Mountian goats and awkward elevator rides.

So, the elevator at my office building has one of those TV screens (or as I like to call it, yet another venue for selling me shit at the office), the kind that runs some of the weirdest, most useless shit ever. Seriously, one day the "word of the day" was crwth. Who in the fuck, particularly in the modern corporate business world, needs to know what the fuck a crwth is?!

This morning, I'm riding the elevator with a couple dudes, one of whom happens to be the short skinny hot dude I think is just adorable, for whatever weird reason I can't fathom. The other dude gets off at a lower floor, and that leaves just me and the hot dude for the remainder of the ride. I was standing on the side of the elevator with the "good" (if we wanna call it that) view of the elevator TV, and he was doing that thing where he stood on the total opposite side of the elevator and tried to crane his neck to see the TV.

Now, I was vaguely trying to be cool and bop along to my mp3 player and act like I didn't notice it was the hot dude, 'cause elevator rides with just one other person are always so fucking awkward as-is, without adding the "Hi, I think you're soooo hot" factor. But for some reason, my mouth decided it would be fun to talk. So, loooking at the TV myself, I see that it's currently running a story about how many mountain goats there are in North America (apparently 40,000?). And before my brain can engage and confirm that I won't sound like a complete fucking tool, I say, "It's about mountain goats."

The dude looks at me as though I have grown a second head. "What?" he says.

I nod towards the elevator TV. "Mountain goats. They're running a story on how many mountain goats there are in North America. About 40,000 apparently."

He smiles, half scared, half bemused.

I try to grin winningly. (Pretty sure I failed to look anything other than kooky.) "Don't they run the most useless stuff?"

He sort of shrugs. Just then, we reach our floor. He politely lets me out first, and we're walking towards opposite parts of the floor. He calls behind me, "Have a good day."

I'm sure I'm blushing six shades of red - by now my brain has caught up with my fucking stupid mouth. "You, too!" I say, and bolt for my cube.

Lest anyone think I am any kind of cool, this is the kind of shit that happens to me when my hormones get the better of me. I talk to hot guys about mountain goats. Only in my life!

Attraction is a funny thing.

Usually, physical attraction for me involves a small range of variations on a very specific body type (generally 6'2 or taller, 300 lbs. or so...I like a dude I can put through the paces without fear I'm gonna break him). There are physical traits beyond that that really flip my switch (facial hair, detached earlobes, big hands, yada yada yada), but basically any dude with that body type is going to catch my eye. My dating history includes a few guys who fell outside that, but basically I like tall chubby dudes, and the words short and thin almost never describe someone that my ovaries quiver over.

Having said that, though, there's this little dude who works in my building that I run into in the elevators not infrequently. I find him adorable, in a "wow, I kinda wanna shag him even though he's three inches shorter than me and skinny" kinda way, no doubt due to his friendly manner, nice smile, and habit of making good eye contact. However, my engine has only ever mildly revved, 'cause he's super clean-cut and conservative looking....and I tend to like dudes who are a little more rough around the edges.

Imagine my surprise when I bumped into him on a coffee run this morning, and damn near tripped over myself in lust. He's grown his hair out a little bit, and it's just slightly shaggy, and just slightly curly, and he was wearing jeans and an untucked button down shirt (apparently moving cubes, which loosens the office dress code)....and my ovaries did a backflip. If he'd been unshaven, I might have swooned, short and skinny be damned.

So, yeah, the lesson is that no matter what preconceived notions I have about "my type," I'm attracted to what I'm attracted to, and that isn't always going to be consistent. Despite the marketing industry's attempts to pigeonhole what constitutes "hot," attraction remains a mystery.

Headlines.

There's this one at Scientific American, talking about quantum circuitry. Really interesting, and there are parts of it that remind me of Madeleine L'Engle storylines. Fascinating!

Also from Scientific American, there's this fabulous look at the hows and whys of making out. As an enthusiastic (if not skilled?) osculator, I was riveted. Mmm. Kissing is fun.

On the social justice front, I really was intrigued by this tidbit. It's interesting to consider the idea of limiting arts/media exposure to those sources that speak from my own perspective....but then again, I've yet to run into anything created by another urban-dwelling poor-white-trash-from-the-country fat chick pagan musician. And I utterly reject the notion that the dominant culture speaks to much of my experience, even if I am technically "Caucasian." Really thought-provoking, though, and a worthwhile experiment. It also reminded me, yet again, that I am very lucky, even if I still have to fight the patriarchy every day.

