Technological Separation Anxiety

I would like to tell you about a friend of mine...

My lovely, wonderful, darling computer, Lady MacBook.

She got her name because of my love of Shakespeare (I pronounce Lady MacBook with the same stress in which one would say "Lady Macbeth").

We first met on October 2nd, 2006 (yes, I remember the date... shut up). She was so shiny, so empty, so vivacious.

Small and white. Clean and bright. Just like edelweiss. And yes, she did look happy to meet me.

And now? Well, now I'm completely dependent upon her. I don't think we've been separated for even a day since we've been together. It's definitely the most reliable relationship I have in my life. Lady MacBook is, in many ways, my best friend.

I have a different relationship with my computer than most people do, if only because I use her so much more. I haven't had a television in nearly a year. Lady MacBook has been my television. Thanks to her, I watched the entire first four seasons of Lost in a matter of weeks on abc.com (free, streaming, and in HD). I watched all of Arrested Development on DVDs. I got Netflix, which helped me get through my seasonal depression.

She's my source of music as well. I often play my iTunes loudly as I dance around, swearing that I'm about to start cleaning my apartment. I belt out showtunes and pray that my neighbors don't call the cops. Thanks to her handy video camera, I've even made music videos for people on facebook.

And she knows my face well. Not just from videos, but from the pictures that I'm constantly taking of myself (don't act like you hadn't noticed).

I started blogging last September, and she's been here for me through all of that. She's been here through my obsessions with various social networking sites, even as they fade from memory (StumbleUpon? Cre8Buzz?).

And perhaps the period of time that I grew most attached to her was November, when I decided to do NaNoWriMo (and, simultaneously, NaBloPoMo). Yes, I decided to write a novel in 30 days (or at least the first 50,000 words of one). I brought Lady M everywhere. She came to work with me every day. We went on dates to various coffee shops in the city. I discovered that I could type rather well while my face was buried in a pillow. And she stuck by me, auto-saving regularly. She watched me punch in 56,021 words in 30 days.

I'm still not done with that novel, but I wouldn't have made it as far as I have if it weren't for her constant support.

But now she's ill, and I have to take her to the doctor for a check-up.

And by ill, I mean she needs a new logic board. And by doctor, I mean the Genius Bar at the Apple Store. And by check-up, I mean they want to keep her for five days.

I don't know what I'm going to do. She's my baby! She's my primary source of entertainment and communication! Heck, she's practically an appendage!

Can I survive without my laptop for five whole days? I'm seriously not sure anymore.

*sigh* I'm going to try to drop her off in the morning, but I'm not even sure that I can do it. I don't know if I'll be strong enough.

I decided that this was the best time to do it. I'll be so busy with my family in town and Frankie week rehearsals and performances that I won't even notice that she's gone. Right?

Seriously, my hands are about to start shaking, and she's not even gone yet. She's my heroin (and also the heroine of this story, I suppose). I'm a junkie.

And I can't just watch tv. I can't play video games. I can't watch a video. I can't go online from a BlackBerry or an iPhone. She's all I have. *sniff*

So forgive my upcoming online absence... Trust me, it's going to hurt me a lot more than it's going to hurt you.

I guess now's a good time to catch up on my reading...


May you find ways to pass the time.

~A~


ETA: P.S. Lady M is no longer "clean and bright". She looks... well, let's just say "well-loved."

Grad School: Update #4

Ladies and gentlemen, congratulate me. I'm going to graduate school in Florida. And I couldn't be happier.

(That pretty much sums up the entry... You could really just stop reading now... Unless you WANT to read a long rambling account of exactly what I've been doing... But really, it's more for my own need to chronicle my life than it is for you... In any case, you've been forewarned.)

(By the way, is the word "forewarned" ever really necessary? I suppose you can always substitute "warned"... Sorry. Semantics.)

While I was there, I kept having moments in which I thought, "NOW I love this place" They happened so many times that I'm really not certain when I made the decision to attend.

I left my apartment at an unholy hour on Thursday morning (just hours after my last post, if I remember correctly), met my mother in Atlanta, and ended up in Sarasota in the afternoon (after two flights each). We were exhausted as we pulled into our hotel in a rental car, but not so out of it that the décor escaped my attention. There were two identical prints of an ugly house hanging on adjacent walls; the mark of a classy establishment.



To be perfectly honest, I don't think we did much of value that first day. We drove around to try to get our bearings. We got food at a chain restaurant (where we received repeated, adamant warnings from a hostess there not to venture into the BAD part of one of the suburbs). We looked at an apartment that was HUGE, but far too out of the way to be practical. I think I showed my mother my blog to ask her opinion on the plaid (and switched it to the diagonal... still not sure how I feel about it). Then we were both so exhausted that we went to bed. Exciting.

Friday morning, I met with my "student guide", Kirstin, who was about as delightful as a person can be. We went to a Starbucks and just discussed the program at length. Everything she said made it sound like a good fit for me.

As I met the rest of the students, I got a good feeling. As though I'd known them before. In a dream. Or in another life. Something like that. Or maybe they just remind me of people I already know. In any case, they seemed like friends more than strangers. I was put at ease, which is something that rarely happens to me when meeting new people (if you'll remember, I have social anxiety).

I attended a voice class with the first year students. If the average person saw it, they'd probably think the class was full of nutters. But not me. I found it fascinating. And it was thrilling to me to experience what it's like to be in a classroom of students who are so committed to their exercises, no matter how ridiculous they may look.

That's one thing that I think I missed out on in undergrad. There were always a couple of people who complained or put forth half-effort when they didn't understand the reasons for things. I always went for it, no matter how stupid I felt. And more than once, I felt alone in that. It's not like that in grad school. Or, at least, not at this one. No one holds back. They all go for it.

I went to lunch with a few students as well as another prospective student who is on the waiting list. They answered every question we had, and with every response I found myself falling a little more deeply in love.

At one point, I asked a third year if there was anything she wished she had known that might've prepared her better for the grad school experience. She replied that trying to explain it would be like trying to explain what pregnancy was like to a woman who had never been pregnant; you can describe it all you like, but she won't really understand it unless she experiences it. The other students then joined in with the analogy, saying that each year of school is like a trimester in pregnancy. You suffer through the morning sickness, and the swollen feet, and the back pain... but in the end, you have so much more than you started with.

