Free to Indulge

I remember thinking, "I'm not safe in this car." But I also didn't want to go inside. The car was warm and the radio was playing. Outside was cold, dark, scary, lonely.
I sat at the corner of Baring Street, mad that he left me out there.
I was more mad that we were there at all.
I was more mad that I couldn't change this situation.

The street lights were tall, making circles on the sidewalks, with darkness in between and all around.
He came running outside to the window and told me to turn off the car and come inside.
I turned off the car,
I locked the car,
I walked with him in my pajamas,
I went inside.

The door was dirty. Inside was dirty and dark. Piles of broken furniture lined the living room walls. The carpet looked old. Everything was broken and horrible. I walked up the stairs, gripping his hand, hating this place.
I followed him past a door with shards of wood falling from the frame. Not stopping, I asked what was in there.
Who lived in that room?
A pitbull.
The pitbull was high.
The pitbull broke the door.

We walked to another room. There were two gius watchinmg a movie sitting on the floor in the dark. A fishtank glowed across the room, dingy and dry.
There was no where to sit. I was afraid to touch the floor or lean on the walls, stained and streaked with violence and dogs and drugs. The man smelled. He wore a big shirt to cover his big belly. It was dark, he was dark. I didn't want to see him, hear him or smell him.

Blackout

I can't believe how I just forgot things on Sunday. I forgot that I started crying on the 21 on the way home from downtown, wearing my super boots and feeling sorry for myself. I forgot that I called the Fridge and he was drunk and stupid, my least favorite combo. I forgot that I sat on the cushion-less couch in the cold, pawing at Mister until cold was too cold. Later, I forgot that I had been face-attacked (molested doesn't sound right).

French Toast

It feels nice to have a set date.

Emipre Diner.
Sunday mornings.
Frandy (aka Fran and Sandy).

We want Nikki and Anthony to come too and share with us:

THE
BEST
FRENCH
TOAST
EVER.

Running Low

I want to stay home and watch tv.
Lidia is making a balsamic glazed turkey.
I don't want to go out drinking, I don't want to do much.
I said already, "I can't believe this is happening again."
I didn't mean to step into the same shoes.
My abs said no yesterday.

Someone wrote to me the other day that I am "NOT A SOCIAL WORKER."
To which I replied, "I am not a social worker, you are right about that."
Thinking about it now, of course I actually am. I had such a hard time deciding between education and social work because they are so intertwined. The role I choose is both.

Currently listening to:
Polyphonic Spree Lithium
Flaming Lips Waiting for a Superman

Radiator Love

Winter has come.
Who will keep me warm?


My boyfriend.

bloggy

School has made me so tired. I want to write all the time. Rather, I want to blog all the time. I want to get things off of my chest, I want to remember, I want people to know, I want to make footprints.

I end up writing a lot in my fieldwork notes, my class notes, my blackboard posts, and telling Jamie. This is something that I wouldn't share in any of those fora.

Last night's dream:
This was definitely a dream where I was resolving a current issue in my unconscious. I start out in a city, which I guess is either Philadelphia or New York. I am somewhere familiar where there are many African men. One of them is a cabbie, and we know eachother by face. He leaves and I am there with 2 friends, deciding whether I should walk to the next corner, which would be 3rd, or walk another block to 4th before I catch either a bus or a cab to where I need to go. I decide to start walking towards 4th and call for a cab to meet me there. I call the African cabbie that I know by face, but he doesn't recognize my voice as I ask him to pick me up at 4th street in 5 minutes. I am suddenly unsure that I want him to pick me up so I tell him I will call him back. I stop and realizde that I am in front of the hotel where I am supposed to go. Dad and I were going to an award dinner for girls at school or something just for women. It was in a hotel, and I went inside early. In the entranceway there is a split staircase leading to the second floor where I know the dinner is. There is an old man staring at me in the lobby, but I do not make eye contact.
Inside the room, people are still setting up. I see 2 tables with nametags, and spot mine quickly, though there is more than one de la Torre and more than one name with de la. I go to the back room where there are illegal immigrants washing dishes for the event, because they are still setting the tables. My boyfriend is there, but it is actually my friend's boyfriend, but he is mine in the dream. The kitchen manager puts him to work, which upsets me. I take him by the hand and we go upstairs to what is my house, where my dad is getting ready for this event. He is using the bathroom, and boyfriend and I decide to make out on my parent's bed with the tv on. My dad walks by and we stop. We sit and then Dad is ready to go. We go downstairs, find seats, and I sit next to my boyfriend as my Dad goes off to do something. For some reason, we leave the room again, I think to go to the dishwashing room. When we return, the whole event is over, everyone has eaten and left, and no one can tell me who won what awards. I go outside to find my Dad or to leave. It is sunny and I am in a parking lot with sneakers lined up in two double rows of pairs of shoes, and people are looking for their shoes. I am looking for my shoes, and I think they are grey and pink sneakers. Once I find them, I know that I can leave. Johnsworth is there.
Wake up.