This synthesis of some recent findings (about how fatties don't necessarily cost more for healthcare, plus shaming them doesn't help them lose weight OR get healthier) was also nice to read. There are a few points I'd quibble over, but the point is right on the mark. Yay!

Alas, no shagging over the weekend.

Hey, guess what? I didn't get swept off to the Med by a handsome kilt-clad stranger.

I know. I was shocked and horrified myself, but what can you do?

Meanwhile, I did have a kick-ass time at Celtic Fest listening to bagpipes and Mary Black and all kinds of good Celtic music. I mean, really, you haven't lived till you've heard a pipe band's rendition of "I Can't Help Falling In Love With You."

It was a good, if chaste, weekend.

So, I was reading an article in a magazine by this woman, and I had this sudden realization about why I am so drawn to Skuld: she's a young crone.

((Now, for those who aren't up on their crone imagery, the crone is the wisewoman, the elder, the old lady who shoots her mouth off and who cares who it offends....the crone is death, endings, a reminder of life's cycles, destruction and balance. Or at least, she is to me. Also, you can read this for a more eloquent explanation.))

I've always been crone-oriented...the way I grew up led me to an understanding of cycles and endings and beginnings pretty early on. My female role models were my grandmothers, two women who both demonstrated - in very different ways - the idea of enduring life's challenges, of strength earned through suffering, of wisdom gained by experience. I spent a great deal of time around older women who did not censor themselves, who said the thing that needed to be said, who spoke the truth fearlessly, even if it was harsh, because it was the truth. That's what I grew up admiring and emulating. Toss in a little raised-by-my-daddy toughness, and voila! I skipped maiden and mother and went straight to crone.

Now, I'm not one of those wet-behind-the-ears young'ns that can't deal with old people - I was raised to respect my elders and I believe in that very strongly. I run into trouble, though, because I pretty much expect to be treated with the same respect, and I don't get it very often, which frustrates me. I feel like there's some sort of respect double-standard, based on age. I've got a crone attitude, but chronologically, I'm just a kid. It drives me crazy!

Enter Skuld. She's the youngest of the Norns. She's the future, she's mysterious, perhaps she rides around the battlefield with the Valkyries picking worthy Viking warriors to go to Valhalla...but she's got that crone attitude - she is the end, she is the harsh truth, she is the severing of ties to old baggage that brings the freedom to start anew. She is the un-doing, the destruction, and death. She's a young crone.

So, yeah, I think that explains my fascination with Skuld. Now I just need to learn the crone art of tempering truth with compassion. Fucking compassion will be the bane of my existence.

Walking in heels is easy. Mostly.

I have a very interesting relationship with shoes.

Now, this is a little odd because I have such an interesting relationship with my feet. I have giant feet - size 12, and wide - and they have their little quirks (like the bunion I've had since I was twelve and the pinkie toenail that splits in half all the time, inevitably catching on a sock in the morning to the tune of oooooowwwwwww....funny how something so tiny can cause so much pain, isn't it?). But despite all of these foot-related complications, I love my feet. They're tough, they're dependably, they take me where I want to go. They're ticklish, despite being pretty callused on the bottom from walking around barefoot constantly. I love pampering my feet - the soaking, the scrubbing, the pumice stone, the lotions and scrubs and gels and blah blah blah....I love it.

And then I love to put those impeccably groomed feet into some cute shoes. Sandals, mary janes, boots, loafers, mules, clogs, flip-flops, whatever. You name it, I own it. I am a shoe monger and a shoe whore, and I love it. My favorite shoes, though, are high heels. I adore how they look, and how I feel when I'm wearing them.

The other day someone brought it up, that I wear high heels a lot, and she couldn't imagine doing it - they're so uncomfortable and you wind up towering over everyone...this made me wonder why I wear them, why I like them so much. Is it because I do tower over everyone, which feels like a safe place to me? Do I hide behind that seeming strength?

It's possible. Maybe walking around in shoes that make me six foot tall gives me a feeling of control and some kind of superiority...but I think there's another reason. I think wearing high heels is a symbol of reclaiming my femininity.

This is a long story, I'll warn you. And not a pretty one.