I then attended an acting class with the second year students. They were doing Shakespeare scenes, so I was of course geeking out in the corner throughout the duration. And when they weren't acting, I loved how well-spoken they all seemed to be. They're clearly intelligent people on top of being gifted actors.

I wanted to get up and prove that I was one of them. Or that I could be. Eventually.

Strangely, I recognized one of the second year students from the first time I did grad school auditions two years ago. And another of the students recognized me. And I realized that, as this school called me back two years ago, I would've been in their class. There's something sort of funny in that.

I'm glad I wasn't in their class. I needed the last couple of years in order to figure myself out.

In the afternoon, I met with the top banana of the program. I told him I was excited about his school, and that I was about 95% certain that I would choose it (the truth is, I had already decided at that point, but I wanted to tell my parents before I told him). He replied with, "We want you to come here. What can we do to convince you to accept?"

I can't tell you how extraordinary it feels to be wanted by a program that you want.

That night, my mother and I attended a somewhat controversial production of a verse play that the second year students were performing. Several people walked out (many of them during a scene with sexual content). To be honest, I found it exciting that people walked out. They weren't indifferent. I think that's proof that the actors did their jobs. For the record, my mother and I both enjoyed the production.

I started telling the students after the show that I had made my decision and would be there in the fall. They seemed stoked. I think they like me. I know it sounds silly, but I honestly didn't see that coming... I guess it never occurred to me that I might make friends there. I had only thought about going to learn. And I sort of thought I'd have to dilute myself in order for everyone else to be able to handle me. But I'm not concerned about that anymore. It seems as though they'll take me as I am. What a lovely surprise!

We went out to a bar, and several of them got out on the dance floor with me. And then I felt... Man. It felt like home. It felt incredible. Like it was meant to be. On top of every other wonderful things about this school, it comes with people who will dance like fools in bars. Perfect. :)

On Saturday, I called the top banana to tell him that I was for sure coming in the fall. He was driving, and was so thrilled that he accidentally drove in the wrong direction.

My mother and I found some apartments that will work nicely for me (although there's a part of me that wants to just buy... I mean, I'm committed to Sarasota for three years anyway... And the market is terrible right now, which I think would work in my favor).

We went and saw two different productions put on by the repertory company (aka professional actors interlaced with third year students) that were both excellent. They served to increase my confidence in my decision and joy at the result.

It still hasn't hit me. I'm sure it won't until I'm actually down there attending class. But I'm so amped that it can't be put into words. I don't know if I've ever been more excited about anything. Ever. This might take the cake.


May you find somewhere that you fit.

~A~


P.S. Surprisingly, one of the students at my new grad school has already tracked down my blog. *waves to Ghafir*

P.P.S. Dude, am I really that easy to track down? Maybe I should take a cue from my friend at Big Time Fancy and use a pseudonym online... But then I'd have to switch the title of my blog. Drat. Oh well.

Nobody Knows Me at All

I know this is technically late, but you got two last weekend, so I think we're even.

Happy February.

My S.A.D. (Seasonal Affected Disorder) started a little early. I almost started crying at work on Wednesday. And I snapped at two coworkers on Thursday morning when they were making fun of me. But I'm sick of being the butt of their jokes, even though I know they don't mean anything by them. I hate being teased.

I don't know how I'm going to make it through this month. I hate February.

Last night, I went to yet another coaching session with Susan and Jeffrey (the 4th time I've worked with them in 7 days, by the way). Jeffrey recently told me thinks that I have what it takes to get into Julliard (which is where he went). He says I have a "great instrument", that I'm "very talented" and seem "driven and passionate" (that last part was after giving him my "theatre can change the world" speech in the middle of a bar). I looked into it. Their auditions are this coming week, but you had to have sent your application in back in November. Jeffrey said to call them today to see if they'll let me audition anyway. So I might.

I worked on Juliet's vial speech last night. And I had a complete emotional breakdown. It felt great to be that vulnerable. And then I had several glasses of wine (which is something that I never, ever do. I don't think I've ever had more than a half a glass in my life before last night. I think I finished off more than half a bottle by myself. And for someone who doesn't drink... Well, let's just say I may have made some dumber decisions if I hadn't gone straight home after class. And as it was, I made three facebook videos for people.)

But that sort of vulnerability is something I don't feel a lot in life. Really, I feel it most in my acting and in my writing.

Sometimes I wonder if anyone really knows me. Maybe I head people off at the pass too often. And there are so many things that run through my head that I've never verbalized.

I talked out the early stages of this entry with a new friend of mine (from Shakespeare classes... what else?). She said it might be a good idea to leave some things out. I guess it's because of the adage, "never in writing." But I don't know. Stupid as this may be, and as much as I may regret it, it feels right in the moment. And if there's anything that acting teaches you, it's living in the moment.

And I'm in a truth-serumed sort of mood, so here goes. Here are a bunch of things that you probably don't know about me...


- I assume that I'm smarter than at least 85% of the people I meet. Maybe 90%.

- Whenever I look at my results on the application "Compare People" on Facebook, I ignore all the really positive responses I've gotten (100% wins for Most Naturally Talented, ranked #1 Most Creative... etc.) and instead look at the negatives (why does no one think I'm sexy? And they don't think I'm smart? Or that I have a good body?). And I develop complexes as a result.

- As often as I talk about the possibility of never settling down and having a family, there is a part of me that wants to follow exactly in my mother's footsteps. Because my mom is awesome, and being just like her would not be a bad fate. And since three of my coworkers have been pregnant simultaneously, I think I've got a light case of what Megan would call "baby fever". But it's very, very, very mild. Mostly, I'm still terrified by the idea of actually having to raise children.

- No matter how good I am at something, I never think I'm good enough.

- I honestly believe that I'm fascinating.

- I have a hard time imagining anyone ever loving me enough to want to marry me.

- Even though it's commercial and cheesy, every time I hear the song "To the Moon and Back" by Savage Garden, I come close to tears. Same for my favorite song, "I Want to Save You" by Something Corporate (what does it say about me that my favorite song makes me want to cry?)

