This not sleeping bit is becoming an issue.

Even with cute little blue pill, did not sleep more than an hour or so at a time without waking to attention-seeking mewling kitten or sleep disturbing silence. Greuling work-out didn’t help, nor did warm tea or hot shower. Drooping bags under eyes could hold entire wardrobe, complete with shoes. And am in possession of A LOT of shoes. Am feeling crabby constantly now. Not to mention suffering from random cold chills. Am feeling quite weary. Must sleep.

Apartment-wide tension has not eased, either. Lots of closed doors and big silences. Am aware that it is own fault, to some extent, but am not exactly sure how to go about making repairs.

Have earned two stars!

Empty rewards chart will soon be sparkling with two gold stars. Have not only stuck v. solidly to Better Eating Plan (sounds so much nicer than diet, right?) but have also gone to the gym. And not just gone to the gym, turned around and gone home to v. comfy bed, but actually worked out. Two stars! After ten such stars, will be rewarding self with white GAP sundress. And some ice cream.

Attempted to go to bed early last night, but ended up tossing and turning, waking up drenched from night sweats and freezing from lack of heat in apartment. Have not slept well in a week. Perhaps should get a job moonlighting as a cocktail waitress. At least then, would be profitable night of no sleep.

Am feeling indignant.

While of course, love Concerned Roommate v. much, am feeling somewhat aggravated over current situation.

CR and boyfriend have recently broken up (and though they break up, or come close to breaking up about once a month, am fairly certain this is more of a permanent situation), and CR is going through completely justifiable sad spell. Not unlike sad spell that went through after final J good-bye. Am usually perfectly accommodating to moping, mourning and all things break-up related, and happy to join in Ben and Jerry’s healing therapy. But right now, am feeling too indignant to be much support.

Throughout J relationship, CR was not shy about expressing just how unhealthy said non-relationship was. Knew this to be true, and acknowledged it, but certainly didn’t like hearing it. No one really likes the truth. And when yours truly went through J-mourning phase, attempted to refrain from too much moping. In return, received snide remark from CR about sleeping too much. Didn’t say anything at the time, but if am correct, when pathetic little heart was broken in a zillion pieces, became v. busy. Had social engagement of some sort every night for weeks. (And yes, Reality Television counts as social engagement.) If did any feeling sorry for self, did it in writing.

Now, CR and boyfriend had tumultuous time. Boyfriend always too busy, probably spent one day a week doing boyfriend things. CR had the title, but not his time. Their relationship was just as much of a non-relationship as mine and J’s. And certainly not any more healthy. And so, in conversation last night, CR’s offhanded, casual dismissal of the non-break up, as though were not as legitimate as her current state of affairs snapped something in my Roommate Support System. And am no longer feeling supportive. And am well aware that it is not CR’s fault. Is own stinking pride. But, well, can’t help that.

Am feeling indignant. And do not like it one bit.

Dear J,

A girlfriend, in the middle of a sad parting-of-ways, asked me if I was ever tempted to just pick up the phone and call you. I answered quickly, saying no, I’d never even scrolled past your name in my cell phone. Then I laughed. Not because it wasn’t true; I never did feel compelled to call. I laughed because, saying your name felt like speaking a foreign language. Like reading the menu at a French restaurant. Familiar but removed from my present vocabulary.

You said once, that your worst fear was having someone wake up one day and realize she wasn’t in love with you anymore. That used to seem so impossible. I wished I could wake up like that. Cured. To not have you my first conscious thought in the morning, my reason for every silly detail, and my last daydream before sleep.

But it occurred to me, that until she asked about you, I hadn’t thought of you in days. Oh, perhaps a fleeting reminder here and there when I packed away those t-shirts you claim not to miss, or when I saw your roommate the other morning. But nothing more. And it feels normal. Somehow, somewhere along the way, I came out of that heavy-lidded Love-Coma and regained my consciousness. It must have happened slowly, though, because, I don’t remember doing it. But this morning, I woke up, and realized it’s possible not to be in love with you.

