It must be that I am terrible

For some reason I am worried about something.

I have no idea why.  I don't know what it is.  But suddenly a heavy trepidation came barreling down the hall and punched me in the face, and now I am freaking out over something that is actually nothing, and I want to know what it is.

Typing this is making me anxious.  The usual bodily signs of anxiety are creeping all over - my jaw is too heavy for my face, my eyes are too slick to stay properly in my head, my heart is too small for my chest and my back aches from nothing, so to trick my body into forgetting this I tilt my chin upwards and stretch my neck, open my eyes wide and breath deep, willing all of these body parts shift back into a comfortable state.  I am clenching so hard right now. People probably think I'm wicked constipated.  No, that was last week.

It's embarrassing.  How worried I am.  Panic.  I did something.  Or did someone do something?  To me?  To someone? I feel like I'm losing a war I didn't know I was fighting, or perhaps this is the sign on an impending and inevitable war that I'm doomed to fight?

It must be that I am terrible.  That must be it.  It must be because when I'm uncomfortable I'm incapable of sincerity, which is the result of years of practice. It was a brilliant defense mechanism years ago, and earned me friends, but somehow now that I'm an adult it feels silly and embarrassing, which is the exact opposite effect it's supposed to have in the damn first place. It is supposed to ward off the feelings of embarrassment.  The problem is that I get older and the people around me do likewise - but I am not developing into a functioning adult the same way they are because I'm...afraid?  No, that's not it.  Angry?  No. Guilty?  Yes.  I am guilty.

Spending too much time in my head, turning every word over and over and over - I mean, am I obstreperous? Yes, I would say that I am decidedly obstreperous, at least capable of extreme obstreperosity, but would people agree?  Is this a misrepresentation of self saying, "Rassles is obstreperous" and then backing it up with no volume or brawl?  Shall I fight you for the right to label myself? Do people do this for themselves, or is it just me?  It must be a people thing.  Why would someone fancy themselves obstreperous in the first place?  Is it desirable or disgusting? 

I don't know which, but it definitely is. It exists. That is something.  It means something that I have found a word at all, whether it's applicable to me is irrelevant.  It's the journey. 

The more I describe the journey - how I arrive at a thought, why I drew a conclusion - the more isolated I become.  I do not know anyone who does this outside of artists, really. That means something too. That means I think I'm an artist.

Hmmm.

Can an artist be obstreperous?  Oh god, I hope not, that sounds self-involved and terrible. 

It must be that I am terrible.

It's infuriating how many people get journeys wrong, by the way, like because Emerson thinks life is a journey it means journeys are more important than destinations, when the majority of the people I know are strict brain destination people.  It's not that they lack introspection or aren't susceptible to extreme brooding, because they are--it's that they do not feel the need to discuss it, to share it with everyone and analyze how each thought unraveled into the next. 

Of course, that's not what Emerson was talking about, and you want to agree so you sound free-spirited and spontaneous...but the fact is, agreeing with him is having an opinion, it is not acting.  And action is far more important to this concept than an opinion about an action.

Can I be equally guided by action and opinions about actions? Or must it be one or the other?  If it's up to me, I value action more than opinion - but I have more opinion than action.  Perhaps that's why. 

Would writing this post count as an action, or an opinion about action? Now I'm worried about this.

Shit.


...

Lies I Have Told

After reading this, I've decided it's time.

It's time to write the blog post I have been putting off for years.  Because no one wants to read this.  Go ahead, stop reading.  But I have to do it and I have to do it now.  It's not a big deal, or anything terrible.  But I need to do it for...let's say therapy.

...

My freshman year of college I lied a lot to fit in, which is a good explanation of why it was so hard for me to make friends.

Here, I thought, here I can tell people I have had boyfriends, because everyone cares about boyfriends. Of course I'd never had a boyfriend.  Or a date.

In high school, I was one of those girls who never got asked to a dance.  At fourteen I just asked guys myself.  One dance, I took my friend Dan and he spent the night looking forlornly at other girls and being disinterested, and I realized he didn't want to be there with me, which blew my fucking mind because I thought I was awesome.

Three years later Steve called me an hour before prom to bail and buy drugs.  I was murderous.  I asked him because my 'best friend' Jon - who I spent years blocking from my memory, who had my undying puppy love, who could ask anything of me, who had to have known how much craved him - he told me - and I hate talking about this - he told me he wouldn't go with me because, and I quote, "Well, Rass, you won't impress anyone.  I need to go with...I need to go with a woman."

Holy fuck.

Anyway, so when people asked freshman Rassles about high school, I told them I just broke up with someone. It felt true enough.  I also told them things like, "Well, of course, I could have had sex, but I just haven't found the right guy" which is what all virgins say, but it wasn't true.  No one ever tried.

...

I didn't drink my freshman year of college because I thought it was stupid and I had important shit to study so I could be a veterinarian.  Making friends was hard, so I would go to parties by myself and try to meet people.

But people, especially boys, will not talk to sober 18 year old girls.

Sometimes I would just go to a party and buy a solo cup and pretend I had beer. I wanted to fit in so badly.  I tried very hard to pretend to listen to the music everyone seemed to be obsessed with.  I become a Dave Matthews Band fan, an Aerosmith fan, a Jimmy Buffet fan.  I really, really tried. I lied and said my dad took me to a Jimmy Buffet concert once.  My dad doesn't give a shit about Jimmy Buffet. 

But I learned, slowly, that my classmates didn't trust me.  Not because I lied about going to a Jimmy Buffet concert (seriously, what?) but because I didn't get fucked up.

The few friends I made were wary to invite me to parties and usually were ashamed of me when we got there, but I never understood why.  I spent a lot of time saying, "No, go on, I'll be fine." 

Absolutely no one trusted me when I tried to take care of the hammered girls throwing up all over the bathroom, passing out on toilets while their friends took all of the incorrect steps on dealing with a girl on the verge of alcohol poisoning.  They would get angry at me for helping, tell me I was self-righteous, that they could see how I despised them and they would hoist up their tube tops and stumble in their heels, banging their knees on doorframes, wild-eyed and whammered. I tried to nurse of a lot of girls I didn't know.

Then one day in January, I got those looks and exploded. Crying.  Yelling, "YOU KNOW WHY I DON'T GET DRUNK?" I told them that when I was fourteen I went to a college party, blacked out, woke up in a strange house and vowed never to drink again.

Of course, that never happened.

But it was magic.  I had respect. People approached me at parties.  A lot of, "You know, I thought you just were like weird, you know, I didn't know you been there.  I knew there was something about you.  I could tell there was a bigger story, I could tell you were cool, I knew there was a reason, I'm so sorry you went through that..." 

I never even insinuated - I mean, later I learned - and by later, I mean in 2011 - apparently this story morphed into "Rassles got drunk and was raped when she was fourteen."  Which is annoying, but I guess kind of predictable.  Only one person ever asked me that many details, and I told her I didn't remember. 

But people seemed to genuinely care about me.  Only after they thought I was special.  I really resented a lot of them for it. 

Then I came clean to a couple friends years later, and they were all like, "so what? who fucking cares if you lied when you were 18?  We were all assholes" which was awesome.

...

Sometimes I think that lie was the worst decision I ever made.  Because of that I lie, I pledged a sorority. Because of that sorority, I didn't transfer schools, I stopped wanting to be a doctor, I started drinking and smoking cigarettes and turned into a general asshole. But I loved every terrible, mood-swinging minute of it.