- If I don't think I can do a good job at something, then I probably won't do it at all.

- I dance down the sidewalk on my way home from work every day when I think no one's watching. And sometimes when people are watching. And I mouth the lyrics to whatever is playing on my iPod. Last week, a homeless man came up to me while I was dancing on the corner waiting for a car to pass and started dancing with me.

- Sometimes, I think I'm the coolest person on the planet (and that I have more fun than anyone else), but that no one knows it but me. (Case in point: I dance while I'm walking home. What's more awesome than that?)

- As soon as I find out that someone is an actor, I make a snap-judgement attempting to gauge their abilities. And I've been proven wrong many, many times.

- Other than judging abilities, my first impressions of people are usually pretty good. But I rarely trust my gut instincts, as I think it's unfair to do so. And then it takes me long periods of time to rediscover what I knew at the very beginning.

- Whenever I'm really stressed out, I consider cutting off all of my hair. Sort of like Deb in Empire Records, but not quite that drastic. About a week ago, I actually picked up a pair of scissors, held it up to my ponytail, and fully intended to cut it all off. But I chickened out when I remembered grad school auditions and the fact that my head shots show me with long hair.

- Sometimes I feel as though I play a character in my life more than I play myself.

- When I can't sleep, I put a pillow at my back and try to imagine that it's a person. And that I'm not alone. Some nights, that's the only way I get any rest at all. Other nights, I fall asleep hugging a pillow. Clearly, I hate sleeping alone. And I don't mean that in a sexual way in the least. I just really like the idea of another person in the bed. But, as I talk (and apparently sing) in my sleep, and I have a twin-sized bed, and I'm a horrible cover hog, no one ever shares a bed with me. So it's all just in my imagination. *sigh*

-I think that my tastes in music/movies/television/books/etc. are far superior to everyone else's.

- I honestly believe that I am immune to the flu.

- When someone hurts me, I'm bitter about it for a very long time. I thought I was going to see a person earlier this week who hurt me quite badly a couple of years ago and is apparently unaware of that fact. And I was gritting my teeth just thinking about it.

- I love walking around in my underwear and a t-shirt. Even now that it's winter and my apartment is often cold. But I never walk around naked. I just don't.

- Every time I step on my new scale, I write down the date, the time, and my weight. For no good reason.

- I hide cash around my apartment. Just in case.

- I have an intense fear of being raped.

- I think I'm a great story-teller. And no one can tell me otherwise.

- Running seems like a punishment to me. Therefore, I generally only run when chased. Or if I'm really late for something.

- The thing that hurts me most is when people say, "oh, well you don't count." Usually this happens when I am an exception to a rule they're trying to prove, and they're saying that I don't count because of how quirky and generally against the norm I am. As though I'm considered an out-lier because I'm close to the edge of the bell curve. It makes me feel like a freak every time. And I hate that.

- I once tried to convince my mother that I was a lesbian so that she'd stop trying to imagine (or create, or force) relationships between me and every male I mentioned from school. It didn't work out well.

- I sent in like four postcards to PostSecret. None of them ever showed up on the website. I was fully disappointed. My secrets were way better than some of the stuff I've seen on there.

- Whenever I don't fully know the lyrics to a song I'm singing, I use those moments to take a sip of my drink. Or I'll turn away from people and just sort of mumble through those parts. And act as though I know the lyrics when I clearly don't. I don't think I'm fooling anyone.

- Every time I make a bet, I lose. Seriously, every time.

- I sucked my thumb when I was a kid. Every once in awhile I wonder if I'll gain the same sense of comfort from sucking it again. So I try. But it never quite works.

- The first thing I notice about guys physically is generally their teeth. A good smile can really win me over. Or biceps. I have a weakness for good arms. Like Matt Damon in The Bourne Identity. *drool*

- I rarely go without a bra. And I NEVER go commando. It's just uncomfortable.

- When people go by their full names, I have a strange need to nickname them. And when they go by nicknames, I desire to call them by their full names.

- The concept of sex is stressful to me. Seriously, just thinking about it freaks me out.

- There is a part of me that assumes I'll be famous someday for something. I think about how I'll deal with all the media attention, and the autograph signing, and being swamped with fan mail and friend requests from strangers on facebook.

- I have a friend who ruins everything she tries to introduce me to. She's not a great story teller. She explains things badly. She spoils endings of things (or important aspects of them) when trying to convince you that they're worth watching/reading. And I always end up disliking the things she talks about just from their descriptions (or songs she thinks I'd like based on her a cappella renditions of them). But then, if I actually experience those things while separated from her, it turns out that they were right up my alley. So we actually have similar tastes. And she just really sucks at the way she recommends stuff. But I would never tell her that.


So that's all for now.

May you find a way to feel comfortable enough to be vulnerable.
May you discover something that you want to do for the rest of your life.
May you learn to trust that people won't use information to hurt you.
May you make it through February (and help me make it through as well).

~A~

P.S. You should listen to "The Way I Am" by Ingrid Michaelson on my ProjectPlaylist. Because it's full of lovely thoughts. And I can't listen to it just once. It's currently an 8-times-in-a-row song for me.

ETA: Here's a lovely quotation I picked up in Shakespeare class:

"Love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking together in the same direction."
~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Strength, Spirit, & Self-Esteem

Guess what I found?

Exactly what I was looking for.

I just had my "Come to Jesus" moment.

The world has flipped.

Are you ready?

I'M A GOOD ACTOR!

No, f*** that. I'm a f***ing great actor. And I'm going to get into grad school. I'm going to go in there and knock their socks off. I can feel it. I know it with every fiber of my being. God I feel great. I hope this feeling lasts.

I went to a coaching session with Susan (my Shakespeare coach) and Jeffrey last night, and four other "students" were there as well. I actually got there like half an hour late because I went to the wrong place, but anyway. I did the same Shakespeare monologue that I've been working on since November: The Princess of France in Act V of Love's Labours Lost. And it's like tonight it finally worked exactly the way it was supposed to.

I truly believe that everything happened for a reason.