Love,

H

Am so frightfully busy!

Monkey job has taken on new dimension since boss’s v. recent resignation. Finding self with twice as much to do but encountering less resistance from normally obstinate Powers that Be. They must be afraid that will abandon them. Had somewhat exciting chat with one of firm’s vice presidents in which was told he would like to see yours truly step up to take new, more business-development-aimed role. Said it takes personality and that am well-suited, only lacking experience. Sounds like great opportunity to move from circus monkey to circus clown. Indeed. Show me the money.

Spent weekend in Dust Bunny Round-Up cleaning frenzy. Also spent good amount of time apologizing to Reluctant Kitten for prolonged use of frightening vacuum apparatus. Have yet to be forgiven. Was v. necessary though, as started to fear that would come home one day to discover that left-behind kitten fur had taken on life of its own. Cannot afford to feed two kittens.

Also, discovered in cleaning out refrigerator that, after emptying v. out-dated contents, all am left with is a clove of garlic and spray I-Can’t-Believe-it’s-not-Cancer. Err, Butter. Would go grocery shopping, but takes way more time than have scheduled for things other than reality television and laundry. Oh, and spent all of the week’s grocery money on pot.

Am so v. grown up and responsible!

Such an out-pouring! Feel not unlike Ms. Sally Field at 1985 Oscars. You like me. You really like me!

After mulling over details of current situation, and having received following email from V. Calm Brother Figure,

I’m so sorry. I don’t want you to give up the blog. That’s one of the reasons I didn’t want to tell you that I found it, was because I knew that once it lost its anonymity, that it would lose its reason to exist. I did not go into the archives, and I will not go onto the site at all again. Honest. I’m sorry.

have decided to stay put. For now, anyway.

Those who claim that with J being gone, the reason for this site has also been lost, are missing the point entirely. J was one bicycle. One with busted spokes and a wobbly back tire, to be sure. Certainly, that’s not the best This Fish can hope for! True, would not have started this project without the inspiration (?) of J’s antics, but the good lord knows, J was not the only proverbial knot this writing therapy has helped to untie. The UMF will still be fucking crazy; SAS will still be full of teen angst; Reluctant Kitten will still be testing abilities of kitten mothering; and there will be bicycles. Lots of bicycles. Perhaps not Indie Rock Boy (though, am beginning to wear down own anti-colleague canoodling rules), but there will be another. And although months and months of J-riding lessons have prepared yours truly to shed obnoxious training wheels, certainly haven’t grasped all the rules of the road.

So, until This Fish is collected enough not to deluge herself with this sort of day-to-day ridiculous drama, why deprive folks who need it for entertainment value?

Training wheels no more, am still riding — but not off into the sunset.

Look, ma… no hands!

Am thinking it might be time to give up the Fishblog.

Part (or most) of the charm of writing this has been that have been able to do so is partial anonymity. Only three or four readers, at the time of its inception, actually knew me. But in the last month, a handful of acquaintances have discovered this pink, scaly little secret and yesterday, my brother did.

Will undoubtedly feel the need to censor myself knowing that Passive Aggressive Girl and the V. Calm Brother Figure are among the readership. And then, what would be the point of continuing?

Perhaps is time for a new project.

Woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Literally. Was very confused when alarm sounded and had to pull self free of down comforters and sheets and grope to the other side of the bed. Could not, for anything figure out why had slept on the wrong side of the bed. Until I saw Reluctant Kitten. Stretched out to full length, sprawling with one white paw to each in each direction, Her Royal Highness had taken my side of the bed. Now, ordinarily, should someone be taking up residence there (be it friend, boyfriend, sibling), yours truly would get severely agitated. But RK is just so damn cute. So, instead of jabbing her with an elbow (as would do to other invaders) scratched her little white tummy, rolled over and went back to sleep.

Apparently, also woke up on the ugly side of the bed. Have spent morning avoiding bathroom mirrors and anywhere might happen to run into Indie Rock Boy. As it is, even on days when have not waken to find that have been beaten by the ugly stick, find strange inability to keep eye contact with him and even find that am unable to speak. What gives? Suddenly shy?? Rendered speechless? This girl? Some would find that impossible to believe. Am one such person. Ah, the unexplainable things in life.