During pledging, we had to run.  A lot.  And on the first day of running I fell, and a swarm of sorority banshees surrounded me, heckling (Were you born a fat, slimy, scumbag puke piece o' shit, Private Pyle, or did you have to work on it?) and I was pissed, I couldn't fucking believe the garbage they were screaming (I will gouge out your eyeballs and skull-fuck you!) who the ruddy fuck do these ogre harpies think they are, they can go fuck a fencepost for all I care, these (you had best square your ass away and start shitting me Tiffany cufflinks or I will definitely fuck you up) bone-faced cumdumpsters, I hate them, I hate them...and I yelled that my knee, my knee, oh, my knee...I don't have any cartilage in my knee, I can't run anymore, which shut them up real fucking quick, but was also a lie.

They never even let me try to run after that, whenever I asked, probably because they were afraid I would get seriously hurt, and then the school would kick them out for hazing.  But I felt guilty, I was terrified of not fitting in, I watched my pledgemates run and stumble and endure, I berated myself to sleep and swore that for the next five weeks I would do everything perfectly, that I would help everyone however I could, that I would come clean...

That's the problem with lies.  People are so darn nice about them.  They're so understanding, so worried, so genuine.  

I never did tell them the truth.  This sorority booted liars.  They kicked two of them out of my pledge class.  But they would have kicked me out, I have no doubt.  They had no patience for people who couldn't cut it.  None.  So I just let it go.  

...

Oh, it feels nice getting all of these twelve year old lies on the internet.

...

Your Face Is Trendy

So I caved and bought a pair of hip plastic glasses several weeks ago, which I've been putting off purchasing for years because in 1994 I swore I would never wear plastic glasses again after getting teased about them all the time because only uber dorks wore plastic glasses, and then when all the cool kids started wearing them like ten years ago or whatever I was like "omg fuuuuuuuuuuck."

Let's face it: I used to be the type of person that wanted to blend in unnoticed, but it never really worked very well because I get all up in other people's business.

Whenever I like something fashionable everyone feels the need to point things out, like, "oh, aren't you trendy" and I'll blush angrily and snap, "YOUR FACE IS TRENDY" and then everyone will be all, "um, thank you?"

And then I reorient myself: comments about my appearance are not necessarily nefarious.  Stop being a fashion philistine and apologize.  Smile, slide your plastic frames down your nose and say, "Sorry.  But yeah, I know, right? I am trend-machine.  Next I'm getting a lightweight scarf that compliments my entire wardrobe without being too matchy." And we all have a good chuckle and high five and fucks given = ZERO.

Glibness alleviates my ironic detachment from a mere hipster aesthetic to the legit insecurity of a girl who has spent most of her life being mocked or marginalized and even, to this day, only knows how to prevent either of them by wearing her insecurity like an aggressive Derby bonnet.

This, of course, draws people to her.  Why is that?  There is enlightenment somewhere in there, I just don't know which direction to go.

...

People say memories flow, but to me it's more like thick glops

Every Friday (or at least, usually every Friday, or some Fridays, or sometimes it happens that it's a Friday) I walk to the Harold Washington Library on my lunch break to admire the huge rooftop owls-on-fire thing they got going on and check out whatever book I got on hold.  I have to stop buying books and movies because I'm running out of shelves almost as quickly as I'm running out of money.  Plus libraries are bastions of awe.

This particular Friday was the first day of Lollapalooza, the music festival of sweat and metal, and the sidewalks on the way to the library are crammed with drunken teenagers who are crammed into as little clothing as possible.  When did tiny, tiny shorts become the norm?  It's slightly troublesome, seeing them strut amongst the suits, giggling and talking about bands I'd never heard of and bands that were popular fifteen years ago in the same sentence and breath, and all I can think about is how I want out of the mob so I can get my book and I realize not much has changed since high school. 

Lolla is something I'm not even remotely interested in.  Too many people, too loud. You have to fight for things that aren't worth a fight: being noticed, a conversation, a breeze.  I'm starting to think that living alone will suit me well because now I can officially become a lonely, battered drunk and write that novel I always knew was brewing inside, only I felt too guilty and comfortable ever to write it before.

That's a problem I have:  feeling guilty for taking time to myself.  There's always something to do, somewhere to go, something to see, and I love that.  But I feel guilty turning people down, I feel guilty when I talk to a stranger at a bar and ignore the people I came with.  Even for a minute.  I felt guilty going out and leaving CrazyLiz's cat home alone.  I felt guilty going out leaving CrazyLiz home alone with her cat.  I feel guilty right now because I started moving things into her room and she's been gone for a week, so I stopped. 

She'd been one of my best friends for fourteen years, and I think she was the hardest person to live with out of everyone.  She was always fearless and sensitive and completely irresponsible - the type of person who hears "do not do this thing that you want to do" and then she just fucking does it with a shit-eating grin.  Do not rollerblade down that twisty slide, CrazyLiz.  Do not pay for grad school with your credit card, CrazyLiz.  Do not call your ex-boyfriend, CrazyLiz.

But at the same time, she is funner than hell.  She's a person you call for adventures.  She's a person you call to listen to your troubles, or to help you get into trouble. She laughs harder and cries more easily and takes more life risks than anyone I've ever met.  Every day she pummels herself with as many feelings she can reach.  Running the emotional gauntlet.  In a way, CrazyLiz is better at living than everyone else because she hides nothing.  But that doesn't mean she's not exhausting.

There's a kid walking in front of me with his hat askew and he's talking to a girl wearing daisy dukes and it's weird.  But they don't call them daisy dukes anymore, they call them something else.  I don't know why.  Like when All-Stars became Chucks, which both of them were wearing all strategically flopped over on purpose, because it makes them look alternative, I guess. I'll never understand the allure of completely contrived effortlessness.  It feels like a shadow.  

"This is gonna be sick," he's saying to the girl.

"Totally."

"Seriously.  Cuz it's like, okay.  Sometimes I feel like I was born too late, you know?  I shoulda been in high school in the nineties.  You know, underground shows were literally under the ground.  And you found out about parties and raves and shit becuzza flyers, not Facebook, and shit wasn't all secondhanded and full of douchebags.  Raves were epic then, man.  My brother told me."

"I wish I like, knew more. About it.  And stuff."  The girl did that thing that pretty girls do, that thing that I've never been able to pull off properly, where you coyly look up at a boy using your eyes instead of your whole head. 

And I remembered being back in high school in '95, walking to a concert with a group of friends and talking to Justin, who I found moderately dreamy.  And my chin was tilted up full throttle and I was wearing overalls, chucks and a wifebeater, which was my favorite thing to wear to shows and concerts.  And I told him how I wished I was in high school in the late sixties when rock was raw and unashamed and being a rebel actually meant something, and he looked at me like I was stupid and he said, "So?  That's stupid."

And then Justin went over to Andrea, who wore skirts and looked like Audrey Hepburn and could do that coy thing with her eyes.  I loved being friends with Andrea because when she was around boys would follow, and I hated being friends with Andrea because they only paid attention to her.  And then she went to France for the summer and when she came home she was even prettier and more elegant and free, and she told me we couldn't be friends anymore because her boyfriend thought I was a dork and they didn't want me going to their parties.

All of this is glopping into my brain in thick mud pies, so I turn it off and switch back to dropping eaves on Lolla kids.

That kid's talking about Ween now, as if Ween were a force nature that shaped the hearts and minds of the teens of the nineties, and I want to tell him he's stupid because Ween was basically known for "Push the Little Daisies" and remained relatively obscure until about 2001 and then became retroactively relevant.

I don't, though.

...

Drink a toast to never

I stopped feeling sorry for myself in public because I never got anyone to sympathize with me - oh, look at that independent, self-sufficient white girl from an upper/middle class family who has a job, a home, and a loving family, fucking boo waaah hoooooo, I sor you sad, have 10 cookies shaped liked stars cz u r 1 LOLZ!!!!

