TRANSCRIPT: Do With It What You Will

I didn't acknowledge/express what I like about you. Why Eva & her spirit is beautiful. That bothers us for whatever reason. Maybe because it doesn't.

I adore you. Your vibrance, your pretty brown eyes, your intelligence & the witful expressivness of your nature made from the cloth of naked reality.

It doesn't give to our actualization. We weren't speaking cerebrally or from our hearts but emotionally from the ego. No ones fault but human nature.

I don't intentionally try and hurt people. What I meant was... My heart is unavailable. Belonging to another. My demon I choose not to share. Our relationship, like most would have eventually been driven by physicality. And the emptiness leads to abandonment. In my mind I was protecting you. It was not my intention to hurt you or be quarrelsome, as I know it wasn't your intention to besmirch my character.

I am sorry.

On A Lighter Note

A list of 10 Things That Prove I Am Not A Sourpussy Old Curmudgeon (in no particular order):

1) I also coined the word sexorexic. For those of us who haven't "eaten" in so long we can't remember being hungry.

I mean, as I told Beth, our sexual ribs are poking through, and when we look in the mirror, we STILL think we look fat.

2) I get to go to the DAILY SHOW TOMORROW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AHHHHHH!!

3) Since last post, became presiding KICKBALL CHAMPIONS OF THE WORLD! Also saw The Police on a psuedo-date, that was pretty sweet. And free--HA!

4) Will be published as author of FEATURE article in September issue due out in about one point five weeks.

5) Nobody can drink a Car Bomb faster than me, nobody. Yet another heavyweight title belt.

6) My sister has a faux hawk!!! At least some of the time, and I could NOT be any prouder of her coolness.

7) Lakes are fun, suntans funner, new, bigger, better, stronger belly after days of beer swigging and piggin' out, not so cool, but so worth it.

8) Only 2.5 weeks until Monolith. Where there will be great Atmosphere, nah'mean?

9) I have a savings account for the first time since I hit puberty.

10) Last month, I had an opportunity to respond to an especially dou-che (pronounced like touche) date of mine, who when I texted, totally out of courtesy, to see how his new status of self-employer was said, and keep in mind I am pretty darn sure said fellow is an ENORMOUS tool: Muy bueno, como estas? At other times he also said the following: "Dinner at 7, mon cher?" and "Sabor Latino, 7:30, bring your Tommy Gun." So, in response to the polite question, I got to say: "Non important, yo tengo papel." The only thing worth saying in Spanish if you are from my family. And I probably spelled it wrong. Yahoo!

Me, I'm The Asshole

To tell me the truth, I really don't want to write a thing right now. (And on that note, I, as usual, suggest you not read this, unless, like me, you have a nice, healthy masochistic flair or any tendency toward voyeurism. I have both in spades, so, if you would like to observe my failed human spectacle, I get that.)

I feel mean and uncommunicative. I want to say "Fuck you, blog." Well, really, I could address that to a number of people/places/things or any other Twenty Questions category right now, but I think I will stick with directing my anger one place--kind of. Especially because it is so infuriatingly directionless.

Sort of.

The very worst part of it is how annoyingly conscious I am about how I feel, why I feel it and how--most likely--irrational, silly or fleeting that feeling is. I KNOW it is. I REMEMBER how happy I have been for the last few days. Almost entirely, if you were wondering. Well, not so close to entirety after I had to come back to h-e-double toothpicks, also known as work.

I need to get out of this place. It is framing my whole perspective in dark, heavy, monastic wood. Fantastic for a stark, nicely contrasting effect on your Martha Stewart Goldenrod-painted walls. Not so beautiful when crammed into a rapidly gloaming brainscape. It makes me a stern, bitter nun, easy to anger, quick to reprimand, wrinkled and scowling always.

P.S. This is not me.

I normally have more patience for inane argumentativeness from people with a piddly sense of humor or something to prove. I usually would, not noticing, tune out the fact that my cube neighbor spends 5 of her 8 work hours on the phone with her boyfriend, lending me an earful of cooing, idiosyncratic love babble and pleading compromise and insipid inside jokes. Normally, I would never use the word insipid. Most of the time I wouldn't mind so much that she almost never refers to "her son" by his name or even by a nice, traditional pronoun. "Her son," is far too important. Her life around "her child," far too dramatic and to be taken VERY seriously. "Her little boy" is the center of her universe. And apparently the center of our miserable, temperature dysfunctional, smelly, germ-incubating, mind-fraying and soul-eating cube universe, too.

Typically, hauntings of my room mate's filthy habits (and the weeks-old, molded-into-their-vase WEEDS she picked!!) wouldn't last alldaylong. Normally, my colleagues rehashing of the same, stupid crap, doing the same pointless things every day only exists just beyond my mood.

But my dark, Victorian-furnitured mood is not so resilient. Absurdly, I am pretty certain it has something to do with the DNC. That sounds queer--rather, it IS queer--but all the goings-on, all the people, events and issues at such a frothy head in my city right now have cast in an embarrassing, depressing, painful light how unfulfilled both my desire and my potential is. Or at least I think it is. I just want so much more.