So, as some of you may know, my first sexual experience happened very young. I used to think I was five or six, but as it turns out, I was only three. The experience is among my first memories. Because I was so young when it happened, my parents took the chance that I might not remember it, and that making a big deal about it would only make it more likely I would remember and have issues with it. Because of this, I grew up remembering every detail, and believing that no one in my family but my mother, who I can remember discussing it with, knew what had happened. In some ways, I think this made it easier for me to ignore it, to pretend it hadn't happened, hadn't affected me.

I thought I was the only one carrying around the memories...and I didn't want to be a dramaqueen, to seem like I was using that one event, that one tragedy, as an excuse for not dong anything, or for having whatever problems I might have as a result. I'd seen I don't know how many people throughout my childhood and adolescence tossing it out as an excuse for having relationship trouble, for having problems in school and at work, and just about anything else. "I can't...because I was abused." I heard that phrase and variations of it so often I wanted to be sick. I felt angry at people who spoke it, I felt disdain for those who would "play the victim" when I'd never let what had happened to me stop me from anything.

But, as so often happens when we are hurting, I was lying to myself. Not only did I let what had happened stop me from doing countless things, I literally cut out huge swaths of my life. I suppressed my femininity, because I was afraid of being a woman, because I was afraid someone might want me in that way, might want to use me or hurt me as I had been used and hurt before. I became one of those women who derided "girlie-girls" and anything frilly or ruffly or feminine. Not only did I not seek out romantic relationships, but I rebuffed any advances made toward me with every dirty trick and mean word that could be spawned from intelligence, sarcasm, and utter panic. I became so fiercely independent that I didn't want or need anyone else...and while certain other factors in my life certainly played into that trait, I'm pretty sure this one event was the biggest, most present spur.

So, all those stereotypical, wonderful expressions of womanhood...I denied myself. Physical affection, sexual or otherwise, was out of the question. Expressing emotion, wanting connection, seeking comfort, none of it existed for me. If I didn't need anyone else, if I didn't touch anyone else, no one could touch me, and no one could hurt me, and I wouldn't be confused and afraid and in pain again. And so, when my contemporaries were flirting and dating and fooling around and learning the lessons of sex and love that most people learn in high school and college, I was elsewhere. My sexuality, my womanhood, was not present in my life.

I can remember male and female friends being shocked that I hadn't had sex, or even desired it, in my early twenties. They couldn't imagine sex being a negligible part of life...and that probably should've been a clue, but it wasn't. I went out with a few people, a few random dates, tried my hand at flirting a few times at parties, even let some random drunk guy at a party kiss me once...and I couldn't figure out why I would always run away, why it never worked for me. It took an actual relationship with someone who hit me on that level - someone I was strongly attracted to, someone who was attracted to me - to shake things up and make me realize that there was a problem, and not a small one.

I started having flashbacks - sometimes in the middle of a kiss, sometimes in the middle of the night, sometimes in random places and times. Someone would call me "little girl" and I'd be shaking and almost in tears instantly. Someone would touch my shoulder, and I'd be across the room in fight or flight mode without understanding how or why. I couldn't visit a doctor without freaking out. I went for a massage and was shaking so hard we had to stop. The flashbacks were the catalyst.

I admitted something was wrong and started reading and thinking and processing. I wrote about it a lot, and one of my writings I posted on my website at the time. First, a friend found it, and we talked about it. That helped a little. Then, my mother found it, and we talked about it. Then, someone I was developing a romantic attachment to found it, and wrote a song about it, and I thought I was going to die. But I didn't, obviously, and although we never really talked about it, it was between us. And because he already knew my deepest, darkest secret, I felt I had nothing left to hide from him. So, when opportunity knocked, I opened the door.

In case the metaphor isn't clear, that means I slept with the guy in question. It was on my terms, and for all the issues he and I faced down the road, that's a gift for which I will always be grateful to him. The experience of sex as something fun and joyful and uncomplicated and pleasurable was a surprise to me, but it was a surprise that helped me realize that a lot of the fear I've been burying my head in for so long is a defense mechanism I no longer need. Now, I'm not saying he was the miracle cure for all my sex-related issues, but I now feel like my attitudes about sex, along with my desires and willingness to express and pursue them, are fairly healthy and I am comfortable with that.