Like intermittent bursts of ugly.

Have been spending days in J email absence, e-flirting with v. clever (and incidentally quite cute) Indie Rock Boy. Is absolutely adorable and fine, fine companion to pass time with in email banter. If only…

If only was not a coworker.

Have made mistake of strumpeting at work. Spent 6 months dating D and still cringe every time am forced to occupy the same general space in the coffee room. At ten years my senior, friends refer to him as the old man. Was not a particularly painful break-up for yours truly (as he was a complete moron), but D did get custody of the after-work drinking friends in the split. Damn custody battles.

So, until can find clever way in which to get Indie Rock Boy canned, will have to enjoy his delightful sense of humor, rapist wit (er, rapier wit, rather), and so v. adorable Indie Rock cuteness from afar.

What a cryin’ shame.

Had a v. nice weekend. Full of nice things like dancing, v. fine dinner companions and…tequila. Lots of tequila.

Spent evening on Friday amidst best of pals, drinking, dancing and strip-teasing at local appropriately-named Manhattan-esque bar and lounge. Spent part of the evening learning about guy pals’ rating system. Told them to think it over quite well before deciding on a number for yours truly. Was satisfied to rank second among all female acquaintances.

Battled resulting hangover the next day with charming dinner companions and tequila. God bless Tequila. Raced off from dinner to attend another fete across town and arrived soaked to skin from downpour. Downed another tequila-friendly libation, inexpertly smoked clove cigarette (did not inhale) then retreated to one of the bedrooms for good conversation and Vin Diesl flick. Mmm. Vin. Fine way to pass a Saturday evening.

Rest of weekend was passed in quasi-sleep mode, alternating between v. comfy bed and v. comfy couch. Thankfully, cell phone was buried in purse and did not hear it. Listened to messages this morning only to be told,

Surprise! Family is v. messed up!

Turns out, UMF has banished the final sibling with resounding decree that if said sister is going to be critical of disgusting affair (with also married partner), then should not expect to have college paid for. Um, what?! As am sort of a sell out, would advise younger sister to take the money and run. Be idealistic after education is paid for. If only she didn’t have so much damn integrity. So, is left to yours truly, and other siblings (neither of which in any better of a financial situation) to fund college. With $11 in checking account and a lawyer to pay for, am hoping for pennies from heaven.

Meanwhile, when did UMF go from unhinged to simply fucking crazy?

This is so v. mommy dearest.

Markers? Check.
Poster Board? Check.
Gold Stars? Check.

Am v. well on my way to new source of motivation and sense of accomplishment.

The Rewards Chart.

Have regressed to days of Kindergarten bliss in effort to progress to post-adolescent contentment. Have been perfecting system of goals and rewards.

Every bag of M&Ms ignored as they call from their happy shelves in the convenience store: 1 gold star.

Every email from J that remains unanswered: 1 gold star

Every pound closer to losing the big ten: 1 gold star

Gold stars will eventually merit things like shopping trips, new DVDs and the like. Eventually, will have poster full of gleaming gilded stars, a yoga tummy and a stunning collection of fine cinematic entertainment. And if that does not work, am simply going to give up.

Because am really missing those M&Ms.

On the upside to having gained ten extra pounds since August, have noticed substantial growth in normally barely-there chest. Stood in front of mirror this morning, trying to untangle over-grown mane from bra clasp and noticed,

My cup runneth over!

Yes, well, so do those boy-cut Gap undies you love so much.
I’m not responding to that.
Fine. Are you going to respond to J’s email, then? You know, the one where he says he misses you?
Not sure.
Ahem. A resounding “no” would make me feel much better. I mean, how can he, with one breath, mention something New Girl said about you, and then utter a declaration of missing you with the next? Come on!
My thoughts exactly.
You mean we *gasp* agree??
Yes, but don’t get used to it.
Well, get used to that new ass of yours, missy. Thinking about going to the gym isn’t do it any good.

