Wednesday, November 30, 2005

they're spreading blankets on the beach

Originally uploaded by Pancakes.
Not half an hour ago I was on the phone with Jo. Now all I can think, is ~what the HELL AM I DOING!!!?~ Because, yes, I am scared shitless.
Of what?
Tomorrow night. When he's driving into Franklin to meet me after I get off work.
I have to email him directions tonight.
I'm just nervous. Nervous to see him... nervous because I kept saying what I didn't mean to on the phone (there should be absolutely no mention of parents.. ever, you moron)... nervous bacause I think he may have wanted to talk more but I hurriedly got off the phone.
Nervous because this could actually work out the way I want it to. And thinking practically.. I should wonder if I really want that.

But no.. I'm good. It's all cool. I have nothing to worry about, because I am growing socially and freaking out is not necessary.
I'm fine.
Dear god... I found myself manic, talking to the cat, asking her for advice and reassurance, telling her I'm not sure if I can pull this off.
She just looked at me like I was a moron. I'm sure she was thinking, "In you're dreams, bitch, you already reminded him you live with your parents... it's all downhill from here."

I was all disappointed tonight when I got to work. B had unexpectedly called out. I had talked to her earlier, and had no idea she'd weasel out of her shift. It's not that the hostessing was hard to handle on my own, it's that I haven't seen her in so long and was looking forward to hanging out during the slow night.
I think I work with her Friday, though, so whatever.
I have to work at Blue Cactus tomorrow. I'm dreading it, but assuming it will be just as slow as the Sundays and Mondays I've worked. I'm counting on getting off early.. for Jo.

I really need to get my mind on other things.

make it stop


Tuesday, November 29, 2005

when you are around..

Originally uploaded by Pancakes.
The Nightmare Box, continued...