oopsie

Last night in class I was telling my group about my grandparents' plan to find Uncle Mo a wife in Taiwan. We had a good laugh about arranged marriage, and then one student asked me if my Uncle is still available (so we could arrange marriage with another student in my class). Ha ha. I almost said, no he's dead, but I held my tongue and said instead, "I have an aunt now."

Short Updates

We had a talk.
Everything is good.
Talking makes me high.

I have reading.
I am not watching tv.
Listening to "Blizzard of '77."

I have a secret.
Of course I'll tell you.
My happy is smushing my angry.

Mister is back.
Mom made him fatter.
He is my most consistant boyfriend.

oh man

I can't help but see how this is going to end, and I know that it has just started, but this is me knowing too much.

I've already had this discussion -- how I need to be with someone of passion. I know I tease Nikki a lot about her hate/love voice, but I really do appreciate how she takes a stand on things. She hates and loves. Feelings. Extreme feelings.

He is very nice. I am bad at finding the nice ones, but I have found one. He just seems a little lukewarm about me and everything else in the world. I want to see what it's like when he's really upset, really happy, really something. I won't be able to be nice and calm like I am right now for long... I am totally due for a freak out.

Last night would have been optimal for a freak out because I was telling the girls about something that had previously made me freak out. Completely even-toned. Not me. That just means that something is simmering and getting ready to boil over next time.

We'll see.

couch

yesterday sandy rivers saw a homeless woman sleeping on the porch couch. she slept there till 10. i was asleep in my bed until 2. i went out tonight to good dog, because mcglinchys was closed for labor day. nick was there, he has the flu. we watched south park with the subtitles on. i met kevin for beers and we watched jay kill at pool. when i got home,
the homeless lady
was sleeping
on the couch
again.
i woke her up and made her leave. she almost scoffed at me, as if this weren't really my house.
pissed off, i took all of the pillows off of the couch and febreezed them in the living room. i love the fucking porch couch, but now i have to sell the fucker. this sucks.
now i'm watching jose gonzales on leno. love.
sometimes when i'm at a concert, i imagine that i'm watching stefan playing again. things were fucked up when he left, but i always remember him fondly.
admiral byrd.

that wasn't enough

i am so angry in some ways. so angry i haven't been back to blog.

i am moving this week. painting the house last week and this week. sometimes i wish i could hold in some things, forget other things. it's just not me. i am so so upset. i am so mad.

but in other places, i am really happy. so this mad stuff isn't holding me back. some things are new and exciting, and i feel change and change is good right now. i could fall of the earth right now and be ok.

so

angry
lazy
manly
gross
sad
eager
ready
vengeful
full
excited
bitter

and, according to aaron, "cock hungry"

Simpson Wisdom

Homer: No wonder she hates me! I never even noticed she existed....

Marge: Homer, if you want to make it up to her, just spend some time with her [Lisa].

and I'm taking Heather with me!

I'm moving again!
Nikki and I have decided that we want to take over the downstairs apartment... and we are!
Now all we have to do is get Heather in on it....

I have been MIA recently, and am about to be a little more invisible.
My uncle died in May, but his memorial service isn't until this weekend because it is his birthday, and we are going to spread his ashes in the lake where the island is where he lived.
Grandma Lupe is suffering through uterine cancer, which sounds very unpleasant, but she has been very tough until this month. Unfortunately, she has made many friends whom she has already outlived. I have no idea what she is feeling. I will be visiting her when I get back from BC. What really has made this real to me was when I went to the doctor and reported that there was cancer in my family.

Maybe this is all too blunt for you, but I have been holding it in, and there is no way to soften this, because I don't feel soft about it. I don't feel soft about you. I feel hard about this and you and my cat and my friends and moving and my savings and my volunteering.

Josie Grossie

Last night I had a dream about something, and there was a random cameo of an ex. That was scary enough, but then this morning, while cleaning my room, I came across a pic of me and a different ex kissing. Not only did it totally gross me out, but I cannot recall the feelings that I know I once had for that person. That grossed me out too. Then I found a pic of me and yet another ex and no attempt to cover up a hickey. That was gross too.