Throughout this process, I've also been slowly but surely getting back in touch with the essential feminine part of myself. I've learned to love the fact that I have a woman's body, and that it works like a woman's body. I've (mostly) stopped judging "girlie-girl" stuff and have embraced those parts of ruffly, frilly femininity that feel right to me. I've learned that it's not only okay for me to be a woman, to be desireable and desired as a woman, that it's fucking awesome. I've come to a place where I realize that being female doesn't mean weakness or strength only at the cost of connection...it means strength in vulnerability, because it is infinitely more difficult (I find) to be vulnerable than it is to be safe, regardless of perceived strength.

For all these lessons, I still have a long way to go. Last night I had an opportunity to shed this pain, to share this story, to release it in the company of people I trust and care about...but I couldn't. I couldn't step into it around all the shame and guilt and fear I'm still carrying around with me, and I feel shame and guilt and fear because I couldn't step into it. I aspire to courage, but I am such a coward sometimes....and now I know I have work to do to overcome that.

So, maybe wearing high heels is my way of embracing being a woman without being vulnerable?

I've come so far. And I have so far to go.

I heart Chicago.

Some things I love about Chicago:

Eclecticity
This store ROCKS. They carry an amazing spread of (as you'd expect) eclectic merchandise, all of it really cool and totally reasonably priced...plus the owners are amazingly cool people.

vive la femme
This is another store that ROCKS...this time it's a fashion treasure for the big chicks. They have the - bar-none - cutest stuff for big-ass babes. And the decor is fab, too.

Chief O'Neill's Pub
This is a great little pub, a little off the beaten path and thus generally pretty quiet and not too crowded. The bartenders have cute accents, the drinks are reasonable and plentiful, and the decor is worth checking out all on its own.

Tribune Tower
A couple hours wandering around this building, looking at the pieces of various buildings and stones from around the world is part reminiscence, part history lesson, and all cool.

Celtic Fest
Pipes, kilts, and beer. What more could a girl want?

Craig's List
Okay, so I know this isn't specifically a Chicago thing, but I love it and I spent most of my time on the Chicago part of it at the moment, so whatever....craigslist rocks! I've found apartments, roommates, musical collaboraters, theater connections, parties, events, classes, and concerts...all on craigslist.

The Davis Theater
This theater is in the Lincoln Square neighborhood - one of my favorite areas in the city, gratis a fabu German restaurant, the Old Town School of Folk Music, Welles Park, an awesome Greek restaurant, and great shopping - Merz Apothecary, Gallimaufry Gallery, a neat used book store, and so many other cute little shops. The theater itself is really awesome, and you can still see a matinee for the unheard-of price of $5 a head. The link above is to a ladies' room review, which cracks me up - it's actually no longer accurate, as they've remodeled, but it's hilarious anyway. I had to share.

The CTA
The CTA catches a lot of hell for not being a very good mass transit system....but having experienced other cities' systems (including Atlanta, Cleveland, Pittsburgh, New York/Jersey, St. Louis, Miami, Washington D.C., Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Minneapolis/St. Paul), I feel like I can say (with a fair amount of conviction) that the CTA is pretty damn great. Just about anywhere in the city is pretty much accessible just about any time day or night, and the daytime service is actually really good. Service to suburbs isn't bad, and between trains and buses, you can get anywhere you need to go. The CTA lets me live car-free without being stuck at home. It's a beautiful thing.

The Chicago Reader
This pape is the grand-daddy of the free newsweekly. It's so mammoth that I don't know anyone who manages to read the thing in its entirety. Most folks I know read the classifieds and maybe the music/arts section...and even dedicated readers like myself typically only manage to get through two or three of the four sections included in this big boy.

So, those are a few of the things I love about Chicago. There are more, but these will do for now. I should write a guidebook or something.

So, lots of things going on lately. I'm putting together a band, which is exciting and really cool....I have a better idea of what I want and how to accomplish it this time, and also what to avoid, which gives me a good foundation. I'm putting together a voter registration drive for September, to further my personal mission of getting the Shrub out of the White House. I'm working on several website projects, which is fun and exciting and challenging. This weekend is the 4th of July, and my neice and nephew (along with their parents and my mom) are coming down for a few days, which will be great.