* * * * * * * * * *

Right?  Why don't I get that?  It's all, "shut the fuck up and stop feeling sorry for yourself."


day 22 - a song that you listen to when you’re sad



That's legit, though.  You know what's better than dealing with your issues? Not realizing you have them in the first place.  Issues cripple your psyche.  I didn't even know I had issues until someone told me I had issues, and then all of a sudden it was like, "I have issues?  Where are they?"  And then I found them, like a pile of bones at the foot of the stairs.  When you throw 'em down one bone at a time they don't seem like much, but bones don't go away.  They just accumulate.

Sorting through them is a solitary activity, and "After Hours" is my soundtrack.  Lou, Lou, Lou...how did you know? I never realized I could identify with something so much and feel so isolated because of it.

...

Solitaire

"No, don't eat anything," I say. "You don't need to. Anything. You are just refilling your water and that is it." I plunge myself towards the kitchen, swimming. "And getting ice. Be glad you don't live in a fucking swamp." Fill up my glass and open the freezer, quickly grabbing the top ice cube tray and spilling slushy, half frozen water all over myself. I sigh and look down.

"FUCK. That feels glorious. Leave the water on the floor. You don't give a fuck, no you don't. You know who gives a fuck? Doesn't matter. Not you. Get ice cubs," I crack a second, frozen tray, "and get the fuck out of here." I open the freezer again to put them back and my hand tickles a heavy sealed bag. "Unless you am eatin' them fucking ice cream diblets," I snatch the bag and slam the freezer door. "Them're acceptable. Spiritually and physically. In fact, might as well finish 'em. Ain't wrong with that. Your stomache's all grumblypantsy and you're a stupid bitch either way. Ice cream heals everything but heartache."

The bag won't open. "Fuckin sticky frozen horseshit," I say, and angrily gut it open with a carving knife and pop three of those little things in my mouth. "Okay. Don't do that shit again. And then tomorrow, you will ride your new bike. Clandestine bikes are no good, they must be ridden, you farthead. Even if it's hot. Yes, even if it's hot, because velocity craps wind. Seriously. If you don't there will be shmonsequences. Speaking of hot: do not dutch oven yourself tomorrow morning. That's for the winter." There aren't a lot of the ice cream dibs left in the bag. They're gone quickly. I stare at inside the empty bag and consider licking the chocolate lingering on the palm of my hand, and look around to make sure there are no hidden cameras in my kitchen. I stare at my hand and jam it under the sink faucet, convinced that someone in the world can see me. "Okay. Go back to the lazy boy. Don't forget your water. You will pass the Mystic Cave Zone on the first try, why? Because you are not a sally. You are...well, you're not sally."

I walk down my dark hallway, pausing at the closed door to the empty second bedroom. I have to work in seven hours. But first I have to beat Sonic 2, and before that I have important doorknobs to ponder.

I stare at the doorknob. "You are not a sally. You are stronger than Dr. Robotnik, you will free woodland creatures and collect the chaos emeralds, and you are not as lonely as you think you are."

I look away from the door and start walking back over to my lazyboy. "Also, while you're at it? Talk to yourself more. It's extremely sexy and all the rage in France."

...

I AM INCEPTING IDEAS INTO YOUR MINDS

So I've decided that I need something, anything, to distinguish my blog from others. Somehow. Basically, I need a header image.

And as bullshit as it sounds, I want you guys to help me. Please. I have zero confidence in aesthetics. Mostly because people are constantly telling me ridiculous shit like, "you like weird, ugly, gnarly things."

I disagree.

I like things that are bad ass.

What I really want is something no one else has. Because I have individuality issues.

Schmee had a brilliant idea at one point, that I should ask all of our friends to drunkenly draw on napkins at the bar, and use those for an image. The problem with that lies in actually getting people to do it before they're distracted by Jager bombs or something.

So I mocked up some header images to give you guys an idea about the kind of thing I'm looking for*. I am neither artiste nor digital genius. I only have MS paint and a crappy scanner to work with, here. You guys, I'm sure, have all sorts of niftly gadgets that make your lives easier and more arty.

Will you, will you, will you help me? Fuckers? Please? Draw something on a napkin and email to me or something. You're writers, you're creative, you can come up with ideas. Paint me a sonnet. You can do it, right?

Of course I am right. I am always right.

Do I want a sign like that, or like a forest of out-of-focus beer bottles? But I like movies better than beer (I can't believe I just admitted that) so yeah. What about like, a film reel? No, too overdone. I could get a tattoo with the blog title, take a picture of it, and use that as a header. I'm just trying to incept some ideas here, people. Work with me.

Speaking of inception...I am all up in that movie. Nolan and I aren't fighting anymore, which is a good thing, because I was really worried that we would have to break up, and he's so dreamy. Anyway, all is right with the world because his dreams are way different from my dreams, because I have like, Trojan horsebirds with doorknobs, and it's like this Russian doll of worlds - which is similar to Nolan, but different enough. Next up on things that I'm worried will ruin my book even though they came out in 2006? Special**.

* If you're familiar with Chicago...do you recognize the second one? Because it's modeled after the greatest sign in the city.

**Michael Rappaport seriously needs to be in more movies. If I ever get to pick all the actors I want in the movie that I'm writing in my brain, he'd be in it. Him, Joseph Gordon Levitt, Harvey Keitel, Jack Nicholson, Jeff Bridges, Elliot Gould (I am obsessed with Elliot Gould), Sam Rockwell, and Chris Pine. There. It's like a fucking dream. Can Jackson Publick act? I want him too. All I need is women***, but I don't want to think about that right now.

***Okay, I got my actresses in my fake movie that I haven't written: Sigourney Weaver, Summer Glau (in my head, Summer Glau is young Sigourney. Don't fight it.) Frances McDormand, Rosario Dawson, Claire Danes, Joan Allen, Freema Agyeman (bitch needs to get off British TV and into movies where more people can be in awe of her), Katee Sackhoff, and Emily Deschanel.

...

Now I want your dream cast. GO.

...

In Which I am a Super Brat

The first time I went to Ireland, it was an adventure. I met up with a friend from college who'd been playing rugby in Newcastle all summer (I love saying that. It makes me feel bastardly urbane). We went to the pony races and drank and gambled, we tried to hitchhike across the countryside in Kerry (we failed). We stripped while running into the ocean on the Dingle peninsula and fought a group of raging Irishmen at a bar in Dublin because they called me a "feisty filly" and basically had a brilliant, drunken time. It was very tense and masculine and obnoxious. Very Hemingway.

Okay, I didn't strip running into the ocean, because apparently my recklessness chokes on puritanical horseshit. But he did, my friend. I rolled up my pants like a fucking champ and took pictures.

This time around I was with my family instead of friends. First vacation the Rossi Family has taken, just the five of us, in ten years. Sure, we did Vegas when the Yellavitch turned 21, but that was like this big fat extended family thing, and the grandkids all split from the older generations for most of the trip.

So when my parents decided that they wanted to take us to Ireland, we were excited because you know, fucking Ireland. I felt spoiled at first, being 29 and having my parents take me Europe, but I justified it eventually with a thick list of trembling excuses that basically added up to one thing: who cares, you're going to fucking Ireland.

Okay, so I'm still a little uncomfortable with the fact that my parents took me on vacation. I offered to pay my way. They refused.

Last year, my parents left the US for the first time in their lives and took a tour around Italy. It stirred this deep, tour-obsessed Goliath within The Dad, who declared he would never travel without a tour ever again. I spent weeks explaining that Ireland was different from Italy, Dad, you don't want to be constrained on a tour there...it's an exploring kind of place, not a museums-and-monuments-and-art kind of place.

But being the adamant financial backer, The Dad insisted that I did not know what I was talking about. A tour, he said, would be easier. We wouldn't be responsible for blah and blah and blah, he said, it would all be decided for us.

I accepted. Because fuck yeah, Ireland.