The antiques dealer found him, dust still smeared around his left eye. Blinking. His eyes focused on nothing. He just sat in a pile of dust and cigarette butts he's swept up on the floor. The grandson, he never went back to college. His car sat at the curb until the city towed it away. Every day after that, he sat in the street outside the shop. Twenty years old, and he sits on the curb all day, rain or shine. You ask him anything and he just laughs. That kid, by now he should be a lawyer, practicing law, but now you can go visit him in some fleabag hotel. Public housing, on Social Security for a complete mental depression. Not drugs even.
Rand, the gallery owner, says, "Just a case of total crackup."
You go visit this kid, and he sits on his bed all day, cockroaches crawling in and out of his clothes, his pant legs and shirt collar. Each fingernail and toenail is grown long and yellow as a pencil.
You ask him anything: How's he doing? Is he eating? What did he see? And the kid still only laughs. Cockroaches moving around, lumps inside his shirt. His head circled with houseflies.
Another morning, the antiques dealer comes in to open his shop, and the dusty clutter is different. It could be someplace he's never been. Again, the box has stopped ticking. That always-quiet countdown. And the Nightmare Box sits there, waiting for him to look.
All morning, the dealer doesn't unlock the front door. People come and cup their hands against his window to peek inside. To look for something back in the shadows. For some reason why the shop isn't open.
In that same way, the antiques dealer could've peeked inside the box. To see why. To know what happened. What would take the spirit out of a kid, now twenty years old, a kid with everything to look forward to.
All morning, the antiques dealer watches the box not tick.
Instead of looking, the dealer scrubs the toilet bowl in the back. He hauls out a ladder and picks the dry, dead flies from each handing light fixture. He polished brass. Oils woods. He sweats until his starched white shirt is soft with wrinkles. He does everything he hates.
People from the neighborhood, his longtime customers, they come to the store and find the door locked. Maybe they knock. Then they go away.
The box waits to show him what for.
It's going to be somebody he loves who looks inside.
All his lifetime, this antiques dealer, he works hard. He finds good stock at fair price. He carts it here and puts it on display. He wipes the dust from it. Most of his life, he's been in this one store, and already he's going to estate sales and buying back the same lamps and tables, selling them for the second and third time. Buying from dead customers to sell to live ones. His shop just inhaling and exhaling this same stock.
This same tide of chairs, tables, china dolls. Beds, cabinets, little knickknacks.
Coming in and going out.
All morning, the dealer's eyes keep coming back to the Nightmare Box.
He does his bookkeeping. All day, he fingers the ten-key adding machine, balancing accounts. Totaling and comparing long columns of numbers. Seeing the same stock, the same dressers and hat racks arrive and depart on paper. He makes coffee. He makes more coffee. He drinks coffee until the can of grounds is empty. He cleans until everything in the shop is just his reflection in buffed wood and clean glass. The smell of lemon and almond oils. The smell of his sweat.
The box waits.
He changes into a clean shirt. He combs his hair.
He calls his wife and says how, for years, he's been hiding cash in a tin box under the spare tire in the trunk of their car. Forty years ago, when their daughter was born, the antiques dealer tells his wife, he had an affair with some girl who used to come in on her lunchtime. He says he's sorry. He tells her not to hold dinner for him. He says he loves her.
Next to the telephone, the box sits, not ticking.
The next day, the police find him. His accounts balanced. His shop in perfect order. The antiques dealer's taken an orange extension cord and knotted it to the coat hook on his bathroom wall. In the tiled bathroom, where any mess would be easy to clean up, he's knotted the cord around his neck and then just - relaxed. He's sunk down, slumped against the wall. He's choked, dead, almost sitting on the tiled floor.
On the display counter, in the front of the store, the box is ticking, again.
This history, it's all in Tess Clark's thick folder of notes.
It's then the box comes here, to Rand's art gallery. By then, it's kind of a legend, Rand tells the little crowd. The Nightmare Box.
Across the street, the antique store is just a big painted room, empty behind its front window.
It was right then, that night, Rand showing them the box, Cassandra's arms bunched in tight to hold her dress up, it was that moment somebody in the crowd said, "It's stopped."
The ticking.
It had stopped.
The crowd waited, listening to the quiet, their ears reaching out for any sound.
And Rand said, "Be my guest."
"Like this?" Cassandra said, and she gave Mrs. Clark the tall glass of white wine to hold. She lifted one hand to the brass handle on that side. She handed Rand her beaded little evening bag, her little clutch, with her lipstick and emergency cash inside. "Am I doing this right?" she said, and lifted her other hand to the opposite handle.
"Now," Rand said.
Mrs. Clark stood there, the mother, a little helpless with a full glass of wine in each hand, watching. Everything ready to spill or break.
Rand cupped his hand against the back of Cassandra's neck, the bare skin above her spine, where only a soft curl of hair fluttered down. At the top of her long-zippered ass. He pressed so her neck arched, her chin coming up a little and her lips moving open. Holding her neck in one hand and her purse in his other, Rand told her, "Look inside."
The box is quiet. Silent the way a bomb might be the moment before it goes off. Explodes.
Cassandra opens up the left side of her face, her eyebrow held high, her eyelashes on that side trembling, thick with black mascara. Her green eye, wet and soft, something between solid and liquid, she puts her eye against the little glass, the darkness inside.
The crowd around them. Waiting. Rand still holding the back of her neck.
One painted fingernail moves to the button and, Cassandra's face pressed to the black wood of the box, she says, "Tell me when."
The way you have to look inside, to make your face fit against the box, you have to turn your face a little to the right. You have to stoop a little, leaning too far forward. You have to hold both handles because this puts you off balance. Your weight, it has to rest against the box, pressing through your hands, balancing on your face.
Cassandra's face against the black, complicated corners and angles of the old box. The way she might be kissing it. The trembling curls of her hair. The sparkling dangle of each bright earring.
Her finger moves on the button.
And the ticking starts again, faint and deep inside.
What happens, only Cassandra sees it.
The random timer starts again for another week, another year. Another hour.
Her faces stays there, pressed into the peephole, until her shoulders sag. She stands, her arms still hanging down, her shoulders go round and sloped.
Blink-blinking her eyes, fast, Cassandra steps back and shakes her face a little. Her eyes not meeting anyone's eyes, Cassandra looks around at the floor, at people's feet, her lips shut tight. The stiff front of her dress bags forward, gapping out away from her breasts with no bra inside. She reaches out and pushes herself back from the box.
She steps out of each high heel, standing flat-footed on the gallery floor, and the muscles in her legs disappear. The two rock-hard halves of her ass, they go soft.
A mask of loose hair hangs in her face.
If you're tall enough, you can see her nipples.
Rand says, "Well?" He clears his throat, pushing breath out through a long sound of spit and snot, and he says, "What did you see?"
And, still not looking at anyone, her eyelashes still pointing at the floor, Cassandra reaches a hand up and plucks the earring from each side of her head.
Rand reaches out to give her the little beaded purse, but Cassandra doesn't take it. Instead, she hands him her jewlry.
Mrs. Clark says, "What happened?"
And Cassandra says, "Can we go home now?"
They listen to the box tick.
It's a couple days later she cut off her eyelashes. She flopped a suitcase open across the foot of the bed and she started putting things in, shoes and socks and her underwear, then taking things out. Packing and repacking. After she disappeared, the suitcase was still there. Half full or half empty.
Now all Mrs. Clark has are her notes, her thick folder full of notes about how the Nightmare Box must work. Somehow it must hypnotize you. It implants an image or an idea. A subliminal flash. It injects some message into your brain so deep you can't retrieve it. You can't resolve it. The box infects you this way. It makes everything you know wrong. Useless.
What's inside the box is some fact you can't unlearn. Some new idea you can't undiscover.
Days after they went to the art gallery, now Cassandra's gone.
On the third day, Mrs. Clark goes downtown. Back to the gallery. Her thick brown folder of notes tucked under one arm.
The street door's unlocked and the lights are off. In the gray light from the windows, Rand is there, sitting on the floor in a dusting of cut hair. His little devil's beard is gone. His fat diamond earring, gone.
Mrs. Clark says, "You looked, didn't you?"
The gallery owner just sits there, sprawled, legs spread on the cold concrete, looking at his hands.
Mrs. Clark sits cross-legged on the floor next him and says, "Look at my notes." She says, "Tell me I'm right."
The way the Nightmare Box works, she says, is because the front is angled out on one side. It forces you to put your left eye against the peephole. It has a little glass fish-eye lens, set in a brass fitting, the same kind you'd find in anyone's front door. The way the front of the box is angled, the only way you can look is with your left eye.
"This way," Mrs. Clark says, "what you see, you have to perceive with your right brain."
Whatever you see inside, it's the intuitive, emotional, instinctual side of you, the right-brain part, that has to witness it.
Plus, only one person can look each time. What you suffer. you suffer it alone. What happens inside the Nightmare Box, it only happens to you. There's no one you can share it with. There's no room for someone else.
Plus, the fish-eye lens, she says, it warps what you see. It distorts. Plus, she says, the name engraved on the brass plate - The Nightmare Box - it tell you that you'll be scared. The name creates an expectation that you fulfill.
Mrs. Clark sits and waits to be right.
She sits, watching for Rand to blink.
The box stands over them on its three legs, ticking.
Rand doesn't move except his chest, to breathe.
On his desk, near the back of the gallery, there's still Cassandra's jewelry. Her little beaded purse.
"No," Rand says. He smiles and says, "That's not it."
The ticking counts down, loud in the cold quiet.
You can only call the hospitals, asking if they have a girl with green eyes and no eyelashes. You can only call so many times, Mrs. Clark says, before they start not to hear you. You put you on hold. Make you give up.
She looks up from her thick stack of paper, her notes, and says, "Tell me."
The antique store, it's still empty across the street.
"This isn't what happened," Rand says. Still just looking at his hands, he says, "But this is how it felt."
One weekend, he had to go to a company picnic for a job he used to have. A job he hated. And as a joke, instead of food, he brought a wicker crate full of trained doves. To everyone, this was just another picnic basket, more pasta salad and wine. Rand kept the hamper under a tablecloth all morning, keeping it shaded and cool. Keeping the doves inside quiet.
He snuck them crumbs of French bread. He squeezed bits of corn polenta through holes in the wicker.
All morning, the people he worked with, they sipped wine or sparkling water and talked about corporate goals. Mission statements. Team building.
At the moment when it seemed they'd all wasted a beautiful Saturday morning, that moment when all the small talk comes to an end, Rand says that's when he opened the hamper.
People. These people who worked together every day. Who thought they knew each other. As this white chaos. This storm exploded up from the center of the picnic. Some people screamed. People fell back into the grass. They covered their faces with their open hands. Food and wine fell. Good clothes got stained.
It was the moment after when people saw it wouldn't hurt them. When people saw this was safe. It was the most lovely thing they'd ever seen. They fell back, too amazed to even smile. For the countless hours of that one long moment, they forgot everything important and watched the cloud of white wings twist up into the blue sky.
They watched it spiral. And the spiral open. And the birds, trained by many trips, follow each other away to someplace they knew every time was their real home.
"That," Rand says, and your life - your preening and struggle and worry - it's all pointless.
The grandson crawling with cockroaches, the antiques dealer, Cassandra with no eyelashes wandering off naked.
All your problems and love affairs.
They're an illusion.
"What you see inside the box," Rand says, "is a glimpse of the real reality."
The two people still sitting there, together on the concrete gallery floor, the sunlight from the windows and the street noise, it all feels different. It could be somewhere they've never been before. It's right now the ticking from the box, it's stopped.
And Mrs. Clark was too afraid to look.

~Haunted, Chuck Palahniuk


something tells me...