Am horrified by the thought that the season for prancing about in bikinis and tummy revealing tops is on its swift and merry way. Dear lord, smite me with a parasite. Please?

Tried unsuccessfully to read on jolting work-bound bus, mostly because could not concentrate. Lyrics to songs that have sung time and again for sleepily drunk party-goers bounced around inside my head providing anything but lullaby-like comfort.

Where have all the soldiers gone?
Long time passing.
Where have all the soldiers gone?
Long time ago.
Where have all the soldiers gone?
Gone to graveyards, every one.
When will we ever learn?
When will we ever learn.

Have refrained from commenting upon the war that find ourselves presently involved in, and will not do so after this point. Will only say that am not a supporter of it, nor the basis on which it is founded. All that aside, feel a v. strong sense of loyalty and concern for those fighting in far off sandstorm of confused ideals. Brother airman, sister soldier, cousin infantryman — do you really believe what you are there to do? At exactly the same moment am asking that question, the final verse of another song, lullabied to yours truly since before the days when had any notion of politic, propaganda and patriotism, takes over the spot of the other, on repeat.

Calves are easily bound and slaughtered
Never knowing the reason why.
But the man who treasures freedom
Like the swallow has learned to fly.

Perhaps do not agree with the president on current political agenda. Perhaps cannot see clear to justifying a war and sending our brother, sister and cousin off to battle in it. But am touched that there are still some who believe that their efforts for this ideal will be repaid. Do hope that their belief provides swallow-like wings. Their intangible compensation. Because as for now,

God says, the check is in the mail.

Betty Crocker, that is.

Am baking genius!

Last night, Concerned Roommate pranced into bedroom where yours truly sat v. comfortably reading (after v. long day of disciplined calorie-watching) and pleaded, “H, bake me something chocolatey? Please?”

Simply had to oblige. Such charming requests should not go ignored.

Lacking three major cookie-making ingredients, made v. creative attempt at conjuring up chocolate drop cookies. One part chemistry, one part baking-know-how and two parts What-the-Fuck. Mix well. Bake at 350 for 8-10 minutes.

The result? Unusual but incredibly tasty cakey-cookie confection that hit the spot. Over and over. Am afraid that in overindulging, have set self back in terms of dieting but, have also made great baking discovery. The secret ingredient? Red Wine Vinegar. Shhh. Don’t tell.

Had what could have been v. uncomfortable exchange with J yesterday. But am quite proud to say that was able to remain quite rational and emotionally detached in responding to J’s question of, “Are we never going to be friends again??” One small step for man…

Will also be getting money back this afternoon. Call off the Sicilians.

For now, anyway.

The good:

Spent Saturday morning puttering around, finally deciding to take a walk. Was enjoying misty wandering when happened upon local public library. Oh the joy! Books, movies, magazines. All… free. My lord, what happiness exists at the public library. Sequestered self in corner with Tom Robbins books and cleaned them out. Will be in paperback heaven for next two weeks.

Spent evening lazying about with Thin Blonde Girlfriend indulging in 7-layer bean dip, frozen margaritas and um, botanical things of the fun and relaxing nature. V. nice.

The bad:

Received much-awaited credit reports in the mail. Seems Identity Twin has been quite busy opening accounts, defaulting on them and then moving. Twenty-eight (four of which legitimately belong to yours truly) accounts and just as many different addresses — the bitch has been v. active. Am not looking forward to v. long and drawn out clearing-up process that awaits.

The v. f___d up:

E-mailed J on Friday.

But only because was absolutely necessary. See, am owed money and since finding self in credit predicament that requires legal aid (am being sued by one creditor over Identity Twin’s defaulting on $15,000 balance), found it absolutely necessary to collect on awkward debt.

J said would drop the cash round this weekend. Did he? Oh, no. Of course not. Now am being forced into yet another round of difficult email conversation to collect. Why, oh why? Do not want to answer J’s “How are you?” email. Just don’t. Just want to be able to say, “May I have my money, please?” and let it be over with.