Previously within my family, I was the one who calmed people down with a lame joke or something, because I'm as close as a Rossi gets to the soothing waters of lazy, pastoral relaxation nation. This of course sounds ridiculous to my friends, who all know that I'm neurotic and insecure about everything.

For the first several days I was okay. Even though I was slightly annoyed at being held inside when I wanted to explore, we were let out periodically to stretch our legs and spend money at pre-arranged restaurants and touristy stores. Granted, we probably would have ended up at some of those places whether or not we were on a tour, but that doesn't change the fact that I had a burning, itching yen to pluck my own destinations on whim.

For awhile, I distracted myself by counting cows and befriending some of the senior citizen stocked on the tour bus, but they were only chatty for so long. Eventually all conversations meandered towards my fidgetty eyes, and they would mention offhand that I seemed anxious. As politely as possible, I'd tell them that I wanted to stop in places the bus was tearing through, and they would nod. I'd change the subject. We passed through towns and ruins of towns, and all I wanted to do was jump the hell off that fucking bus and get lost out there.

By the fourth day, when I discovered that we were not going to Skellig (which is on my list) but in fact watching a video at the Skellig museum, I had a minor breakdown. With quiet tears. I tried to keep it in, I really, really did, but holding me captive on a tour bus in a land of cool green hills and beer is like building a cage of lambchops for a muzzled terrier, with a whole lot of whimpering and growling and general pathetic impotence.

So I was on the bus, staring out the window, sniffing.

Katsisch started without looking up. "You okay?"

"I'll be fine." Sniff.

"Obviously you're not fine."

I didn't want her to see my eyes. "I do not want to talk about it."

"You're being a brat, you know," she stated calmly, flipping a page of her book.

"Which is why I shouldn't talk about it."

"Why can't you just enjoy yourself?"

"I am not going to be able to if you don't drop it."

"Why are you acting like such a fucking baby?"

"I'm sorry." I turned and started counting cows out the window. Counting cows was calming, distracting. It kept my brain busy and focused on observation. To properly count cows, you must be moving constantly, scanning the fields. This was the positive side of riding the bus: better for cow counting. Landscape, animals, and math always lead to daydreams. It was a releasing distraction.

Twenty seconds later, Katsisch interrupted my counting. "You know, it's not that big of a deal. So we don't get to go to a stupid monastic island. World's still here."

"Please, I'm embarrassed enough right now." I wiped under my eyes with my sleeve.

"Do you realize how much you are insulting Mom and Dad?"

I snapped. "Do you fucking realize that I am trying to get over this as quickly as fucking possible, and you are not diffusing the fucking situation?"

"Okay, you need to stop being a fucking brat right now. You are completely overreacting, and this is totally inappropriate."

"Maybe if we were actually doing stuff instead of watching the world go by, I could enjoy myself."

"See, this is what I'm talking about," Katsisch hissed, finally glaring up from her book, "you think you're superior because the rest of us don't mind just riding to the next destination that has been chosen for us. Because we do not care. We all know that by complacently sitting on this bus we are not relinquishing our control over destiny. This is a vacation. This is not a metaphor for life."

Awestruck. I opened my mouth, cracking my jaw sideways. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I know that you think you're too 'free-spirited' and 'different' to be willing to just do something so 'mainstream' but you need to get over that insecurity. No one cares except for you."

So apparently the issue at hand, always, in every disagreement I have with anyone, is my distaste for all things 'mainstream.' Do I really come across like that? I tried to explain myself. "I am upset because I've dreamed of Skellig for seven years, and I've been imagining it in my brain and looking forward to this trip for fucking months."

"I've always wanted to go to Greece, and we're not going there."

"But you didn't have it dangling in front of you. I thought that I was finally going to get to go to one of the impossible places that I never expected I would actually be able to see. And then the day I've been waiting for gets here and I find out that it was never on the itinerary in the first place, but here's a fucking video. We are twenty miles away. I am twenty miles away and I can't get there." This was killing me.

"Yeah, well, this isn't about you."

"You made it about me. I was trying to count cows."

"You were feeling sorry for yourself, because you think you're entitled and oppressed."

Arguing was pointless, and I was too shocked to respond. What the fuck? I felt snotty and unappreciative, and have I always been such a fucking gremlin without realizing it? I had no idea that people had such a negative impression of me. Does everyone really feel that way about me? Or is it just my sister?

I decided my behavior must change. I reminded myself that I was being horrible and ridiculous and batshit crazy, and no one likes self-loathing. But when the time comes to prove to myself that I've grown, I will probably revert back to being a whiny, frustrated bitch.

Didn't talk for a long while. Counted cows again.

The tour ended the next day and we spent a couple days in Dublin on our own, and that was excellent. The Dad and I went to about seven million bookstores and had a couple beers while my mom and sisters went to the Guinness Brewery (I'd already been there, and Dad said, "You've seen one brewery, you've seen them all."). We all fell in love with the long room library at Trinity College and I added "bind a book by hand" to my list of things to do before I die. I convinced the family to see the dead zoo at the Natural History Museum. Mom wouldn't go inside, the sisters did a quick walk through, called me a "creeper" and got the hell out of there, and Dad thought it was awesome. It's still one of my favorite museums of all time, because it's rugged and packed with insanity.

So...that's how Ireland was.

...

I Am A Blood Traitor

My sister, as it turns out, is extremely upset with me for misquoting her in my previous blog entry. She didn't read it, of course, because I refuse to let her read this site at all - but I repeated a phrase to her and she sharply corrected me and demanded I print a correction, exclaiming - and this is verbatim - "You cannot write defaming and libelous things about me on your shitty blog! Blood traitor!" and then she made me write it down on the back of an Extra Value Liquors receipt.

So I've decided to post up a conglomerate of brilliant things my sister has said to me over the years.

"I loathe mayonnaise. It is my least favorite thing after asymmetry and cheese that is not powdered."

You read that correctly. Katsisch was adamant that I properly modify my former declaration and the appropriate distinctions be made, because, "Nacho cheese Doritos are not parmesan, duh" and "I eat Smartfood, too" which is probably where she learns all of those big words. Katsisch is a big fan of faux cheese flavor and Kraft parmesan, not blocks of actual cheese. She's disgusted by the thought of it, in fact.

She orders cheese pizza and tosses the cheese, like mozzarella is just protective covering for the sauce. "It only cooks properly if there's cheese," she explains, "and it only tastes good without it."

We are very different.

"I love my Dearfoam slippers. Without them the ground is cold and unyielding."

I repeat this often and shamelessly pawn "cold and unyielding" as my own.

"Brevity and ridicule are the panacea of our lives."

Which is a direct quote from when my aunt died from liver cancer years ago.

"Are you talking about the Civil War? That is my very favorite war!"

So I'm explaining to my dad how I had to get rid of a favorite shirt because of unfortunately-placed stains. I have big boobs and poor hand-eye coordination, which is why I am not a fucking surgeon.

Anyway, I said my shirt looked like "Spotsyvlania" and Katsisch thought I was referencing one of her favorite Civil War battles, and she literally runs and slides into the room to shanghai our conversation. Apparently she likes a good face-off between Grant and Lee. Previously unaware that Spotsylvania even existed, I wikipedied it while Katsisch yelled and called me "unpatriotic" and "a dirty cheat engaged in lies and trickery" while she blasted the American public for being unfamiliar with their country's history.

Normally I would say something like, "Dude, can you name every battle in every war this country has fought?" but that would be redundant, because I'm sure she can spout them off chronologically up until the end of World War II, just like she can name every primary presidential candidate, their political affiliation and the historical and social significance of each election. Bitch. Is. Crazy.

Then again, you know, that's what I'm like with movies, sooooo....whatever.

...

Why Can't I Just Play Along?

