Okay, so one random thing about this whole vegan diet bit – I feel very boring. Like I’m a boring person because I’m not eating meat, fish, dairy, eggs, honey, gelatin, none of it. Well, I’m not 100% vegan yet, but I’m doing my best with it. And vegan food just doesn’t fill me up the way fatty, sugary, non-vegan foods do. Maybe I’m still working out getting the right balance of fats and sugars and vitamins and proteins in my experimental diet, but I feel very bland. I have to not let that discourage me. I’m going to go shopping tomorrow or Thursday (aka, after I have gotten my paycheck) and maybe then I can find some more interesting vegan friendly foods.

I just took the online Mensa workout. Your score on said online Mensa workout will not qualify you to become a member of Mensa, but it can act as an indicator of how well you might do on Mensa’s qualifying exam.

Why am I playing around on the Mensa website today? Because I need intellectual stimulation. I am getting more and more lethargic since I don’t have it. To have such a sudden burst of stimulation and then have it disappear just as quickly…I feel like a wind-up toy or something that needs another crank or two. And since I’m not really getting it elsewhere, I thought maybe I should try surrounding myself with other intellectuals. Though I’m sure I would feel like an absolute idiot in a Mensa group meeting. Absolut Idiot. Tastes great with pudding.

I really sound like a pretentious bitch in my blog, don’t I? “I wrote a song that I’m totally in love with and I should record it and make a music video for it and sell it and stuff.” “I’m a great actress.” “I belong in Mensa.” Man, if I didn’t know me better, I’d hit me and tell me to shut up.

*smack*

Shut up!

Thank you.

I watched an inordinate amount of television this weekend. I am not proud of that fact, but I wasn’t feeling all that hot, so I spent the vast majority of the weekend on my couch watching bad movies. Had there been good movies on TV, I would have watched those, but as I have no cable, I was stuck watching whatever tripe the television stations felt like pumping out.

Grease 2 is awful.

Bed of Roses is terrible.

Presumed Innocent is decent. I don’t know that I would watch it again and again and again, but it was worth one viewing.

And the one redeeming feature of the weekend: Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure. I had forgotten how much I loved that film. “Do you know when the Mongols ruled China?” Classic. I read an interview with Keanu Reeves once wherein he said he just didn’t want his gravestone to read “He played Ted.” Sorry, dude. You’ll always be Ted to me.

But one thing I noticed as I watched all of this horrible network television is how awful the commercials are. Every commercial is like an infomercial. And it is the same commercials at every commercial break. And seriously, these are things we really don’t need. Pan Partners so you can make perfect pancakes every time? Come on. If pancake flipping was an evolutionary advantage, we have all been put on the same level, now that Pan Partners are available to the public. *insert glinting teeth sound effect here* So people with a genetic disposition to be pancake flippers can proliferate and produce more people who are unable to flip pancakes on their own until one day the art of perfect pancake flipping is lost completely. Do we all really need to be that equal?

Call me silly, but I believe that it is diversity that makes the world turn. Yes, we should all have the same opportunities and get paid equal amounts for doing equal work and we should all be allowed to vote and stuff like that, but a person’s talents are what makes them unique, what allows them to make a wage, what allows them to feel like they make a difference in the world. If you come up with some invention that takes even the smallest talent away from those who possess it (“I can, uh, tape all your buns together.”) and gives that talent to the masses, are we not taking the identity away from those who first possessed that talent?

Silly is now stepping down off her platform shoes.

A co-worker of mine just gave me this absolutely beautiful pen set for secretary's week. I know, I know, a pen set? But it is a glass replica of a quill pen. Hand-blown. With a bottle of ink and a pad of paper to boot. It is gorgeous! I could probably write my "Hi, I'm five years old!" letter to Moby with it. Perhaps I should. Hmmm...

I made vegan fudge last night. The recipie made it sound deceivingly good. And the flavor is excellent. Chocolate and peanut butter -- hard to beat. But the texture is...odd. Its hard to describe. My friends described it as a grainy brownie.

This could be a challenge for me -- to make a vegan fudge with a good texture. Anyone want to be my taste tester?

So I’m having trouble leading my non-life without going crazy. I’m finding myself needing pretty much constant stimulation from sources other than myself. I’m getting bored easily and frustrated easily and I’m not liking it. I’m usually a much more laid-back kind of person than this. I have no idea why I’m so irritable lately. Maybe its PMS.

I danced with a guy from Denver last night who was wonderful. And I followed him so well. I have decided that I am going to be a dance bitch. A dance snob is someone who only dances with those people they feel are of an equal skill level to themselves. A dance bitch, I have decided, is a follow who only follows. Who follows exactly what her lead gives her. If he doesn’t give me a twist-twist, I’m not going to do one. If he doesn’t actually lead me to spin, I’m not going to spin. I tried this a bit last night (which is why I had such a fabulous dance with the guy from Denver) and it really woke me up to how many horrible leads there are in Chicago. I’m not talking about people who are just learning. I’m talking about people who have been dancing for years and still have no idea how to communicate with their partners. Or even their own bodies in some instances.

And I know that this makes me sound like a horrible person. I’ve been re-reading my blogs as I am turning them into pages for my (hopefully) upcoming website and I sound really pretentious in some of them. I hope you know that I’m really not like that. I am mostly a good person; I’m just really bored with a lot of things right now and in desperate need of intellectual challenges of the non-threatening variety. Or physical challenges. Or spiritual challenges. Or, you know, all that stuff I’ve not been getting since I don’t know Moby and that instructor left Chicago. But no, I’m not bitter.

I promise, I'll try to be nice again soon.

I went over to my mom's last night. I love my mom. I miss my mom. I needed some mom time. It was wonderful.


She and I both have this fear that the more someone gets to know about us, the less that person will like us. Thing about my mom is the more she knows about me, the more she likes me. And it goes the other way, too. I am so blessed to have her in my life.


So I told her about everything that has been going on in my head lately and she listened and told me about what's up with her and we determined that we are both very unusual people and we need to have other unusual people in our lives but that unusual people are hard to come by. But if we can possess all of the qualities that we do, there must be others out there like us. I know of two others. One of them I know personally and the other I have to just speculate that he is that cool because I haven't met him, but I think it is safe to say that Moby is an unusual person. I need to find one who is a little more local.


God, do I make any sense to anyone besides myself? Ever?

I almost forgot to tell you. My downstairs neighbor is on haitus from having sex. I don't want to say he has stopped because that might imply abstinence which might make it hard for him to get a date and then I'll get sued for libel and stuff. But it was quiet last night, so he has stopped his five-or-six-I-can't-remember-which-day-Sex-A-Thon.

And the heat came back on in my place. Woo hoo! But all of the temperature changes are wreaking havoc on my sinuses.

Okay, yeah, so I need a laptop and a scanner or at the very least, a computer with Paint Shop Pro and/or Photoshop and more storage space on it and I need a bunch more pictures of me. Which might require a digital camera. Oh, and that whole “patience” thing we talked about a couple days ago? I could use some more of that, too. Thanks.

And I should probably stop trying to eat soybeans while they are scalding hot for the sake of both my fingers and the inside of my mouth.

But no, yeah, I started writing some code for a website for myself this morning. Not like I have any “real” work to do or anything. And I have some good ideas and I’m getting some stuff to work nicely, but for instance, if I were to transfer all of my blogs onto my website in the manner that I want to transfer them, I would need to have about 100 Word files stored on my hard drive at work. How can I justify that? And that doesn’t include all of the text files I have to create to contain my code or any photos or anything like that. It’s nutty. Because it would be a site that has no real impact on my actual job, aside from maybe the fact that it could be considered practice for the departmental website that I am supposed to be building, too. Which, again, it would be nice to have more software on this computer if I am supposed to be doing that. Or I could demand a laptop. But considering the fact that I probably won’t get a raise of any sort this year, I don’t think they are going to grant me a laptop. What do you think?

My god, please shoot me if I ever become a techie geek.

I have learned something that is going to make me think for a while before I can come to a reasonable solution to it.

People do not like it when you stand up for yourself and/or speak your mind.

I spent the first twenty-some-odd years of my life not standing up for myself unless extreme circumstances forced me to do so. I was considered nice and friendly and happy and easy going and all that stuff. Which was fine, but I got walked on a lot. “Oh, its okay,” was like a mantra for me, no matter what the situation – if I was being stood up, if someone forgot to call, if a vintage dress was ruined due to someone else’s carelessness. Everything was okay with Kitty.

I don’t really like being like that. I like not really making waves unless there is cause to make waves, but half of the time, I wasn’t making them when I should have been. I have never been described as “pushy.”

So I’ve started standing up for myself. Being honest with other people when my feelings get hurt. Calling people on it when they give me contradictory or incorrect information. And in general, feeling better about myself for doing so. But other people hate it. Now, its not like I’m running around screaming at people, “You’re an idiot and a rat bastard and you hurt my feelings, you big meanie!” or anything like that. But when my best friend forgot to call me on three separate occasions in one weekend, I sat down with her and asked her if she was angry with me because it hurt to be forgotten. Or when the ass-faced large ticket vending company sent me the wrong tickets to a concert that made it impossible for me to enjoy the concert, I composed a letter to send them asking for my money back. Or when my friends tell me things repeatedly, I will say to them, “Yeah, that’s what you said,” or something to that effect. I try not to be rude or accusatory about it. I try to maintain “I” messages versus “you” messages, but people are still invariably offended when I stand up for myself. Maybe it is a matter of them not wanting to accept this side of me after being used to being able to walk on me. Okay, so it’s an adjustment that needs to be made. Or perhaps it is a symptom of a much larger problem – people don’t like to take responsibility for their own actions.

