ah well

She looked like Anna Karina drinking quietly in a cafe in 1960's Paris; I looked so-so. She smiled the most flirtatious smile; I gawked back tipsily. She regaled me with amusing anecdotes; I fiddled awkwardly with the ashtray on the counter. She drank gin and tonic; I mostly stuck to mineral water, whiskey, wine and rum & coke. She talked Plath, Bukowski and Yeats; I wondered what she looked like naked. She laughed at my jokes; I laughed at them too.

-----

This morning I woke up with a headache and a vague recollection of the previous night's encounter. I guess I shouldn't have had that final shot of whiskey before sleeping. Heck, who was I kidding, I should have stuck to mineral water to begin with. Gradually adjusting my eyes to the sunlight shimmering through the open blinds, my faded vision returned to focus as I gazed at the alarm clock, 10 AM already. I felt like groaning, but nothing but a sigh dragged its way out of my dried-out throat. I stumbled into the kitchen where I fixed myself a perfect mug of latte... and then spilled it all over the floor. Christ, what a fucking mess, I muttered to myself while mopping the tiles, and crawled back into bed.

Outside my apartment the morning came to life as usual. Birds chirped in the distance, a gentle breeze flowed through the open window, a child screamed in the hallway, the newlyweds next door quarreled, the traffic sounds... Ah, fuck it. I rolled over to the other side and went back to sleep. Never was much of a morning person anyway.

Hey now now

Most of my time is wasted at work lately. That's right. Work! My lazy days of unemployment finally ended Monday when I started a three-month assignment completing office tasks any semi-literate person (me, for instance) could perform. Hurrah!

My job is to sort bundles of paperwork into different piles determined by date, subject and location separated by an-easy-to-identify color coding. Then, in a dramatically unprecedented move, I continue the morning fulfilling other blissfully dull chores that require no soul or effort whatsoever, like folding pamphlets, stuffing envelopes, running errands, collating while listening to the radio at a reasonable volume from nine to eleven, and various other tedious office tasks the permanent staff (or 'perms,' if you're retarded) isn't willing to do.

Even though the menacing glares suggest some would love to trash the erratic photocopier with a baseball bat, there's no useless department-manager on my floor rhetorically asking 'what's happening' as a conversation opener, there's no equivalent to a TPS report to fill out either, and I am yet to encounter a neurotic outcast searching for his beloved stapler. The movie may have lied to me. I'm so disillusioned. There is, however, a handful of other inconsequential temps, mostly around my age, and an endless stream of data waiting to be filed, the privilege of which has been generously entrusted upon me.

The supervisor approving my contributions notwithstanding, I have little clue about what I am doing. I have no idea where the piles of paperwork come from, or where they go once I'm done filing them. And while I abhor (which means 'hate,' I think) being treated like a second-class citizen in the office hierarchy, there's always someone to remind me of the fact that I'm not being paid to think the process through. I'm just another lowly temp.

Not surprisingly the full-timers rarely mingle with gross temps, although someone did borrow a marker from me the other day. They mostly act like we don't exist, never nodding 'good morning,' avoiding eye contact when they zoom past in the hallways. They're probably undead. I encountered one of the busy bees in the elevator on my first day. I was trying to walk out as he was attempting to enter. He sighed impatiently as I walked by. The poor thing. On a positive note, a pretty assistant-administrator has innocuously been flirting with me in the cafeteria. Score! But to my readers who might be jealous of her playful frolicking with their favorite blogger, don't be - she's in her late twenties and candidly too damn old for careless, uninvolved me. Don't worry about it.

The repetitive work has left me mentally aloof these past two days. I spent lunch morosely wondering how to break the monotonous flow of the boring, boring mornings without having to resort to drugs. All of them. Might as well get used to being stuck in a cubicle job. The forthcoming year will likely revolve around similar days of meandering through mundane office cultures, hastily scribbled memos, lifeless small talk and endless first impressions. Such is the life of a nomadic data-entry temp.

Whatever. At least I don't have to live off unemployment.

Greatest Jazz Albums* - imo 'course

A Love Supreme - John Coltrane
The Black Saint and The Sinner Lady - Charles Mingus
In A Silent Way - Miles Davis
Unit Structures - Cecil Taylor
Spiritual Unity - Albert Ayler
Bitches Brew - Miles Davis
On The Corner - Miles Davis
Meditations - John Coltrane
Pithecanthropus Erectus - Charles Mingus
Out To Lunch - Eric Dolphy
Blues & Roots - Charles Mingus
Kind Of Blue - Miles Davis
Witches & Devils - Albert Ayler
Ascension - John Coltrane
Conquistador! - Cecil Taylor

...and there you go. And by 'you' I mean 'me', and maybe you.

Sex!

Haven't been online for what, ages now. Well, okay, it's only been five days since the last time I was on the internet to check for emails, but still, ages. My mysterious absence has undoubtedly gone unnoticed by the visitors of this blog, but - not that I'm going to regale my readers (both of them) with hilarious tales from my glamorous life - I feel the strange compulsion to update my abandoned journal all the same.

