There is this awesome lady at work that told me that if I wanted to start to sleep at night again like a normal person that I needed to create a routine.
Here’s what I’ve got going so far.
I wake up in just enough time to get dressed and run out of the door.
I hop into my car. Sometimes I listen to music, and sometimes I just drive in silence. All of my thoughts are in overdrive. I have to think about something. I have to think about everything. Why? Because in twenty minutes I’m going to have to completely shut off my brain in order to survive the torture that is my job. It’s like taking the big breath before you go underwater, except for I get paid really poorly for it and it lasts for over eight hours.
Now once I get to work I have a cup of yogurt and then I start to think of things to do so that I don’t look at the clock on the computer. I just right into my work, because I have absolutely no control over anything that happens at my job.
The first couple of calls are a little mellow sometimes. Sometimes my first call is someone telling me to go he-double hockey sticks, or some douche that is calling me some other sort of name. It’s really okay though. My boyfriends almost never have pet names for me, so it’s actually interesting to have someone call me a name with some sort of emotion behind it.
I know some of the people reading this just felt bad for me…please don’t. Lots of people love me oodles…that was a failed joke and I’m just too lazy to edit.
So after I have my yogurt, I usually start in on whatever book I’m reading at the moment. The latest book that I was reading is the Awakening by Kate Chopin. How I feel about this book is a completely different issue, and I will definitely share my feelings in another blog.
I get a couple of breaks. I make tea. Sometimes I make small talk with some people who sit around me. It’s hard. There’s only one girl that doesn’t think I’m the weirdest person on the planet that sits near me. Everyone else is really far away.
At lunch time I usually start sending texts to all of my friends, as literally a cry for help. Some answer, some don’t. No matter what I can guarantee that the guy that I want to text me back is ignoring me. Typically I have tons of things to say, but since I’ve literally had my personality on hold for about five hours at this point, I have nothing relevant to say. I stop sending dumb ass texts to everyone. Lunch time is now over.
The last half of work, it just me totally trying to zone out until I leave. The worst part about it is that I’m peddling crap that I totally don’t believe in. Hello! Would you also like to purchase the smelliest cheese on the face of the planet that you would not like? No? Great, My salary totally depends on that.
After work I try to call one of my friends. There are only like 5 people that will answer. The good news is that I’m completely entertaining. Unfortunately talking to anyone about anything with substance I am like a small puppy that has been in a kennel for weeks whose owner just got home. I’m surprised that I don’t bark. On the way home I have a zillion thoughts. I think about my weekend, and my friends.
Sometimes I think about traffic.
I get home, I make dinner. Usually eggs and toast. Then I have a sweet potato.
Then I turn on the TV and watch socially awkward comedies. They are my favorite. Sometimes I do a little writing.
Do you know what I don’t have worked into my routine? Sleeping at night. Damn it. I misunderstood the assignment of creating a routine for sleeping. :)
Since I’ve totally failed at my mission and assignment, I’ve made some resolutions.
I’m going to try very hard to knock a couple of things off of my bucket list.
First off I’m going to dedicate more of my free time to my writing. Music and otherwise.
Second, until I cross at least one thing off of my bucket list I’m not going to be distracted by any man. I need to spend time firing up the passion in my own life. I can’t always run from it. Music and writing are my passions. I have to commit.
I’m going to continue to try to eat healthy and keep up with my physical appearance. I’m always in the doldrums but it’s important for me not to look like a homeless person that doesn’t know what a comb is.
I’m also going to try to only give effort into the friendships where I feel like we’re equal folks. I’m only going to go out under the best conditions, I’m not going to try to force anything.
I’m also going to try harder to do things that make me happy. People I know may say that I’m the most selfish ever, but I’m not. Even if I am, I’m unsuccessfully selfish.
I’d like to learn to swing dance. I would like to leave the country. I’d like a mani pedi. I would like to read more. I would like to start exercising in a way that is manageable for me. Unique programming for a unique person. I’d like to sing somewhere else besides karaoke.
I want to make the best of the time that I have. There are so many signs letting me know that each day is a gift. Even those eight hours of agony are a part of a gift.