Originally uploaded by Pancakes.
The Nightmare Box
A Story by Mrs. Clark

The night before she disappeared, Cassandra cut off her eyelashes.
Easy as homework, Cassandra Clark takes a little pair of scissors out of her purse, little chrome fingernail-scissors, she leans into the big mirror above the bathroom sink and looks at herself. Her eyes half closed, and her mouth hanging open the way she puts on mascara, Cassandra braces one hand against the bathroom counter and uses the scissors to snip. Each long black lash falling, settling, fluttering down the sink drain, she doesn't even look at her mother reflected there, standing behind her in the mirror.
That night, Mrs. Clark hears her slip out of bed while it's still dark. In the one hour when there's no traffic in the street, she goes naked to the living room with all the lights off. There's the rumble of springs inside the old sofa. There's the rasp and-click-of a cigarette lighter. Then a sigh. A whiff of cigarette smoke.
After the sun's up, Cassandra's still there, sitting naked on the sofa with the curtains open and cars going past. All her arms and legs bunched tight around her in the cold air. In one hand, she's got the cigarette, burned down to the filter. Ashes on the sofa cushion beside her. She's awake and looking at the blank television screen. Maybe looking at herself reflected there, naked in the black glass. Her hair looks lumpy with tangles from not combing. Her lipstick from two days ago, it's still smeared across her cheek. Her eye shadow outlines the wrinkles around each eye. Her eyelashes gone, her green eyes looking dull and fake because you never see her blink.
Her mother says, "Did you dream about it?"
Mrs. Clark asks: does she want French toast? Mrs. Clark turns on the wall heater and gets Cassandra's robe off the back of the bathroom door.
Cassandra hugging herself in the cold sunshine, sitting knees-together, her breasts are pushed up by her arms. Flakes of gray cigarette ash are scattered on the top of each thigh. Flakes of gray ash settle into her pubic hair. Her feet twitch with tendons under the skin. Her feet flat and side by side on the polished wood floor, they're the only part of her not statue-still.
Mrs. Clark says, "Did you remember something?" Her mother says, "You had on your new black dress..." She says, "The short-short one."
Mrs. Clark goes to put the bathrobe around her daughter, tucking it up tight around her neck. She says, "It happened in that gallery. Across from the antique store."
Cassandra doesn't look away from her own dark reflection in the off television. She doesn't blink, and the bathrobe slips down, putting both her breasts back out in the cold.
And her mother says, what did she see?
"I don't know," Cassandra says. She says, "I can't say."
"Let me get my notes," Mrs. Clark tells her. She says, "I think I have this figured out."
It's when she comes back from the bedroom, her thick brown folder of notes in one hand, the folder open so she can pick through it with her other hand, when she looks around the living room, Cassandra's gone.
At that moment, Mrs. Clark's saying, "The way the Nightmare Box works is, the front..."
But Cassandra's not in the kitchen or the bathroom. Cassandra's not in the basement. That's their whole house. She's not out in the backyard or on the stairs. Her bathrobe is still on the sofa. Her purse and shoes and coat, none of them are gone. Her suitcase is still on her bed, half packed. Only Cassandra's gone.
At first, Cassandra said it was nothing. According to the notes, it was an art-gallery opening.
There in Mrs. Clark's notes, it says, "Random Interval Timer..."
Her notes say, "The man hung himself..."
It started on the night all the galleries open their new shows, and downtown was crowded with people, everyone still dressed up from the office or school and holding hands. Medium-young couples in dark clothes that wouldn't show the dirt from a taxi seat. Wearing the good jewlry they couldn't wear on the subway. Their teeth white, as if they never used teeth for anything except to smile.
They were all watching each other look at art before watching each other eat dinner.
It's all in Mrs. Clark's notes.
Cassandra had on her new black dress. The short-short one.
That night, she wanted as long glass of white wine, just to hold it. She didn't dare life the glass, because her dress was strapless, so she kept her arms down at each side, holding her elbows close in. The flexed some muscle across her chest. Some new msucle she'd gound playing basketball in school. It pushed her breasts so high her cleavage seemed to start at her throat.
That dress, it was black and stitched with black sequins and beads. It was a crust of rought black glitter with her breats pink and meaty inside. A hard black shell.
Both her hands, the way her painted fingernails meshed together, they looked handcuffed around teh stem of her wineglass. Her hair coiled and pinned up high, it was so heavy and thick. Strands and curls were coming undone, dangling, but she didn't dare reach up to fix it. Her bare shoulders, her hair coming apart, her high heels clenched the muscles of each leg, pushed her ass up, curving it out at the bottom of a long zipper.
Her perfect lipstick mouth. No red smeared on the glass she didn't dark lift. Her eyes looking huge under long eyelashes. Her green eyes the only part of her moving in the crowded room.
Standing and smiling in the center of an art gallery, she was the only woman you'd remember. Cassandra Clark, only fifteen years old.
This was less than a week before she disappeared, just three nights.
Sitting now in the warm spot and ashes Cassandra left on the sofa, Mrs. Clark looks thorugh the folder of notes.
The gallery owner was talking to them, to them and the people gathered around.
"Rand," her nothes say. The owner's name was Rand.
The gallery owner was showing them a box on three tall legs. A tripod. The box was black, the size of an old-time camera. The kind of camera where a man might stand behind, hunched under a sheet of black canvas to protect the glass plate coated with chemicals inside. The kind of Civil War camera that took your picture with a flash of gunpowder. A mushroom cloud of gray smoke that hurt your nose. When you first walked into the gallery, that's how it looked, this box on three legs.
The box was painted black.
"Lacquered," the gallery owner said.
It was lacquered black, waxed and smudged gray with fingerprints.
The gallery ownder was smiling down the stiff, strapless front of Cassandra's dress. He had a thin mustache, plucked and trimmed perfect as two eyebrows. He had a little devil's beard that made his chin look pointed. He wore a banker's blue suit and a single earring, too big, too fake-bright to be anything but a real diamond.
The box was fitted along every seam with complicated moldings, ridges and grooves, that made it look heavy as a bank vault. Every seam hidden under detail and thick paint.
"Like a little coffin," somebody in the gallery said. A man with a ponytail, chewing gum.
On each side of the box were brass handles. You had to hold them both, the gallery owner told them. To complete a circuit. If you wanted to make the box work right, you held both handles. You pressed your eye to the brass peephole in the front. Your left eye. And you looked inside.
Person after person, a hundred people must've looked that night, but nothing happened. They held on and looked inside, but all they saw was their own eye reflected in the darkness behind the little glass lens. All they heard was a little sound. A clock, ticking. Slow as the drip... drip... drip... from a leaky faucet. The little ticking from inside the smudged, black-painted box.
The box felt sticky with its layer of grime.
The gallery owner held up one finger. He tapped his knuckle against the side of the box and said, "Some kind of Random Interval Timer."
It could run for a month, always ticking. Or it could run for another hour. But the moment it stopped, that would be the moment to look inside.
"Here," the gallery ownder said, Rand said, and he tapped a little brass push-button, small as a doorbell, on the side of the box.
You hold the handles, and you wait. When the ticking stops, he said, you look and push the button.
One a little brass nameplate, a plate screwed to the top of the box, if you stood on tiptoes, you could read "The Nightmare Box." And the name "Roland Whittier." The brass handles were green from people holding tight, waiting. The brass fitting around the peephole was tarnished with their breath. The black outsides were waxed with grease from their skin rubbing, pressed close.
Holding the handles, you could feel it inside. The ticking. The timer. Steady and forever as a heartbeat.
The moment it stopped, Rand said, the push-button would trigger a flash of light inside. A single pulse of light.
What people saw then, Rand didn't know. The box came from the closed antique shop across the street. There it had sat for nine years and never stopped ticking. The man who owned it, the antiques dealer, he always told customers it might be broken. Or it was a joke.
For nine years, the box sat ticking on a shelf, until dust buried it. Until, one day, the dealer's grandson found it, not ticking. The grandson was nineteen years old, going to college to become a lawyer. This teenager without a hair on his chest, all days girls came into the shop to use their eyes on him. A good kid with a scholarship playing soccer, a bank account, and his own car, her had a summer job at the antique shop, dusting. When he found the box, it was silent - ready and waiting. He took the handes. He pressed the button and looked inside.

To be continued....

