Work is so awful already this week, that I'm actually looking forward to having oral surgery on Friday to get my wisdom teeth out, so I don't have to come in to my job.
Really, I need a cookie.

We use Steno pads at work to log messages and tasks. Everytime I fill one, I save it, just in case I need to refer back to it and throw the previous one out.
I'm considering changing jobs in August and ever since I set that month as my goal, I feel like eveything's winding down. I just filled another pad and as I went to tip the previous one into the shredder, I flipped through it. It's odd to read messages and notes and realize that some of these people have passsed away, or some other things that seemed so impossible, really got done.
I hefted the pad's weight, and I felt close to tears as I dropped into the shredder. These pads will continue to be filled long after I leave, be it in August, or ten years from now.

Four jobs I have had in my life:
1. Medical Secertary
2. Office Admin
3. Orientation leader
4. Waitress

Four movies I've watched more than once:
1. Memento
2. Bringing up Baby
3. A Christmas Story
4. Stage Beauty

Four Places I have lived:
1. New Jersey
2. Pennsylvania
3. Vermont
4. New Hampshire

Four T.V. Shows that I watch:
1. Heores
2. Project Runway
3. America's Next Top Model
4. Shows on the National Geographic channel that James makes me watch. Usually the sad ones where baby animals die horribly. God damn circle of life shit.

Four places I have been:
1. England
2. California
3. Florida
4. Deleware

Four favorite foods
1. Fruits and Veggies.
2. Soup
3. Anything with cheese
4. Creme Bule

Four Places I would like to visit:
1. Tokyo
2. England (again)
3. Australia
4. A Carribean island (preferably one with pirates)

Four things you really didn't know about me:
1. I've disliked water ever since I was little. I even have a hard time when my character has to swim in video games.
2. Imaginary characters are always having conversations in my head while I daydream. (In the writer sense, not in the 'I'm a lunatic' way).
3. I have an obsessive personality.
4. I consider the number 4 to be my lucky number.

Harry Potter Character Combatibility Test created with QuizFarm.com

You scored as Luna Lovegood You are Luna Lovegood. You daydream and often seem to be drifting off into your own world. You have very strong opinions that many agree are not logical. You place a lot of faith in these beliefs. Possibly, you see more than what meets the eye. You are very accepting of others. You may have only a few close friends because you refuse to sacrifice your opinions and true self for social graces. Luna Lovegood 81% Hermione Granger 75% Percy Weasley 66% Albus Dumbledore 66% Oliver Wood 66% Sirius Black 63% Harry Potter 63% Remus Lupin 59% Bellatrix Lestrange 56% Neville Longbottom 50% Lord Voldemort 50% Severus Snape 47% Draco Malfoy 44% Ron Weasley 38%

1. Fell in love -- 20 ish?

2. Got a Myspace account -- I turned emo at 23. I swear I only use it to stalk people though. Wait, what?

3. Got drunk -- In highschool, not sure how old I was. It was a wedding in England and I kept asking this Polish guy what his name was and what country he was from. Fantastic!

4. Smoked weed -- Years ago, not sure how old. It was icky.

5. Got french kissed -- Um, I don't kiss and tell.

6. Went to the hospital for surgery -- Never. :) (knock on wood!)

7. Got your heart broken badly -- Lots of times. Move along.

8. Lost a pet -- See 7.

9. Got arrested -- No thank you.

10. Smoked a cigarette -- 18 or 19

11. Broken a bone -- 4 years of Rugby later and still amazed I'm broken-bone free. (omfg, knock on wood!!)

12. Went to a concert -- Hmm, NIN at 21 or maybe 22.

13. Got your own cell phone -- 20

14. Got a speeding ticket -- No car. No liscence. No problem.

15. Run away -- Why the crap would I do that?

16. Snuck out of the house -- No need to, so I didn't.

17. Pierced other than your ears -- 18

18. Got a tattoo -- Wanted to many times.

19. Bought porn -- 18, for Rugby stuff.

22. Totaled a car -- Once, I stepped on my Barbie's hoochie pink convertable and smushed the trunk.

23. Moved out of your parents' house -- 17

25. How old are you now? -- 23.

26. Had a kid -- Do pets count?

27. Got married -- DON't get me started on that one.

28. Traveled out of the country -- To England, so highschool, maybe 14? (God, was I ever that young?)

Invaluable business lesson:

Be wary when someone, who has never done your job before, stands before you with ways to "improve" your job. They will often quote studies and data. They will tell you that you have been doing your job poorly, becasue you have not been aware of this "ground breaking" data.
There will usually be some sort of mini revolt by your peers. Drawn out sighs, a few out spoken words here and there, but after having the overwhlemingly clear data thrown at them a few times, the dissenters will be quiet.

Bitches who dress up on Casual Fridays, suck. Why make the rest of us feel bad, in our jeans and mismatched socks? The time for clean cut, black skirts and shirts paired with cardigans is Monday through Friday. Hello? Did you miss the memo that Casual Friday is supposed to be casual? If you wanted to dress up, then you should have done it on Wenesday, when you wore that gray, frumpy pants suit.

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-the biggest lugie ever
-a guy dressed up, punk style, throwing up into a trash can at the Hynes T stop
-my landlord talking to some construction guy

While shopping through the Blick art store yesterday, I found a little red journals for sale. One had been left out of its packaging, so you could write on the pages and see how the book would feel with use. In amongst the declarations of whom was gay, and who loved poo, were these words (paraphrased) "She is not a brilliant writer. She is merely a gifted eccentric."
It gave me chills and I felt like someone had left that, in a book, whose cover was my favorite color, for me. Of late, I've been toying with the idea of trying to find a job as a writer for computer games, something I planned on doing after college.
I have another year left in my non-verbal contract with DFCI and after next summer, I think it may be time to find another job. This past weekend, I searched on the internet for jobs and decided that with the right portfolio, I may be able to break into something. Something low paying and most likely just as taxing as my job here, but something that could involve writing more than Outlook messages and e-mails defending my decisions.
I was tempted to rip that page out of the book. However, not only did I not want store security to tackle me, but, as much as I believe in fate, maybe this was another Nostradamus figure, striking out into the dark, hoping that his or her words would catch someone. Maybe, these sentences were from someones half finished book. Maybe they were describing a character, and not a wholly real person. That character is a gifted eccentric and nothing more, but as I left the art store with Andy and walked along a sidewalk filled with things murmuring to me, telling me their stories, begging to be incorporated into my imagination, I realized that I am an eccentric, and although the "gifted" part is in question, I happen to be an eccentric that can read small pieces of fate, but know them for they really are. Words, penned by an author, concerned with their own lack of faith in the craft.

I've come to the unwavering opinion that Helen of Troy had dark hair. She also had a commanding voice, not the meek, girlish one that is so often used in movie renditions of her.
As to her face, it was perfect beauty and unable to be pinned down by one person's vision of beauty. She was just beautiful, in that classic sense, that all women are beautiful despite disfigurement and all men handsome despite the words that come out of their mouths.

Which Ultimate Beautiful Woman are You?

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There was a woman on the T today, who was most assurdedly a writer. She had crazy orange hair, (natural orange) frumpy clothes and out of style, black sunglsses. She was writing a Steno pad, looking around at all the people on the train. She was trying to hide the fact that she was studing people, by keeping her glasses on.
I noticed her as soon as I sat down. She watched me sit down, and than began scribbling things on her pad. It was an odd feeling to be a character in another person's story. Other people are supposed to lay bare their lives, and be in my stories. The way I sat down, the way I read the Metro, the way I gazed out the window, as we passedthrough the only above ground stop are my characterists and not to be stripped from me and plopped on a some 40 year old Vietname vet, battling drug addiction.
Robby wrote a striking poem awhile back, about what it is like to date a writer. How we find it easy to take things from our everyday lives, including the characterists of people we live with, we love, and pop them into stories, will little regard for anything but literary merit.
I suppose, that as soon as you step outside the privacy of your home, you're fair game.

All my friends are getting married.
An older woman I woke with has been having friends pass away. The other side of the bell curve, it would seem. Question is, when is the peak?