I had a fantastic weekend. Last weekend was awesome. I know from my last post it probably didn’t seem like I’d had something fantastic happen as a precedent, but I take the good with the bad–and sometimes the good parts make me sound like a crazy pants lunatic, so I try not to harp on the good stuff. Terrible logic. I know it.
I firmly believe in balance. How does one deal with her fears of opposite sex rejection? By overcoming other non related fears. I wanted to write about this because it was something that I knew was absolutely silly, but I couldn’t quite get over.
I’m thirty years old, and before today I’d never been seen by a gynecologist.
I made the appointment in a last minute effort to make a day off necessary. Yes. I would rather have a stranger poke around in my innards than spend the day at my job at this point.
I thought about cancelling twice, and by the time I got to the office I was nervous. My original blood pressure was through the roof. I kept telling myself that I was thirty years old and that I should not be so jittery. I realized that most people don’t have legitimate fears. Fear is a limitation of a mental variety, and so I’d just have to suck it up.
After my blood pressure came down a bit, we did something else that I didn’t like. I got on a scale. Though I don’t know when to stop reading garbage on Facebook, I was totally aware that reading the scale would ruin my day. The nurse laughed at me. I politely asked her to not let me see the number. She seemed to understand how I felt even though she was 5’5″ latino woman who couldn’t weigh more than a buck ten. Why do we have this connection as women, I wondered. She had nothing to worry about, unlike the 300 pound black woman who was in her care.
She asked me about my sexual history. It was odd to answer those questions out loud to a stranger. She asked when I got my first period, and when the first time I’d had intercourse was. When I answer the second question she paused a bit and asked again quite calmly. Yes, I was 24. No, I’m not making it up. No, I was not taking it up the back door for the sake of Catholicism. Besides the fact that I do everything super late and I’m terrified of simple tasks that people complete on an annual basis.
The next step was undressing and putting on some sort of paper gown thing. The doctor came in and introduced herself by her first name. She was kind and soft spoken. She asked how my last exam had been. I couldn’t explain to her that the last person who poked around said everything looked fine but he was not a medical professional. Actually he didn’t say things looked alright–He was much more enthusiastic, in fact. I explained that I had not been before instead of replying with awkward comedic outbursts.
Seeing a gyno for the first time is like having bad awkward sex. You don’t know what they are looking for or really what their end goal might be. You don’t know how long it is going to last, but you hope the are finished soon. There is a lot of poking, and you’re not sure whether or not someone is trying to split you in half. Guys are always trying to stretch women out–Well guys who suck at sex.
When it was over I breathed a sigh of relief. The doctor said that everything seemed fine and asked if I wanted all the tests.
Of course I wanted all the tests! I don’t wanna go out with Nietzsche with syphilis and a horse kick to the head, do I?
I got dressed quickly, because I’m puritan and I hate nudity. Hours later I found out that I’d put my underwear on backwards.
Oh, so fear number two–I hate the idea of having my blood taken. I don’t donate blood because I’m contaminated by mad cow disease.
Actually I was in Europe in the 80′s so just in case banks prefer that I not donate. I think having mad cow disease sounds way more interesting.
So the originally nurse comes back in, and I told her that I was squeamish. She asked another nurse to come in to contain me. You know, just incase I fucking hulked out.
Despite the fact that I have hard veins according to the nurse, she managed to take a sample after some minor bruising.
2 fears, one day.
Now, I need to figure out how to talk to guys I like.
What is to be done when you find out that someone doesn’t love you as they should?
Can you really cry about it? It seems like crying would devalue the people who are truly dedicated to you.
Can you dwell on it?
Of course not. Dwelling would close your heart to the others who want to show you the world in all of it’s wonder.
You can’t talk to that person. I know better than anyone that you can’t make someone love you when they’ve chosen to shut their hearts to you.
What is to be done?
The first person that I realized that didn’t love me that assuredly was supposed to was my father. He knew the right things that someone would say to a daughter, but his mannerisms and his actions let me know that love was furthest from what he actually felt. I wonder if it’s because I look so like my mother, or because of my brash personality–in the beginning of my adulthood I began to accept it. There was nothing that I could do, no olive branch that I could extend to make him love me. There was no getting to know me. I had to let it go. For the most part I have let it go. I’m hoping soon to stop picking men to date that show me the same type of criticism coupled with his lack of affection. No one I’ve ever met has been able to watch me cry and not give a fuck quite like him…with the exception of my ex Ray. Ray tried to beat him to the bottom of the “give a fuck” competition.