I know I hurt people. I know I offend people. I know I say the wrong thing or let people down from time to time. I am the first person to raise my hand and say I am not perfect. If you point out to me something that I have done wrong, chances are I will apologize for it and try to find a way of preventing a similar incident in the future. This is how I learn and grow. One day I will be a social being, I swear. I would just appreciate the same courtesy extended to me. If I point out a wrongdoing that has been inflicted upon me, please just apologize it and let’s work together to prevent it from happening again. Nine times out of ten, it is the result of a communication error. I am happy to take responsibility for the fact that I heard you wrong. I need you to take responsibility for the fact that you could have phrased it differently. This is how we can maintain a healthy relationship. Getting defensive and pointing fingers does nobody any good.

Is this making sense to anyone but me?

I’m thinking it doesn’t because no matter how hard I try to stand up for myself in a non-threatening manner, people still get defensive and pissy. Maybe I should just pack up, find a cave, and raise goats or something.

I heard on the radio this morning that one of Bin Laden’s minions was captured and told the US that Bin Laden was working on a “dirty bomb.” This so-called “dirty bomb” would release nuclear radiation into the atmosphere upon explosion and they were planning on using it against the United States.

Think about how stupid the average person is and then realize that half of them are stupider than that. And a bunch of those people are currently living in Afghanistan.

I understand that there are countries out there that hate the United States. Hate us. With a burning passion. Hate us enough to fly planes into our two tallest buildings, killing thousands of people. Hate us enough to want every single United States citizen wiped off the face of the planet permanently. I understand that. I have bad days, too. It still makes me sad that there are people who feel this way, though, because while I know that a lot of Americans are idiots (and a lot of said idiots are in positions of power or prestige), I also happen to know that there are Americans who are really wonderful people. Like my mom. Or our friend in Milwaukee who makes you feel good when you talk to him. Or my new sixteen month old friend. These people and a bunch more like them do not deserve to be wiped off the planet permanently. I’m sorry, but they don’t. The world is a better place for having them in it and anyone who would intentionally harm any of them is one sick fuck.

But moral/ethical issues aside, let’s think about the logistics of this “dirty bomb.”

You send a bomb somewhere, it explodes, it sends nuclear radiation into the atmosphere. Nuclear radiation has a half-life of, what 60-some-odd years? Actually, depending on what kind of radiation, the half-life could be as long as a few hundred years. Once those particles have been released into the atmosphere, where do you think they are going to go? Do you think they are all going to hang out in a cloud over Wallawalla, Washington playing euchre while they wait for those 400 years to be over? Sorry to burst your bubble, but it doesn’t work that way. The natural order of things is chaos. If you release a large concentration of radioactive particles into an environment without a large concentration of radioactive particles, the particles will, over time, disperse so that they are more-or-less evenly distributed throughout the environment. Granted, this will take time and the entire Earth’s atmosphere is a lot of distance to cover, but it still stands to reason that depending on where the bomb is detonated, a bunch of the radiation could find its way back over to Afghanistan. And since the half-life of this stuff could be a couple hundred years, chances are that it will still be potent by the time it gets there.

Now, while a part of me is really enjoying the potential irony involved with Bin Laden developing cancer and dying as a result of his own “dirty bomb,” this really isn’t a scenario that I would like to see played out. Not to mention the loss of human life, what about the plants and animals? Must they suffer because a bunch of stupid politicians in one country don’t like a bunch of stupid politicians in another country? What will this do to the global ecosystem?

This is why hatred is such a horrible thing. Hatred inspires people to do things without thinking about the larger consequences of their actions. Call me a doomsday-ist or paranoid or whatever you want, but this is a bad idea. I don’t know what we can do to prevent it. I don’t know that Bin Laden will actually be able to come up with the technology to make a “dirty bomb” work, but I do know that hate is a powerful motivator, and since he and his followers obviously don’t care about their own lives…

On behalf of the human race, I apologize in advance to the rest of the planet. We really aren’t as highly evolved as we would like to think we are.

I keep reading other people’s online journals. Sometimes they belong to my friends, sometimes to absolute strangers. I’ll just click on one of the most recently updated blogs on the front page of Blogger.com and read it. I did find an interesting one today. But I find that a lot of people’s journals are just logs of what they did that day or over the weekend or what have you. Like when my mom was transcribing my grandmother’s journals and found that they were sixty years worth of “It was sunny and 60 degrees today,” and so on and so forth. Not that there is anything wrong with that. It is wonderful that they have this record of what they did when and all of that stuff. It’s fun to look back on. But does it make me a freak that my blog is more about my thoughts than my actions?

I was in a play once that consisted primarily of monologues. I played a character who had amnesia after being in a car accident and then had to deal with not only figuring out who she was all over again, but with convincing the people around her that she was no longer who they thought she was. There was one line at the end of one of the monologues that I think about a lot: Not everyone has had my experience, so I’ll let you in on a little secret. The past is a lie. All history, all memories, all of it. Its not who you are. The very next thing that you do is who you are. Or something to that effect.

I guess that’s why I didn’t want to tell you all about myself at the beginning of this blog. I guess that’s why I choose to not go into complete and total detail about everything that happens to me, but I choose to instead write about how the things around me effect me. I guess that’s why I have been accused of being hard to get to know. I can tell you who I was, but what fun is that? Wouldn’t you rather know who I am now? I’d rather that you know who I am now. I’d rather know me now. Trust me, I knew me then and me now is much more interesting.

I would like to steal one more brief moment of your time to say just how much I love Simon and Garfunkel.

Very much.

That is all.

Thank you.

Friday was exactly the sort of day that really makes me want a boyfriend. Badly. But of course, I don’t have one, so I went to bed at about seven and slept for about thirteen hours instead.

Yes, I was upset that I did not get the role in New York. Very upset. Usually, I am okay with it when I don’t get a role, but this one hurt. I know its is because I had gotten my hopes up too high, but still. It hurt. To be told that I wasn’t being cast because I don’t represent the character when the director himself told me at the audition that I did? I guess it just goes back to the fact that I cannot stand having people blow smoke up my ass. Be honest. It’s all I ask, really.

But yeah, I needed somebody to talk to on Friday. And nobody that I called was home. Which made me miss him. I know I shouldn’t miss him. I have no claim on him, I have no real right to miss him, but something told me that he would have been there to support me. He strikes me as the sort who would stop what he was doing to come give me a hug if I really, really needed one, like I did on Friday. That is what I am looking for. I am looking for a strong, compassionate man who is together and can support me, but not hold me up, you know? Because I would support him, too. It would be a mutual thing.

And then I go out and see the guys who I was ready to date just a few short months ago, thinking that they were great guys. They are great guys, don’t get me wrong. But they are so not what I’m looking for. What I’m looking for is even more rare than that and I will be lucky to ever find it again. And in the meantime, it means I am going to miss him intensely. I really wish I didn’t.

I wrote a new song this weekend. Well, kind of this weekend. Its been “in the works” for a while now, but I didn’t get it to a “playable” state until this weekend. I’m still not thrilled with the lyrics in the bridge, but I think the bridge is important because it ties the chorus and the verses together, but I can always play with lyrics. Yay phraseology!

But this got me thinking that maybe I should find a studio somewhere, buy some time, and put together another album. Cream Puff. Though I don’t know that I still want that picture to be the cover art, but I should probably record the album first. Or I could call it Kittymiss. That might be a bit too chessy. I have about nine originals that I could put on it – three from my first album that I would like to re-record and six new ones. I’m not saying that any of them is really fabulous and this album would probably again serve as more of a record for myself and/or a collector’s item for my friends than as a vessel to stardom or anything, but it might be fun to record another album. Or it could make a really nice gift for mom. I’d probably want to add some more instruments into some of the songs, though. Maybe drums at the very least. Though I bet if I talked to my uncle, he could whip up some cool mixes of my stuff while remaining true to the folk roots. I dunno. It’s something to think about.

My downstairs neighbor has been having constant sex for the past four days. No bathroom breaks, no snack breaks, no “gimmie a minute while I recharge” breaks, nothing. It has been constant for four days. I’m starting to feel sorry for the girl. And I’m hoping for her sake that it’s a doll, not an actual human being. Though if my downstairs neighbor has been having sex with a doll for four straight days, I’m not sure that I want to live there anymore.

I am, of course, assuming all of this since I have not been in his apartment. It could just be that he left his ceiling fan on for four days, though why someone would leave a squeaky ceiling fan on for four days straight when the temperature has not gotten above fifty degrees is beyond me.

I didn't get the role in New York.

There is a song playing on the radio right now as a part of a retro lunch thing that I can’t remember the name of but that holds such a vivid memory for me it is almost disturbing. The memory is kind of disturbing in and of itself. And in this blog you will probably find out more about me than you ever wanted to know about me, but I kinda have to write it because of this song on the radio.

I think it is New Order. The one that goes I would like a place I could call my own/Have a conversation on the telephone/Wake up every day and I would be a star/I would not complain about my wounded heart. You know the one I’m talking about?