Just finished Harry Potter 7.

So, I was sorting through old stories and found this short story. At first, I didn't think that I had written it, then I remember it was based on a story my world religions teacher had told us. He conducted these long classes, that if they weren't so interesting would have been awful. Anyway, I like this story, I especially like the fact that the protagonist is never given a gender. Even I can't decide if they're male or female.



"Everyone thought that Martin was an atheist. A homosexual, atheist with no future and no interest in the world he lived in. As his best friend and confidant, I can tell you that that was not true. Martin had faith, believed in the divine, and loved naked women more than some ministers love Jesus.
Marin cared a lot about life, about the people around him, he was just often disappointed in his fellow man. There were times I think he lost faith in the human and loved only the holy. He would lock himself in his room and read scriptures, Hindu, Christian, Buddhist. Hell, he’d even watch those crackpot preachers that come on at three am on channel nine.
A strong faith must go hand in hand with a strong libido, because that man got more women than anybody I knew. Women love his type, brooding, educated, blunt. The kind of man they think they can soften. Martin, for all his thoughtful ways, was too stubborn to ever let anything, let alone a women change him. He gave them all kindness and never was a user, but each one would get pushed away in time.
Not to say Martin didn’t ever care about them. He treated them well, but wasn’t about to stoop to love with any of them. He saved love for a select few, and I was privileged to be the friend he confided in about that subject.
Martin and I were staying in this youth hospice in Chicago. Dirty place, leaked like you wouldn’t believe, but we were poor and it was cheap. We had traveled by Greyhound bus, doing this ‘we’re young and have no ambition, let’s travel cross country’ thing that I think we all do. We had been in Chicago for three days so far and Martin, tired of doing what we had been doing the entire trip (cheap alcohol, cheap bar, cheaper women) wanted to do something different. Crazy man to disrupt such a good system, but I went along with it.
Chicago at night can be scary. We wandered into this place even seedier than where we were staying (hard to imagine at the time). Prostitutes, dealers, you name it. For two kids who had smoked together in their dorm room back at NYU and thought they were bad asses, this was a punch in the face. I wanted to leave, but Martin thought it was exciting.
Turns out, we wandered into the homosexual part of the wrong side of the tracks. Hilarious now, but at the time we were pissed. I think it was the shock of being hit on by a man. Martin, the goddamn sex magnet got more looks than I did. Either gender, didn’t matter which one, both loved him.
So we try to blend into the crowd, you know. There’s this whole group of people bee lining it to a rundown build set back from the street. The sign in front said ‘Congregational church, all are welcome’. Martin loves churches, thinks that they’re the best things ever. It must be the theologian in him.
Okay, so picture this: middle of Chicago’s lesser known ‘crack district’ Martin and I, straighter than straight following all these homosexual men and women into this building, which looks like it’s going to collapse any second. My God though, the inside of the church is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. The pews are worn, but on each are these carvings, beautiful, intricate, like you could run your hands over the carvings, eyes closed and just know what had been carved. The walls are covered with murals. I’m not talking about grade school drawings of Jesus, where he looks more like a stoned hippy, than a savior. I’m talking, Michelangelo good.
Martin and I sat near the back, but we didn’t start feeling embarrassed until halfway through the ceremony. The minister, a beautiful woman, pixie haired, delicate features, read aloud the names of the congregation that had died that week. The longer the list, the worse we felt. Who were we to intrude into these people’s lives? These people who could be dead by next Sunday. AIDS is something you pray you never get, I’m telling you faith or no faith, get down on your knees now and pray to something that you never have to watch your body seem to eat itself.
The ceremony moves to a simple prayer and then communion. Martin looks like he’s going to be sick. We didn’t expect this. The pews files out and we follow, not sure what to do. I’m behind Martin, watching his back, defined by sweat, through the t-shirt. It’s tense and sweaty, and for a moment, I realize that my brilliant friend, with a future ahead of him is young. You never realize how young you are until fear sets in.
Martin reached the minister. She went to give him a wafer, but he shook his head and motioned to her. Curious, the woman bent her head down as he whispered in her ear. She smiled and it was something quite beautiful. She switched to his ear and whispered. Martin pulled back, surprised and to this day I have never seen that look again.
Later, as we walked home, I asked Martin what she had said to him. His eyes were wide, his face pale. “She said that I was loved. That I wasn’t alone.”
“She whispered that?”
Martin nodded and I think I didn’t take seriously enough. I pushed the idea of unconditional love aside and we walked on, through druggie neighborhoods, along streets people would never escape.
All through the years, he would follow her life in secret. Martin married, had children, succeeded in life, was lucky… He fell in love with that minister though, in that one moment, and never forgot what she did to him. Years later, long after the kids were in college and he bought a summer home with his wife, Martin gave me a call. The minister had been beaten to death in garage. The kind woman, with the elfin features, soft voice, died with her skull smashed in."