Shall end up resorting to perks of Italian ancestry and sending thugs to his door. Never go up against a Sicilian when money is on the line.

Friends think it’s quirky the way am genuinely frightened by violence. Boyfriends think it’s cute the way am prone to get all teary-eyed and hide my face in movies like Fight Club, or frustrating when would rather break up than have an argument. And some think it’s silly that I am horrified by things as simple as fist fights or yelling matches, or refuse to get involved in something as harmless as political debate. She’s sensitive. Non-confrontational.

Only siblings will be able to understand the reasons for this quirky and otherwise uncharacteristic timidity toward conflict. The three older ones, at least.

We all grew up in the hitting house.

My father was a yeller with a fierce temper. But paired with the fact that he was also very tender-hearted himself (and something of a pushover), he dealt his punishments in not-overly-frequent spankings. The traditional kind. His big hand to our backsides. If you tensed your butt muscles just right, we learned, you hardly felt a thing. But mostly, he ranted, raved and yelled. It was my mother who came completely unglued. She found uses for Dad’s thick brown leather belt (watch the buckle — it leaves marks), for spatulas and metal clothes hangers. She doesn’t let us bring up the incidents with the wire hangers. She cries and tells us to stop. Maybe the image of her beating them into our bare asses is too much for her. Maybe that’s why she talks about what a cold mother she’d had growing up. Because maybe she’ll be forgiven by comparison. I remain uncertain.

I am also not quite certain when the beatings stopped, but I do remember quite clearly that the punishment rarely fit the crime. Getting caught for stealing gum in the third grade landed me a rational talking-to about honesty. Getting caught by my mom, waking from her nap to find yours truly hosing-down my older brother with spray nozzle on the kitchen sink, merited a beating with a wooden ruler yanked from the kitchen utility drawer.

By the time the youngest two were born, my mother had become enlightened. Hitting was wrong. Her punishments then were dealt by withholding approval. Her daughters were never thin enough. Pinching our adolescent tummies, she’d say, “Don’t you want to go on a diet with me?” Our thin hair too long for her liking, she’d ask us, sugar coated, if we wouldn’t feel much better about ourselves if we’d do something with it.

My father, worn down by four daughters, lost his temper somewhere along the way. He’d ground us for a week and change his mind after an hour. “Just get out of my hair,” he’d say, sending us out with the car and stern demands to fill up the tank before we came home. Oh, there were times he could be completely unreasonable, but he adored us. “Don’t we have the most beautiful daughters?” he asked my mom one night, seeing yours truly wind down the staircase dressed for a dance. Her thin lips stayed pursed while we waited for her to compliment my chocolate-colored slip dress. Instead, she looked back to her Good Housekeeping and said, “It’s a good thing they’re smart.“

Indeed it is. Because in the end, a smart girl knows not to blame her sad and unhinged mother for being stressed out and depressed. A smart girl knows that you don’t have to keep weak and hurtful people around you. And a smart girl gets a scholarship to a college that will take her two thousand miles away from the hitting house and equip her with the resources to never go back.

It must be noted that I do not feel sorry for myself. And do not blame stressed-out, struggling parents for any of my own personality flaws that unintentionally subject others to. Am not even sure why am posting this, except that it makes me feel better to know there’s a reason for things I do. Not an excuse. Just a reason. And also maybe because this generation should be free to talk about things our parents are too ashamed to.

Reluctant Kitten is in heat, and once again, my apartment is without heat.

Glorious.

Both mewling kitten and frigid air made for v. uncomfortable night’s sleep but surprisingly, woke up with peppy attitude. And amazing hair. While spending some quality time in Miss Goes Down’s shower, became acquainted with delightful new hair products. Have added them to list of current addictions that am suffering from.

Vanilla Diet Coke
Broccoli
Eucalyptus & Spearmint bath salt
Bad Reality Television
Pink (the color, not the trashed out singer)
Matrix Sleek Look Smoothing Hair Products

Have been researching support groups, but curiously, are no Product Whores Anonymous meetings anywhere nearby.