Now I’m trying to put my finger on how to feel about someone who can’t feel sorry. How do I feel about someone who seriously bloody hates me. Even worse, what happens when you’re surrounded by those people. You can’t even have fun with them anymore. It’s the drawback of being entertaining. People rave about loving you, but inwardly they don’t want any part of you.
I always go on and on about whether or not my exes love me. I wonder why I do this. I know I’m not alone in this idea that you want to know that at some point, your feelings were mutual. What if they weren’t? What does it matter? Someone that you’re no longer involved with have no influence on what you’ll do with your future.
I believe that the reason why is because I’m so worried that something is wrong with me that makes me unlovable. You can’t really quantify how much someone loves you. Since I have this desire, I wonder why I choose men who only know how to love themselves. Why do I surround myself with people who can’t grasp what it truly means to love.
I’m lovable to the people who really care for me. They are the people who matter. I’m trying to make room for people who deserve my love.
I’m wise to all this. If you don’t love me, you can hate me.
I’m fine with playing the villain.
I got up this morning, promptly around one in the afternoon, and I felt the urge to write. It was right that I should do so. I don’t know what exactly to write about, so I’ll begin just talking about things in general.
My life boils down to a few themes: My friends are outrageous. I hate my job. I’m magically drawn to men who are unstable charismatic alcohols that won’t amount to anything.
I think I’m going to start with how much I abhor my crappy job. I don’t make enough money. I spend way too much time there, and I’m pretty sure I’m slowly going insane. It might be the fact that everyone I encounter is pretty much angry, or it might be my intolerance to being called a cunt, but by the end of the day I’m ready to stab an innocent person with a fork in the eye. I get home and sit in my very small room with my TV that was given to me. It was made in 1994 I think. It’s like a really old television, but it works sometimes and I’m glad that I didn’t have to buy it.
Let me take a break from complaining for a second to share a realization that I had last night while I was driving up to visit friends.
It occurred to me that in all the time that civilization has existed, a very small percentage of that time allowed the technology to actually have people drive cars. Like if I’d lived just a hundred years ago–probably wouldn’t have access to just hop in my car and drive up to see friends. If I’d lived during prohibition, I probably wouldn’t be able to just go out and have a drink without worrying. If I’d lived in a less progressive sect of time, I wouldn’t be able to just hang out with three dudes alone without having to be shunned.
“Shun the non believer. SSSSShhhhhhuunnnnnnnn.”
So I should be grateful that all of these things are possible.
I mean if I did manage to get knocked up, the probability that my lover would try to kill and dispose of the baby before anyone found out he was sleeping with a black person would be slim.Kinda slim.
I can watch images of anything I want on a screen. I’m on this thing called the internet right now. What a miracle this is? We totally take it for granted. I know I do.
I don’t have to sell my pee in a pot to the local pee buyer (taxidermist). And if I did have to, I actually have a pot to piss in.
I naturally have better than 20/20 vision. I can read signs from very far away. I can read! I can also write. Think about the rate of illiteracy just a bit ago. Living in Texas during ye old times of slavery that would not have been okay. My sass? Probably would’ve been hanged before I was 20 for that.
Not too long ago, would not have been able to just hang out with drag queens.
Everyone who is such an avid atheist, pantheist, whatever–all my friends like that–burned at the stake. I mean you could speak out and do whatever you want, but you’d be murdered for it.
What about the miracle of air conditioning? The fact that I can show my ankles in public. I’m allowed to dance, drink like a sailor, yell in public.
Even if you fuck up this modern life, I mean you have so many chances to change your stars and make a go of a new start.
How awesome is that? You marry the wrong person? You could find the right person and try it again. Did you get the wrong career card? You could scrap it and start all over again! Fantastic, no? I mean you don’t have to be a blacksmith because your dad was, or marry someone your parents set up for you because of money.