I lost my voice for a REASON! It was because I was forced to not recite that monologue for a week. I ran through it in my head. I did runs of the thought process silently. And I found her. I connected to her in a way that makes her real. I found moments where I became her. And then I was able to put them all together.

And most importantly, I let her go. If I hadn't lost my voice, I would've kept doing what I was doing. I wouldn't have rediscovered her. But instead, I found something that worked.

It worked really well. So well. Jeffrey and Susan asked what I'd done to change her (as they hadn't seen the piece since the end of November). They said that I found a great balance. I stopped being too formal and too timid, as I thought a princess should be. After all, you can't "play the princess". Every other person in the room has to play that you're the princess.

You know what else happened for a reason? This f***ing cough. Because of it, I've been staying in the lower register of my voice. My Kathleen Turner voice (when I told Jeffrey that, he started telling a story about when Kathleen Turner saw him on Broadway in Taboo. He's awesome, FYI.) And that was EXACTLY what the princess was missing. That low, firm resonance to prove that she's in control. She's regal. She's a lot more mature than the silly King of Navarro that she's dealing with..

Thank you, Lord.

It worked so well that they actually requested to see what my non-Shakespeare monologue was that I'd be using at auditions (which is something I never predicted that Susan would do). I was hesitant for a couple of reasons. First, that I was wasting time in this workshop. Second, that it might be really bad (as I haven't had an audience for it yet... I've been playing with it on my own). But I had such an emotional high going into it, thanks to the last monologue working...

And I found HER, too! I got braver with my modern piece. I dropped to my knees and really explored the physicality of it. And they were all laughing their heads off and cheered hysterically when it was over.

I've been working with Susan since July 2006. And I first worked with Jeffrey around February. And they said that last night was the best work they've ever seen me do (and I've brought Susan near to tears before).

So this is why I believe that I can do it. Because they believe in me.

And now I know I can. I know that I've found these women. I know that they live inside me. And I know that I can bring them back to the surface when I need them.

For the first time, I'm not worried about begging grad schools to accept me. I know that they'll be begging me to go there.

I came so close last time. And you know what? I'm BETTER this time. I can't believe that this didn't occur to me before. I've IMPROVED from then. I have a résumé with professional shows on it! I'm older now, and therefore more valuable to the programs! Things can only get better, not worse. And I need to stop freaking out (please remind me of that in a week when I start freaking out again).

I finally found my strength, my spirit, and my self-esteem. And it feels great.

Look out, world. Here comes Angela!


May you learn that all the strength you need comes from within.

~A~

Classy Winner Close to Quitting

79. I love taking theatre classes. They remind me what I love about theatre, without me having to deal with the lousy parts (like auditioning constantly, being rejected, becoming broke, or getting increasingly burnt out). I took half the day off of work yesterday to attend a Shakespeare workshop, where I worked with both my normal instructor and Jeffrey Carlson (whom my Broadway-geek friends might remember as Marilyn in the musical Taboo. And any of the people who stumble across my blog from Best Week Ever Blog will know him as Zarf on All My Children. He's really phenomenal.). Have I mentioned that I love working with Shakespearean text? Because I do. I really, really do. Can't say that enough. I have one session left in my Advanced Monologue class. While I look forward to it, I'm also terribly bummed about it. I think I'm going to take a break from First Folio Shakespeare classes and try something else. I was thinking about taking a class in Circus Arts or Aerial Dance in January. Something to make me more well-rounded as a performer, and not just turn me into a Shakespeare scholar (as much as I'd love to become one).

80. A friend of mine has listed a quotation on her facebook page that troubles me. It's something like "Winners never quit. Quitters never win." My Venn-diagramming skills tell me that there's something wrong with that. If it's true, then who came up with the phrase "Quit while you're ahead"? It couldn't have been a Winner, because they wouldn't quit. It couldn't have been a Quitter, because they never could've gotten ahead. Am I alone here?

81. I'm really beginning to worry about NaNoWriMo. The end is Friday, and I'm behind. I fell asleep while typing last night, and woke up at 6:15am in front of my laptop. I'm going to a play tonight, followed by going to a bar (to meet a friend of a friend, as I mentioned in Code Name: Princess Mojo). Tomorrow, I'm having dinner with my dad, and then going to see the same play again (will explain tomorrow). Thursday I was going to go to a Write-In (meaning a bunch of people go to a bookstore and work on their novels together). And then Friday I have to finish? And I have to send in my grad school audition application stuff this week. And I have some letters to write. And some bills to pay. And I sort of got into a complicated boy situation last night (will explain later). And I'm SO SICK OF WRITING! And what I'm writing is terrible! GAH! I don't know if I'm going to make it. But I'm SO CLOSE!

Please leave some inspiring comments to help me make it through.

Angela Rigby

Congratulations to me. Today is my anniversary. I have lived in Chicago for exactly one year.

And to commemorate this occasion, I'm sitting in my apartment, alone, writing a blog entry.

There’s a song by Pink called “Leave Me Alone (I’m Lonely)” that seems to align with my life. The lyrics describe a contradictive state that I usually find myself in. I want to be away from people, but the moment that I am I can’t help but want them back. For Pink, the problem seems to be rooted in romantic relationships. For me, it’s human interaction in general.

Solitude is sort of built into my life now that I live on my own. I do love living alone. My stuff is all over the place, and no one is here to care. I don’t have to deal with someone else’s temperature preferences (which would likely be too cold for my liking). And I know I’ve mentioned my fondness for going without pants (I suppose I could do that with a roommate, but it’s so much easier without one).

The problem now is that I’m constantly wishing I had other people around me, to erase this sense of emptiness and isolation. And then, instead of doing something about it, I find a way to turn my computer into a friend... Exploring the internet. Listening to music. Writing this blog entry (that’s actually probably why I like writing in blog-form so much. It makes me feel more social than anything else I can do alone).