There's drama (when is there not?), but I feel confident that it will all work out for the best. Eventually.
I watched "Practical Magic" the other night with my new roomie. There's this one scene, in case you're not familiar, where Aidan Quinn and Sandra Bullock have this very dramatic makeout moment. My roomie goes nuts - "that's not how it happens!" he's saying, with clear derision at Hollywood's propogation of such mythical passion.

Meanwhile, I'm running through the number of similar experiences I've had. As it turns out, I've actually got a few screenworthy kisses under my belt. Go me. (I'd share, but I'm not the kind of girl who kisses and tells.)
Now if only I could translate previous conquests into current success.

Oy vey. I'm such a spinster.

Happy belated Halloween!

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking....where in the hell has this girl been? Why has she not typed a peep (??) in days?


Well, I winged my happy ass down South for Halloween. And it was good. Nay, let me say....it was goooooooood.


All right, details will take me too long, and I have ass to bust back inthe office which will prevent my going into the level of detail I would normally reserve for this sort of thing...so, highlights:


* number of alcoholic beverages consumed: 1 (I know, what the hell?)

* number of hot asses tapped: 1

* number of kick-ass Ren Faires visited: 1

* number of costumes donned at said Ren Faire: 0

* number of times my hand was kissed by various be-costumed rennies: lost count

* number of rickshaw rides taken after kilt-clad persuasion was applied: 1

* number of times said kilt-clad rickshaw dude copped a feel under the guise of giving me a hug: 2

* number of torture chambers toured: 1

*number of whip-cracking stage acts watched: 2

* number of whips viewed, neither in torture chamber nor whip-cracking stage act: 1

* number of horribly painful sunburns sustained: 1 (and that was enough)

* number of freaky dreams wherein ex-fling beats the living shit out of me: 1

* number of freaky dreams wherein I plot to murder Ed Harris, playing the role of a different ex-fling, somehow involving chihuahua cheese and tortillas: 1

* number of times wondered what the fuck I ate before I went to bed: too many to count

* number of good times had: countless


It was a really good weekend, and I've got the sunburn/afterglow to prove it.


One thing that was really surreal was the whole being-back-in-Atlanta thing - which is odd, because I was there for maybe a grand total of 24 hours...maybe. It was just strange. Made me all philosophic and stuff, thinking about all the experiences I had there, and how much I left behind to come here. Made me think about whether leaving was the right thing.


Two and a half years ago, I left a city I didn't particularly love (feels so suburban, traffic sucks majorly), a man I might've if I'd given either of us a chance, some of the first true friends of my life, creative opportunities I was just beginning to explore, and a community I was just beginning to become a part of...all to fly one-way to spend St Patrick's Day homeless in Chicago with my dog.


Last night, I left Atlanta to fly back to a late-night rehearsal at my kick-ass apartment with my band for our impending debut as the house band for a local Shakespeare company's new production, to check my calendar about booking myself for a three day palm-reading gig in three weeks, to a community I am loving and friends I am also loving, to a life that is evolving slowly into what I want it to be...


Maybe for the first time in my life, I felt like I was flying home.

The weekend report.

Blargh.


So, the weekend. It was a study in extremes. I know, how refreshing.


Let's go back, let's go on back, let's go way back, way back when...to Thursday, wherein the band had promo photos snapped at a pub. It was actually kinda fun, hanging out, having drinks, chilling with the boys, so to speak...but one comment, made by one of the guys, stood out in my mind: "Hey, could we maybe get a picture where it looks like we actually like each other?" (that's an approximate quote, of course) Makes me wonder if bitterness lingers for more than one of us.


Post-photo-session, at home, I began the process of assembling cheapie little CDs to give away at the Big Gig while waiting for Mr. Hookup to give me a call for a little middle-of-the-night booty. It's amazing how ego-boosting it is to see a stack of CDs with my face on them, all ready to be handed out to complete strangers. Not to mention to then have a big, strapping dude show up at your door for the express purpose of making your toes curl...well, shucks, other than free booze and a personal yacht, what more could a girl ask for?
A lot, obviously, but that wasn't a bad start.