Chuck Palahniuk


Sunday, November 27, 2005

swallow and chew

Originally uploaded by Pancakes.
I chose this picture tonight because it reminds me of the book I finished reading today during my break at work.
11 AM to 9 PM... I was at Bricks. Harassing and being harassed by De (eventually returning his hat as a peace offering... which so isn't going to work out), dealing with shitty customers, teetering around in high heels, bussing tables... blah blah blah. The two hours between shifts I spent at the bar, franticly writing. First about all the thought buildup in my head right now, and second about the book.. Haunted.. the most amazing book that everyone on this planet should read. It was gruesome and beautiful.
I had really good mac and cheese for lunch. I bought myself a new pen and some candy canes.

Then I left work (with three paychecks from Blue Cactus and $30 in tips... leading to me entertaining the desire to buy some nice new fitted grey pants for work... but no, I'm a good girl and put all the money in the bank to save)....... got home around nine, and spent the last 45 minutes working on a reply to Jo's email. I'm worried about going about this correctly... so when, after sending the email, I checked my horoscope and it told me not to push my luck with business or personal partners... I just about choked. I think I did well, though. The email is just suggestive enough so as not to mislead him, and quite mellow and nonchalant so as not to scare him away.

I have no idea where I read it, but this quote always floats about in my mind.. about how you cannot "hide love for long where it exists, nor feign it where it does not."

De just depresses me. I hate that I let myself get involved with him in any way. Never again will I ever so blindly date anyone that I also have to work with. If and when it ever happens again... it will be done CAREFULLY.
I hate that he won't just leave me alone, and I can't just let myself leave him alone. There's just this magnetism there... a pull of desire, hatred, drama, fear, and a whole lot of bullshit.
There was my peace offering:
De: "So where's my hat?" (I believe this was the tenth time he confronted me during the morning shift)
Me: ~sighs~ "It's in the most obvious place you could think of." I reach under the table by the hostess stand and pull it out. As he reaches for it, I rip it away and put it on my head. "Wait, wait just a second. I've decided on what I want for the hat."
De: "K, what."
Me: "Peace," at this point he interrupts me... as he ALWAYS DOES EVERY TIME THERE IS ANY CONVERSATION!! HE INTERRUPTS AND ARGUES.
De: "Now what the hell.. I was saying yesterday that we should just be nice to each other."
Me: "Hey... shh. Peace, and friendship. K?" He begins to argue again, but I hold out my hand to shake on it, and say, "Friends?"
De: "K, fine. Sex in the dish hole it is."
I take my hand away.
Me: "No! Not that.. just friendship." He shakes my hand, and rips the hat away.
Then, maybe an hour later we have a fight in the dish hole over organizing the dirty plates. Eventually he turns it around and says,
"What's wrong? I was just joking."
Me: "Uh huh."
De: "I was. You need to calm down."
Me: "I can't calm down!"
De: "Why not?"
Me: "Because of you. As soon as I'm around you... you just, tense me up and piss me off!" I'm turned to the side, clenching my fists and gesturing at the air.
De: "You need to just calm down, girl. Just calm down, girl."
I walk away, just thinking, ~Oh shut up you jackass.~
I think we just can't help but love to hate each other.
Maybe we can have a friendship, though. Maybe.. over time.. we'll get used to each other. Who knows where the hell we'll end up.

Anyway. What's the saying? Oh yes. Boys suck.

I'm glad my health is improving. I haven't had any headaches, and I can now take full breaths.
I really need to start working out again.


if you give 'em time

Originally uploaded by Pancakes.
I should be in bed right now, accumulating enough rest and relaxation to get me through the 11am-9pm work day I have tomorrow. Instead I'm here, sipping coke of all things and typing away. I just have too much to say to sleep on it.

First of all, I just arrived home from a night out with M, S, and her brother A. He is an awesome guy. Gorgeous, hilarious, and all around nice and easy to get along with. I just need to figure out how to be a more entertaining person, so the next time he's around we won't all end up playing cards all night. He's easily amused, though, so I don't think it felt like much of a downer for any of us.

I had a very... strange night at work. De was the dish boy, and made a point to make things as difficult for me as possible. He complained about every little dish I didn't scrape.. and eventually I just threw whatever I had in a big pile... just to piss him off. He retaliated by not doing any silverware. I went from yelling at him to begging and saying that I'd do anything (ANYTHING) if he'd just clean the silverware for us. He didn't until forced by the manager. There were odd little squabbles between he and I all night. Somehow, somewhere along the line he suggested we just start over and be nice to each other. At the time I was so wound up and stressed out by him I couldn't cool off and let my gaurd down, so it wasn't until the end of the night that I began to agree. We were in the dish hole, discussing a peace treaty between us when I noticed an evil look in his eye.. so I began to question the situation. So, randomly, I ripped the Bricks hat off of him and walked away. For a while I perched it on my head and pranced around, bussing tables and laughing with the other hostess. Once I saw him talking to the manager, though, I stuck it behind a shelf near the hostess podium. When asked about it by another kitchen boy I replied quite frankly that I had thrown it in the dumpster out back. He believed me. Not only that, but he, De, and K all ended up out there looking for it. I must say... it was quite satisfying to have them fooled. It got odd, though, when I was taking a break out behind the building and De came out to pester me about the hat. He would not leave me alone, and ended up blocking the door to the kitchen when I tried to escape. I simply tried walking away, but he kept jumping in front of me and doing everything in his power to keep me contained. The entire time... the hat was under my jacket, held to my side with my elbow. It's a miracle I didn't drop it, and he didn't feel it when he had his arms around me, holding me tight from behind to keep me from running.
I don't know how, but eventually I got away from him and left. I figure tomorrow I'll just walk into work wearing it. Should be simple and funny, I think.
I do mostly wish he would just leave me alone, though. Perhaps he just likes the drama... likes to see me riled up.

So, interesting development in my book... last night at the Bluebird show, I was constantly reminded of Jo by John Randall. There was just something about him. It made me miss him, and want to see him again.
I hope I'm using the right code name here. I'm talking about the 35 year old. But anyway..
So last night after I posted, I went to Jo's website and started surfing around. I found this sweltering photo of him, which didn't help my longing for him. Then I happened upon his email address, and typed out a quick note to send without much intention of actually sending it. Surprisingly, though.. I did. AND. He responded this morning.
Now I don't know what to do. Because.. YES I want him. And YES I know very well that I'll have to play my cards skillfully to bag him. This is a complicated situation, and I must be careful. If I come on too strong.. he will vanish. I'm thinking about testing my patience here, and going about this in the least suggestive way possible. If and when I see him again, I'll have to make sure I don't just pounce on him like my impulses would tell me to.
My mother knows about the situation, and as I gushed about him she stopped me a moment to consider some things. As the age difference came up, I said how I don't think it should be an issue. It's not about age, it's about maturity and mental states. I said how initially, I don't think it matters. "Initially," she said, "It doesn't. But take a good look at me, and think about it. I married a man 13 years my senior, and now we're getting to where he wants to retire.... and I'm no where near that point!"
Then as we continued the discussion, she mentioned, "And you have to stop and try to figure out why he is the way he is. Why... a gorgeous, talented musician like him... is he still single at the age of 35?"
She has good points.
But I think I know what I want, and I plan to get it by strategic means. It will be a challenge, and I'm up for it.
At the end of his email, he casually mentioned that I should let him know if I ever want guitar or bass lessons. I think that might just be the perfect thing. Not only will I be with him, but I'll learn something too. Hell.. I'll be learning alot if this rolls out the way I expect it to.
Of course, it could very well... and probably will.. take some unexpected turns that will throw me off. I've just got to keep my head on straight.
Fuck. Who knows. Maybe nothing will happen.