I find ways to feel like I’m among the living. I visit people sometimes, although that’s usually only for a short time and only happens about twice a week. I spend time on the phone every evening. A couple of nights ago, I didn’t really want to call any of my friends, so I just called my parents and talked to them for an hour. They call me every couple of days (and if I don’t answer, they assume that something horrible has happened to me), and I didn’t really even have anything interesting to talk with them about. I just needed to talk to someone other than myself. I occasionally take classes, but I’m not in one at the moment. Other than that, I guess there’s just my job (thank God for work, actually. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have that built-in people-time eight hours a day, five days a week).

Usually, these silly habits of mine tide me over until the next workday. It helps me to feel less suffocated by the walls of my shoebox-apartment (as I’m writing this, I can hear the man next door doing his exercises to his Latin music. He has crazy loud breathing noises… Maybe he’s doing some form of martial art? I don’t know). Nonetheless, I feel like something is missing. I want there to be someone here with me when I wake up in the morning. I want there to be someone here when I go to bed at night. And I want someone to be here in the evenings after work so that I’m not left here alone, talking aloud to myself about my day and my plans for the rest of the week. It’s depressing.

Maybe this is why so many people my age seem to be ready for marriage. The cohabitation aspect of it does seem appealing, and I can understand why you would want it if you were ready for it. I, obviously, am not. I want someone to eat breakfast with, but I don’t want that person’s stuff to be all over my space. And I want them to not be here about five minutes after breakfast is over. I’d like to just be able to summon them, quite like a master would a genie. Why can’t that arrangement be possible?

People have been backing out on me a great deal lately, leaving me marooned in my apartment. I had a rough night earlier this week when three different people I had plans with ditched me (the plans were all tentative, but it was still upsetting). I hate that. I hate looking forward things only to be disappointed. It made me want to crawl into bed at 8:00pm on a Saturday night in the city. Stranded, abandoned, forgotten... Life is too short to feel that way.

I hate not knowing what to expect. That’s probably a good part of why I hate being surprised. I like planning. I like dependability. I don’t like things being sprung on me.

There are other reasons I dislike surprises. The first of which is that I feel as though I’ve been lied to (because if a surprise has a great deal of planning behind it, then I have). The second is that I feel powerless, and as though I have no control over the situation at hand. It’s not a good feeling.

Actually, that’s probably why I don’t drink often. I don’t like feeling out of control. What’s the appeal in that? Alcohol is far less tasty than a cherry coke, and soda pop doesn’t make me feel like something’s amiss.

A certain friend of mine would chalk the alcohol, surprises, and dependability things up to me having trust issues. I would argue against that. If anything, I think I trust people more than I should sometimes (it’s part of why I’m gullible). But it is, in part, true. I have borders, boundaries, walls, and defenses. And yet I wonder why I’m lonely…

I’ll have to delve into my issues another time. Right now, I’m getting self-conscious about how long-winded I am (someone recently pointed out this flaw of mine in my comments section, and now my awareness of it has gone into hyper-drive).

May you find companionship, stability, and your own ways to cope with loneliness.

Much love,

~A~

P.S. The title is a reference to one of my favorite Beatles' songs, "Eleanor Rigby" (which was, thankfully, not ruined by the movie Across the Universe, which I saw earlier this week... Tangent: If you plan to go, make sure you pack some ibuprofen in your pocket. You'll probably need it.)
P.P.S. I remember hearing that one of the first recorded usages of the word "lonely" is in William Shakespeare's play "Coriolanus". I'm not sure if he invented it, but I wouldn't put it past him to create an adjective for the state of being alone. He was, after all, Shakespeare.

Poetical Parentheticals

My mother often will comment to me that she enjoys reading e-mails I’ve sent her because “you write just like you talk!” I don't understand... Doesn’t everyone? Why would you write any other way?

I agree with her. I like to think that I write in a fashion that is similar to the way I speak. Run-on sentences and fragments. Beginning sentences with conjunctions. An appalling amount of long, winding parentheticals (I don’t think that’s even a noun, but someone I know uses it all the time, so I’m stealing it… and I just realized that I put in a parenthetical right after mentioning my use of parentheticals. That was unintentional, and I’m slightly embarrassed that I’ve accidentally proven my own point. But since it so beautifully illustrates what I’ve said, I’m leaving it in. Wow, I didn’t mean to start that sentence with a conjunction. Smooth move, Angela. At least there is now evidence that I know myself). Other than omitting my disturbing usages of “like”, “um”, and “uh”, this is pretty much the standard way I communicate.


I probably shouldn’t admit this, but to make certain that everything I’ve written is something I would say, I recite each of my blog entries out loud once through before posting them. I remove anything that’s too fluffy or unnatural, because I don’t want to be that sort of writer. I want to be, for lack of a better word, real. (If you’ve met me, and you try hard enough, I bet you can hear my voice right now…. Helloooooooooo!)

I’m not one for long passages of purple prose. I’m not going to grab a thesaurus while typing (or rely too heavily upon the thesaurus I have internally). I’m not going to carefully compose something that is linguistically artful. I’m just going to write. And I’ll write whatever thoughts come into my head, whether they follow or not. Just like I’m doing now. Which is why I’m writing about writing instead of actually writing something of interest to others. Because that’s what I’m thinking. (Luckily, I’m a decent typist. Otherwise, this would be a far more complicated and arduous task. My fingers can’t quite keep up with my thoughts, but they do alright.) I still choose my words, because if I said everything that popped into my head, I’d surely be committed against my will. I have no desire to be institutionalized. I imagine that it would be far less interesting than the movie Girl, Interrupted made it out to be. So I only let the debatably crazy thoughts leak out (until I’m being arraigned for something, in which case I will find a way to use insanity as a defense. I wonder if that would work with parking tickets...).

I like to think that, despite my breaking the occasional rule of language, I'm relatively articulate. I think I get most things across exactly as I intend to. Although I do, from time to time, have to translate my thoughts into a language that can better be understood by people who aren't me. It’s not that I’m dumbing down my writing to make it more accessible (which I certainly did on occasion in my previous online journal… I had a couple of regular readers who became confused and alienated when I chose words in excess of seven letters… and I loved having fans so much that I catered to them a little in order to bait them into returning). I will only translate myself if the things I wish to say don't seem to be understood the way I wish them to be.