Because I've been obnoxiously defensive lately (I have to make fun of myself before anyone else does, when no one ever really cares, and they find this paranoia all too rotten and unsettling. It's also shockingly good for my complexion), today I went to a baby shower and hiked up my business to a new level of offense, and talked the entire time and hardly paid any attention to Mrs. Smith.

I wonder where this streak of insanity comes from? We're supposed to be celebrating creation and life, and all I do is sit and whine about being forced to play baby games, when in reality I should just suck it up and play along because we'll all be happier if we just make it fun instead of talking about how lame everything is.

It's outright rude of me to behave that way, brewing in discontent, blatantly wishing I was somewhere else. A good friend who is a good person asks me to take several hours out of one day of the year to celebrate the next stage of her life, and I act like a jackass.

It's not that I threw a fit, but I was just so critical, laughing and ridiculing everything. Why can't I just play along?

Baby showers and wedding showers and all that business are hard, because it means people have that next stage of progression. All it does is reinforce my own incompetence by not doing my biological duty to humanity. But it's not about me, I know. It's about Mrs. Smith and that basketball she swallowed, which I hear will eventually be a child.

It's not about me.

I have a selfish loathing when friends start families, because it means they aren't mine anymore. They never belonged to me, I know...but they just don't need me anymore. They don't need me nearly as much as I need them, and I don't think they understand how much I need them to survive.

They balance me. I'm a dry, slightly funny, slightly observant, plain girl who rambles on about unimportant things that no one ever really cares about or completely understands, but with them I have a part to play. I'm not a one-woman show. I can't do it on my own. I'm just not likable enough.

They have significant others, and they're starting families, and I will be the forty year old single woman at the bar getting drunk by myself, with no family, no career, a blog and a large DVD collection, rambling about how cool I was in college.

I've said that before, I think. That same line. It's a fear.

It means I have to make new friends which is FUCKING SCARY, because I irrationally crave acceptance and new people try to change me which just pisses me off. That or I should get my hands on a pony and dog and wander the countryside for the rest of my days. Which wouldn't be so bad, I think, because if there was enough countryside I could just wander forever. If I have no one around I can never feel brazenly inferior to everyone. Dissect that.

Be happy for people (saying something and embodying something are two different things). I am happy for Mrs. Smith, she is round and shiny and living her dream.

That's what it is. That's where the selfish jealousy comes from. It's because that they have something that they want.

It's because they have a dream in the first place.

My dreams are all fucky. Example: I'm living in a halfway house with a pet polar bear and a bionic bird, wearing a patchwork coat and goggles, hunting a blue gingham demon, and throughout the chase there is a goddamn leaky faucet that I turn off, over and over and over again - those are the dreams I have.

Of course there I things I want. I want to watch the next episode of Venture Bros. I want to make it to work on time.

But as of right now I have no dream to reach for. No matter what it is I will fuck it up, just like I fuck up everything else that I try to fix or accomplish. So right now...I guess my dream is to change my mind.

I've talked about all this before. I keep on writing the same blog entry, over and over again, saying it different ways, saying I need change, trying to change, and then snapping back into bullshit.

Dammit.

...

Everyone Is Ridiculous About Something, But Some of Us Are Ridiculous About Everything.

You know, I'm jealous of people that can just wear like, make-up. All the time, every day, they wake up and they brush their teeth and they put on make-up.

I'm just in awe that someone feels comfortable enough to wear that shit in the first place.

Can't they feel it on their face? Don't they want to scrub it away, ashamed that they care about their appearance so much, because appearances shouldn't matter all that matters is that you are comfortable in your skin your clothes don't make a difference win people over with your wit and shining personality (this is very, very hard, because I have a sneaking suspicion that I am somewhat abrasive) and no one cares what you look like, and if they do they aren't worth thinking about...don't people repeat that mantra in their head every morning when they look in the mirror, and feel ashamed, that yes, those things matter...FUCK YOU, MIRROR. And then, like with so many other things, I have to remind myself that I'm no illusion, and I am stronger than reflective glass.

But seriously, sometimes people look so pretty. How did they learn how to be comfortable and pretty at the same time? I wish I could do that.

What happens when they take it off? Do people get angry, and think it's a dirty, nasty trick? I hope not. This metamorphosis, it's a gift, changing at will, even with the aid of powder and brushes.

I can wear costumes to a party, sure, or face paint on Halloween. Sometimes I wear mascara. And chapstick, I fucking love chapstick. Chapstick is pretty much the greatest thing I have in my purse. I could eat it like candy. But I do not, because that would be gross and uncouth. Besides, then what am I going to put on my lips?

But I can't do make up. It feels like a lie. Why do I have such fear of trying to be pretty? What will people think of me? I will look like a freak, I know, and then everyone will talk about that one time that Rassles wore make-up and how she looked like Pennywise (or worse: Tammy Faye), and what, did she think she could actually be pretty? Haha, silly Rassles, and her silly ideas. She thinks she knows everything, she thinks she's so funny.

I know, I know. Shut up. I know. Who cares. Whatever. All that matters is what I think. Do what makes me comfortable. I am doing that. But that doesn't mean I'm still not crazy jealous of all of those people who can just be pretty, every day, because we are supposed to be pretty, and they're just like, "okay" and then they are, how do they do that?

It blows my effing mind. I wish I was trained that way, I wish I raised myself on magazines that weren't about horses or mountains or movies because I'm so far away from everyone, and how did I get all the way over here, and where did this fucking wall of rocks come from?

...

Linguistics, a List, and I Don't Like Indiana

Those of you out there that see me on a regular basis know that I can do a fair job imitating each and every one of you. And I'm here to say that A Free Man introduced his audience to a website that is going to ruin the lives of every single person that hears me speak.

Seriously, this website is just a collection of English accents from around the world. I'm just sitting here listening, over and over and over again, and I will continue to do so until I can properly imitate the lot of them.

I'm partial to the Welshman. And like the Free Man, South Carolina. But Edinburgh is by far and away the most definitive, the strongest and clearest and most unashamed, fearless wonder I've ever heard in my life.

But here's the thing that's crazy about this business: my favorite accents, I think, are non-natives doing a stellar Boston or Texas accent, which of course is not offered as an example. Because you get the same distinguished pronunciation, but a deeper pitch and tone. That's the key. A resonant, buttery voice, and notable, butchery pronunciation. When you throw Josh Brolin into Texas, it's fantastic, because any nasally harshness has been steamed right out of his words, and we're left with a brave, rich, humming drawl, and it's uncompromising and totally liberated.

Of course, the most terrifying voice is from Indiana, which is easily the creepiest fucking state in this country. So all ya'll foreigners: Stay the fuck away from Indiana. Your kind ain't welcome in those parts.

I don't know if you picked up on that decievin'ly timid timbre, but each and every word slowly and subtly suffocates its neighbor like a murderous linguistic pillow, and it's constraining and nervous and don't fall for it. Never fall for it, or you're gonna end up chained to a pole in a basement in fucking Indiana while some feeble-voiced bedwetter makes omelettes out of your toes. He also probably kicks puppies out of fear and poisons stray cats.

I really, really, really don't trust timid voices. Just like I don't trust the following:

1. people that obviously think they're smarter than me, and act like it (whether or not it's true is irrelevant, because they probably are)

2. people that voluntarily listen to Sarah McLachlan or Jimmy Buffet (except for Hereinfranklin)

3. people who talk about pirates too much (because the ones that always talk about pirates are the ones that never know what they're talking about)

4. people (especially girls) who say dumbass things like, "I don't like hanging out with girls, it's too much drama." It's one thing if you have more male friends than female friends, but it's another to generate negativity towards women just so you seem cooler and drama-free. I'm not going to lie, I would rather deal with the drama than deal with the person who talks all this shit and reinforces the drama.

5. people with really long fingernails

6. and people from fucking Indiana.