Either way, I'm excited to see what happens.


Saturday, November 26, 2005

nothing but beautiful lies

Originally uploaded by Pancakes.
I just arrived home from the Bluebird cafe.. some legendary place here in Nashville where all these old and new country people have played for years on end. It's a tradition.. my mother and aunt sing there every year after Thanksgiving, and fill the place up with their most loyal fans, friends, family, and business associates. Last year I went and felt inspired. This year I went and felt alienated and out of place. It was a depressing experience. And I don't think it was just me who was in a funk. My entire family was a bit off center....
more then usual, I mean.

The performance was great. John Randall opened up for them (dude was at the CMA's, apparently), but left with his pretty little blonde wife to catch a midnight bus out of town before I had the chance to give him my prettiest smile. He's a cute guy, although he could use a bit of trimming on that goatee he's got sprouting on his chin. My cousin was saying she had a thing for him, but knowing he was too old had settled her down when he was on the road with her dad (Vince Gill) last. He's 37, and when she told me I looked at her all confused like, curious that she thought it was so old. She's 23 at the moment. I debated telling her about my date with the 35 year old....
and decided against it.

I have got to re-activate myself, or something. I'm just in a rut. I need something. Some love. Some inspiration. Some progress. I can't spend another day doing nothing.

I realized tonight... something about me. I always feel as if I'm in the way. Like I'm uninvited, and taking up room. That's why I keep quiet, stay in the corner, guide the attention away from myself... because I always feel like some kind of burden.
My mother's been suggesting therapy again.
I think I might take her up on it this time. Now that I feel more like.. myself.


Thursday, November 24, 2005

and the sky is grey

Originally uploaded by Pancakes.
5 minutes ago as I stood rubbing lotion on myself in the bathroom, I heard my mother quietly talking to my sister, explaining her latest theory: "I think Annie resents me because of the whole.. Jehovah's Witness thing. For depriving her of a normal, you know... like not letting her have holidays and stuff." My sister responded with a dismissive 'uh huh' while I watched my face scrunch up into a defiant 'yeah right' expression. If the woman knows me AT ALL.. how could she possibly think I'd give half a shit about leading a "normal" life?
I haven't so much as mentioned the witnesses for a longer period of time then even I can fathom. I wandered from the bathroom to here, completely vexed by the her idea. Then I sat down and saw the pages of the the Babble poem I posted yesterday still sitting on the desk. You know she saw it.. you know she read it.. you know it made her think.
She's just more then willing to pounce on any shred of an artifact that might give clues about what the hell is churning about in my brain at the moment. Therefore, one little shred, and POUNCE... ~oh my god a poem regarding god she must hate me because I forced her into religion.~
No, honey. That's just part of it.


Wednesday, November 23, 2005

I only fainted. I fainted... and you ate my ass?

Originally uploaded by Pancakes.
A poem about Reverand Godless

"Until Genesis, chapter eleven," says the Reverend
Godless, "we had no war."
Until God set us to fight each other, for the rest of
human history.

Reverand Godless onstage, his eyebrows are plucked and
into twin-penciled arches with, underneath each,
a rainbow or sparkle eyeshadow in shades from red to
And on one bare bicep muscle, bulging,
below the spaghetti strap of a red-sequined evening
tattoed there is a skull face with, under the chin, these
Death Before Dishonor.

Onstange, instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment:
A travelogue that shows churches, mosques, and
Religious leaders in jewelled robes
waving to crowds from bulletproofed town cars.

Reverend Godless, he says, "On a plain in the land of
Shinar, all people toiled together."
All humanity with a shared vision,
a great noble dream they worked side by side to fulfill
in this time before armies and weapons and battles.
Then God looked down to see their tower, the people's
shared dream,
inching up, just a little too close for comfort.
And God said, "Behold, they are one people... and this is
only the beginning
of what they will do... Nothing that they propose to do
will now be impossible for them..."
His words, in His Bible. The Book of Genesis, chapter eleven.

"So our God," says Reverand Godless, his bare arms and
calf muscles stippled
with the black marks of a shaved hair, growing back in
each pore,
he says, "our all powerful God got so scared He
scattered the human race
across the face of the earth,
and shattered their language to keep His children apart."

Part female impersonator, part retired U.S. Marine, the
Reverend Godless,
sparkling in his red sequins, says,
"An almighty God this insecure?"
Who pits his children against each other, to keep them
He says, "This is the God we're supposed to worship?"

~Chuck Palahniuk,


Tuesday, November 22, 2005

inject yourselves with liberty

Originally uploaded by Pancakes.
I need to get creative today. I've spent the majority of my time this week on the couch, desperately trying to blow up all the tanks and shoot all the bastards who get in the way of me getting through the hoover dam challenge in goldeneye. I'm pissed.

So I shouldn't even touch the xbox today. S is coming over at some point to take it away so her and her brother can play over Thanksgiving. He lives in another state and they rarely get to see each other.

I have to work tonight, and although it won't be much.. I'm not looking forward to it. No one will be there, and there won't be much to do. I'll get paid to stand there and waste time. I don't know if my boss will be there tonight or not. He hasn't seen my hair, and I have no idea how he'll react. I'm thinking maybe I should just stick to wearing a scarf around it.
I do like it the way it is, I'm just not planning to keep it this way. Once the roots start growing in it will be glaringly obvious, so I'm trying to think of a way to incorporate some brown streaks or something. Maybe I'll talk to my sister about it. I'm pretty good with hair color, but I'd like to have a cosmetologist on the job if it concerns highlighting or adding chunks of color.
I looked at the hot topic website the other day to see what other shades of unnatural color I could play around with. One color I've never had in my hair is green. Green and red/orange could be a vomit-like mix though, either that or Christmas-y, depending on the shades. I don't want either of those effects.
Blah.. I don't know. It doesn't matter anyway.

I think I'll go off and try to create something beautiful now.


Monday, November 21, 2005

enjoy your last taste of freedom

Originally uploaded by Pancakes.
Well here's my hair.
I'm slowly falling in love with it.
It's 1 PM and I'm up.
What now?


Sunday, November 20, 2005

nobody loves me

Originally uploaded by Pancakes.
Yesterday my hair went from brown, to orange and pink, to orange and yellow, to flourescent red. I like this red. It's nice and bizarre. But I don't want to have to feel like I need to wear a scarf to hide it every night at work. So I've wasted yet another $10 on yet another box of hair color, this one also red but a few shades darker. I'm not buying anymore hair color, I don't care what it looks like after tonight.
I'm basically the only hostess working this week. We're closed Wednesday and Thursday, so that's nice, but I'm completely swamped with shifts for the weekend. I'm actually scheduled for a double on Sunday.. something that has never been done deliberately before. It's always been from switching shifts.