I'm not going to try to impress you. Why should I? It's not like you're going to read this if you have to google half the things I type. I hate reading ostentatious or patronizing writing (if you don't know what those words mean, then you really should invest in a good dictionary... trust me, you need it), which is why I refuse to compose it. I will not read text if it seems that the writer is out to prove something about their abilities or how “deep” they are. Tell me a story (or four). Take me on a journey full of ideas. Make me think. But don’t choke me with words; I won’t put up with it.

For the record, I am quite capable of writing at a more scholarly level than I do. I am, after all, rather cerebral (or, as I generally prefer to paraphrase that, “I think too much.” It makes me sound like less of an egomaniacal jackhole). Maybe someday I will. Just to prove a point. I’m not even sure whom I’d be proving it to (myself, I suppose). I’ll write something so condescendingly profound and pretentiously b****y that you’ll deign it to be good writing, if only because that’s the kind of writing you have been taught is good. I’ll throw in tons of unnaturally large words so that you’ll be confused as to what it’s even about, and you will be forced to say it’s great rather than admit that you had no clue what on Earth I was talking about. We’ll see. Someday. Hopefully I’m stimulating and eloquent enough that it won’t be a problem in the meantime. And if it is a problem, I have a couple of other blogs I can recommend that might better suit your liking (the very sorts of things that I, personally, will never enjoy).

I learned something while writing that last paragraph… I am apparently hesitant to swear in my blog. I took out two instances of using language that my mother would not approve of, and I used asterisks on a third (I actually considered going back and paraphrasing that last one… replacing b****y with “haughty” or “pompous” perhaps, but I decided to keep my self-imposed suppression to a minimum. Besides, that one seemed necessary). I don’t know what I’m afraid of. I guess that people will read it, realize I know how to use curse words, and condemn me to some netherworld in which people are made to suffer until they can respect language. I try not to swear very much. I only began swearing about a year and a half ago. I always felt the power behind those words when I used them sparingly. Throwing one out in conversation made people shut up and pay attention. Now, I spit them out a little too freely. I usually ask for forgiveness about that. It just seems like the right thing to do. I apologize at work a great deal, as I use the phrase “what the hell?!” quite a bit while talking to my computer about why it is choosing to so rudely disobey me.

(I wish I knew how to type an interrobang on the keyboard. An interrobang is a piece of punctuation that looks like a question mark and an exclamation point rolled into one. It takes the place of “?!?!?!” rather nicely. The alternative seems confused and rather juvenile.)

You know what, I’m done. I would normally allow this to evolve into a blog entry about something (anything) else, but I just don’t feel like I should. I think I’ve said what I needed to say (although, trust me, I have about three directions I could take this entry from here… and it’s a little hard for me to not dive into any of them). And for those of you who are psychoanalyzing me right now (I know there’s at least one of you who is), yes, there’s a reason that this is on my mind. And yes, like always, I’m judging myself, over-thinking things, and wondering if I should just delete this whole blog altogether. But that might just be because I’m listening to “Feathers and Doom” by The Cardigans right now and it makes me want to curl up into a ball and be reborn as something more beautiful than myself.

And yes, if you’re curious, I did just read this aloud and cut a whole slew of things that didn’t quite sound like me; they sounded like me trying to be a writer.

May you never try to be someone you’re not, in writing or in life.

Much love,

~A~

P.S. I hope you paid attention to rule #7 (and if you don't understand why I pointed that out, go back and read my first entry, "An Introduction to My Mind")
P.P.S. I chose the title because of a scene in Twelfth Night. A disguised Viola has written a speech for Olivia on behalf of the Duke Orsino. She begs to be allowed to read it, saying, "I would be loath to cast away my speech, for besides that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to con it." Later, she states, "Alas, I took great pains to study it, and 'tis poetical." I felt that those statements somehow applied to this entry and wanted to find a way to stick them in. And besides that, I find "poetical" to be a very fun word.
P.P.P.S. If I had not already named this blog ~angelaboration~, I think that "Poetical Parentheticals" would suit it rather nicely.

A Little Water Clears Us

I don’t cry very often. When I do cry, it’s an event. It’s intense. And it doesn’t leave my body for several hours. I might revert to a puddle without much warning.

My mother, a nurse, often reminds me that there is a correlation between crying and stress. There are proteins (or hormones? Can’t remember…) found in tears that build up within the body during periods of emotional stress. So when you cry, you’re basically releasing stress in liquid form. She says that the old adage, “have a good cry; you’ll feel better” is therefore scientific fact. I have a tendency to believe her.

In the movie Broadcast News, Holly Hunter’s character takes her phone off the hook for a few minutes each day and cries. I knew one person who cried in the shower. I have a history of crying as I pray. I think that tears are an important part of life. In fact, I wish I cried a little more often than I do. It reminds you that pain is real. It proves that you’re alive. It helps you to remember that things are going to get better, because eventually, you will stop crying. No one cries forever. To quote Regina Spektor, “people’s children die and they don’t even cry forever.” (Note: that’s from her song “Rejazz", which is an excellent break-up song, should you ever need one.) And, perhaps most importantly, it releases those hormones before they build up and cause physical pain (yes, that can actually happen).

I cried in June, while at a bar and intoxicated, because a guy stepped on my foot. Please note: I’m not pathetic. My feet had been through the ringer that day. I spent the whole morning and afternoon walking around the city in some horrible shoes. I went out and bought flip-flops to give my feet some relief. And then my foot had gotten caught underneath a revolving door, which was just as painful as it sounds. All this happened just a few hours before the drunken guy put all of his weight on my foot (which, I remind you, was in a flip-flop). And I’d been drinking. Additionally, this was about a week after my break-up, which was probably the real reason I was crying.

Before that, I don’t think I’d cried since the first week of March, when I had a complete breakdown and started yelling at my roommates. I’d been trying my best not to explode during February (as that month is always disaster and depression for me), and as a result I held some emotions in for longer than I should have. Turns out, my frustrations were not things I could just chalk up to my annual unhappiness.