Okay, anyway. A little background information. God, it feels like I’m gearing up for the rock star confessional thing here. “I was a teenage junkie.” “I was anorexic and it almost ruined my life.” No, I wasn’t either of those things, but I first became depressed at about the age of twelve. It was mild for a couple of years and got really bad when I went into high school. I know, a lot of kids have problems in high school and stuff. And no, I have never been diagnosed as being depressive, but depression runs in my family so it is not something that is foreign to me. It is one of those things where when someone says, “Oh, I’m so depressed. My new People magazine didn’t come in the mail today,” I want to yell at them for misusing that word. The Onion did this “point-counterpoint” article once that was a spoiled suburban chick complaining that she was starving because she hadn’t had dinner yet vs. this child from somewhere in Africa saying he was starving because he literally hadn’t eaten in weeks. Depression is one of those things for me. Don’t use the word if you don’t know what it means. I know what it means. I’ve been there. A couple of times.

So I’m about 16 years old. My parents have been divorced for four years. I don’t really have anyone who I feel I can talk to, but even if I did, I didn’t think enough of myself at the time to be able to ask for help. I mostly remember hurting all of the time. I couldn’t really tell you why I hurt or what hurt, but I hurt. All of the time. Sometimes more than others, but all of the time. And I remember one night as I was driving from my dad’s house to my mom’s house, I was listening to that particular song (I think I had it on a tape) and when it got to the chorus, I began sobbing uncontrollably. I remember exactly what street I was on, too. And it’s a good thing that I knew the street well, too, because I was crying so hard I couldn’t see but had I pulled over, that would have been too conspicuous. So I drove to my mom’s house largely by memory, sobbing like I hadn’t cried in years. By the time I got there, I had myself mostly under control. I may have taken a minute before going in to my mom’s house to collect myself and when I walked in the door it was like nothing had happened. Because god forbid, I should let either of my parents see me cry. My car was a safe haven.

How odd that such an upbeat song brings back such intense pain.

I have also determined that I have an inexplicable attraction to bald men. But men who are bald by choice. Or who have that little bit of stubble all over -- beard, too.

This is reason #867 why I am not my mother. She likes hairy men. I like bald men. Go fig.

Okay, I don't have tons of time today (*gasp!*) because we are having a retirement party for one of my co-workers in a couple of hours and I have to help set up and such. I am very much going to miss this co-worker. She is always pleasant and understanding and helpful and supportive. She is just a wonderful woman. She has made a boring job bearable by the mere fact that she is here. I wish her all the best for her new adventures.

So I’m checking my answering machine almost obsessively to see if the New York director has called. He had said that he would, but he hasn’t yet. And I know I should be patient because its only been a couple of days and casting a film is hard work. And I know there is a lot more to take into consideration when casting me beyond the fact that I kicked ass. But I kicked ass. That should be it, right? I passed the “could she physically play this part” test when I submitted my head shot and he called me out to audition. And I passed the “can she play this part” test when I interpreted the character almost exactly as he had written her (his words). So what is taking so frickin’ long?

I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up. There is still a really good chance that I will not be cast in this film. I have to keep that in mind and I think I am doing so pretty well. But I can’t help but think of how cool it would be to go out to New York to make a movie in August. This is a film that will get finished and will get seen. Two very important things to me at this point in my career. I know I am blowing it up into something bigger than it is, but its almost feels like this could be the doorway to my real life starting. I will be working on the New York film when the film I shot last summer is finishing up and boom! Things will take off from there like wildfire. Hey, I’m allowed to have dreams, right?

That, and it would be really fun to work on something scripted again. And to work on something with some semblance of a budget. Something where maybe I don’t have to pick out my own costumes from my own closet. Don’t get me wrong – it can be helpful to be wearing my own clothes. But if there is a costume person on set, aren’t those his/her decisions and not mine? I’m supposed to be preoccupied with my character's thoughts and feelings and actions, not her clothes. Anyway. I’m pretty sure I have just offended my first and most loyal reader, which I hope he knows was not my intention. If I get this New York thing, it could be big for me. Or not. But right now, I’m enjoying thinking it could be big for me.

And, of course, it would be another excuse for me to go to New York and not stalk Moby.

I have almost nothing pity to say today. I went to bed sickeningly early last night only to wake up to go practice with a dance partner who never showed. So I went grocery shopping instead and made a fruit salad. Mmm...fruit salad.

I hate being on hold. I'm in a holding pattern for quite a few things right now and I don't like it. Patience is the virtue of the bored. I am bored. Therefore, I should consider patience to be a virtue and seeing as I have none...I should be more virtuous.

I'm also starting to wonder exactly how and when to tell my dad about my vegetarian experiement. He grew up on a farm and is very much a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy. He also doesn't question things very much, so I'm not sure how he is going to react. But I guess that is one of those cross-that-bridge-when-I-get-to-it kind of things.

I apologize for such a random, boring blog. I'll try to be more interesting later.

My name is Kitty. "It’s a family name." "Oh, it’s a fat girl’s name." "Thank you." "You’re welcome." "I’m not fat." "Well, not at present, but I can see you’re really pushin’ maximum density."

Movie quotes aside, my name is Kitty. Kitty. Just like a cat. Since “cat” is such a difficult word to pronounce, we teach our children to say “kitty” at a very early age. Lucky me that I am blessed with a name that every small child in America knows how to pronounce by age two.

Um, no.

I am cursed to never ever ever ever ever ever ever be called by my real name. I love my name. It is original, unique, very “me.” It has shaped who I am and I wield it with strength and pride. My great-grandmother (who had the name before I did) was an amazing woman and I am flattered to carry on her tradition. So yes, it is starting to bug me that no matter how many times I spell my name for the guy at the sammich shop when I place an order there, when I pick up my food, the ticket reads “Katty.” Yes, it is beginning to bother me that whenever I answer the phone at work, “This is Kitty, how can I help you,” the person on the other end of the line says, “Hi, Katie.” It really pissed me off in fourth grade that my teacher had put “Kathy” on my name card on my desk and on the book report chart on the wall before she had ever even met me and asked what I liked to be called. And yes, it irritates me that people with whom I have worked for the past two years have taken to calling me “Kelly” because that is our receptionist’s name. You know what? Call me Biff. Call me by my last name. If you’re close to me, call me honey or sweetheart or dipshit or whatever term of affection you wish. Pet names are fun. Hell, I have a pet name for a real name and nobody can get it right! And if you don’t know my name, ask. I never get offended when people have to ask a second or third time what my name is. I don’t flatter myself by thinking that everyone remembers me after the first meeting. (I actually have a tendency to think that people forget about me as soon as I leave the room, but that’s another issue.) I may tease you if you don’t remember my name after a year or so, but I won’t get offended. Asking shows you are putting in an effort. But please, we all learned how to pronounce my name when we were two.

I dunno. Maybe part of it is my own fault for letting it slide a few too many times or for saying, “Oh, its okay” when I have to correct someone or when they catch themselves and apologize for calling me something that is not my name. But we’ve already determined that I’m not a wave maker. Though I did ask last night if the fries were cooked in vegetable oil before I ordered them, so maybe all that is about to change.

Its time once again for Miss Kitty’s Bi-Weekly This Is Not My Life blog.

I’m sorry, it’s just frustrating. I was in New York for about four days living what I think my real life is. I could sleep as late as I wanted to, eat when I was hungry. I had alone time and time with friends. I had frantic time and down time. I had an audition whereat I kicked ass. I was able to juggle wherever and whenever I wanted to. And people were watching saying it was cool. I was creative. I was not just a frickin’ secretary waiting for a million other frickin’ secretaries to respond to my questions so that I can do my frickin’ job.

My real life consists of interesting, fulfilling relationships with stimulating people. Some of them may be broken in some ways, but none of them needs me to be his or her mom. I have a healthy relationship with an intelligent, gentle man with an outrageous sense of humor, a fearlessness about him, and rock hard abs. I am sexy and desirable and valued as a person and an artist. I am surrounded by other creative people who push my creative limits and together we create amazing things that better the world in our own little ways. My real life is almost the exact opposite of the “American Dream” type life. I have no husband or children, but there is a wonderful man in my life and children around me who I can learn from and teach and watch grow. Like my new 16 month old friend who I probably won’t see this week. I can’t wait until I can take her to the zoo or to museums and stuff. In my real life, I go to work because I love what I do and I expect to work until I die. I do not go to work merely to pay the bills.

This life I’m living now, paycheck to paycheck, single and doubtful of finding a great man who isn’t already taken, working a job I really hate just so I can afford to buy the soy dogs that make me feel good about myself, this isn’t my real life. Sometimes I’m not sure what exactly this is. Frustrating. Annoying. I know it is temporary, but I’m impatient.

There is a door here on campus that used to be the friendliest door on campus. It sits in this little smidge of hallway -- so short I don't know if it even qualifies as its own hallway -- and my best guess would be that this door is a fire door. It doesn't really seem to serve any real purpose other than that. It used to be configured so that when you approached this door from either side, it would open automatically. I'm guessing that this system was set up when that building housed medical patients and the chances of having to rush somebody through the door on a gurnee were greater than they are now. But the door opened by itself for me every time I walked through it for over a year. I always thanked the door, though sometimes under my breath so that other people in the hallways wouldn't think i was crazy.

The door no longer opens by itself. The automated system has been shut off. My door is no longer the friendliest door on campus. Now it just makes me sad to walk through it.

So this whole becoming a vegetarian thing is weird. The more I read about it, the more conflicted I become about exactly what kind of vegetarian I want to be. Because I still maintain that cows get pissed off when you don’t milk them and shearing a sheep is just like getting a haircut. I just read a tidbit that an ubervegan wrote about the new Burger King veggie burger. He requested that they cook it in a microwave so that it would not be on the same grill that had been used to cook beef. First of all, I’m not sure that it is real beef that is cooked on that grill. And second, I don’t know that I could live with myself like that. I took this online personality disorder test today and I scored low in everything but two areas – I had a high avoidant rating and a moderate schizotypal rating, both of which ring true for me in one way or another. The high avoidant thing, definitely. We’ve already talked about my problematic social skills. So can you honestly picture me turning into one of those people in restaurants who asks that their dish be cooked in vegetable oil away from any other dishes that may have contained meat? Can you see me walking into a Burger King and demanding that my veggie burger be cooked in a microwave?