I think my health is deteriorating significantly. I've had a pounding headache everyday for the past week or so. I have a strange ripping pain in my right ribs, so I can't take full breaths. My right eye is constantly bothered by the contact in it right now, and when I take it out I've noticed my vision is about 90% worse then it was before. I've become addicted to advil, of all things.
I've decided the headaches could be side effects of a few things:
A. Nicotine withdrawal
B. Caffiene withdrawal
C. Vision imbalances
D. Constant tv viewing during Xbox gameplay
I don't know what the hell has happened to my ribs, but it needs to fix itself.. and quick. During the day I don't notice it much, but at a certain point I remember it and suddenly can't stand the pain.
I know.. I need to go to the doctor. That's just something I don't do, though. I'm such a strong believer in "it'll go away." Sure, if this keeps up for another week or so, maybe I'll get it checked out. Otherwise I'm just going to tough it out. I'll survive. I think.


Saturday, November 19, 2005

i could change my life to better suit your mood

Originally uploaded by Pancakes.
Where the hell have i been?

Apparently, when i say i want to be entertained, i mean business.
After being rudely disturbed by De's appearance at taco bell while s and i were chowing down on thursday, i suggested we stop by toys r us to mill about for something to entertain us for the rest of the day. What did we end up leaving with? An Xbox.
I have a fucking xbox.
And i'm halfway towards being the world champion on the racing game we rented from blockbuster. I can't remember what it's called, and can't get up to go find out because i have a massive cat perched on my lap, but i think i'll buy it. Awesome game. Oh yeah... and that massive cat? That's why most of this post isn't correctly capitolized... it's too much trouble when typing with one hand. My other hand is stuck underneath her, unable to move since if it shifts she will fall, and i'd feel kind of bad.

So yeah, that's where i've been.... glued to the xbox.
The fight club game we got is infuriating... i cannot figure out how to break the chemical guy's arm! I just keep beating him to a pulp, which isn't the point.
S and I bought one game.. Goldeneye. Neither one of us have done much on it, besides shooting each other as much as possible.
I must say.. this game system has potential to completely destroy relationships.

Modeling class was good today. N picked out my pics for the agency book, and i liked her choices.

Anyway. I'm off to color my hair (blonde. omg kill me im actually allowing myself to be blonde. i'm going to hate it. i'll probably have to buy red hair color tonight after work so i can fix the horrible mistake i'm about to make), do a little gaming, then i'm at work from 6-10. Hmm. I just remembered... I wonder if Co will call me at some point.

We'll see.


Wednesday, November 16, 2005

All of us food that hasn't died

Originally uploaded by Pancakes.
Work wasn't as bad as I convinced myself it would be. I looked fucking smokin' from investing a bit of time and effort in my clothes, hair, and makeup for the night... and J and I got along famously. The only factor causing any sort of stress for the entire shift was De. His unclear report of the situation between us left J questioning me about everything. I explained it all to her, honestly and thoroughly. She's been away from work for two weeks because of some illness, and basically missed the entire thing.
De, being the immature little fuck that he is, began ignoring J and then accusing her of being on my side after she and I had talked for awhile. All I could do was react with disbelief. ~My side? What? I have no side. This isn't a competition. There are no sides.. there is no situation. It is over, and done, and in the past. Why does De have to make everything as difficult and dramatic as possible?~
Unfortunately enough, I went from barely thinking about it at the beginning of the night, to being a bit deflated and upset by it by the time I was leaving.
It's just..... why does he have to care?

Since C has officially left Bricks, and the holidays are coming up with everyone going on vacation.. bossman D has decided that we must hire more hostesses. That upsets me. Because yes... I have alot against new hostesses. Too often I've had to deal with completely moronic little twits that stand there stupidly and decide not to do their jobs. I am not putting up with that again. If they slack off I WILL switch to bitch mode and get them up off their asses.
Not only are they new hostesses.. but they're both friends of J. The girl has improved, and I've gotten to the point where I like her and can deal with her bouts of drama and slacker-like attitude. She said herself, though, that they're exactly like her, and tend to be stupid. GREAT.
I hate to pass judgement before I've even seen or met them, but I cannot help but dread their arrival.

I'm now officially switching Tr's blog name to Co, don't ask why.
I do hope Co calls me this weekend. I'm still in the ~want to be with someone~ mode, and I find myself really wanting to spend some time with him, just the two of us.

I have the day off tomorrow and I'm hoping to do something interesting with it. The last few days I've spent on the couch have left me in a rut. Luckily S said she may stop by at some point, so perhaps we can get creative and entertain ourselves.

Anyway. The night is young... so, I'm off to get creative.


Tuesday, November 15, 2005

when it hasn't been your day, your week, your month, or even your year

Originally uploaded by Pancakes.
What an amazing waste of a day. Someday I will look back at this and resent my mindless squandering of youth and potential.
Wait... not someday. I'm doing it right now.

I tried though, I really did. I woke up at the time my alarm went off, exactly eight hours after I went to bed. I read chapters of Haunted, my latest Chuck Plahniuk. I put on clothes. I made a batch of brownies. I watched movies. I cooked.. and created my own damn good recipe.
But in between I just laid there.. immobile and empty, letting the time and energy slip away as I stared blankly at a box with moving pictures. I shoved pills down my throat in a desperate attempt to relieve a pounding headache. I sweat, underneath a crocheted blanket my grandmother made years ago. That grandmother went through a three hour surgery today getting a hip rep. The family called from the hospital once or twice..nd as sick, twisted, demented, and screwed up as it sounds.. every time my phone rang, I thoroughly expected to hear that she had passed away. And.. the thought didn't bother me in the least.

Not because I dislike her in any way, or wish her dead.. but, although I haven't even seen her in months, what I hear about her situation doesn't suggest much... quality of life.

I find myself dreading work tomorrow. I happen to be working with J and De... two people I wouldn't much mind being completely cut off from.

I'm back to my good old depressed self again. Most of the time, left searching for a reason to function.
Is it some sort of sign that every single time I open the refrigerator or medicine cabinet door and see prescription drug bottles.. I see a flash of myself using them for a suicide attempt?


Sunday, November 13, 2005


Originally uploaded by Pancakes.
So.... what was the last thing I posted about?
Oh yes... day off yesterday. That's something I don't have again until Tuesday.

The entire social thing went well last night. It actually worked out. Which is mind blowing to me. Yet, it did go well, and I was profoundly satisfied with the cleaning job I did in my room.. as I actually ended up with about 4 people in there. The house ended up being filled to it's sleeping area capacity. Every couch and mattress was taken by someone.

This morning at about 9 AM I was sweeping my floor, picking up tubes of liptick and eyeshadow the cat had knocked off my dresser, and I had one of those realization moments. It was something I had often imagined actually happening. I suddenly paused and looked over at my bed and had the realization/thought that.... "there's a man in my bed." There was... and it was beautiful. His sock covered feet were sticking out from under the pink comforter he was curled up underneath. The head of short black hair I had run my hands through the night before was barely visible, buried deep in my grasshopper pillow. He looked long, lean, and man-like as he slept quietly. Twas a nice little moment there, until the broom I was holding conveniently slipped out of my grasp and smacked the wood floor with a loud snap. He woke instantly, and turned over to see me there picking up the broom. I don't remember what I said to him, either hello or good morning. I was due at work soon, though, so we both got dressed and talked a bit more. We made vague plans for next weekend, he said he'd definitely call me, and he kissed me goodbye, reminding me of the fun night we shared. I've found me a great one... great looks, great personality, great guy in general, great kisser, great everything. He's basically exactly what I've been looking for. He's EVEN in art school right now. Fucking artist, could I possibly have done any better?
It's cool... and I do hope it clicks between us once we've spent more time together.