On another note, congratulations to Erin for not making me vomit emotionally. Nick, too. Greek salad is a little gross the next day.

Random bit: I caught a glimpse of myself sideways in the mirror while stretching, and this bra makes me boobalicious when I'm sucking in babygut. Maybe I should send my pic to Is Alicia gonna have to choke a bitch?

Lessons My Father Taught Me: 04

If you don't speak up, you won't be heard.

This has become something so innate in me, it's very hard for me to understand how it could be difficult for other people. As a small child, my dad was really always super fun and silly, but also fatherly. As I grew just a little older, old enough not to be scared, he would talk to me as he talks to others.

"I say it loudly the first time so that I don't have to say it a second time."

I get it, at least I know I get it now. He did say things loudly, but that does not always mean that he was screaming (though he often did). I don't know how not to express myself verbally. I don't know how not to complain (appropriately) when something is unjust, unequal, incorrect, falls short of expectations. This has extended into other facets of my life. I am completely unable to not speak up in almost every situation. This hinders my relationships with people who are not comfortable with personal sharing or listening.

I know that my father had intended this type of advice/lesson/rule so that I would never be left out of a game at school, so that I would be considered for positions at work, so that quality would not be compromised, et cetera, et cetera.

Something smells like burned coffee, and it smells so icky that I have to leave the house. So, you get the gist. I say things out loud, and I expect to be heard, so when I am not, it hurts my feelings and I have to make new friends or get another job.

Looking over my shoulder

I noticed that there are a lot of people conducting blog searches of other people, and are finding my blog. It's a little weird. I want to know who is interested in reading about my random childhood friends.

The other night, frustrated and pissed at everyone I know, basically, I walked home from Center City in my stupid kitten heels. Totally randomly, I ran into a friend from work on the bridge. I didn't want to tell him that I really had to pee and standing there talking was not helping the situation, but rather than do the pee-pee dance, I made hazy reference to needing to go somewhere further west towards my house (and please realize that this was still about 16 blocks away from my house), so we parted ways. I then thought of any person who might possibly have the ability to drive me home, and my phone decided not to make outgoing calls to anyone except someone I know who lives in Roxborough. Super.

I have this sportsbra tanktop that is kind of cropped, but it is seriously the best bra. I decided yesterday that I don't give a shit about my babygut, because the best bra is really worth it. I wore it running, along with the little shorts that are my summer uniform, and lucky me, I just happened to run by 3 construction sites and several unloading trucks. It's ok, nothing was as invasive as the old man last night at McGillan's. Seriously, he was like 80. Wanted to know where I am from. Touched me. I completely turned my back to him, yet he still ogled me and all of my friends. He then went on to touch Madigan and creep all of us out, in addition to the two guys standing by the wall, watching this really old, creepy man creep us out.

You don't care.

This is just a note to me to remember that this weekend was a bust. Working a wedding and stealing a quart of hummus was pretty much the highlight. Now that I have an exorbitant amount of time on my hands, I realize how many things I used to do, and am trying to re-involve myself with "things."

Tonight, one "thing" was bar hopping. I forgot that I don't really like it when I actually drink at the bars. My body has developed its own liquid limit. Super.

I have actually thought and done many things since my last post, but I just don't have the energy to report it all. Here is a snippet: fallinginbirdshit, tinytshirt, notollmoney, sleepinginbooksagain, nobooty.

BTW

This is where I burned....

The People of Bonnaroo

I just had to cut myself off from myspace. So addictive.
I feel some urgency to now tell the story of the People of Bonnaroo.

First of all, Heather and I have no pictures of anyone we came with, though I know I took pictures with someone's camera, it just wasn't one of ours. We do, however, have several pictures of the nice people we met and the crazies we couldn't look away from. As it turns out, all the crazies we met (except the nipple people) came out on Friday, and the nice people we met on Saturday night at Beck/Radiohead. We met another crazy on Friday, but Heather didn't get a picture. We'll just call him "No Pants Man."

Alli and Heather. Nice.

Beth. Though I am sure she is a nice person, she was definitely more of a crazy. She made me dance with her for a little bit, and asked me if I was a massage therapist.


Spencer and me. Nice. Again, I have no eyes in this picture, but that's ok because they were actually quite large and Spencer was the evening's Designated Navigator anyway.


Penis man. Very friendly, but crazy. You can't see this in the pic, but he was humping my leg.

Jeremy. Nice. He told me that maybe God is sending me a sign that I should smoke.

Nipple People. Crazy. I have nipple issues anyway, and that did not make me like these people more. They pretty much tie with the people who have paint-on-shirts (and by paint, I mean paint).