I also read a tidbit by a woman who was vegan (as was her husband), but they didn’t have a lot of money to buy vegan-friendly foods since they were parents of four. She was looking for suggestions to make sure they would be getting all of the nutrients that they needed. But she also mentioned that she was nursing her two youngest children. This is another vegan question I have – if you are not going to ingest any animal products, how can you justify breast-feeding? Are humans not animals? And if is okay for a human child to alleviate the pain a woman feels when she is lactating and needs to feed her child, why is it not okay for a farmer to do the same for a lactating cow? Isn’t that a rather spiciest approach?

And then comes the question of my own nutrition. I am substituting soy proteins (in the form of soymilk, edamame, veggie burgers and dogs and the like) for animal proteins. I am snacking on almonds and other nuts to try to maintain my iron levels. I’m eating whole grain breads, but then, I’ve always done that. But what if I’m really really missing out on something? Like B-12 or zinc? Chances are that I won’t notice a deficiency until it becomes problematic, but then again, how would I be able to tell if I am zinc deficient? Or B-12 deficient? Or omega-3 oil deficient? I don’t want to live my life taking dietary supplements, especially considering that most vitamin pills go straight through you without ever being digested. Do I just kind of have to do the best I can with it and be really aware of things going on in my body so then I can research what’s going on and what the possible causes and remedies are? Or do I fink out of a vegan diet and take the easy way to getting the nutrients I need?

Well, I have about two months to figure it out. So we’ll see. It’s hard, but it really makes me feel good to be doing this. I’m not sure why, but it feels good. Particularly since my digestive system has caught on to the fact that soy protein is where its at now. Those first few days were rough.

I saw on the news last night that there were rallies and whatnot in the suburbs over the weekend protesting the violence in the Middle East. I’m not a big fan of violence (except in movies and video games), but I think I would have a hard time going to a rally about it. For the simple reason that it accomplishes nothing.

After September 11 last year, it was nice to see that there was a lot of support and love coming from other countries that mourned with the United States. I can’t even tell you how many e-mails and photographs and Power Point presentations and whatnot I saw that expressed foreign sympathies for America. It was nice to know that there are still a few countries out there that don’t hate us.

But then we look at the situation in the Middle East. People are starving over there. They have no bread, no water, and perhaps most important for supporting my argument, no electricity. If the point of a rally in suburban Illinois is to show the people in the Middle East that we are behind them and sympathize with their plight, how will they ever find out about it? They’re not going to see it on TV or hear about it on the radio. How many of them have computers? How many can afford a newspaper? It’s like sending out random happy vibes in the hope that they land on the right persons.

Or, if the purpose of these rallies is to wake up the American government to the fact that there is violence in the Middle East and we don’t like it, chances are that the government knows that already. I’m not saying they care, but they know that we don’t like it that people are shooting and bombing and otherwise mutilating one another over there. The question is not, in my opinion, does the government know what’s going on, but rather what, if anything, should our government do about the trouble in the Middle East. Keep in mind, this is not our fight. If anything, we could act as a mediator, but we have to remember that this is a fight that they may not want us to mediate. And the United States sticking its collective nose in to an argument where it doesn’t belong may only result in further hatred of the United States and more incidents like what happened on September 11. Why do you think they did that in the first place? The rest of the world does not view the United States as some wonderful utopia. A lot of them out there hate us and I can’t really blame them.

I don’t know. Obviously. This is my sad and pathetic attempt to voice a political opinion on a topic I know little to nothing about. I wish the fighting over there would stop, too, but I honestly don’t know what sort of solution a country thousands of miles and thousands of years removed from the argument can even offer. Chances are it won’t be a very good one. So I am sorry for all of the people over there who have to suffer. If there is something I could do that would actually make a difference, I hope someone will let me know.

The fake cheese sammich I had for dinner last night tasted a lot better than the one I just had for lunch. Note to self: do not add pickles to fake cheese sammich until thirty seconds before sammich consumption.

I kicked ass at my audition. I found it comforting to know that there are horrible actors everywhere and I am not one of them. Now I get to play the sit and wait game. I hate the sit and wait game.

And I’m back to my non-life.

New York was incredible. I had so much fun. It was exactly what I needed. I will admit that for the first couple of days, I felt very out of place and very uncool. New York is big and scary and so not my home. But I stopped in Central Park, just the southernmost tip of it, for about a half an hour on Saturday and I got it. I now understand the draw to New York. Central Park is where the city’s heart resides and where its energy comes from. And it is a good energy. A very good one. It is old and tired and warm and inviting, like a grandparent who is happy to share the last cookie with you because heaven knows, she shouldn’t finish it herself. After that simple half an hour in Central Park, the rest of the city looked and felt different to me, too. It wasn’t so big and scary anymore. The streets seemed a little smaller and the people seemed more like people than obstacles. I like New York. I could possibly even see myself living there one day. Not right now, but one day.

I did not go down to the financial district. When it came right down to it, I was afraid to, I guess. My one real opportunity to see where the towers were was on my first day there when I was feeling very small and insignificant and I didn’t think I could handle being made to feel even smaller and more insignificant. But like I said, this will not be my last trip there.

Today is fucknut's birthday. How sad that I remember these things.

Happy birthday, fucknut. Wherever you are, I hope you are well and having a good time.

I am SO not a New Yorker. Most of my journaling yesterday was to this effect. I'm kind of tired and not wanting to write about it right now, but remind me later and I'll tell you more. But I did get contact juggling balls (which are sitting in the other room calling my name) and I was hit on by a man from Niger who wanted my address to come visit me in Chicago and I saw Union Square Park and had dinner with friends (I ate vegan-style -- yay me!) and watched a dance practice and went out dancing.

My ever so lovely hostess told me my lead feels very good. Very clear. I was excited. If I can socially lead her like that, maybe I will be able to teach someone else how to.

So yeah, just a quick update to say I'm still alive and although I'm having a fabulous time, I miss Chicago. I miss being home. Which is good in a way and not in a way. "Not" because it will be a couple of more days until I get there and I'm pretty sure that when I do get home, I won't appreciate it as much as I should and "good" because I will appreciate it for a couple of hours when I get home. I love Chicago. That's pretty much all there is to it.

Okay, off to be a dork.

You know, I would be upset if I died today. Its been a while since I was able to say that, but its true. I'd be annoyed. But I would be able to say "nyah, nyah" to all of those people who said "it" would happen for me one day. And I bet they would never say that to anyone again.

You see things at airports that you don't see elsewhere. Or at least I do. Like kids on leashes. I can understand putting a leash on a small child so that they don't wander off, but it still seems wrong. Like, couldn't the parents just teach the kid to not wander off? Or couldn't they hold the kid's hand? Why allow a child a three foot radius of freedom only to put a choke chain on him and potentially cause anatomical problems down the road?

I also see women in suits with tennis shoes and white socks. I think this has become the uniform of the ultimate business woman. They never wear their sneakers with slacks, only short skirts. The suit shows that she is attentive and business-like, while the skirt shows that she is still a woman. The sneakers show that she is in a hurry and efficient and mindful of her health. But of course, the sneakers are never worn or muddy or dirty because god forbid these women should ever walk outside. In the rain. On a hiking trail. No, they wear their smart, glistening white sneakers to and from their car and office and home. Maybe to the train station, but I doubt most of these women would be caught dead on any form of public transportation other than a commuter plane.

But in general, I like airports. Once you are past the security checkpoint, its like everyone is on an even keel until you get on/in the plane. Rockstars, politicians, joe-schmoes, everybody has to abide by the same rules. Everyone just hangs out at their gate, doing their thing, keeping an eye on their stuff. People seem to be particularly mindful of their stuff and other people's stuff now. Almost like they are waiting to see who is going to slip something into their bag or which unattended briefcase is suddenly going to explode.

There was, very briefly, a very good-looking man talking on a cell phone sitting next to me. Well, next to my luggage. And another man's luggage while the other man had stepped away. And with all of the empty chairs at this gate, I kind of wonder why he chose to sit in between two chairs full of luggage. Its like peeing in the urinal in between two other guys. Everyone knows that's when you go pee in a corner. Why didn't he go pee in a corner?

I just saw a newspaper headline about 13 Israelis dying in some sort of horriffic attack. You know what? It makes me sad. I was re-reading Moby's updates today and he is so political and so aware of things going on in the world around him and I'm so not. I feel like I should be -- this is my planet, too, and in whatever minute way, these things affect me. But it is so hard to read about this stuff sometimes. Because there is nothing I can do about it. I could lobby and write letters to my legislators and send money to help victims of these attacks, but what good will it do? I know I've said it before and I'll say it again -- a million minds take a long time to change. And call me a defeatest or a coward or whatever you want, but sometimes ignorance is bliss.

So here I am at O'Hare. I can't come here and not think of George Carlin's Airline Announcements. "'Get on the plane, get on the plane.' I say, 'Fuck you, I'm getting in the plane. Evil Kinevil can get on the plane. I'll be in there with you folks in uniform. Semms to be a lot less wind in there." I love George Carlin.