A couple nights ago I was working the late shift at the video store. Just another dull evening with very few customers and I was thinking: how are these slow evenings ever gonna cover my wages? Well, as it turns out they didn't; I was sent packing the next day. That's unfortunate, but who cares really - I've had immoral and unashamed sex last night!* Read on.

So, I was watching Days of Wine and Roses with my roommate Lisa (bless), her latest fling and a girl with whom I wasn't acquainted, an indie-looking economy major. Lisa and her fling were busy drinking, ironically, and making out non-stop, and the economy major and I began discussing Rimbaud's A Season in Hell to establish ourselves as culturally refined folks, when out of the blue she said I looked handsome. Which is, my usual haughtiness aside, the correct evaluation. Shut it.

Quickly quieting an euphoric smile into something slightly more composed, I calmly returned the compliment by saying she's not bad looking herself. Anyway, yadda-yadda-yadda, soon after we were nerdily copulating for the fun of it.

Anyhow, I've had easily attainable sex without strings attached last night. I thought you should know.

Are you stil here? Meh. You probably stopped reading this entry after the bragging about my sex-life became unsettling. I'm so lonely. But if for some reason you haven't...thank you. You are wonderful.


*not tacky

Ennui

This morning I took my laundry to the laundromat across the street, because Saturday is my weekly laundry day. That's right. Slinging my travel bag full of washables over my shoulder, I trudged down the street.

Once inside the laundromat, a man suddenly pulled out a handgun and yelled "this is a robbery!" Well, no, that didn't happen. I did, however, stuffed all my clothing in a washing machine and hoped for the best. Surrounded by strangers, I stared like an idiot at my clothes spinning around and around (yay dryers!), all the while thinking about what to write for my next journal entry, but couldn't think of anything and hung my head in shame.

Boredom

My neighbor across the hall offered a helping hand carrying my belongings into the elevator a couple of weeks ago. An act of kindness I normally would decline, but she insisted and I was too tired to argue over the nature of altruism and its contradictory values of entitlement in society as a whole.

Thirsty from moving the boxes from my room, we walked into her apartment where her three-year old (Four? I can't tell) daughter sat on the couch watching television. We awkwardly exchanged smiles and I took a seat next to her while wondering what to say to an icky toddler.

But then, "that's a cute puppy," I said, while pointing at the bunny eating vegetables on the stone top table. "He's a bunny," she said. "A bunny? Looks like a puppy to me," I replied smilingly. She looked kind of bewildered.

At this point I experienced some sort of scruple rarely felt before; it was obvious I struck a nerve with my questioning and for a brief moment I felt like acknowledging the correct species of the pet, but decided to continue our discussion nevertheless.

"I'm pretty sure it's a puppy," I said. "A bunny," she replied. "A puppy," me. "A bunny," she.

"You're mean," she finally stated.

"Yeah, probably," I agreed.

"And you know what you are?" I asked, still smiling. "You are a princess!"

"You're not mean!" she sparkled.

So, now you know.


Heh. Stupid kid. Anyway, I don't like children. The elderly. Anyone who is not between the ages of 18 and 22 basically. Any questions?

Sharing the laughter and love

I hurt myself yesterday morning - while shaving. Fascinating, no?

I remember everything. I had difficulties falling asleep the night before and was skimming through the channels. CNNs Larry King Live caught my attention, and with good reason: Larry was interviewing Growing Pains' Tracey Gold. Yep. I'm an 8th grade educated, spandex wearing housewife when it comes to watching television, and Larry is my hero. There's something soothing about an old man interviewing celebrities pimping out their personal lives for entertainment's sake. It wasn't such a good interview though (Larry: You look 11. How old are you? Tracey: I'm 35), and I quickly returned to sleep.

Not long after, the buzzing of my alarm clock triggered a wave of send-headache-to-brain-impulses directly to my cerebral cortex. Sleep deprived and dizzy I made my way to the bathroom, where I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I must say, I looked fabulous given the lack of sleep. While admiring my silky smooth skin, I noticed that my testosteronally challenged facial hair growth somehow increased to what resembled a stubble. Eek!

Immediately I grabbed my Gillette Mach 3-the best a man can get-triple blade-wet shave-aerodynamic head-for better results-razor, and matching gel. And as I was shaving I began to hum the Growing Pains' awful but catchy opening tune. THEN I CUT MYSELF. The horror that is Alan Thicke managed to, once again, ruin my life. For a moment I was in the most emotional and physical pain I had ever experienced. Then the bleeding stopped. The faint scar still itches though, and I can't seem to get the Growing Pains opening theme out of my mind.

There's a lesson in here somewhere, but I don't care to contemplate it.

Leave me alone.

Round About Midnight

I'll be turning 20 next month. Just like that. Leaving my teenage years behind (why?), I'd like to take this moment to reflect upon my life thus far. Enjoy.

Two decades of being moody, pensive me. Twenty cursed and endless years of pondering justified true belief, contemplating the purpose of human existence, examining life's existential dilemmas, observing la condition humaine. La Condition Humaine, goddamnit!