I still have most of my friends alive and well. I don’t have to worry about the plague or cholera killing off everyone I love.
Look at all these options we have…I mean, of course, it can be overwhelming–but we can choose not to feel overwhelmed. We can choose to take life by the balls and create whatever we’d like.
I don’t like my job, I’ll have to change it.
I really need to be asleep right now, but I had to tell the tale of my last, and most recent hospital stay.
I’m not even going to rant about insurance, I’m going to focus on the more personal parts of the journey. There is nothing more jarring then laying down in a hospital bed and realizing that there isn’t anyone who can come for you. It’s not because you don’t have friends, I mean I have friends a plenty. They may just be a little to spread out across the nation. The ones that are local just don’t have the capabilities to rescue you.
Around Friday night, my coughing got a little worse. I went to work on Saturday for some make up hours, and by the time I left work, the coughing was almost unbearable. I was trying to take supplements and things to try to get better, but nothing was working. By Sunday I was a complete and utter mess.
By Sunday I hadn’t been able to sleep in two days, there was so much pressure in my head I could feel it throbbing on the outside. I was sweating, and I couldn’t walk more than a few paces without gagging and coughing. My throat was raw. I could barely see, and I was constantly dizzy.
Because I know a lot of my acquaintances are thinking, “I should post some absurd comment about how I was sicker once, or how I have an aunt with cancer or something or other that makes your sickness look stupid.” Contrary to your belief that it will make me feel better if you one up me, I’ll probably just thinking that you’re a jerk that smells like mothballs and prides himself on getting jokes that really just go over his head. Everyone knows a person like this–and we should start sending these people to an island where they can complain to each other about who has it worse.
So yes, this is my blog and I can cry if I want to…
In order to tell this story properly, I also have to let everyone know how much I hate hospitals. I don’t think I’ve ever spent the night in one, but each time I go I start to panic like I’ll never get out. The last time I had to go was in 2005 or so, and my friend Emily took me. It seems like I had more people to call upon back then. More so than being a patient I hate going to the hospital alone.
After learning about my insurance, and how I actually don’t make a livable wage, I drove myself to the hospital around 8 am. I couldn’t find any parking, and I had such a hard time breathing and walking that by the time I got to admitting I was crying. The nurse got me checked in right away. I got this small room with a crappy dolphin painted on it. I posted a picture to facebook and sent a few texts while I was waiting on doctors and nurses to assess my condition.
The person who sent me into an existential crisis was an administrator just doing her job. She was asking some real questions. I was not happy with my answers.
“If your stay continues, who would you like us to call.”
Well my mom doesn’t have a cell phone. My brother just had his stolen. Tim is out of town, Christi is out of town, David is probably out of town. Everyone else I know either has a family, doesn’t actually care about me if they can’t bang me, or they love me but their lives are so shit wrecked that they might be drunk at 8 am and now able to make it down. So what was my answer.
Um, I can’t think of anyone right now.
Next question “Who is your emergency contact? Should we still contact your grandma?”
She’s old, and she usually doesn’t answer the phone, but let’s just stick with that.
“Do you have a living will?”
No. I have nothing to give, and apparently no one to give it to.
“What is your religious preference?”
I heard all the arguments on facebook clamor at once in my head. All the angry atheist and super religious freaks.I answered fairly quickly. You know it’s easy to answer when you have a second and think to yourself, “I could die alone, in Lewisville Medical Center, looking at this dolphin that an eight year old painted, with no one to hold my hand- If this is my last confession then I ought to be true to myself.
I made confession in that room to a stranger. I think that’s how Catholics do it in movies.
I don’t mind making pharmacy runs, taking folks to the doctor when I can, but it hurts the smallest pieces of my heart to think that certain people can make it over to your place for sex, but they aren’t able to say anything to you besides “I hope you get better.”
Did you think I needed any food? Who needs food? Maybe I needed someone to go to the pharmacy? Drive me to the ER.
Probably best that I drive dizzy and almost have an accident. I’m a tough broad, I’ll figure it out.
Don’t tell me that you love me if you can’t think about helping me when I really need help. If I can’t call you from the hospital, you can’t call me anymore.
Don’t want to go on anymore dates with you folks, either.