Wax off!

Dear God! Do hope by the time am scheduled to go back, will have forgotten just how much that stings!

But as a near-and-dear gal pal noted, nothing takes your mind off a stressful day like having your hair ripped out by the roots.

Indeed.

Was meant to be a figure skater.

Forget that am too tall, too broad and lacking in grace. Forget that am not athletic and have barely mastered concept of roller-blading let alone leaping into the air from sheets of ice. Was meant to figure skate. Was meant to be well known for it, too.

So well known that would be impossible for someone to steal my identity, take out loans in my name and ultimately decide not to pay them. So well-known that even should this happen, attorneys from all over the country would be rallying to my defense — to inflict scorching punitive damages on the persons and companies responsible for such errors of neglect. And in such case, was meant to take such stresses out on the ice. To hear only the music in my head and the scrape of the ice under the razor sharp blades of pristine white skates.

Was meant to hear my father say, “I’m really sorry kiddo.” Was meant to hear him finish up with, “Why don’t you go put on your skates and twirl around in your building for a while. That always makes you feel better.” Because, of course, being a figure skater, and a very well-known one at that, would have my own building in which to skate. And a closet full of pretty costumes.

Am not sure whether or not was meant to have figure skating partner. Seems more likely that was meant be singles skater, twirling to sad Sarah McLaughlin tune, solo in the spotlight. But that is fine. Was simply meant to be a figure skater. Would be happy figure skater, even without partner. As long as had my building, my costumes and my attorneys.

And my own God damned Social Security Number.

Received notice in the mail yesterday from credit agency attempting to collect on a debt that is 254 days past due. On a credit card in my name. A credit card that have never used, nor even applied for.

Am in possession of ONE credit card, and have been for five years. In five years have had two late payments, each of thirty days. Am neurotic when it comes to paying bills, and each previously mentioned late payment was in less-neurotic college days when things like money and credit were just silly words associated with keeping yours truly in the latest Gap Capris and Steve Madden slides. But 254 days late? Unthinkable.

Tried explaining this to Very Ditzy Collections Agent from certain Polygamy-Prone Western State, who insisted that was my name on delinquent account. All fine and dandy, but is not my card.

VDCA: I have your University of Polygamy-Prone Western State on file.
H: That’s great. But I didn’t GO to that school. That isn’t me.
VDCA: Can I have your social security number again?
H: Sure. It’s…
VDCA: That’s the number on the account.
H: What?! That’s impossible! I never…
VDCA: Oh, looks like there are two social security numbers associated with this account. Have you been using two SSNs??
H: Listen, either that or someone is using mine. Are you picking up on the sarcasm, you dumb hick?
VDCA: I will have to do some more research on this. In the meantime, if you want to make a payment over the phone…
H: I am not going to make a payment on a card that isn’t mine! None of the addresses listed in that file are mine, except the current one. And that is clearly a mistake. I didn’t go to the college from which you have an ID on file. I will not be held responsible for this.

Oh dear Lord. Called financially-experienced UMF for advice on newest crisis only to be told, “My, you’ve had a very interesting year.”

Would not be so upset by this, but am in midst of planning new car acquisition. Am determined to have keys to brand new, shiny piece of driving delight in greedy little hands by birthday celebration. At this rate, will be lucky to right credit woes and obtain new toy by mid forties.

Fuck, fuck, fuckety fuck.

***update***
After sending copy of drivers license to creditors, have discovered, is picture of yours truly on file with credit card company. And my signature. Holy shit.

Have been exposed. Beans have been spilled and proverbial cat shaken free from its proverbial bag. Me-ow.

Am not cynical, bitter, life-hating bitch. Shhh, Alex. Just don’t tell anyone else.

