Loud-mouthed liberal feminist. Anarchist knitter. Tequila-drinking artsy-smartsy fat chick. Bluesy folk-rock singer-songwriter. Rebel with too many causes. Quirky eclectic pagan poet. Paradoxical intuitive smartass. Sarcastic brainiac insomniac. You know, for starters.


Is it Monday again, or something?

You know what really honks me off?

Besides the fact that I'm getting sick with just over a week to a very important gig. And also besides the fact that we have another celebrity governor, and he's already saying he'll ask the idiot in the White House for federal aid for California. Federal fucking aid for a state chock full of rich assholes?? Are you kidding me?? Slap a luxury tax or ten on some of those bazillionaires lounging poolside at their beach mansions or swanning up and down Rodeo Drive spending more dosh on a dress for the Oscars than most of their illegal immigrant housekeeping staff make in a lifetime...but I digress.

My roomie, darling girl that she is, brought home a friend last night. Now, I have no idea if she'd known him before yesterday - I've never heard her mention him, but the girl has a collection of acquaintances that would have trouble fitting in Imelda Marcos' shoe rack. This dude spent the night. In her room.

This is not an unusual occurrence. My roomie has guys stay over not infrequently, and I don't necessarily mean in a slutty, bring-a-new-guy-home-every-night kinda way. It's often just a platonic "We hung out until it was really late and he was too tired to drive home so I let him stay over" way.

Well, I should say that that's how she sees it. I'm sure the guys think there's more to it than that.

I'm getting to the what-honks-me-off part, don't worry.

Just the other day, my roomie was bending my ear with her confusion and dissatisfaction with her life. She had nobody, all she had going for her was her good looks, no one gave her credit for being anything but pretty, she hated the fact that she was alone and had no real friends, she hated the fact that she worked a crap food service job, etc., etc., et-fucking-c. She was bemoaning her life and how she was unhappy with it. In my usual way, I told her that she was silly if she thought all she was was a pretty face. I told her she had plenty of talents and interests and she was a great person and that if she didn't like where her life was, she should sit down, figure out what she wanted, and see what she needed to do to get there.

She countered with the battle cry of the young: "I don't know what I want!"

Man, I thought. I've been there. And sure, I have been there. Hell, I'm still there, half the time. The difference is that I did what I had to do to get along until I got to a place where, even if I didn't know what I wanted in an all-encompassing, my-life-is-perfect sense, I had a pretty good idea of where my passion was, and that was at least a starting point.

So, to wrap this all up, what honks me off is people who bitch about their lives, but never do anything to change them. If you don't like who you are and what you're doing, don't carry the same patterns forward into your next step. I just don't understand that mentality.

And now I've vented and I feel better. Well, I'm still sickly-like, but I'm not so annoyed.

Actually, still annoyed about the whole California thing, but feeling better about my roomie. Eh, it's a start.

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