I want to be in it. I am sad I miss out on so much from my safe distance, from my terrible, suburban-job perch and my still-sort-of-insulated(isolated?) life. I want to be involved in something that means something--if only to me. I want less routine days. I want stimulus. I want an outlet for my unique brand of not very special and completely untalented creativity. I want to direct my passion outward instead of letting it point deeper inside myself, where it festers and becomes discontent and loathing. I want something to offer in conversation that is really mine and that people might actually want to hear. Other than my increasingly more dating infused life (though this means something different extra-recently than it did even a few weeks ago).

I want this icky, rejected, not-loving-myself feeling to get the hell away from me. I want to actually BELIEVE what I for SURE know about a certain few deeply flawed, completely aimless, aging and incapable, sorta gay, high-pitched laughing, body-shaving, manipulative, emotional juveniles, which is that I deserve better and I DON'T EVEN CARE. But somehow, the inky mark of feeling hurt and unwanted and therefore not good enough is a stain I just can't wash out. Even in the light of much better, more real and I think pretty solid prospects. (At least one, maybe.)

I want to quit feeling sorry for myself and quit hating myself for being the sort of weak, sniveling little bitch that lets me feel sorry for myself. However, I think that my intrepid, uncontrollably optimistic and dizzyingly hyperactive traits normally do a good job of keeping this self-pity out of my normal, every-day activities and moods. It only leaks out on occasion, when it's got all swoll up from some little (or big) blow.

Even then, I think most of the time I reserve it for my blog, where anyone can ditch my rant whenever they see fit. Or never read it at all. Or decide they can't condescend to be friends with someone who spends so much time on such trifling, shallow garbage. I would get that, too. However, if you DID have that grossly masochistic, voyeuristic, slightly stupid need to read all the way to here, you will be glad to know that, now, I feel better.

Or, at least, the tears have started to eek their way out.

But, that is actually sort of the same as better.

Gross.

Coinage

Long time, no talk, world of eager Eva readers. Wait, who are we kidding here, blog, its just you and me. You're the same as me, we see things they'll never see, you and I are gonna live forever. Just the two of us, we've come a long way, baby. Did you ever know that you're my hero? You're the meaning in my life, you're the inspiration, you're the best friend that I've ever had, what would we do, baby, without us? Shanana.

All right, that out of the way, BREAKING NEWS! Yesterday, a young man kindly pointed out that I had particularly "wide fingers." Once past the initial, stunned silence (WHAT? I DO? I have ALWAYS considered my hands to be dainty, delicate, pianist-fingers) that was more like one moment where I scowled at him, I simply said, "Yes, Dave, I have fat hands. Thank you for using such a polite euphemism when making inappropriate, embarrassing observations with a woman you don't know." However, that being true, it is ALSO true that I do, indeed, have fat hands. Any fool reading this who might be considering scoring me that Canary I have so long wanted, go big, or go home.

That fact and the fact that this weekend I consumed 17 times more booze than either food or water combined (but don't worry, what food I DID eat was completely packed with standard American excess that one would hardly be able to worry for undernourishment--and it was good) are what I directly blame for how badly I bowled last evening. Well, those two facts and the fact that I suck. A lot. But I had fun. With my new friend Chris who has a Fu Manchu (and contributes to the VERY funny and tastefully superior--Donnybrook Writing Academy) and a few of his friendly hipster pals, who certainly had to be displeased with having let me play when we realized my high score of the evening was an overwhelming 87.

Ok, that wasn't really breaking news, BUT, this just in: I coined a new word. As far as I know it is new, FuManchu seemed unimpressed with it but I refuse to be discouraged. And when it is as common a household item as Booyah! (I mean, really, when that guy coined that word do we really think everyone just froze, riveted by its brilliance and clear, lasting relevance? Ppff.) So, here it is:

Opionionado.

Take a moment, roll it around in there a bit. (In your brain, in your mouth, either works, it is at home both places.)

Otherwise known as the critic, the person who might not REALLY be qualified or informed on a subject (or just prefers to speak on subjects on which it isn't entirely possible to be technically well-versed), but sure has an opinion on it. They don't know shit, they just talk about shit. Not always a bad thing, either. Depends on if it is funny.

Take THAT urbandictionary.com!

In other news, the African American community suffered a big hit this weekend when BOTH Isaac Hayes AND Bernie Mac kicked the bucket(s?) at prematurely young ages. Word on the street is that Bernie Mac died from complications from pneumonia. This raises eyebrows, mine anyway, what kind of normally healthy 50 yr old dies of pneumonia? None. But UN-healthy ones do... I have my suspicion. But regardless, the world is a little less baritone this week, and all hopes of a re-emergence of Chef on South Park (or of an Ocean's 23) are now out the window. We will miss you, Shaft (singer). Oh, and you too, guy that was in Guess Who.

In brief, the weekend was great. Dinner with pals then out to see a pretty solid local band at the Hi-Dive. Blues and Brews Festival. Baseball game. Blues and Brews again. Bowling. FuManchu's (and at least one other) stellar short film at the 48-hour Film Festival. PTSD exboyfriend in town for a visit, think we showed him a good, Denver-tastic time. Plus, I got to wear 5 dresses this weekend. Any weekend with that much sundress is a good weekend

EXTRA, EXTRA!! Beth is coming in town!!!! Not reaaaally to see me, but SO WHAT! Ya-Hooooooo! AND I finished my FEATURE article for the magazine this past week. I think it is fabulosa. But it is, after all my baby, the product of my very own fat little fingers.

Which, speaking of, are tired of typing.

Over and out.