Friday night's Big Gig, however, ventured to the opposite extreme. It both sucked balls and blew goats. The event was perhaps the most poorly organized event I've ever seen, and trust me - being the organizational fuckwit that *I* am - I have seen some disorganized events. My problems with this one: no sound engineer, and so was left to figure out PA on my own in manner of total bumbling moron; no clear outline of what the fuck was going on in the first place....people basically just wandered around twiddling their thumbs until someone was pushed to get the ball rolling; the venue sucked ass; once the open mike bit was through, the musicians (another singer-songwriter and a full rock band) were left to introduce themselves; the organizer chick had clearly not bothered to tell anyone there would be music and so pretty much everyone left the second the open mic bit was over; I was flustered and annoyed and felt I'd been misled and angry, and so my performance was not top notch, in addition to the fact that I was all cold-ridden and stuff; I felt guilty for dragging people out to such a vicious waste-of-time clusterfuck....and I'm sure many other things pissed me off at the time that I have since forgotten since regaining my temper over the course of the past two days. The point is, though, that it was not anything like I expected, and I am not so happy because of it.


I got home early Saturday morning and had to immediately shower the disgusting kitchen/ashtray smell off myself, which may be the biggest reason I didn't like the venue....anytime you go in smelling like shampoo and perfume and leave smelling like the bottom of a garbage can, that's a place you don't need to go again anytime soon. After that, I hit the bed and slept for ten hours. It was bliss.


Saturday, I met up with K and son, we did some shopping, I got pierced (on my ear, the left tragus, to be specific; I know, such the wild woman I am), we wandered back north to K's place and had dinner, I came home, went to bed early, and slept another twelve hours. The sleep this weekend was crazy. I haven't slept like that in aaaaaaaages.


Sunday morning, however, my lovely, lovely sleep was rudely interrupted by a nightmare. Now, to clarify, I have freaky dreams all the time - I die a lot in my dreams, there are often monsters or ghosts or that kind of thing, but they never scare me. This dream, however, really scared me. Scared me badly enough that i didn't want to reach outside the cover to turn the light on and find a book to distract myself from the evil dream. I woke up during the dream about four times, figuring that would be enough to break it...but every time I went back to sleep, I picked right up where I'd left off in the dream. Horriffic.


The sad part is that when I try to explain what was so scary, it sounds silly. There was a mother and son, there was a patch (kinda like a Girl Scout badge) that said "Rock" in red letters, and was apparently possessing the mother and son, or making them evil or something. They were, in fact, quite evil under its influence. And then, they invited me to dinner, only I wasn't me, I was Ashley Judd, and they took me up to their apartment in this freight elevator, and then somehow managed to put me in a cage and taunt me with their evil-ness, and smack me across the face a few times with a dinner plate, and other nonsense that seems very blurry to me, but it was bad. I was petrified when I woke up. I finally managed to wake up enough to summon the courage and turn the light on and get my mind off evil psycho plate-slinging mommies...but it was an uphill battle.


After I managed to get the nghtmare out of my head, I stumbled out of bed and into my day. Wrote some music. Attempted to go see "Kill Bill," but wound up sipping a coffee in Starbucks and flipping thorugh a newspaper and then just going home and crashing.


And now I'm just tired. Despite all the sleep I got. You think it would be wrong to go home early and sleep?

....

Pardon me for a moment. I need to rant.


About men. So, if you're a guy, I cannot promise you won't be offended. Just keep in mind that this is a gross generalization and I am quite aware that there are exceptions and yada yada yada...this is just venting.


Okay, so first off...men lie. I know men lie. Men lie because they think the truth is not something women want to hear. Men lie because they are afraid to be honest. Men lie because it amuses them. Men lie because they think it will help them score. Men lie for innumerable reasons that I can't even come up with. Men lie because that is what they do.


Don't get me wrong. Women, by and large, lie just as much as, if not more than, men do. Women lie to manipulate, to handle, to coerce or otherwise "catch" a man, to cover up their insecurities or neuroses, and for innumerable reasons I can't even come up with. Women lie because that's what *they* do, too.


But.


I don't lie. With the possible exception of money-related and other similarly private stuff...I do not lie. If I tell you how I feel, that's really how I feel. My opinion is genuine if I give it to you. While I do have depths and things I keep to myself, I am a fairly open person, and I endeavor, above all things, to be genuine and authentic about who and what I am, how I feel, what I think, and to live my life with passion and integrity. I know that makes me a freak, but there it is. It's what I do.


I know that the biggest thing that motivates people is fear - fear of being discovered, judged, and found wanting. Everyone is so afraid someone might see who they are, that they hide behind all these lies in order to prevent that ever happening.