Can only respond to the following with three words...no more, no less.

1. Where is your cell phone?: in my bag

2. Your boyfriend/girlfriend?: at work today

3. Your hair?: messy, striaght, lanky

4. Where is your father?: waiting for us

6. Your favorite thing to do?: read and sleep

7. Your dream last night?: Blackness I'm afraid

8. Your favorite drink?: Juice, no ice

9. Your dream car?: a mini cooper

10. The room you're in?: bright, loud, work

12. Your fears?: water, drowning, dieing

14. Who did you hang out with last night?: james and jack

15. What you're not good at?: swiming in lakes

16. Muffins?: pull off top

17. One of your wish list items?: moon light, thinkgeek

18. Where did you grow up?: new jersey, sadly

19. The last thing you did?: loged on livejournal

20. What are you wearing?: I'm so pretty!

No 21 and 22? Hmmm.

23. Your computer?: mini work computer

24. Your life: 40. Hour. Weeks.

25. Your mood?: Best secretary ever

26. Missing?: james, parents, sanity

27. What are you thinking about right now?: should be working

28. Your car?: non existant....yo

29. Your work?: exhausting, but liberating

30. Your summer?: 40. Hours. Weeks.

31. Your relationship status?: taken, but flattered

32. Your favorite color(s): Red, think 1920's

33. When is the last time you laughed?: a minute ago

34. Last time you cried?: late last night

35. School?: don't remind me

36. Farts?: what. the. fuck?.

37. Body hair?: china doll smooth

38. Cereal?: granola, with yogurt

39. Children?: where? Those bastards!

40. Your neighbors?: noisy, mean, killable

I just sent out an e-mail at work and mispelled almost every word, including my name.
Outstanding!

I've seen like 15 pregnant women today. Not to mention everyday, the ones that parole my street, walking up and down, backs arched. What is the winter, baby making season? The memo definetly was not sent to me. Not that I would have followed it, but when all of womankind unites for a common goal of spawning little ones, I'd like to at least be able to RSVP, "Will not be attending".

Restless. Can't sleep. Full of energy, but so tired. Another night feeling like there is something that I need to do, but I can't quite put my finger on it.
I feel like I really am in the bell jar. The curves glint, and are tinted by the sky, seeming to stretch forever, but when I reach up, my palms meet the glass, and find that the edges are beginning to press in.

I just looked at pictures from a 5 year high school reunion. Just as I suspected, it was the same popular clique, all getting together and proving their affinity for alcohol. Everyone's changed physically. Gained weight, grown into their face, but they somehow seem the same as they were in high school.
I'm glad I didn't go. That I didn't try and fit in, after all these years of figuring out who my true friends are, was a wise decision. This may be an experimental "year of yes", but I'm allowed to say no. Weird, you think people change after all these years, but when I looked at the Facebook photos, I saw the same vapid stares, the same hideous clothing, the same shallowness. So odd. So very odd.
It makes me teary, thinking that no matter how much you grow up, and what you've been through, there a piece of your younger self laying inside, ready for the time when you have to revert to that awkward person that you were in high school. Dormant and buried, you think that it's slipped away from you somehow, a skin you've shed, but it's there. It's nestled, curled around your insecurities, feeding your worst moments. Best not to give it a change to rear it's ugly head, eh?

I think I can sleep now.