Things are bizarre between De and I right now. Last night all of us people that were going out met up at Bricks. De happened to be working, and Tr and I happened to end up right in front of him in clear view at the bar, talking and flirting and obviously on a date. All the hostesses were all jumpy and excited about him being there, the waiters were surprised and distant, and the kitchen boys all sort of just stared. I talked to C and B about it that night, saying how awkward I felt... saying I had no intention of things happening that way. They just laughed and told me that I "should have seen the LOOK on De's FACE!!!"
Talking about it tonight with Da, I said, "I totally didn't plan on that... I felt like such a bitch." He replied in a matter-of-fact way, "Well, hell, he deserves it.. guy's been acting like a dick!"

I'm just happy to have the rest of the night to myself. No more people, no more obligations, no more work. It was such a long work day for me.. and every second of it I was plagued with uncomfortable, confusing, conflicting thoughts about everything (literally... EVERYTHING) in my life right now. I'm going to curl up on the couch now and distract myself.


Saturday, November 12, 2005

hold it down

Originally uploaded by Pancakes.
I am so sick of looking at myself. Let us looks at Edi instead. Precious perfect sweetness kitty.

I just got every single photo from the shoot printed. Once I decide (with the help of agency owner N) which ones to put in the book and which to keep for portfolios... I don't know what the hell I'm going to do with all those pictures!

I'm actually doing something tonight. It's actually working, I've actually successfully pulled people together and we are going out and doing something for a damn good reason. Tonight is C's last night at Bricks, so last night I randomly asked if I could take her out as a sort of goodbye dinner. She agreed, and we've ended up with quite a few people to come along. I'm looking forward to it.
Plus, the date with Tr is still on. He called me today, and I invited him to come along with us. He's coming, so we'll see what happens with that.

Anyway. I'm going to straighten things up.. my bedroom, since I have no way of knowing how many people may end up hanging around in there tonight. The last few times I had people sleep over they were crunched up on the uncomfortable couch in my den. Fuck that.. this time, if anyone is staying they will be comfortable.
I may whip up a batch of pot brownies too... we'll see.

Tomorrow is nothing but a long work day, from 11-9, first half at Blue Cactus and second half at Bricks. I WILL enjoy this day off.


Thursday, November 10, 2005

don't do it

Originally uploaded by Pancakes.
I'm sitting here with a blanket wrapped around me and a bag of ice balanced on my head. This sickness knocked me out for the past couple of days, and until now I haven't been capable of movement. At least I'm up off the couch, though... that's progress.
I took the night off of work in hopes of doing some recovering tonight. I'm hoping to be on my feet again by this weekend. Not only to I HAVE to work tomorrow, but I have a date on Saturday. Tr called me today. Really... these things always happen when you LEAST expect them to.

When Harry Met Sally starts in about 2 minutes. So, being as pathetic as I am.. I am now returning to the couch.
Can someone make my head stop pounding? Please?


Monday, November 07, 2005

why do you get all the love in the world?

Originally uploaded by Pancakes.
Here is one of about 100 shots from the photo shoot. It's not the best and not the worst, I just sort of randomly chose it to post. I have to pick 3 for the agency book. I'll probably get quite a few printed, though.

I've just been in this depressive mode lately. I'm about 90% sure I'm getting more and more sick by the second, as well. I have two theories.. the spiritual/emotional and the scientific. The cause of my whole body and head ache, cough, constant shivering and digestive issues could have been caused by
A. (spiritual/emotional) The unimaginable highs and lows of my mood, and the waves of high stress caused by certain people in the past few days.
B. (scientific) 3 AM on Saturday night, which I spent with C and S completely shit faced... galavanting about my neighborhood in the freezing cold rain in nothing but jeans and flimsy tee shirts.
Either way, my lack of sleep hasn't helped. I'm sick, depressed, and sleep deprived. Every time I've walked into work this weekend someone has commented on how hungover/tired/zombie-like I've looked. That's exactly the opposite of what I wanted, though. I dreamed of walking into Bricks or Blue Cactus with my spirits high, my eyes bright, and my attitude just peachy. (As close to that as is possible for me.) Why the HELL would I EVER want that? Well.. I didn't want De or anyone who knew about the situation (EVERYONE) to think I was all hurt by what happened between us Friday night. I believe the scene has thus been coined the 'De and Annie smackdown in the back parking lot.' I'm not going to describe anything here, I'll just inform you of the FACT that it's not happening between us and I am completely and totally over him. I mean, really... I always have hated him. I just want(ed?) to fuck him........ angrily.
From now on, every time someone he's bragged to asks me if I have a thing for him, I'd love to be able to say no. I'd love to completely deny it, and comment on what a concieted, close minded, moronic hick he is. I'm just too real and brutally honest for that, though. (ha.) Which is why when one of the Blue Cactus waitresses who says very little to me walked up and inquired about my feelings for De (right after he left... ironically) I couldn't just say no. I believe my answer was, "Not really. I mean, I actually really, really dislike him.... but I still kind of want him. You know what I mean?" Surprisingly enough, she did.
It's not enough to hold my interest, so basically I'm the only one at work who isn't tense about the situation. I'm fine. Yet apparently everyone else thinks it's so bad, that the schedule had been carefully executed so as not to allow De and I in the same restaurant at any given time.
It's hilarious how personal this business establishment really is.

I keep thinking about the JD look-alike from a few days ago. Did I ever give him a name for this blog? We'll go with Jo. I really want to spend more time with him, although I know why he didn't call when he said he would. The age difference is freaking him out.
We'll see what we can do about that.

Saturday night before C and I got to my house, we were roaming around when a troop of 12 year old skateboarders rolled by. Then.... it was like a movie scene, one last boy went by, kind of lagging behind. He was older, and gorgeous. When I commented, I was rather easily convinced by her and B to talk to him. It was the easiest encounter I've ever had. I ran up to him (I must say I looked killer in my green and blue plaid 50's vintage dress with a studded bustier peeking out from underneath the unbuttoned front) and got his number within seconds.
`"Hey, you. Yeah, you.. I'm Annie, what's your name?"
"Uh..... W."
`"Ah. Well, I'll think you're hot, can I have your number?"
At this point the 12 year olds were staring, and one of them ran up to inform us girls that he was the guy's brother and could not believe this was actually happening. W seemed... surprised. He hestitated for but a moment, then gave it to me.
It was just fun, and I didn't think I would call him. We were around for a bit longer, though, and ended up talking to him again. He's 16, lives in West Nashville, smokes weed and cigarettes, does shrooms, goes to some school I've never heard of, and looks damn good on a skateboard. When we found out we were the same age I joked, saying, "Well now I have to call you!"
I might. Maybe next time I'm at Cafe Coco.

Despite recent references, I really don't see myself as the dating type. Even though at the moment I'm continously meeting new people, getting and giving numbers, and flirting like hell... I've always been against going from guy to guy. It's just hard to meet someone who's right for the position I'm looking for. After my period of time of being just dandy on my own, I really want to be with someone. Most people just want a good fuck or two. The only one I've found who went beyond that is 19 years my senior.

Anyway. Like I said, I'm feeling like hell at the moment. I want to curl up on the couch with a random movie and some ice cream to clog up my sinuses.


Thursday, November 03, 2005

she turns me on

Originally uploaded by Pancakes.