My ever so lovely hostess here in NYC has told me that I could use her computer if I needed to satisfy an obsessive urge to check my e-mail or something. Yeah, the e-mail checking draw is there, but I would rather obsessively update my blog. Like Moby. He's in San Francisco now, so I won't run into him in New York. Drat. But anyway, here are some of the things I was scribbling about yesterday.

I saw him again on the train! The guy who looks like he should be John Lennon's son but isn't. I'm guessing he is a student at UIC because that is where he got on the train. The more I see him, though, the less fascination he holds for me. Yeah, I wonder where he goes when he gets off the train and what he studies before he gets on it, but he is apearing as more and more of a normal person to me. A normal person with absolutely no interest in my existence. I know a bunch of those already.

I had a brief moment in there where I thought to myself, "Oh my god, maybe I am Amelie!" The instructor who was here last week and his girlfriend both said I reminded them of her and between the black hair, the jumper and mary janes I was wearing at work, and my taking note of the train-riding habits of some stranger I've never met...maybe I am her. At the very least, I took the comment as a compliment. I think the instructor is kind of in love with Amelie. Or he was really wasted that night.

And here is the other bit of fiction I want to share with you. Again, I wrote it in high school.

It Serves Its Purpose

I live alone. I’m not sure if it is by choice or a simple matter of circumstance. But I have not seen another living, breathing human being in over four years.

My house is small. It serves its purpose. There is a radio in the living room that serves as my only link to the outside world. I have a desk and chair, a couch, two lamps and a bookcase in there as well. The desk, chair and bookcase are all antiques that should have found themselves more caring owners. They are covered in dust, the wood is warped from humidity, and the finish on all of them is cracked and peeling. They serve their purpose. One of the lamps stands on the floor and has two bulbs that can be turned on individually and a dusty pyramid-with-the-tip-chopped-off shaped shade that gives the room a yellowish tint. The other is one that my father made in woodshop in high school out of an elm tree elbow. The shade is small and plastic with a picture of a waterfall and river that wraps all the way around. It gives the room a bluish tint. If I turn both lamps on, which I must in order to have sufficient light for just about anything, the room takes on a sickly greenish color. I suppose it might be annoying to other people, but as no one but me ever uses the room and I have grown quite accustomed to it, I have decided against doing anything to change it. I actually quite enjoy sitting on my ratty, yellowed couch and reading by the greenish lamplight. I would even love to read in neon lamplight. I simply love to read. My bookshelf is my most prized possession. It holds all that I hold most dear. I own over two thousand assorted novels, plays, poetry collections, and magazines. I have the complete Oxford English Dictionary and every year, I order the next appendix through the mail. I have read it cover to cover eighteen times. It is one of my favorites though I rarely use language of the same caliber in my writing. That comes from my love of Hemingway and his simplistic style. Were he not already deceased, I should love an opportunity to converse with him.

I began collecting books at the tender young age of ten. It was my tenth birthday as a matter of fact. I awoke early that morning, full of an eager anticipation to tear into my gifts. I raced from the bedroom I shared with my younger sister into the kitchen and there on the kitchen table sat one package wrapped in bright red and blue paper with a shiny golden bow on top. My name was printed neatly on the bright yellow envelope that held the card. For a moment, I just stood there, staring at the treasure on the table. I knew it was what I had asked for. I knew it was John Irving’s new book, A Prayer for Owen Meany. My parents had thought it rather odd that I had requested such a “high level” book at my age. For me, it was easy reading. I had already read Hotel New Hampshire, The World According to Garp, and The 158-Pound Marriage and had fallen in love with John Irving’s style. I tore into the beautiful wrappings and left them in a heap on the linoleum floor as I stared at the mint-green cover with raised white lettering. An observer might have thought I was holding the first copy of the Bible. That book is the most sacred thing that I own. I have read it one hundred and seventy two times and I enjoy it more and more each time I finish it. When I finished reading it for the first time was when I made up my mind to collect and read as many books as possible in my lifetime.

I have read everything that I own at least once.

There has been only one time in my life that I did not spend every free moment reading. Her name was Melody. There has never been a more appropriately named human being since time began. She had the grace of a swan, the voice of a nightingale, the beauty of a sunrise over the mountains, and a heart of pure gold (for lack of better clichés). Only she could tear me away from my literature.

I was eight credit hours away from an English degree at Brown University when my housemate left me to marry his high school sweetheart and move to Oregon where they could study the rainforests. Since I couldn’t afford to pay for the house by myself, I put out ads in search of a new roommate. Melody was the first to respond.

She had been living with her boyfriend James until she discovered that he had been repeatedly unfaithful to her. She told him they needed to spend some time apart to examine their relationship. But she still loved him.

I fell in love with her instantly. From the moment I opened the door to meet her and I saw her cascade of chestnut brown hair and her chocolate brown eyes I knew that I would give her my heart completely. I knew also that she would break it. I didn’t care. She was perfect.

We hit it off immediately. I was enraptured by her personality. She had this marvelously caustic sense of humor – reminiscent of Dorothy Parker or H.L. Meinken. And she was well versed in the classics. We would sit up all night talking about life, literature, and James. Melody could not get him out of her mind. They had met in the spring of her sophomore year of college. He was perfect for her, or at least she thought he was. They started dating and after two months agreed to see each other exclusively. Melody had never been happier or more in love. She told me she used to leave little presents for him around the apartment that they shared – candy, cologne, little trinkets. He was a big Star Wars fan and, thanks to Melody, he built up a complete collection of the action figures, trading cards, and other assorted paraphernalia within just a few short months.

One time, just after their one year anniversary, Melody came home to find panties in the closet that weren’t hers and weren’t new. She confronted James who said it was just a one-time thing, that he had been drunk, that she meant nothing to him, that it would never happen again, I love you, Melody. He kissed her, gently at first, then with growing passion and Melody melted. They made love on the living room floor. It was the first time for Melody and she couldn’t have wished for anything more. It was perfect and the other woman was forgotten. By Melody, anyway.

For James, it wasn’t just a one-time thing with just one other woman. James was, in the simplest terms, a sex addict. Melody was naïve and insecure when she met James and she wasn’t ready to have sex with him or anyone else. That’s not to say that they never fooled around; they did. Constantly. But it wasn’t enough for James. He would fuck anything in any opening, any time, any place, anywhere. Whenever Melody was in class or at work, James was out getting laid. Melody never told me about any animals or small children, but to be perfectly honest, it wouldn’t have surprised me in the least. It surprised Melody. Every time she found some new piece of evidence it was like the first time. He would apologize and kiss her and they would make love. And she would forgive him.

It wasn’t until two weeks before I met Melody that she decided she’d had enough. She came home and found him with one of his harem on the bed he was supposed to share with Melody and he was telling her that she was the only one for him, that he would love her forever, etc., etc., etc. Melody was frozen in the doorway, silent tears streaming down her face. There was the man she loved more than life itself, the man who took her innocence, the man to whom she had given the most precious gift she had to give in her bed with another woman, telling that other woman all the same things he told Melody. All she could do was cry. All he could say was, “Sorry, hon.”

So Melody began searching for anew place to live. She figured that if they spent some time apart he would realize how much she meant to him and he would come crawling back to her, just how it happens in the movies. It didn’t work that way. He didn’t come crawling back. Not even walking back. He never even called. But Melody still loved him. And I still loved her.

Graduation day finally came. Or more importantly, graduation night. I wasn’t sure what exactly I planned to do with my degree. I though maybe I could write – Melody was my greatest inspiration. But at the same time, I knew I could never equal the masters. If my books did not find a home in a collection like mine, I wouldn’t be able to bear it. I didn’t want to teach. I wanted to read and be with Melody. Not necessarily in that order.

Melody was going to go home to Missouri to live with her parents and sort things out for a while. She said she might as well since she couldn’t have James and since I was leaving, too. She said there wasn’t anything left for her at Brown.

But on graduation night, we put all of that up on the shelf, right in between To Kill a Mockingbird and The Taming of the Shrew. We popped open the champagne, turned on the radio and danced and drank all night. I was in Eden. I had my Eve, my forbidden fruit. I had my treasure, my library. I had my sick green light. I needed nothing else. I was Siddhartha by the river.

“I love you, Melody. I always have.”

She stopped dancing and gazed into my eyes. I was completely unprepared for the warmth and radiance with which she looked at me. It probably only lasted an instant, but it felt like an eternity. I had never known such joy – not even in Owen Meany.

Melody leaned in and kissed me ever so gently and pulled back with a coyness I had never seen in her before. So I kissed her. She tasted of fresh, cool strawberries on a brilliant summer day. With all of the words I have at my disposal, I cannot find one that comes close to accurately describing my euphoria. Our bodies moved in perfect harmony and the rest of the world disappeared, faded into memory. And as I entered her, my books vanished. Had I never read another word for the duration of my existence on this planet, I still would die happy, so euphoric was I.

It was over much too soon. We lay on the floor, her silken hair falling across my chest, her perfect bosom pressed against my side. All I could do was weep. All she could say was, “I love you, too.”

I did not pick up a single book for a month after that. I spent every waking moment with Melody. I lived only for her. She was my whole, my all, my love, my passion.

On July 16, 1992, Melody received a very disturbing phone call and then left the house by herself for a while without telling me where she was going. I found out July 30th what had happened.

The phone call was from James. He was in the hospital dying of AIDS related pneumonia. Apparently he was barely coherent when he called. I often wonder if he would have called otherwise. I doubt it. But he did call and she ran to him like a well-trained puppy. She got tested, too, while she was there. July 30th it came back positive.

