to the chiropractor and I simply CAN’T life that ENORMOUS water container and supply the unit from which I have so ravenously drunk! Let’s leave it to the anemic waif in 3” wooden wedges! I must fain distraction now, as I type away on my widdle-baby-laptop.”


6/29 As “Owner of a Lonely Heart” unmistakably wiggles its way from the stereo speakers to the open cubicle airwaves, a hushed “Oh my goodness I love this song!” is uttered in restrained jubilance. From the cubicle office to my rear Tina discreetly bobs her head before her computer screen, and I am filled with content.

My walk to the Plan Room is underscored my the undulating jazz riffs of Office Sounds in C(opier) flat, and Joe’s got the solo. I pass him humming away. As I pass her at her desk, Terri perks up at the sound and coos “Are you gonna to sing to me Joe?” I smile as I contine down the hall and out the door.

Before today, I never cared much for office conversation. Before today, I watched from the side. Before today, I felt the same as always: like an outsider. But for some reason, today I felt like I belonged. I felt unable to contain the grin within – the grin that came with ease. And I’m not so certain I know why.
I still feel as useless as a ten pound boob (no, it doen’t feel nice), but the anxiety has been lessened by the increase of my worth. I guess I mean I feel more worthwhile.

A sad day indeed, for today my coke nail is no more.

Although it wasn't the longest (or shortest) in the coke nail lineage, it was the first to exceed a certain length and blossom from worthless stub to substantial scooper,in far too long a time.
R.I.P. Coke Nail, you could have served me well.

So right now, I'm kindof avoiding getting dressed and going to the Promenade b/c it's far and Santa Monica is going to be a bitch to drive/park in. The purpose of the trip is to find a frock or item capable of holding my interest for a few hours, as I am going to be attending a ladies birthday bruncheon(teehee) that will mostlikely suck. So if I can look less haggard than I've been looking recently, it might reduce the overal crappiness of the experience. Besides that, I've wanted so desperately to do the window shop routine, but the experience has been more devastating than theraputic as I have, in good conscious, no money to spend on such frivolity.

sigh

In other news, I watched the DVD portions of Song's for Silverman + A Rush of Blood to the Head (don't worry, these were free), and have simply become more smitten with the life. Minus Coldplay's sorry attempt to be the next U2 ("when i fink about deh rainforests bein awl dried up and smuwl.."), christ, the're so pretentious. Don't get me wrong , they're music is lovely and fantastic (says the critic to end all critcs), but the members are generic -- even with their lovely accents, and hideously dull, so I won't be marrying any of them.
I din't realize that Ben Folds' wife was a brit, but she is and she's probably a superb one at that, and their children are lovely and have wonderfully british intonation. The cd booklet had a bunch of great photos of ben, the band members, and the family, and the dvd showed the kids breezing through the recording studio and soaking up the whole experience. What a wonderful enviornment to raise a family in, and what (seemingly) lovely people to do it. Dreaming about that kind of life made me float off into space, where I am not me and life is lovely. Hmm...

i'm begining to understand the importance of visualization, or impressionistic thought in order to relax. These past few days I have been simply fuming over the impossible circumstances I currently find myself in, and was ready to start writing about the dysfunctional character-swap that recently occured, but now I don't care to. I am reminded that those people and things are pointless and I'm better off being with my thoughts. Hmmm indeed.

recent studies prove the following:

communication is the new chimera of mythological creatures

the receptionist thinks I am a beast of Ally-motherfucking-Sheedy proportions

ben folds wrote a song about elliota-ta smith being no more

some people suck so bad that calling them a douche-bag is like singing a lullaby to a church of crippled dairy cows

using a pancake as a wallet and takes 37.5 days off of each year of your childhood

everyone in my life is asian, and I contrary to what i previously thought, i seldom understand what they are saying.

most asian people make more sense than most non-asian people i know

i say suck it trebek