Well. It does seem as if I've always been right on the edge. Throughout my life I've continuously been mature for my age, and managed to use this to my advantage. When you have the ability to level with adults, then turn around and party with people your own age.. it presents certain oppurtunities.
Perhaps that's why within recent weeks I've switched back and forth between drinking beer and playing 20 questions with 16 year olds, to sharing deep conversation with and kissing a 35 year old man.
You did not just read that.
But yes... the one I didn't expect to hear from again? He called.
Perhaps I should be creeped out, and I'm sure many of you are. I haven't decided yet, although spending time with him has hinted towards trusting him. We've connected on many levels, I find him attractive and interesting... I'm not quick to dismiss things just because of our ages. After all, it is just a number. I'm fortunate, however, to not be a complete moron. So we'll see what happens.

I find myself with quite a few things on my mind. Things haven't EXACTLY been resolved with De. We go from ignoring each other to eye fucking within one work night. There's just zero communication there. His lack of maturity and assertiveness gets annoying.

I suppose I'm just hoping this doesn't come crashing down on me. It's just the fact that none of the relationships that have been hinted at have actually become serious relationships yet. Therefore, at the moment.. I'm not cheating on anyone or doing anything wrong. If any of them do, there's the possibility I could be presented with a problem or two.

It all feels odd... I certainly wasn't expecting any of this to happen.
Somehow I've managed to develop an eery sort of talent for infiltrating the male world.

I remember the last time my mother called me a child. It was a year or two ago. She looked at me, and in response to some suggestive comment I made, laughed and said somewhat affectionately, "You're just a little kid." I looked straight back at her, stared into her eyes, and responded in my deadly serious matter-of-fact way, "No I'm not." It was a moment of pure realization, and the look on her face was beyond words.


Wednesday, November 02, 2005

just skin and bone

Guess who actually called me? That lovely JD look alike from Cafe Coco. The gorgeous, conversationally talented, interesting, intriguing man I spent 4 hours completely wrapped up in. He called me while I was at work and left a message. I instantly felt like shit. I did the considerate, responsible thing and called him a few hours later, leaving a message fessing up to the lie about my age. In reality, it only shaved three years off his guess... but, it's a three years that makes a difference. I explained why I misled him, and asked him to call me if he was still interested. I don't expect to hear from him.
I am hoping to hear from Tr within the next few days. I had a very good feeling about him.
It turns out I'm working every day this week, and each and every day.. De is working as well. That's unsettling.

I just realized it's November.. and I had planned to finish this last school year in October. I've done all the tests, so that's encouraging, but I need to get cracking and figure out what to do to move on to the next year.

I'm trying to decide if I should sleep or not. I feel myself shutting down, but it would be good to just stay up through the day and collapse in bed tonight at an early hour, just to reset my mental clocks.

I use the word 'just' way too much.


Tuesday, November 01, 2005

I want to feel you from the inside

Originally uploaded by Pancakes.
There's just so much to say.

The NIN concert was very cool. I felt beautiful and energized the entire night. Well, most of the night anyway. Just after Queens of the Stone Age played, S and I were standing against some railing staring out over the sea of black, and I looked at her and said, "Is it sad that just the thought that T is here.. completely depresses me?" "Yes," she said, "This may be a once in a lifetime experience for you, so why waste it thinking about him. Fuck him!" I just shrugged. Although he did come to mind quite a bit, I let go pretty easily. Sitting there with a fairly good view of the stage... I just came alive when they played my favorites. That makes it all worth it.
After the concert we stood on the corner and just people watched. Out on Halloween night to see a loved-by-goth band? Can you even think of a better people watching oppurtunity? We saw two or three Captain Jack Sparrows, and about five Charlies from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. There were quite a few characters to catch your eye.
Randomly, some guy jumped up on a newspaper stand thing and told us that he had social anxiety problems so he was going to challenge it by talking to us. He was off-putting to me, so I kept my distance while S had some sort of conversation with him. I spent more time just looking around and quietly observing.
Also randomly, I looked up and caught the eye of a very cute young guy. He had dark hair, fair skin, and was dressed pretty well in black and grey. We stared, and just at the moment he was beginning to smile I glanced away. (Damn me...) I continued to watch him out of the corner of my eye, though, realizing just how amazingly cute he was. He seemed calm, just standing there puffing a cigarette with his friend. Eventually he moved and sat down, leaning back against a pole. We locked eyes a few more times, but it really helped when his redheaded friend came over and playfully asked where the party was at. A small conversation ensued, and he asked me if I had something (I cannot for the life of me remember what it was he asked for.. I just remember it being slightly odd), I told him that no, I didn't have it, but used the opportunity to ask if he had a cigarette and a light. He did.
So I stood there sucking it down, sort of in my own little world and sort of keeping an eye on the cute boy. His friend eventually drifted away, and then it happened... the right moment. We fixated on each other, and this time I followed through and gave him my best smile in return to the sexy one he was sending my way. At that point he came over, and after a little 4-way conversation with him, his friend, me, and S, he asked for my number. I was interested enough to be enthusiastic, and almost felt as if I made it too easy for him. He called me about 10 minutes later, though, and told me his name, said he was surprised I gave him a real number, and asked if he could call me and we could go out on a date sometime. I said simply.. sure. Surprisingly enough, he's actually just the kind of guy I've been looking for. We shall refer to this cute boy as... Tr.
S and I then drove around a bit, and ended up at Cafe Coco. We settled in the back bar, and as we began talking I mentioned the Johnny Depp look-alike sitting at the bar. He had the hair, the goatee, the skin tone, and style.. all just screaming Johnny Depp. I watched him as he leaned over his laptop, scanning through pictures I couldn't make out from where I was and drinking from a bottle that said black cherry on it. I sat and talked to S, and glanced at him, not sure whether he was checking me out each time he turned to the side to drink from the bottle or not. Apparently he was, because after a while and a few fortunate coincidences, he was talking to S and I. He suggestively mentioned how my height was 'just on the cusp' of being right for him. (short guy) Eventually he moved over to our table, and we ended up spending a good 4 hours in deep conversation. Somewhere in the middle of that, S got up for a bathroom visit, and the two of us talked about our first perceptions of each other. Then out of blue he said, "I really want to ask you out on a date.. but I'm not sure if you'll say yes or not." I was a bit surprised, and kind of lingered... saying I wasn't sure. He asked me to think about it and I told him I would. It's just amazing how we connected, though. I mean.. literally every topic we discussed, we were on exactly the same page and totally agreed with each other. He said things I've wished I could say to certain people and have them understand, and suddenly there he was speaking my exact thoughts. I was interested in dating him, but was held back by one thing.. the age difference. I don't even feel comfortable mentioning how many years there are separating us. Unfortunately, when he guessed my age being a few years over, I fibbed a bit and told him he was right. I'm just sick of having someone's interest instantly diminish the second they discover I'm underage. I'm mature for my age, and level with people who are older. So, yes... that was the one and only lie I uttered during our conversation. At about 4 AM when we finally departed, we stood and he asked if I had thought about what we talked about. I made an unsure face, but ended up giving him my number.
Two in one night?
And I still don't even know what's up between De and I.
I know... I'm such a player.

It's just hilarious what my horoscope is today. I read it this afternoon, and it kept popping up in my head: "Make plans to do something special with someone you like. Activities that promise adventure and excitement will bring the greatest satisfaction."
I remember the night.. and right now.. I just feel very, very satisfied.