James contracted HIV in high school. For his sixteenth birthday, his older brother took James first to get his driver’s license, then to find a cheap hooker. Neither one of them thought to bring protection. James was infected from the start. And he knew about it, too! And he never told Melody! Not until three and a half weeks before his own death. Not until the disease was so advanced in Melody’s body that all the doctors could do for her was try to slow it down and try to ease the pain.

Melody and I went to James’ funeral. We both wept – she for him, I for her. And for myself. I’ll admit that. I could tell that I would miss her more than humanly imaginable. But I also knew what she would have to go through before I would ever get a chance to miss her. I read everything I could find about AIDS, starved for information. I had never had to deal with anything of this caliber before; I didn’t know how. The only thing I could think of was to learn as much as I could know in the hopes that that would lessen my fear. It didn’t. It only scared me more.

It was when the first lesions started to appear that I really started getting terrified. Melody was so beautiful, more precious than platinum; it killed me to see her perfection marred by huge purple and black sores. I wanted to hold onto her forever, to shield her from the world, to make her well again. But I couldn’t. Instead, I gave her her medications when it was time to and I called an ambulance when I could no longer care for her alone. And I kept reminding her that I loved her more than anything.

We had a few more good times. We took a trip to Arizona – Melody had always wanted to see the southwest. We spent an entire day at Montezuma’s Well. “I hope this is what heaven is like,” she said.

Melody died on December 31, 1995 in the Hannibal County Memorial Hospital. Her parents were there, holding her hand. I ran my fingers through her hair and recited her favorite poems from Master’s Spoon River Anthology and the ending of Owen Meany. She was burning up and delirious. She looked like a skeleton with a too-small skin stretched tightly over it. Her skin matched the sickly green light in my living room. Her breathing was raspy and labored. At 10:54pm, Melody opened her beautiful brown eyes, looked at me and said, “Goodbye, Grover’s Corners.” By 10:55pm, she was gone. Her mother left the room, crying softly in her husband’s arms. I stayed with Melody until 11:59, stroking her hair, caressing that angelic face, kissing those perfect eyes.

“Happy New Year, sweetheart. I love you.”

I left her hospital room as the clocks struck midnight. On my way out, I stopped to get tested for HIV myself. I asked that the results be mailed to me and went home. That was the last time I saw another human being.

I miss Melody still. She was my love, my life, my everything. I know that she is at Montezuma’s Well sitting by the crystalline water and drinking vodka lemonades. I know that she is happy. I know that she is well. I know that she is no longer in pain. I know that I will be with her again soon. I, too, have AIDS. It serves its purpose.

Per the suggestion of a friend of mine, I am posting a story here that I wrote when I was in high school. I haven't written much fiction since then, but there's this one and one other one that I would like to put up here because I was very proud of them when I wrote them.
Utterly Forgettable
What is it about some people that make them “utterly forgettable,” as John Irving so aptly called them? Is it how they can enter a room unnoticed and leave again without a sound? Is it the way they dress? How they talk? And why do some people stick n our memories like glue? No matter how hard we try to forget. And what about those people who wander in and out like lost ghosts? Their image hits you out of the clear blue sky maybe once every couple of years or so and then is gone again before you even have time to wonder where they are now.

Me? I never forget a face. Maybe a name every now and again, but never a face. Especially not a face like that one. It was narrow and angular with a kind of sideways smile – it peaked on the left side. The mouth was small with thin lips, which gave off the slightest lisp whenever a word was spoken. It was framed on both sides by sandy blond hair that turned up slightly at the ends in an attempt to avoid touching the shoulders. All in all, this face could blend in just about anywhere, if not for those eyes. Those light emeralds sparkled so brightly and radiated such warmth; it is a wonder they still functioned as eyes. It was in those eyes that I found comfort. In those eyes, I met joy. In those eyes, I knew love.

I never had any luck with guys before. Well, maybe I did have luck, but it was bad luck. Terrible luck. They all seem to belong in that “why-can’t-I-forget-him” category. Why can’t they be the “utterly forgettable ones instead of him?

When I was really young, elementary school, I tried to find someone to like, just because everyone else had someone. So I made myself like Rachel. Little boys are supposed to like little girls, right? Well, I just couldn’t do it. The girls weren’t nasty or anything; I just wasn’t attracted to them. I never have been. But it wasn’t until high school that I was able to come to terms with my sexual preference.

Junior high was tough for me. I knew by that time that I was a homosexual, but I hated myself for it. At that age, all kids do is make gay jokes, which really hurt me. But I couldn’t tell them to stop because then they would know my secret, which I didn’t even want to admit to myself. So I kept quiet. I read Playboy every day after school, trying to make myself enjoy looking at the pictures, but I never got a single hard-on out of them. I even tried dating a couple of girls thinking that I was just scared and that if I gave it a try, I might even learn to like it. And I did. I loved spending time with those girls. Rachel became quite beautiful and is still one of my closest friends. Jenny was a lot of fun but she was really messed up. Sarah turned out to be a lesbian. I don’t know if that had anything to do with me or not, but we still keep in touch. But even though hanging out with these girls was really fun, I just couldn’t bring myself to kiss them or touch them.

So by the time I was a freshman in high school, I knew I was gay and that that wasn’t going to change. Now my only problem was finding someone else who had come to the same realization as I had.

I had quite a few male friends, but I don’t think any of them knew. Most of them were extremely homophobic. They wouldn’t even watch movies with gay characters. Its really too bad that they were so ignorant. I liked sports, hated school, liked cars – just like all of them. I knew all the lyrics to the Monty Python songs and would gladly sing Sit on My Face right along with them. The only difference between us was that while they were drooling over Donna Van Park and her bra size, I was drooling over my best friend, Jeff. He was tall and muscular with perfectly tanned skin, short black hair and deep brown eyes that looked straight into your soul while reflecting the pure goodness in his. He was dating the captain of the cheerleading squad. She was all he ever talked about – “Guess what Lisa and I did last night?” “Last night was incredible? Guess what we did!” He never stopped talking about her. But since he was my best friend, I put up with it. I even let him set me up with some of Lisa’s friends, but only if they were double dates. I actually got quite close to some of them, but I still wanted Jeff.

It was New Year’s Day – just barely, though; it was just after the ball dropped in New York’s Times Square – in 1989 that our friendship ended, though. We were both invited to usher in the New Year at a party at Lisa’s parent’s house. We were seniors in high school that year. Jeff was going to the University of Arizona “to study the women of a warmer climate” is how he put it. Lisa was going to Colombia College in Chicago so she could be an actress. I had gotten a scholarship to Yale to study law. Hell, I had a very limited social life, so I studied a lot. I had always gotten good grades. I think the fact that I had to learn to live with my homosexuality at such an early age forced me to grow up fast, which may explain why studying and testing were always so easy for me.

But anyway, the three of us were going to be split up within a matter of months. And we were piss drunk. Unfortunately, I wasn’t drunk enough to forget what I did. Neither was Jeff.

When the ball dropped and everyone yelled, “Happy New Year,” I kissed him. Right on the lips. Tongue, too.

He shoved me away and spat in my face calling me a “faggot.”

“But I love you!” I cried.

“Get the fuck out of this house!” he screamed at me. His face was bright crimson and the veins on his forehead were popping out as if they would burst. “And don’t you ever show your face near me again, you freak! Ever!”

So I left. I don’t think either of us was drunk anymore, though I prayed to God that I would wake up the next day and things would be the same as they were before. But at the same time, I knew they wouldn’t be. I hurt too much for it to be a dream.

After that, the whole school knew. I would have preferred to come out of the closet another way, but I guess it had to happen sometime. My girlfriends – Rachel and Sarah especially – were very supportive. I think it helped their egos to know that it wasn’t because of them that I never tried anything on our dates.

I managed to graduate without any further incidents. I was teased a lot and I got beaten up once, but nothing too bad. I just did my best to study hard and blend in as much as possible. I don’t think I was the only gay guy in my school, but nobody else would admit it. I got pretty lonely sometimes.

For a graduation present, my parents paid for a trip to Europe for me. I had always wanted to see Italy and Greece. History fascinates me. Florence is my idea of paradise – classic art and architecture around every corner, winding cobblestone streets -- I love it! So I went, by myself, to Italy for the summer. I was staying at a house with a family and studying at a school for foreigners who want to learn Italian. I was so excited to be there that I didn’t even notice when he walked into the classroom and sat down next to me.

“Are you an American?” he asked.

I snapped out of my trance and looked at the man with the fabulous voice who had just spoken to me – voluntarily! “What?”

“Where are you from?” he repeated.

“Detroit. You?”

“LA. I’m Adam.” He stuck out his hand for me to shake, which I did.

“Darren,” I replied. That was when I noticed those eyes, those matching emeralds that shone kindness. That was also the moment that I lost the ability to speak. Fortunately, the instructor came in at that moment, too, so I didn’t have to speak anymore. I, to this day, have no idea what happened on that first day of class; I was lost in those eyes.

Adam and I quickly became friends, partially because we had a lot in common, and partially because there weren’t very many Americans around and neither of us knew much Italian. We were virtually inseparable the entire time we were in Florence. I kept thinking about Jeff, though, and how badly I had messed things up between us, so I was very careful around Adam. I would even try to watch pretty girls walk by so he wouldn’t know I was gay. I was so starved for friendship that I would have done anything to keep him. I knew I wasn’t being totally honest with him or with myself, but I was happy. I loved spending time with him. We would go out to the bars at night (though I didn’t drink), we visited all the sights, it was a fabulous six weeks.