I guess I have to find someone to get married to, otherwise I’m doomed to be alone, staring at that fucking dolphin.
Can my family fix their phone problems?
I can’t spend any more time doing things that I don’t like with people who don’t care about me.
That includes this terrible draining job. I need a change. I need it badly. Since I clearly don’t know how to pick men, I’m on vacation. I’m going to focus on the job part. So maybe I can buy my mom a phone so she can be my emergency contact.
When I was a kid I ate mac and cheese all the time. My brother loved it. I would try to protest, but I made a great deal of concessions being the oldest child. It was okay that our cabinets were full of this cheap imitation cheese crap, because when my brother ate it he was quiet. When I went to school, I would always eat everything but the mac and cheese, and I would offer it to the other kids. It always struck me as super odd that a child could not just take a second helping of their favorite food, they would have to make this comment right before: “What kind of person doesn’t eat mac and cheese?” I let it roll off of my shoulder, but honestly it was the tone that got me. We have a mac and cheese surplus, you are going to benefit…do you have to point out that I’m a freak. Just take these carbs and get fat silently.
This kind of person doesn’t eat mac and cheese. This kind of person. Me.
While in New Orleans, we were up on one of the balconies over Bourbon Street, and I have to admit it was pretty fucking cool. We basically had this entire floor to ourselves with a couple of other people passing through. There was a buffet, and we had our own bartender. Our bartender was awesome and delightful, but for a couple of minutes when he had to step out, two other guys came in to watch the bar… those guys were not so cool.
Welcome to my side story about my beloved cat, may she rest in peace. Now Ebony was a beautiful cat. She had lovely thick fluffy fur that was soft and always looked perfect. In the mornings before I’d walk to school, I’d always eat breakfast in the kitchen, and she’d always sit beside me, enjoying the sunlight, and grooming herself. One spring, there was this strange, poor excuse for a bird that made a nest right outside of our apartment. This bird had like five feathers, and I think it had been using meth. It would scream and squeak constantly, and occasionally it would run into the window just to upset my poor cat. I even pointed this out to my mom. This bird was ruining my cat’s mornings. One day that cock eyed bird thing just perched on the window. I couldn’t tell what it was looking at, but I could feel it looked pleased with itself. I looked at Ebony, she looked at me. We had a moment. I grabbed my backpack and opened the door, and Ebony walked out of the door jumped up and grabbed the bird, snapped his neck, left it on the porch and went back inside. When I left she was grooming herself in the sunlight.
Now I felt just as beautiful as Ebony while we were out on that balcony. Once I was drunk I was having a fantastic time, and then out of no where a small midget type person with a lazy eye just walked up to me and started running his mouth like a crazy Cajun mascot. He was like a public service announcement for why you shouldn’t wander out into the swamps alone. He literally had to be like 5’2″ and he looked up in my general direction and said, “Yeah I see all these other girls here, but I like them BIIIIGGG women. Gurl, what you been eating?” He turned to his buddy and laughed, “She been eatin a lot.” Then he followed me around and made fun of me. Like that meth bird.
Okay, so real talk…when he saw me I was eating red beans and rice…and I’m not the thinnest lady in the world, so maybe I set myself up for it. But it hurt my feelings and I wanted to snap his neck and leave him on the porch.
He also told me once I go white, my credit gets right. Which is a lie, because I’ve been sleeping with white men for years and my credit still blows. Why couldn’t he get at me with some real advice like, “mmmm girl, if you have sex with me we’ll get a secured credit card from a bank, and make the payments on time in your name, and then gradually your credit score could improve if you pay down your debt while increasing your income.”
Then I would have said, “Meth Bird, that’s an excellent idea, but I won’t be sleeping with you.”
It feels like that bird is with me always, and I really thought I would escape in on vacation.
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“The music you like is so depressing.”
“You know it’s absurd for a woman of your age to…”
“Well, it’s simple common sense…”
I think the reason why this has always upset me is because I become so offended when people pick on my preferences is that I spend so much time listening to other people and their proclivities. When I listen it’s a sign of my respect. I may not agree with you, but I commit to letting all ideas have value.