Took speedy trip to BigCity to celebrate birthday of eternally young Miss Goes Down and celebrate being silly with galpal, Jane. Had fabulous time as always.
Was v. well behaved, if do say so. Did not drink too much, eat too much (those peanut butter chocolate chip cookies do not count**) or shop too much. Only frivolous purchase was designer-knock-off purse, which also resulted in betrothal of yours truly to street merchant for five dollar discount. Suppose funny Nigerian man with bright white teeth is fine alternative to ending up lonely spinster. Dual citizenship and limitless handbag options? Could really not ask for more. Happily, Betrothal-Discount also applied to friends.

As spent most of the evening on cookie-inspired sugar buzz, did not do much birthday party imbibing on Saturday, but had marvelous time cavorting with BigCity friends. Finally met ever-elusive and quite charming Alex (J who?) and was nearly convinced by enchanting fellow to write a book. Also spent good ten minutes defending choice of ear accessories to someone who thought them to be just-too 80s. Oh, well. Can’t win ‘em all.

** Have decided that personal lust for food could simply be considered cute personality quirk if yours truly were underweight, flimsy speck of a gal. But as is, insatiable appetite for all things sweet and lacking in nutrition, is nothing more than predictable behavior pattern.

A: What shall we do, ladies?
J: I don’t know, but this one is always up for eating.
H: That’s not true! Hrmph. Fine. I am hungry.

Have headache. Must stop pretending to work and seek out Advil. Or chocolate.

and this bitter pill is leaving you
with such an angry mouth
one that’s void of all discretion
such an awful tearing sound

it’s wearing off and leaving you
with such a heavy heart
and head
to match

Indeed. Have worn self out with temporary bout of bitterness (and certainly made friends think that am headed down road to spinsterhood), but am now recovered. Or so am hoping.

Made peace with bathroom scale this morning. Nine pounds to go. Do miss my summer tummy ever-so-much. Where are you, yoga tummy? What’s that? Oh, right. Buried under Ben, Jerry and O-R-E-O. Nabisco. Ding! (Somehow, favorite commercial jingle doesn’t come across quite as peppy in type.)

Am off to BigCity again for weekend of galpal birthday fun. Have packed quite lightly, in uncharacteristic fashion, and am even being gifted with non-bus-or-train transportation. Oh, the joy!

Hair has again reached Little-House-on-the-Prairie lengths and am tempted to stop in and have it whacked before heading to the city. Nothing quite so unsophisticated as too-long locks. But most likely do not have time. Little House in the Big City. Has certain ring to it, no?

Used to have great respect for Karma — suffering from overdeveloped sense of justice and all. But now, as Karma has taken to biting yours truly in the ass on a regular basis, am starting to fall out of love with exotic motivator. In rapid fashion.

Always believed people to be worth all the good that could possibly do for them. All people. The man on the bus this morning. Cranky coworkers at monkey job. J. Well, not anymore.

Fuck you, man on bus. Fuck you, cranky coworkers. Fuck you, J.

Oh, wait. Already did that. Never mind.

Made mistake of inquiring about J today.

Will not do so again.

Ever.

Dear J

You missed a spot.

I was lying in bed last night, staring at the ceiling when I noticed it. Remember the day we painted my room? I was neurotic about that color. But you were right. The green wasn’t too yellow once it dried. But in the very center of the ceiling, there’s a spot where the dingy yellow of some previous occupant’s smoking habit shows through the bright white. I was staring at it last night before I fell asleep and dreamt about you.

We were in Paris. Going to school. And, beyond reason (as is the case with most dreams), we ended up in the same lecture and afterwards, alone in your room. I knew I didn’t want to be there. But you wanted me, and somehow I felt vindicated and justified and appeased all at the same time.

At first, it was perfect delirium, like being drunk on sunshine and kisses. But then, in a familiar tangle of sheets, I realized something. It wasn’t about me and what I was feeling. It wasn’t about me at all. It was about you. Was it always? Probably. So I climbed out of your bed and gathered up my things. Of course you wanted to know why. But I said nothing and left. And then I felt proud and disillusioned and indignant all at once.

So, anyway, you missed a spot on the ceiling. But then again, you missed a lot of things.

And me? I miss how you smell.

H