But, like all good things, it had to come to an end. I had to go back and get ready to go to Yale. Adam was going to take a year off before starting college and stay in Europe doing whatever odd jobs he could find to make money to live and travel. I was heartbroken. Adam meant more to me than anyone I had ever known. He was fun to be around, he enjoyed my company, he was intelligent in ways that books just can’t teach, and he treated me like a normal person. It had been a terribly long time since anyone had made me feel good about myself, like it was okay to be me. But the one thought that kept gnawing away at the back of my mind was that I wasn’t being me, that he didn’t know the whole truth.

Adam went with me to the airport on the day I was supposed to leave for home. I couldn’t stand the fact that I was about to leave the one person who meant more to me than anything in the world and he didn’t know my little secret. But at the same time, I didn’t know how to tell him. How do you tell your best friend that you aren’t what they think you are?

I waited until the final call to get on the plane. “Well, I guess I’ll see ya around,” I said.

“Have a good trip.”

“Listen, I gotta tell you something. I’m. . .”

Adam hugged me. “I know,” he said. “I know.” He kissed me very gently on the cheek and looked at me with a knowing smile. His eyes still shone bright, full of understanding and affection as he gently pushed me away toward the boarding ramp. I smiled back, my eyes full of tears of joy and relief. Without another word, I boarded the plane. I never saw Adam again.

His face still lives in my memory, though much of the time we spent together has been forgotten. But I will never forget that smile in his eyes as I boarded the plane. And I will never forget the warmth and kindness he showed me — how I felt loved. And I will never stop loving him.

I leave for New York in about ten hours. Woo hoo! I need this. I need a break from “my life” that isn’t really my life. I need to go out and live what I perceive my life to be for a couple of days. And I need to kick some serious ass at this audition.

I’m excited. I’ll admit that. But I also have that nervous what-if-my-hopes-are-too-high-and-the-whole-thing-sucks feeling setting in. The beginnings of a panic attack. Hopefully it won’t develop into a full one, though. Even though I know I won’t die from a panic attack, my plan for this weekend is to be solitary during the day and social at night. You like how I call it a weekend when it starts on Wednesday? But yeah, panic attacks make social evenings difficult. I just have to keep reminding myself that I am staying with a woman whose company I thoroughly enjoy and I will be seeing friends who want me there and I will be furthering my career. Oh, and I have to remember to relax and be myself. Don’t worry about dressing like a New Yorker. I’m not one. Don’t worry about dressing like a club kid or a regular lindy hopper. I’m not one of those, either. I will wear what is comfortable, go where I want to, and live on edamame, almonds, and chocolate covered peanuts. And if I run in to Moby, I will introduce myself and give him a hug. And the “painting.” But I’ll tell him the story behind it, too, so he doesn’t think I’m some psycho five-year old.

But yeah, I’m telling you now that I will be in New York for a few days so I probably won’t be blogging. I will be keeping a journal while I am out there (I always have one with me) and will try to post some of that stuff when I get back. So, my three loyal readers, please don’t be upset that I’m not posting. There will be more lovely Kitty boredom next week.

Just a real quick something that I find amusing.

95%* of the time when I express to one of my friends that I have a crush on somebody, no matter how inaccessible the guy is, my friends invariably tell me that I could do better. What I would like to know is 1) what is wrong with the guys I develop crushes on (besides their inaccessibility) and 2) where do these ubermensch live? These men who are “better” and whom I could apparently “do.” Where are they? Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a guy in the United States who fits the qualification for what I am looking for in a man? And then if I find one, my friends tell me I could do better. I know they are trying to be nice to me and “let me down easy” when the realization sets in that said ubermenner and I won’t work, but I still don’t get it.

* This statistic pulled directly out of my ass and should not be used as an acutal unit of measure.

I have a new friend. She is 16 months old. She just moved here from China to live with her new mom who, conveniently, lives upstairs from my best friend. This is how I met my new friend. She is bright and happy and playful and says “Da” really well. Of course, just about everything she encounters is “Da,” but if you had a one-word vocabulary, you’d be the same way. She learns really quickly – things like “the three goes in the empty bottle and then comes back out again” and how to bend down to pick things up. Important skills. Her imitation abilities are developing really well, too. I’m guessing she will expand on her one word vocabulary within the year.

I have a lot of respect for my new friend’s mom, who is also a friend of mine. She is a single mother raising an adopted daughter from China. By herself. While she works full time. And tries to maintain some semblance of a social life. Its gotta be tough. But my new friend is such a sweetheart. I have said that I will come over and play with her whenever her mom needs some time not watching her, you know? But I still kind of feel for the mother. What she would really like is someone with whom she can share the joy of raising her daughter, but all of the people she tries to date get scared. No matter what they say about loving kids, when they find out that my friend has one, they turn and run. It really is too bad. Both my new friend and her mother are wonderful people with a lot to offer and a lot to teach and a lot to learn.

I get a sneaking suspicion sometimes that my new friend’s mother might be looking at me as someone to share the joy of raising her daughter with. I’m just not attracted to her like that. I would feel horrible having to tell her that, too, so I hope it never comes up. Maybe I can just tell her I’m straight. Which really doesn’t go along with a lot of my philosophies and beliefs, which is kind of odd.

I’m on this kick now to become a vegetarian. Whether or not I push it to the extent of veganism is another story, but for now, I am focusing on becoming a vegetarian. I have no ethical or moral reasons to become one, I’m just doing it to see if I can do it. I have said on this blog before that I am a firm believer in the Don’t Knock It ‘Til You Try It school of thought. So why would I not experiment with lesbianism with this woman? Because she’s not the right woman? But how would I know unless I tried? She doesn’t have that spark that I feel when I talk to the instructor who was here last week or when I used to talk to Fucknut. What would I do if I encountered a woman with whom I felt that spark? I haven’t the slightest idea.

Okay, my thoughts on love and sexuality, in a nutshell. Bisexuality makes the most logical sense to me. If you are a believer in color blind love and race blind love and creed blind love and all of that stuff, how can you not stretch your beliefs to include gender blind love? (Incidentally, if you are not a believer in color/race/creed blind love in the first place, I would very much like to know what your definition of love is as it is obviously grossly different from mine. I welcome your comments.) Seriously. If the argument behind color/race/creed blind love is that you fall in love with the person, not the package they come in, then how can you hold the gender of the package they come in against them? If my soul mate happens to be a woman, then she is a woman. If he is a man, he is a man.

Logically, it makes sense to me. And I consider myself a friend of gays, lesbians, heterosexuals and bisexuals because of it. In other words, I will not cast dispersions on someone for his or her sexual preference. I personally, though, find myself attracted to men in a physical sense. I have some wonderful female friends, but I have never really been inspired to push it beyond platonic friendship. I’ve kissed women before and though they may have been good kissers, it has never had the same impact on me that kissing men has. I don’t know. Sometimes I wish it wasn’t like that. Maybe one day it won’t be. Wouldn’t my dad love that? Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha. Sorry. That was funny.

I have spent a large portion of my life trying to come to terms with the fact that I am a geek and a dork and how to live comfortably with that fact. I think I have succeeded admirably.

Now, I think it is time I focused my energy on becoming comfortable with being a freak show.

So I got a glimpse of what it must be like to go to a bar as a man this weekend. Kind of.

First, let me tell you that I had just come from spending a large portion of my day (and actually the whole previous week) with a man with whom I could picture myself falling madly in love if given the slightest bit of encouragement. He has so many of the qualities that I’m looking for right now in someone with whom I could share my life. I got a “damn you for not staying in my life” hug when we said good-bye that made me feel really good because it means we did connect on some level. And he got my dancing to where he wanted it to be and gave me “permission” to train some guy to dance with me like that. But he has a girlfriend and lives halfway around the world so the point is kind of moot, now isn’t it? But anyway, I had just said good-bye to this man and his girlfriend (who is also a wonderful person) a couple of hours before going out to this bar. So you can probably imagine that I wasn’t really in the mood for chit chat. Conversation yes, chit chat no.

My best friend and I go to this bar and we’re sitting there having a drink (I had Coke. Do you know how hard it is to order something in a bar when you don’t drink alcohol, soda, or coffee?) and a couple of her other friends show up. I didn’t mind. It was cool. They were both very nice women in their own rights. But I have not heard someone say “like” and “whatever” so much in one sitting since my friends in high school and I used to make fun of valley girls. One of them is going through a sort of mid-life crisis that has inspired her to go on sabbatical and travel the world. Cool. I’m not sure that she is ready to travel the world by herself, but I’ve also only met her once, so I could be wrong. The other woman is boy-crazy and gearing up to go on a pseudo blind date. The guy is someone that her friends know and he has seen pictures of her so he called her or something like that. Again, too many “likes” and “whatevers.”

I have nothing against these women. I’m sure they are wonderful human beings. They just didn’t mesh with the esoteric frame of mind I had going on at the time. I tried to steer the conversation elsewhere – books, films, something cultural – but it ended up a discussion of Bridget Jones’ Diary and the like.

So I imagined myself as a man for a minute. Both of these women were physically attractive women. They are the sort that probably does get approached in bars on a regular basis. I imagined myself walking up to them in a bar and trying to start a conversation with them and it struck me – no wonder the men you meet in bars just want to screw you and then don’t call the next day! They start groping you when they get tired of the “likes” and “whatevers” to get you to shut up. Then they tell you anything you want to hear so they can get some physical gratification out of it since they figure they aren’t going to get much else, and once that physical gratification is over, they have no use for you so why bother to call?

This is, of course, assuming that men look for more than just nice tits.

Which, after spending a week with this instructor, I am inclined to believe. But that is another story and it is me being unnecessarily sappy, so nevermind.