I cried Sunday night. More than once, which is usually the case with me when I cry. I was in a discussion with a friend, and I spilled out onto the floor like a bag of marbles. I’m not even entirely positive as to what triggered it. I guess he said something that I knew was right, although I can’t remember now what that was. I just remember needing a hug. So I took the L over to the abode of the fellow I’m seeing. I showed up at his door, he let me in, and I promptly ensnared him in what I’m sure he realized was a vital hug. He obliged, and held me for as long as I needed (thank God… I hate it when you need a hug and the person hugging you starts patting you on the back – which is a subconscious sign that they don’t want to be hugging you – or tries to do that tight-squeeze-and-release thing to try to get you to let go). We then sat down on a bench on his portico, and he let me cry it out for awhile (which was crucial, as I couldn’t put my thoughts together at that moment anyway) before getting me to talk about what was wrong. After venting for a bit and finding myself unable to hit the root of the problem, I ended up clenched in the fetal position on his couch, trying to shake a migraine and feeling entirely vulnerable.

It was a night when I needed to cry. I’m not sure why… I think it was just the right time. Something set me off, and then I was a drainpipe, a sprinkler, a fountain, or some other plumbing contraption… Maybe it was something more severe than that. Harder to turn off… A typhoon, perhaps.

Here’s something weird: even while I was crying I was judging myself. Do other people do that? I was acutely aware of the fact that I looked a wreck while sobbing uncontrollably. I realized that there was no good reason for me to be hysterically weeping, and I felt pathetic for not being able to explain myself. And I kept thinking that the way I cry is embarrassing, and that I should try to come up with a new way (much as I have done with my laughter… I have about eight laughs, and I’m not happy with any of them… there’s a cackle, a squeak, a guffaw… none of them satisfying). The kicker to this, of course, is that the whole reason I began to blubber had something to do with a friend pointing out my lack of self-esteem and the general negativity I have attached to my self-image.

My friend theorizes that this is why I have difficulty taking compliments. It’s because I don’t love myself enough, and I don’t think that the positive things people say could possibly apply to me. The fellow I’m seeing, on the other hand, thinks I have trouble with compliments because I have trust issues. It’s probably some combination of both. And apparently, this topic of conversation is enough to cause me to be a sniveling, whimpering mess.

I like to think that I’m a pretty up-beat person (although I’m not sure you’d get a sense of that from my writing, as I use it as a method of venting). At work, my nickname is “Sunshine”, because they think I’m always cheery and energetic. I rather like that. I try to bring lightness to my workplace. Yesterday, I brought in cinnamon rolls, cookies, and some candy to try to lighten up a manic Monday. It was relatively successful. I keep a list of all the funny quotations I hear around my department and e-mail it out every couple of months when people seem down (a recent favorite was a conversation in which a coworker tried to convince me that someone’s brother was named “Danish”). I used to take a “dance break” at 3:37pm every day (actually, it was sometime between 3:30 and 4:15, but it became known as “the 3:37 dance break”). I put on a piece of music like “Do Your Thing”, and would dance around for one minute, and then go back to work. I mostly did it for the morale of my coworkers, so when one of them complained, I stopped (luckily, she just got a new job in another department and will be leaving at the end of the week, so my dance party can resume at its usual time and place. Woo-hoo).

Sometimes, I’m downright goofy. I like that side of myself (not as much as Story-Mode, but it’s still good). I have fun when I go to Meijer to ride the mechanical ponies or vibrating purple dinosaur. I always enjoyed singing along to Oldies radio at the top of my lungs with all the windows down in my mini-van. I like dancing while waiting in line at the post office. I like giving people stage kisses (the kind of kiss where your hand is in the way, so that you’re not actually kissing the other person) in the middle of the mall. I like playing “Never Have I Ever” in situations where it doesn’t seem appropriate (and I almost always win – or lose, depending on how you look at it – because I’ve never done anything. In fact, I just had a “Diet” soda-pop for the first time in my life on Saturday… Diet gingerale. It was part of a mixed drink, and purely unintentional on my part, but it happened. *sigh* At least I can still say, “Never have I ever had Diet Cola”).

I don’t do the “goofy” thing as much in Chicago as I do in Michigan. It was a little depressing to acknowledge that yesterday. Maybe I’m not as happy here as I should be. Maybe I’m not as comfortable being myself. But then, half the time I’m not even sure who the *bleep* I am anyway.

I wish it would rain. There has been some wicked rain here this summer, which I have delighted in. I put on my puddle-jumping shoes and a smile (ah, a brief return of silly, goofy me). I love rain. Somehow, rain makes me feel relieved. It reaffirms my faith. God is washing away all the problems and making everything clean, bright, and ready to grow. It reminds me that everything is going to be alright. God has a plan, and he’s not going to send me anything that I can’t handle.

Rain often seems to come when I need it the most, as if God is reaching out to comfort me. Once, as I was walking out of a disappointing audition, it started to rain. I walked for about half a mile, thinking about what had just happened. I realized that it didn’t matter. I knew somehow that it was for the best. I turned my face to the sky and said, “It’s alright, God. I understand. I don’t need the rain anymore.” I swear to you, the rain stopped instantly, just as quickly as it had started. I started to laugh. I laughed until I could taste my tears. (In case you wondered, I was cast in that show in a role I’d never pictured myself in. It turned out to be a perfect fit.)

Unfortunately, it isn’t supposed to rain this week. As much as I would like to be drenched by it, I might not even get a drizzle. I’ll probably be fine without it. Then again, it’s Chicago, so who knows?

It just occurred to me how strange it is that someone called “Sunshine” should be so in love with the rain…

May you learn that tears and rain are signs that laughter and sunshine are ahead.

Much love,

~A~

P.S. The title is taken from a line from The Tragedy of Macbeth ("a little water clears us of this deed" ~ Lady M), in case any of my fellow Shakespeare geeks are reading.

Guilty Pleasures & Deadly Sins

I love bad movies. Some of my favorite movies are ones that I am completely willing to admit are terrible. I own Teen Witch. I own Win a Date with Tad Hamilton (although that one was a gift… but I’ve watched it more than once). I own To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar (I haven’t watched it in the last two years since buying it at a Wal-Mart for $5. Mostly, I bought it because I thought it was funny that Wal-Mart was selling it). I own Grease 2 (which I think I actually prefer to Grease… I hope that’s not blasphemous to my musical theatre buddies who might be reading this). And I own and love the movie “America’s Sweethearts” (highly underrated. It’s actually very funny).