...

I Want To Spend My Life Thinking About Things Other Than This.

Okay, I know, I know. I fucking know. No one wants to see me post goddamn youtube videos.

But some things I just can't stop watching. Over and over and over again. Besides, after the videos, I have a story.

One of my all-time favorite songs:




Next song: stuck in my head. For days. And days. And fucking days:




If I ever write a movie, or a book that gets made into a movie, I need an Evie Sands song in there.

Story that semi-relates to both songs but not really: Ready?

Okay.

As you might know, the Hollies covered "I Can't Let Go" immediately after Evie Sands recorded it. But what you don't know is this: "I Can't Let Go" was written for Evie by a guy that I saw playing with some novel country band.

Flash back to Double Door like five or six years ago. At the time, by the way, Double Door was the fucking coolest place I'd ever been in my entire life, and I'd been to Prague. I mean, this is where everyone hung out in High Fidelity. How fucking cool is that? You don't get much cooler than High Fidelity. Of course, right now there are people who are probably mad that High Fidelity even exists, because let's face it, John Cusack mainstreams and romanticizes the counterculture and ruins lives. God, I love that man. Just like everyone else.

Now, of course, Double Door annoys me, because I'm sooooo much hipper than I was in 2004 or whatever. And because they charge like four dollars for a PBR and you have to pay cover and it's a place to be seen, not a place to go.

Also, ordering PBR is now the sneering social equivalent of kickin' it Miller Lite, because people believe you are ordering PBR to appear hip and not because you are broke, while people that drink Miller Lite have never been considered hip because let's face it, Miller Lite? Really? Are we at a frat party? More importantly, shut up. I know, I know, I was in a sorority, and therefore socially deficient, and I have no right to make fun of the greek system. Ah-ha, but! But what if I told you that my experience raises my credibility, because I understand the system better than outsiders? Besides, I was in, like, a cool sorority, because they didn't make us...I mean, we weren't a bunch of cakebakers...and we totally could hang with like...WE WERE DIFFERENT. Okay?

Shut up.

Anyway, so it's five or six years ago, I'm at Double Door etc. I lean over to my friend Kim, who likes lame things like like the aforementioned novel country band and I yell over the music, "That guy next to the singer looks like a cross between Ted Kennedy and the superblonde guy from Blade Runner. Whatsisname. Rutger Hauer."

Kim laughs. "That's Jon Voight's brother."

"Fucking Rutger Hauer is not Jon Voight's brother."

"No, the fucking bass player is Jon Voight's brother."

"No fucking way."

"Way."

"Huh." I sip my beer, and lean back over towards her. "You know who should play Ted Kennedy in a movie?"

"Who?"

"Jon Voight."

"That is only logical. But I think he's a republican, now." A couple of minutes pass, and Kim starts up again. "Oh, and the bass player? He's also the guy who wrote 'Wild Thing.'"

"You make my heart sing, wild thing?"

"That's the one."

"Dang. Way to go, guy."

Do all of the supercool people here at Double Door know that we're in the presence of a musical legend like the guy who wrote "Wild Thing?" Or do they think he's just a bass player? Am I the only one who didn't know about his secret identity? Am I the stupid one? Fuck, I hate being the stupid one. I am so uncool compared to all of these people who know things like the fact that Jon Voight's brother wrote "Wild Thing" and he's standing right there.

But I know why I don't know: because I learned all about music from my dad, and The Dad is a big Hollies man, which means he is not a Troggs man. He prefers things slightly more polished, less proto-garage. More "Bus Stop," less "Wild Thing." How can one really claim to be either, though, when half of the catalogs of both bands consist of songs written by other people like Jon Voight's brother?

Still. "Wild Thing" is way cooler than "Bus Stop." I bet Jon Voight's brother is way cooler than Jon Voight, who used to be cool. Damn, remember The Champ? I loved that movie. At least, I loved the horseracing. Not so much the "wake up, Champ, we gotta go home" crying business. Stupid dads, making their kids cry. And why is Faye Dunaway always such a bitch? Dads are dumb.

I decide at that very moment to blame my father for all of my musical trivia shortcomings, and I tell Kim that it's his fault when I don't know important, life-changing things about Jon Voight's brother.

She looks at me, her eyes full of pity, and smiles sadly. "Who fucking cares?"

On another note, I think I have mono. I am sooooo fifteen.

...

Stop It.

"Dude. That was totally Ginger."

"Who?"

"That guy that just walked by, it was totally Ginger."

I furrow in her general direction.

Gyna sighs, speeding up excitedly. "Little bit of facial hair, shaved head - one of those guys you talked to at Blind Robin about movies - that was totally Ginger."

"Ohhhhh, that guy. Was his head shaved? I thought he had a hat."

"No, the other guy had a hat."

"That's right, Hat Guy and Ginger."

"Dude, it's fate! We have to go talk to him! You have to go talk to him!"

"Why would I talk to him? I don't even remember half the conversation we had. I don't even remember what he looks like." She could be sending me on some fucking chase after a stranger just for the hilarity. Besides, fate is bullshit, and really, I don't remember enough about the guy to care if I talk to him again.

"He looks like the guy that just passed us." She glares at me. "You're a wuss."

"Yes I am."

And then we walked around Wicker Park Fest for awhile, which is a very vogue and trendy thing to do, particularly in the summertime. We're laughing obviously while pointing at all of those little tents with their vogue and trendy jewelry and purses (as if setting up a tent at a street festival is going to make their goods seem more boutique-ish when all that shit comes from Urban Outfitters. I know, because I can see it in the store window right there) scoping the crowd and petting people's dogs. Like we're in a fucking tampon commercial or something.

Gyna points. "Dude, I think you need a hippy dress."

"I think you're right. I've always felt, you know, secretly, like inside, that I needed more flowy dresses."

Light laughter. We're not anti-hippy, it's just...could you see me in a flowy printed dress? No, you couldn't. I would embody awkward and angry and paranoid, challenging anyone who looked at me. No, no, no, I couldn't wear anything like that. I would be unreasonably defensive, I would get in fights, I would cry and feel weak and lash at people out of fear, then sink into an unworthy state of pathos. Because that's what I do every single time I wear a dress. No. I don't do dresses.

We wandered around some more, killing time before the Smoking Popes started. Damn, I loved that band in high school. Loved them. I remember listening to "Destination Failure" in my room and feeling sorry for myself. It was awesome.

No. No it wasn't awesome. It sucked. It really, really sucked. Damn, I did not like high school at all. I didn't like high school as much as I don't like dresses.

My brain jumps, mad and flailing, rampaged.

Fucking stupid high school, full of fucking stupid assholes. Fucking stupid dances where people wear fucking stupid dresses. Why do people do that? Wear dresses? Dresses aren't about feeling good about yourself, they're about feeling better than other people. Dresses are about being judged and scrutinized and compared and criticized. Why do we need that at all? I don't need it. I don't want it.

Why do I have such a loathing revulsion towards something as simple...no, that's not right, because the social implications of something so thin and fragile as clothing are...well, there's a labyrinth of flavor there, because it's not just about comfort and function, is it?

I hate dresses because they make me hate myself. I just don't know why.

It's a fucking stupid fear, irrationally conjured up by a fucking stupid girl. Stop it. Stop it, Ross. Snap out of it. Stop it. You're overreacting. You're being a dumbass. Seriously. You're better than this.

"You okay?" Gyna looks at me.

My arms are crossed and I'm fixed on the stage, but I'm a little dreamy and angry, and very, very sad. "I'm fine. I just...I just fucking hated high school." I did not go into my pointless, psychotic frenzy about dresses. Stop thinking about irrelevant things. Why am I so angry? Just don't be angry. Stop it. Breathe. Exhale it away.