So then I take this to the next level. Of course I do. Its what I do. And I think to myself that perhaps this is why I don’t often get approached in bars – I have more substance. I don’t use “like” and “whatever” all of the time. When someone starts a conversation with me, there is a really good chance that I actually have something to say. I’m thinking that these things are pretty apparent. Even in the way I dress. By the way, I’m not allowed to dress myself anymore as I have been coming up with some horrendous combinations. But I dress comfortably and don’t worry about it. And I think people can see that. Or even if they aren’t consciously aware of the fact that I’m just there being comfortable, they can subconsciously feel that I’m not a “like” and “whatever” girl. So men don’t approach me because they have no idea how to react to that situation. It can be really frightening to meet someone worth knowing.

I don’t think I described that experience very well. Oh well. The whole thing took place in about two minutes in my brain. If that. And I thought it was cool. So there.

And once I have figured out why I am not hit on by strangers more often, I drive up to Milwaukee for an audition and get hit on by a couple of guys in a car in the lane next to me at the toll booth while I’m driving. That could have just been because I was practicing my electric boogie in my car, though.

I think there must be a school for people who want to become movie reviewers. They learn not only what makes a good film (how well it does at the box office, of course) and what makes a bad film (Steven Segal), but also the rankings of favorite words to use when describing films. Words like “mesmerizing,” “riveting,” and “large pile of horse manure.” And the fact that a movie described with the phrase “large pile of horse manure” is commonly considered to be not as good as a movie described using the word “mesmerizing,” which is, in turn, not as good as one described as “riveting.” They also learn that there are certain words that you can use to describe a film in general (“explosive”) that you really shouldn’t use to describe an actor’s performance (use “jumps off the screen” instead). And there are some words that you can use when talking about a drama (“powerful”) that just don’t work when talking about a Meg Ryan film (use “fresh and fun” instead).

I could be a movie reviewer. I should be a movie reviewer. I would translate the language of the movie reviewer into language that people can understand. Instead of, “This was good for someone’s first film and you can see a lot of potential in the young actors,” I would say, “It sucked. The acting was stiff and fake and the director obviously had no idea what he was doing. Hopefully he can use this film as a learning experience for future projects.” Or instead of, “Powerful! Riveting! A Masterpiece!” I would write, “Oh my god. This movie kicked some major ass! (People don’t use Italics enough in their movie reviews.) I haven’t seen anything this good since The Shawshank Redemption. Go see it. Right now.” Or something to that effect.

Or not. *insert large cheesy grin smiley face here*

Moby is on the radio right now. He is in my home city. That’s kind of a weird thought. He is physically not that far away from me right at this very moment. Were I to go downtown, I might run into him. How strange is that? They said if anyone wants to talk to Moby to call the radio station. Yeah, I want to talk to Moby, but not on the radio. I want to be able to give him the picture I drew. My god, does that make me sound like I’m five or what?

I wish I was a good conversationalist.

I feel like I’ve been awake for about a week straight. I know I haven’t been, though, because there are these three and four hour chunks of time when I’m lying in my bed that I don’t really remember. But my body and my mind are very awake. I can’t describe it any other way. I’m awake.

If you’ll pardon me for a minute, I’m going to get all cerebral on ya. Or at least I’m going to try to get all cerebral. The problem with this whole being awake thing is that at the same time that I feel very alert and can focus on things rather well, my brain is running so fast that I’m having trouble keeping up with it. Its like I’m moving at warp speed in slow motion. It’s really bizarre. And I am not on drugs. Of any kind. I had a couple of beers last night (I know, if I’m going to quit, I should quit), but alcohol has never had this effect on me before. It’s cool and unnerving and exciting all at the same time. I’m not sure the reason behind it, aside from maybe the fact that I haven’t been sleeping much lately and I’ve been more active when I’ve been awake than I had been, but I can take a guess.

I am being challenged by another person. Physically, mentally, spiritually, emotionally challenged. In the good way. I can’t even remember the last time I was challenged like this. Because it’s not a competition. Its more of a “but what if you looked at it this way” kind of thing. A learning experience. And I’m learning things left and right. Thinking about things that I hadn’t in a while. Like I need to not be bitter when hanging out with couples and what patience feels like and what testing the boundaries of trust is like and what I want out of life on the grand scale kinds of things. All the while, popping my arms to get a good wave going and juggling Chinese meditation balls at every opportunity.

I posted once before that this couldn’t be my life. The sitting at a desk for eight hours a day pushing pieces of paper back and forth and answering the phone. And you know what? This isn’t my life. My life is what happens when I leave here. My life is my acting and my friends and my hobbies and those moments of connection right before I am pushed beyond my balance point and those moments right after when I realize that someone is there to catch me. Even if that person is me.

Tee hee. Moby writes about wanting a spider monkey best friend so they can get jet-powered anti-gravity skateboards and matching helmets and go cruising through lightening storms when he gets tired. I write about wanting to be challenged by someone.

It makes me sad, though, that this person challenging me is only around for a couple more days. I feel like I need to absorb as much of him as I can before he leaves so it won’t feel so empty when he’s gone. Don’t get me wrong, I love my friends. Dearly. I am thankful every day for them. He is just a different kind of friend and one that I feel I sorely need right now. So I will miss him when he leaves. I am doubtful that an electronic friendship will sprout from this, either. Which, while it makes me sad, is okay, too, because half of the thrill of this challenge is the feel of it, the feel of his energy. You don’t get that in an e-mail.

So I’m awake and buzzing and happy and tired and anticipating getting sad but trying to figure out ways to occupy myself so as to not notice that I’m getting sad. I know that doesn’t make sense to you (me and my speech impediment), but it does to me. Kind of. Its odd, but it makes sense in Kittyland. All kinds of strange stuff makes sense in Kittyland. Particularly when I’m running on about ten hours of sleep out of the last seventy-two. Wow. I should go take a nap and stop rambling.

Okay, I'm having archiving problems right now but I'm working on it. 'Cuz I know you, my three faithful readers, want to go back and read this rot again and again and again and again...

So I remember now why I quit drinking.

I had three glasses of wine last night. They weren’t very big glasses and I was doing my best to drink slowly, but I still feel like shit today. Why did I have three glasses of wine? Why not stop after just one? Well, we did have a couple of different types of wine. Two of my favorites, to be specific. So I had to have some of each. And by the time I was done with the second glass, I hit that “Oh man, I want to get hammered” state. I’m glad I didn’t get absolutely smashed, though, you know? That I was able to restrain myself at least that much. That’s a good thing. But yeah, I fell off the wagon last night and am 100% ready to get back on it today.

I have a confession to make. When I get drunk, I get horny. Hi, single girl in her mid-twenties who hasn’t had anything even resembling a boyfriend in almost three years. Yeah, I’ve done a smidge of messing around since then, but nothing of note. And none of it very good, either. Stupid me, I need an emotional connection, too, in order to fully enjoy myself. I know. That’s probably more than you wanted to know. Sorry. But still, I get drunk and I want to start kissing people. And if there are cute, unattainable drunken men there, too…I start drinking water so I can go home right quick. But then, of course, on my way home, I think way to much about why I can’t find anybody and how sad my little existence is that all I have to go home to is a psychotic cat and blah blah blah blah blah.

I understand the nature of addiction now. The thought creeping back into one’s head, “Well, if I had another drink, I could go back to feeling good.” I don’t like that. I don’t like thoughts like that in my head. I would rather stay sober and balanced than ride the addiction roller coaster. And maybe one day, I can write for after-school specials. Sorry, that was just too cheesy, I couldn’t let it go. But yeah. I think my drinking days are over. Once you get too old to get wasted at a party and make out with some random person and shrug it off the next day, its time to stop drinking.

Man, am I deep or what?

I was talking to a friend of mine last night about the fact that I develop these totally unrealistic crushes. In the past I have thought that I am attracted to unattainable or unavailable men as a sort of challenge to myself. Perhaps in a misguided attempt to find the acceptance from a man that I couldn’t get from my dad. “I wasn’t good enough for him, but if I try hard enough I’ll be good enough for you” syndrome. Sounds pretty girlie, huh? I know. So not me. But my friend brought up an interesting question -- what do I want from these men?

The men I am attracted to are some pretty amazing men. Moby, for example. Not only is he a talented musician, he is a thinker and he is passionate and he is wise and funny and all these other things that when they are all put together make for one incredible person. And it is for these qualities that I find him attractive. But you take someone like Moby and if I ever do meet him, it will be for about five minutes. If that. So how do I convey to this man to whom I am so intensely attracted that I am just as amazing as he is in five minutes? Without coming off as a psychotic, that is.

I know, I shouldn’t be looking for validation in others. I should find happiness within myself. And most of the time I do. But I do know that there are some people out there who reach a certain level of notoriety because of how amazing they are and they let that go to their heads. I have not achieved said notoriety and if I ever do, I will not let it go to my head. But it would be nice if other amazing people saw how amazing I was so we could swap talents, you know? Or share ideas. Challenge each other mentally and/or physically. Man, its been a long time since I was challenged. I don’t know. Maybe it all boils down to the same thing – I want to be challenged and recognized for my talents, puny as they may seem.

My god, I’m really pathetic when I’m written down on paper. Yay pathetic!

So this then begs the question do I continue to develop attractions to unattainable men or do I settle for someone who is in his own right pretty darn cool, though maybe not challenging? I don’t know. But considering where I’m at right now, I’m thinking I’m probably going to continue having crushes on unattainable men.

And I apologize for not making any sense. God bless ya for putting up with this horrible speech impediment of mine.