Ah ha! So here’s where everything comes together for me. I do realize that the difference between most of my older friendships and my newer ones- The difference really being 13 years versus like 8 years or so–The newer friendships have a common bond of respect. There are a couple of exceptions, but people who met me while I was working full time tend to have this mutual respect for me, and I enjoy that. I ask for advice because I respect your opinions. I curb my tongue because I respect your feelings.
I’m so bad about this. Particularly when people introduce that nit picky energy, I follow along. I also lay down and take it for the sake of peace and I know I shouldn’t. I just keep hearing my mom say, ” You should always feel safe at home with your family. People in the world are always going to attack you. Here we need to make it safe.” I did grow up with immediate family that were chronically shitty to me, but when we moved away from them my mom did a good job of making everyone abide by those rules of safety…well when she was watching.
We just need to do a better job.
I just need to do a better job.
Most of the time I hate dancing.
Wait. I need to clarify a couple of things.
I used to always be seriously tired. Dancing was a little too much effort for me. I hope that I can keep up with the pace that I have last night. Like I actually broke out in a sweat. I smelled bad at the end of the night.
My hair was wet.
My shirt clung to my boobs due to sweat.
And guess what?
I hugged everyone on the way out.
It felt good. Plus, I’m not ever sure boys really care when girls smell. They just looked so damn happy to see me, and that happiness was fucking contagious…well to some extend.
I hadn’t been up to Denton in a while now, and I still stick to my guns that all Denton has for me is shame, parking tickets, and bad habits.
Oh yeah, and my college degree…and that’s really taking me places in life. (I’m being sarcastic at the moment but I seriously deep down inside believe it, and it’s the reason why I don’t play in traffic on 635.)
I hadn’t seem some of the boys since October, right after I turned 30 and took the oath to try to stay away from truly depressing shit. Nothing, my friends, is more depressing then a bunch of folks that you you secretly think the world of tossing their lives down the drain while being disloyal to you.
Allegiance is a game to some people. One friend asked me why I always had to pick a side while we were watching reality TV. It’s honestly just how I roll. I’m either on fire or cold as ice. Helps with decision making–and hey even God is reported not to like folks on the fence. I believe the term is “luke warm”. I have favorites with folks and food, bars and booze–and that’s something to live by if you ask me.
Let’s get back to my allegiance to dancing to 80′s and 90′s music. I didn’t think the boys were going to show up. The trip was orchestrated by a friend of mine who is a solid player. She wanted to make a dance night happen and she saw it through til the end. She’s also really good at knowing when it’s time to go. I danced til I almost feel down and made it all the way home by 1:30. The good just outweighed the bad, and not just on dance night, but honestly for the whole weekend.
I definitely missed all the folks that I saw save one. I do realize that the only way to keep things pleasant is to make trips sparse.
I’m also not good at dancing. I mean I loved dancing when I was a kid, but everyone but my mom will admit that I was an awkward looking child, and for some reason those weird dance moves stuck with me.
Part of the reason why I love music from the 90′s is because I wasn’t allowed to listen to it when my mom became super religious, and I wasn’t really allowed to go anywhere where I could dance save my bathroom, homecoming and prom. I remember riding in my mom’s ’76 Maverick on the way home from school. We called it Charlie Brown because it was really sad like his christmas tree. It was peanut brown on the inside and outside, it squeaked and squealed louder than a pornstar, and it always smelled of gasoline. Now on my way home from school I specifically remember the song “I wanna sex you up” playing on the radio, and my mother was so appalled that it was on the radio before nine, even though the word sex was edited. She turned the radio off, and all we could hear was Charlie squealing all the way home.
When I heard the song during 90′s night, I moved my waist around like I was failing at hula hooping, and that one memory popped into my head. I laughed like a looney.
I’m almost 98 percent sure that anyone who thinks I’m good at dancing is either drunk, or only judges by the amount of fun the dancer is having. I’m cool with that. My favorite dance moves come after about five shots of whiskey. When I’m waiting on shot number six, I literally grab on to the bar and proceed to pop, lock, and drop it…but not like in the videos. I’m just kinda shake my butt a little bit and do like a little 50′s twist move.
For one night, I didn’t hate dancing.