Gyna smiles a little somberly. "Yeah...I get that. Think of it as, instead of being all hating high school, think about how happy and grateful you are to be out of there and that bullshit and now you're with people who are way cooler than high school." She grins and does a little dance to prove her coolness.

"Yeah, I know. I should. I just suck at that."

(Why is my automatic response "I know" when half the time, I don't know?)

"You wanna move up here, so I'm not standing alone?" she gestures to her side, facial expression subtext: please stop feeling sorry for yourself and have fun. Gyna is right (she's frequently right). I take a hesitant step forward, because stepping forward means accepting that I cannot change the fact that I'm still an emotional trainwreck and a crazy over-reacter person who needs to keep her silly little thoughts to her silly self.

I relax. I'm still sad. But relaxed. People are hanging out of their apartment windows, cheering wildly, singing along with the band, waving their arms like the assholes they are, and I'm in pleasant awe of the social diversity of the crowd. Crazy. I like it when bands like the Popes get bigger, after being around for fifteen years. Jesus, fifteen years.

The show ends, and immediately Gyna scans the crowd again. "There he is! Ginger! Go talk to him!"

"I'm not going to talk to him."

"You have to. You just have to. Come on!"

"No, I don't have to. I don't even remember what he looks like. Why do I have to talk to some dude I don't know?"

"Because, he was totally...whatever, look, he's right over there. And there's the other guy! The guy with the hat! But he's not wearing one right now! Come on, you sally, talk to them."

"What would I say? Oh, hello, remember me, I'm the drunk girl that forced you into a conversation about movies?" I am deeply embarrassed that I even exist right now, after being so foolishly temperamental just ten minutes earlier. I look at the ground and shake my head. "I'm not going over there."

"Come on! What the fuck? Just go over there."

"What's the point? You think we're going to like, make friends with them or something?"

"Who cares? What's the big deal?"

"I'm embarrassed. I don't want to. I was a drunken fuck, and I really don't recognize them." Which is half true. They looked familiar when I glanced over there, and I panicked.They wouldn't want to talk to me anyway. If they wanted to, they would. They probably went home and made fun of me, and talked about the ridiculous, annoying girl that talked to them at the bar that one time. Whatever. Pout about, why doncha?

"You're a wuss."

"Yes, I am."

"Sally!"

"Yup."

"You're either going to go talk to them, or you're buying a hippy dress."

"I'm not doing fucking either of them," I snap, and regret it. "Sorry. I'm just not."

Gyna is resigned. "Fine." I know she's just trying to be helpful and fun and spontaneous, but I'm not in the mood for it. As we weave through the crowd down the street, out of the festival, I can't look up. I'm afraid I'll cry. I don't know why. Like I said before: It's a fucking stupid fear, irrationally conjured up by a fucking stupid girl.

...

I Ruin My Life, Or: Why Writing Is Like Sausage

I realized today, about five minutes ago, that I am absolutely terrified of trying to find a new job, and I do not want to do this forever, and I'm slowly ruining my own life with fear.

Not that I'm looking for a job, because I'm not. I have no plans of quitting. But seriously, after working here, what step up do I take?

I mean, my mom got me this internship here two and half years ago, and then I was promoted...but still. The four years preceding this job were full of interviews and denials, hundreds (thousands?) of resumes detailing dog grooming and zookeeping and bartending and whatever. Cracking into the Suit World is fucking hard when you have no marketable skills, no goals, and you barely graduated college.

They really advertise my insignificance around here when I'm not invited to things where the Important People all hang out with each other and talk about investing and financial stuff. I'm a fucking office manager. Children could do my job. Really really small ones. With sticky hands and speech impediments.

I know I can't do businessy things because I'm not cut out for this. Where do I go to make things and build things? Is there a job for that? Thing-doing? The only tangible goal I have in my life is to someday make enough money to live in a place with a yard so I can have a dog.

I'm trying to have a more ambitious mindset, I'm trying to learn the game, but I'm not a kiss-ass, I'm not a go-getter, I'm not very sharp, and I really have no self-confidence at anything other than telling stories and drinking, and I learned all of this about myself, really and truly, and understood it, about five minutes ago.

I miss waiting tables. I liked being the promising fuck-up instead of the disappointing success.

Man, I am such a fucking baby right now.

Shit. And I'm crying at my desk. I don't do this. No one's in the office right now, though. Every single other person is at an important meeting.

So at least they can't see me.

How did I get here? Happy childhood, no trauma, no abuse, very clean. Everything about me was/is average. Okay grades, good family. Good friends. At least I think they're good friends, and by that I mean the best friends like ever. Is that what it is? Is it because my friends are better than everyone elses, so to balance out that overwhelming Awesome, everything else must be mundane?

No great love or relationship, as always. I have an okay job which I do well enough. Chicago is an okay place to live (it is a fantastic place to live and a horrible place to live - so, you know, concept of balance). I'm not superhot but I sure ain't superugly. I support myself, but don't save. I get along with people well enough, unless I decide they're a douchebag.

I am the opposite of extraordinary. Is that why I turned to writing - so I can take all of the banal, the useless, the boring, and grind it out until I think it's linked together and delicious, like sausage?

How could I expect to write anything with a plot when my life lacks one?

So obviously, I need to go and start some shit. I don't know what, but I've been yammering about epicness lately, and then nothing epic really happened, so that means if some epic shit's going to go down, then it's up to me, right? Right.

Okay. I feel better now.

...

Disgust

About twenty minutes ago, I'm standing outside. Needed to walk. Thinking about Poppy, how much this must suck for my dad. Whatever. I don't want to go to the funeral. I would rather go to the pie fight. But I'm going to the funeral, and I'm going to like it, because of Dad. I really just would rather ditch out on it. It's not like I hate Poppy - I just totally don't care about him. Who cares more about pie fights than their dead grandfather? Does this make me a horrible person? What kind of a--

"You disgust me. Disgusting," she says. This little old woman, pointing her long hook-handled umbrella at me. Looking me in the fucking eye. Snarling. She's not obviously dirty or street, but who knows? I look down at myself, thinking, well, I showered today, and my clothes fit...did she...?

"You disgust me."

And then she keeps on walking.

I turn to the suits standing behind me. "Did you guys see that?"

One of them nods, laughing awkwardly. "Uh, yeah."

I don't know what to do about that.

I'm actually quite used to having odd people approach me. Some of you know that. But this freaked me out.

...

Torture Is Illegal.

It's so depressing, knowing that there are men in the world, and they're like my age, just walking around, being dudes, exuding hotness, looking like Zachary Quinto and Chris Pine. Existing, laughing, making out with people that aren't me.

Fuck you. Fuck you magazines and television and goddamn Star Trek movies. This is torture, and that shit is illegal. Kind of.

I don't even read magazines, but I can feel them rattling on the shelves with their airbrushed pictures and their interviews, where guys are charming and casual and clever, and girls are coy and leggy. Fuck you.

It's going to last months, too. All summer long. Guys riding their bikes all scruffy and glisteny, heavy linked bike chains wrapped around their waists. I don't know why I find that so goddamn attractive. I love watching them eat apples, drinking out of bottles. Laughing. Especially when they're laughing, and they use their whole body as visible, shaking proof. I just like knowing that they're around, as long as they're booming and smirking and undeniably smiling and alive. It's not a look or a style, it's just this elemental, sunny, relaxed, carnal guyness. I want them around me all the time, because making them laugh might just be the greatest thing in the world, and closest I really get.

Gah. Fuck you, spring. You taunting, abstracted, glorious bastard.

...

Square Pegs

New Guy Dean: Unlike you, I'm still a square peg trying to force myself into a round hole...

Me: It's okay. I'm a square peg wondering why holes are necessary.