Or maybe not. In any case, I'm sleepy and I really feel like taking a piss. 'Bye.

It's all true

I'm a genius and a half. I thought I'd let you know. I rarely claim to have an astonishingly superior intellect - after all, my summa cum laudeness is implied. Or perhaps your intellect is so massively inferior. Who knows and does it really matter? This is about me and my impending greatness.

I was always quite taken with the idea of my intrinsic magnificence waiting to happen, and with every passing day it becomes clear to me - I have to outwardly acknowledge my shining brilliance in an attempt to subdue this commanding virtuosity. This has nothing to do with vanity or narcissism, and it may sound irrelevant to you - likely my grandness is beyond your comprehension. But it is patently obvious to me that I have to, from time to time, release some of the tension incited by my sensational mind. This is not a case of the misplaced arrogance syndrome either. I can assure you I am not haughty; my estimation of self worth is accurate and does not exceed my actual abilities.

In a way I envy you, for I'm not able to devour my genius like you can. Because you see, being a genius and experiencing the fruit of its labor are two completely different activities - and I can merely see my brilliance in the amazement and awe everyone holds me in. But never will I be able to see the beauty of my prodigious talent the way others can, the way it's supposed to be relished. Never. This shall always be the great tragedy of my life.

:-(

Gatsby, sort of

Received an invitation to a sorority party last week. Not that I'm a member of a fraternity or have the desire to be associated with any kind of club. Oh, heavens no. I want to be cool and independent, like Dylan from Beverly Hills 90210. But turning down an invitation is plain rude. The social gathering was held a couple nights ago with lots of people, lots of drinking and lots of sitting on a couch and no dancing. Thank God. Most of the evening was brightened up by music only to be described as jazz-lite. I suspect Kenny G, deservedly adored by Oprah viewers the world over, was among the musicians played. But I'm repressing this suspicion for Miles Davis' sake. And fortunately, girls don't like me - so I wasn't tempted to move to the dance area. Not that I would dance anyhow, but that's not the point.

Drinking it is, then.

My questionable social skills normally prevent me from breaking into tight circles, like the sorority sisters and their mostly fraternity dates I was surrounded by this particular night. But keeping up a conversation for conversation's sake is fun when drunk and very much needed in a place full of people acting excessively social. Quickly I found myself immersed in the sister-and-brotherhood culture and I was genuinely interested in a group of people building some kind of sculpture out of plastic chairs.

Later in the evening, a seemingly intoxicated girl came on to me, which made me feel special and loved. Are you gay? she asked. Assuredly not, I replied. She smiled, I smiled back. For a moment I thought about banging her silly against the bathroom door on the second floor of the house. But not knowing her age or the amount of alcohol in her blood could make this act a legal matter, so I opted not to make such move. I quickly feigned interest in her as she enthusiastically talked about her love of fencing. Pretending to be interested in someone while conversing is something I normally have no problems with, but for whatever reason my feigning made me shiver with self-loathe once the conversation was over. But only briefly - my apathy rules my conscience.

The evening as a whole was surprisingly entertaining. The only cringe-worthy moment of the night was when a group of five girls inhabited the improvised stage and started to sing a Britney Spears song. I suppose making a complete fool out of yourselves by falsely singing a badly written song in front of a large crowd is an efficient way to bond as a group of people. The "Us vs. Them" sentiment was riding high for a moment after the performance. But sadly, none got hurt.

Carpooling back home with five others crammed inside my roommate's sister's Ford Fiesta, I believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms further... And one fine morning -

Obviously I was drunk.

Meursault

Some crazy-ass Yorkshire terrier was barking at me as I was leaving the supermarket yesterday evening, where I got, in case you're taking notes, a tub of Haagen-Dazs strawberry ice cream (among other things, 'course). Ever since I quit smoking cigarettes a couple months ago, I experience - aside from strangers following me around all the freakin' time, even though I never see them - the need to substitutionally binge pistachio or strawberry ice cream every other day. Don't judge me, it gives me a sense of happiness only attainable through insatiable overindulgence. I'm nauseous, but I'm happy. I'm poor, but I'm kind.

Anyway, the toy dog was growling at me as if it were a badass rottweiler instead of a rat-like creature solely bred to become furry entertainment for the elderly and their taunting grandchildren. Lassie-lite was straining so aggressively at its leash, his eyes rolled back in his head each time he barked. Looked kinda freaky. "Benji seems upset," I quasi asked the owner, who, with eccentric amount of make-up and coordinated hairdo looked like a slightly less dated version of Elizabeth Taylor. "His name is Boo Boo," she replied inattentively.

And as I was standing in front of the supermarket staring at the deranged dog, listening to its constant high pitched yelping...a desolate-gray sense of sadness overwhelmed my mind. Walking back to my dorm I heard outside in the distance a wildcat growl. Two riders approached me and the wind began to howl.

Pleased to meet you

When I'm not napping, drinking, playing computer games or feeling sorry for myself, I'm busy writing a novel. I'm thinking Nobel Prize in Literature, but am willing to settle for a Pulitzer. The National Book Award, though, is beneath me.