And why do they fear other people's judgmental eyes so very much? Because they're judgmental themselves. Most people aren't just afraid of someone else knowing their true self, but they're equally afraid of knowing that true self for themselves. Because they judge everyone else so harshly, why on earth would they be easier on themselves.


I think it's all leftover evolutionary garbage from the days when we were each warring vessels for our DNA. Everybody was out to get everybody else, because we wanted to make sure that our genes were the ones that carried to the next generation...but news flash! The war is over, we all won, and we don't have to duke it out over whose progeny will be squandering the riches of our planet.


So we can stop judging everyone, and ourselves, so fucking harshly. We are all humans, we are all fallible, we are all weak and fragile and scared and confused and reactionary and ignorant and self-absorbed and pathetic. But we are all also hopeful and evolving and beautiful and vital and brilliant and mysterious and powerful and talented and wonderous and startling and amazing.


So, to get back to the original rant...stop fucking lying because you're scared of who you are and who I am. If you want to be a real person, if you want to live a real life, you have to start living a reality. You can't do that until you stop spewing fantasy every time you open your mouth. Deceiving people only leads to trouble. It never works out.


It leads to people who get married, have three kids, buy a house and two cars together, work five days a week, join the PTA and coach Little League, and then...when all that propogation hooplah goes away...find out they're living with a stranger, and they're just too tired to keep up the bullshit anymore.


I don't want that. I don't want bullshit. I want truth, I want reality, I want authenticity. So, if you think I am neurotic and obsessive and weird and crazy, fucking say so. If you think I am over-emotional and too quick to attach and too caught up in dramatics, fucking say so. If you don't give a rat's ass about me as a person and just want to avail yourself of my great rack and the fact that I'm a good kisser, fucking say so.


Don't tell me one thing and do another. Do not blow smoke up my ass. Nothing pisses me off like being lied to, and there is no reason to lie to me.

Twenty Naughty Questions.

Excerpts from last night's evening out with the band dudes and company:


"Would you rather have a guy with a really ugly face and a big dick, or a pretty face, but a teeny-peeny?"



"What do you prefer, oral or penetration?"



"Would you rather dominate or be dominated?"



"Kinky sex or love sex?"


The waitress said she preferred a pretty face, would rather be dominated, and preferred love sex. She did, however, back me up on the fact that love sex and kinky sex could be one and the same.


And also, like all the ladies present, she affirmed that size does, in fact, matter. Women will say it does not, but they're just being nice. It matters. Needless to say, this didn't go over so well with the gentlemen present, but you know what? Sometimes the truth hurts.


In other news, it looks like maybe I might not have to go looking for a new roomie. Jury's still out, and I have some reservations still, but at least I don't feel like I've been betrayed at the moment.


Finally, I wrote a song that made my mom cry yesterday. It's a wee bit cheesy, and very family specific. I'm not sure anyone else will get it. But I think I like it. And my mom liked it. And despite the fact that it was written in the basement Starbucks at Marshall Field's, I think it might just be pretty darn good. Of course, only time will tell.


My last tarot class is tonight. I'm ecstatic, because I think it's going to be amazing and fun and wonderful....and a little sad, because it means I won't have a weekly excuse to see these people I've barely begun to know over the past six weeks. Alright, some of them, I won't really miss. But others I will, and still lament the fact that I don't know them better.


In the words of Bilbo Baggins, "I know half of you less well than I like, and like half of you less than you deserve." I'm sure that holds true here, too.

Whiny today. Oooh, something new for a change!

All right, it's time for one of my specialty "I'm a confused Taurus and I must take stock" moments. Ergo, a list:


1. Numerous people have theorized that my extended non-sleeping jag (almost up to five months now) is related to the fact that I need to get laid. Recently supplied evidence has proved said theory conclusively false. I think my good friend Nytol and I will be hanging out again this weekend.


2. Yeah, folks, that means I got some, and (unfortunately) I don't mean sleep. Interestingly, this relationship (much as my last one) is really just about the physical...and this time, everyone involved knows it. Talk about refreshing. However, still no sleep, so I begin to wonder if it's worth it. Especially as what I really want (though my libido appreciates a no-strings bedfellow) is someone to share my life, not just rave about my hot ass. More on that later, though.