This happened earlier today. Here. It's odd how comfortable I am with that concept, and then I get all uncomfortable because I should feel discomfort, and do not, and then I get pissed because I just consciously scared myself into thinking I had to fit somewhere.

The mind is a tricky little bitch. Or a shady feeble dick.

After all, we're about equality here. Nothing like snapping stereotypes in half by painting duplicitous women and impotent men. Because no one's ever done that before*.

I've decided that instead of searching for an existing idea or belief to fit inside, it's far easier just to start a new one. Religion, feminism. I take issue with some schools of feminism. We don't need women to be more like men, we need women to be confident in being themselves, whether they are highly feminine, exceedingly masculine, or a various mix of the two.

I'm obsessed with watching Tough Love on VH1, (cable? I shake my fist at you) and I sit there in fury at the fuck-off creators of this show, convincing women that they need to get married to be happy, and that they'll never value themselves until they're loved by a man**. Shouldn't the show focus more on building the assurance that these women are capable and strong with or without a relationship? I know, that's not what the show's about. The show is about desperate women going crazy without a stable guy to keep them grounded.

The problem is, I start believing it. Oh, well yeah, that makes sense. I should try to hide that about myself until someone is ready to handle it, this guy knows what he's talking about. And then I get all bitchcrazy, because it's all, yeah, why don't I have a boyfriend?

And I have to remind myself that I am stronger than fucking VH1.

So yeah. I am subject to that lapse of nonsense, and I feel inferior for giving in, even if it's just for five minutes. Because I can't give in. It would be easier, maybe, if I started with the make-up and the stylish clothes, if I worked out once in awhile, if I tried to look like everyone else and stopped talking about Teen Wolf and nudey touch***.

But I don't have to, and I don't want to, and I'm confused, because I feel like I should want to, so there's something wrong with me when I don't. And I feel that pressure, and push back even harder, because fuck you, I don't need that, stop trying to convince me otherwise. But look at how happy she is. What if I do need it, and I don't realize it? No. I'm fine just the way I am, where is this coming from? I haven't always been happy, remember? But that was self-pity because nothing was happening. So you happened, remember? You fixed it. Your head is healthier now. No it's not, because that fear is back, the fear of dormancy, what if I tricked myself into the wrong answer?**** Fucking summer. Screw it. Start acting.

Who wants to go for a bike ride?

Pah. Nevermind. I do not need someone to go with me. It is all right to ride my bike alone.

...

* Please catch the sarcasm. I don't want another issue on my hands like when I said I was going to buy a rug from Pottery Barn so I could be original and everyone had to point out that Pottery Barn was the exact opposite of original. Duh. I know. That's why I said it, jerks.

** What about lesbians?

*** I know exactly what you're going to say: "whatever, I love Teen Wolf and nudey touch, it's what makes you awesome and/or is totally normal." And that's why I like having you guys around. Perhaps you'll say that I can talk about Teen Wolf and nudey touch AND wear the make-up and styley clothes. But that's not me, you see.

**** There is no deep dark secret here. I just used to be extremely self-loathing and depressed, and wondered why nothing ever happened to me, good or bad. It was just this string of sameness and boredom, and I thought that I needed just someone to help me out of it, until it occurred to me that "someone" was unnecessary, because I was "someone."

...

The Girls

The big news in my family right now is that Poppy has gangrene covering his foot. I don't feel sorry for the stinky old bastard. I mean really, if he wanted me and my sisters to give a shit when his feet were all brittle and dead, he probably should have given a shit about us.

The fact is, however, that he and Nonny never really did give a shit. They didn't show up at the hospital when any of us girls were born. They never missed the boys. The day I came into this bright and snow-fucked world, my dad called to tell them the news, and they were all, "A granddaughter? Congrats. We'll talk to you later, we're going to Jay's ball game."

My dad's first child, born just miles from their house, and they blew me off for a ten-year old's basketball game eight towns over.

We're girls, after all, and were never much use to him. It mattered more to us as kids, wondering why Poppy and Nonny never came to our softball-soccer-basketball-swimming-karate competitions, and hit up every single game of our male cousins.

Visiting the grandparents was always boring at first. I think the feelings were mutual, there: Poppy and Nonny would hug us, say hello look at how big you are how's school --- Oh, Little Tony! You're growing up to be quite a man. I hear this about baseball, and stuff about art, and let me show you a bunch of bullshit, here's five dollars, come with me into the other room…

But then it got exciting, because their house was full things that we weren't supposed to touch that we totally touched anyway, and there were off-limit rooms and a sweet park down the street.

Coincidentally, the park was named after Poppy Coach, for his fine services on the police force and to the community.

The grandparents were never violent, never mean to us. They didn't hate us. They just didn’t need us.

Recently, this was brought to the attention of the entire family during the Great Rossi Brawl of Christmas '08 (oh, there's one every year).

You see, me and my cousin, Rob, carried Poppy down the stairs together and placed him in his chair. Poppy thanked us, blatantly gave Rob twenty dollars, and rolled away. I just shook my head. It's pointless to start arguments about it, because you're not going to change the mind of an eighty-six-year old diabetic man, a local hero, a man who played for the Chicago Bears for four months, a man who talks about World War II like he was there (he was in the army, but never left the States).

I spent half my childhood trying to be a boy for that man, wishing he paid more attention to me. I know there's no convincing him. At this point in my life, I wouldn't take it from him anyway.

But this time, people noticed, and then there's a two-hour argument, and my uncle learned that this has been going on for years, and Poppy called The Girls "ungrateful snots," and eventually Uncle Dick slapped the diapered, wheelchair-bound patriarch. I don't think he ever sided against Poppy before.

And then there was a family discussion, where we had to tell stories, like about that one time Poppy handed a fiver to Rob, kissed Katsisch on the forehead, and handed five dollars to each of the boy twins. Katsisch started crying, silently, and Rob ripped his cash in half and shared with her. Like I said: Nonny and Poppy loved and encouraged us as much as they thought was necessary.

Anyway. So now, his foot is rotting away. I saw him on Easter. I'll visit him again, out of respect for my dad, who is freaking out.

Poppy let the gangrene spread, because he believed he was man enough to will it away. This is a man who knows fully well when he pisses all over himself, but refuses to admit it, and furiously denies the fact that his chair is soaked in urine. This man was too proud to use a walker, so for ten years Nonny would walk next to him, head bowed slightly, Poppy's hand pushing on the back of her brown wrinkly neck like it was his cane. I blame him for her shrinking.

Oh, I could write so much more about their fucky relationship. Even though I know they're addicted to each other, completely devoted. I'm pretty convinced when one is gone, the other will be soon behind. They've been together since they were eleven and twelve.

But I don't feel sorry for him, and I don't give a shit about his foot or how he feels about it. Nonny's completely senile and doesn't know who anyone is anyway. I just feel like a complete ass, because in the back of my head, for the sake of my dad's sanity and mine...I hope the bastard dies soon.

...

Shadows in the Land of Rassles.

It's over. I have nothing left to believe in.

My boss, who I affectionately refer to as "Action Man" in my head and to his face, but only with a salute, because he runs everywhere and only speaks in exclamation-pointed His-Girl-Friday-Fast-Talk, See? is forcing me to do all of these horrible things that I don't feel comfortable doing.

From: Action Man
Sent: Monday, April 13, 20094:35 PM
To: Rassles
Subject: RE: BSF on Facebook!


Rossi, you on Facebook yet? Get on that, Missy!

Come see me when you have a few minutes. Website questions - what does this word mean?

I almost forgot! Go Cubbies! Have a cold one for me! But after work! Facebook!

- Action Man

Seriously, sir? Why you gotta be a raging bitch?

No, I am not going to be your friend.

...

Later addition, 6:45 PM: I signed up for Facebook and then immediately deleted my account. It feels wrong. In my soul. It just feels wrong.

...