3. Discussions with the roomie yesterday led to a return date of mid-October, with an option for an early return at the end of this month. This depends, of course, on how much money she can make and save at her new job. Meanwhile most of my friends and family are telling me to start looking for a new roommate. This brings up my favorite question - do I let people take advantage of me a little too much? The answer is, of course, most likely 'yes,' but at the same time...I can handle it. I mean, I don't think it's so bad to go out of your way for other people, even ones who might not return the favor or really deserve it (not that my roomie falls into either of these categories; she's just young and caught up in her thing and not necessarily realizing that her choices impact me)...but by the same token, I'm very good at drawing the line if it needs to be drawn. I know my limits, and I put my foot down when push comes to shove (can I mix those metaphors?). Granted, it's not something I like to do. I prefer to give people every chance to do the right thing beforehand, without my having to say anything. But then, I also actively try not to hurt people, which is less universal than you'd think. Ack, now I'm just babbling.


4. The Get More Life Initiative is taking off a bit, methinks. My drive to expand my social connections beyond people in the band or people somehow connected with the people in the band or people who live in other states...is starting to work. While the little get-togethers at my place have been fun and put me in touch with some interesting folks...no really strong connections there. The Tarot class has yielded a number of interesting people, and at least one person who I think could really be a true friend...one of those people you meet and talk to and find yourself in a constant state of nodding, or saying "exactly" every other word. I love connections like that, when you find someone who just might be able to handle a conversation involving reality and truth and not so much of the bullshit generally involved in conversing with most people. (That sounds snobbish, and I don't really mean it that way, but I don't know how else to say what I mean.)


5. Hopefully, my sister will be home soon. I would like that. Hopefully, my roommate will be home soon. I would like that.


6. So, my horoscope for this month says the only bright light will be my love life. It also says that the stars are auspicious for meeting The One, apparently the best shot in years is going on right now. Which is perfect, because I've been feeling - as anybody who's been following my saga will be tired of hearing - like it was time for this. I love my life...in all its craziness, I really do. I love my family fiercely, I love my friends even as far away as they all are, I love where I am with music and my job and exploring all of the interests I have on my own terms, I love my home and the life I am making for myself. And I really, really like who I am. I know my flaws, and I know my strengths, and I'm the kind of person I want to be. But I'm so tired, and it has nothing to do with the fact that I haven't slept soundly in over four months. It has to do with the fact that I want to share all this with someone. I want a partner in crime. I want a shoulder to cry on, I want to be passionately amazed by someone and have them be passionately amazed in turn. I want to listen to someone breathe when I can't sleep, instead of watching my ceiling fan. I want to find a person who isn't intimidated by my talents and my passion, who isn't frightened off by my intensity, who wants this as much as I do.


I realize this makes me a cliche, I realize that everybody wants this, and not many people find it, but I have spent most of my life proving how much I didn't need or want anyone else, and I'm coming to grips with the fact that, yeah, I'm human and I want a lover-friend-companion-soul-mate. And I'm also stupid enough to believe that he's out there, all curly-haired, bearded, kilt-sporting, intelligent, talented, amazing, 6'4" 300 pounds of him. All right, so I suppose the kilt part might be a little too specific...


7. I'm still laughing. At least there's a bright side.

Today's dillema - or is it dillema?

So, one of my big rules about life is to do my level best never to hurt other people. This is kind of that whole "an it harm none, do what ye will" thing, only that sounds archaic so I just psycho-babble it down to "never hurt other people." Now, this is pretty much an unattainable goal, because you can't live without causing hurt to someone at some point, it's just inevitable...but you do your best to avoid it whenever possible. Or at least I do.


I'm currently in a situation where my actions could indirectly lead to someone else being seriously hurt. It's an outside possibility, it's not very likely, and it's only indirectly linked to my choices. And the question is...should I go after what I want, knowing I'm endangering someone else's heart?


Is that shirking my responsiblity? Is it conveniently flexing my morals for my own nefarious ends?
Should I quit taking things so seriously? Probably.


Yeah, so aside from this moral dillema involving my chasing a piece of ass (a piece of ass who's a damn good kisser, I might add, which is probably why this decision is so difficult for me)...things are all right. Work is alright. I still have a roof over my head. I'm not stir crazy yet. I'm working on making my world the world I want it to be. C'est la vie.