Here’s the thing… I don’t think of these movies as “guilty pleasures” at all. I don’t feel guilty about them. If I owned Showgirls, then I might feel guilty about it (I watch it whenever it’s on television), but that’s because of both horrid acting and also the fact that it’s basically soft-core porn. Really, I think I just don’t understand the concept of guilty pleasures. To quote Sheryl Crow (oh no… WHY am I quoting Sheryl Crow?), “if it makes you happy, it can’t be that bad.”

I recently had a conversation with a friend of mine regarding his newfound love of the Disney Channel. He says that it’s filled with happy material, and that it has a positive impact on his life. I don’t watch the Disney channel (which is in some part due to the fact that I don’t presently own a television), but I respect that. It makes him happy. Who am I to judge?

I got into a fairly heated argument with someone last winter about my love of the television show Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. She said it was self-important, and just a vehicle for Aaron Sorkin (the show’s creator) to vent about his political agenda. Here’s what I don’t get: why on earth would you go off unprompted on a tirade against something that I clearly love? Isn’t that just a whole string of comments that could easily be left unsaid?

I also don’t feel guilty about my preferences in music, which have recently come under scrutiny by some of my friends. I like Corinne Bailey Rae, Mandy Moore, and the occasional piece of Fefe Dobson or Aqua. I listen to Basement Jaxx, Fastball, Fountains of Wayne, Motion City Soundtrack, Jewel, Liz Phair, Semisonic, Something Corporate, and many other artists that others might scoff at for a variety of reasons. At this very moment, I’m listening to the song “Hang on, Little Tomato” by Pink Martini, which I find to be particularly lovely. And I don’t think I should have to be ashamed of that. That music cheers me. And a cheerful me is something that you should be encouraging. I’m quite fun to be around when I’m cheerful… not so much when I’m defensive. I’m just saying…

Also, take note: if you EVER say a negative thing about Natalie Imbruglia in my presence, I will most likely be unable to continue speaking with you. I’ve already told the fellow in my life that if he ever commits such a heinous act, it would surely be just cause for a break-up. My music is something that I wear close to my heart, and when people diss it and dismiss it, they might as well be putting down something that I have created myself. It breaks me down from the inside. I am offended to a point that seems almost irrational. Almost.

Anyway. I see nothing wrong with liking movies of questionable caliber, frivolous music, self-important television, and the like. And I hate it when people feel the need to change my opinions on those things, or try to make me feel bad about liking them. So please, if you are ever considering such a thing, don’t. Even if you’re just teasing.

As it turns out, I don’t take teasing very well. I don’t understand it. I was raised in a house where making fun of other people got you in trouble. I survived a childhood of constant mocking and oceans of tears. I don’t think it’s funny when people tease me. It just seems hurtful.

I will never understand how some people think that teasing is a good way to flirt. If a guy starts off teasing me, I assume he’s a jack-hole, and I don’t feel the need to ever speak with him again. Not a good way to start things off. Before we started dating, my ex-boyfriend started making fun of Canada (knowing full well that I have a great love for our neighbors to the North… I started watching Degrassi” back in the 80s when it came on after Ramona, and I’ve loved Canada ever since). He thought it was a good way to rile me up. All it did was piss me off (my mother hates it when I use that phrase… she says it isn’t ladylike. But sometimes, it’s just the right way to explain my emotional state. So forgive me if I’ve somehow ruined your opinion of me by saying something crass). It made me want to keep my distance from him.

I actually got into a rather heated discussion with a coworker a couple of weeks ago when he started teasing me about being a Shakespeare geek. You just shouldn’t do that. Honestly. I will never understand the thought process behind it. I didn’t understand it in elementary school when a boy would yank on a girl’s pigtail because he liked her, and I don’t understand this verbal equivalent to it. It just seems counterintuitive to me.

Shakespeare, by the way, is most certainly not a guilty pleasure. His work is really rather brilliant, and not overrated. Shakespeare is, in fact, one of a handful of topics that I could speak on for hours, if allowed. Other subjects that fall under that elite heading include Harry Potter, mythology (especially Greek and Roman), musical theatre, and names (I actually started writing a book on names once, but everything I wrote was lost. Apparently, I have horrible luck when it comes to things I’ve written suddenly disappearing. Anyway, I was never able to talk myself into starting it all over again). None of these subjects are things I feel guilty about. It’s not like they’re vices.

Why aren’t vices considered to be guilty pleasures? If ever you should feel guilty about something, shouldn’t it be drinking, or smoking, or gambling, or drugs, or what have you? Those all seem like things one might feel guilty over. I have had a couple of friends with serious pornography addictions. If that doesn’t sound like what a “guilty pleasure” should be, then I don’t know what does. Surely, wanting to watch Die, Mommy, Die is a far less noteworthy event. It’s not like it’s a deadly sin.

Speaking of which, did you know that Dante invented the seven deadly sins? They’re not actually in the Bible or anything. I mean, they are technically all in the Bible as things you should not do, but not in list form. And yet, somehow they’ve been adopted into general Christian dogma. It’s actually rather strange that something like that occurred, but I blame people for being stupid and confusing fiction with religion (a la Scientology. Or Jedi-ism. I hope I didn’t offend any Jedi with that. I’m certain that I offended Scientologists). But it is a tremendous list. I can certainly ascertain a connection from each item on it to fire and brimstone.

Let’s see how guilty I am…
Envy: Of course. I’m envious of other people’s appearances a great deal. Occasionally, I envy their talents (especially if they can play an instrument with brilliance). I don’t care as much about their possessions, but those can make me jealous every now and again as well.
Greed: Not too bad. It is a part of my life, but obviously not a big one, as I can’t even come up with an example.
Gluttony: I took four pieces of pizza at a work function on Wednesday, even though I usually only eat two. Why? Because they were free. Subsequently, I became ill (after only eating two and a half pieces… I saved the untouched piece and ate it for breakfast the next morning). My eyes were definitely bigger than my stomach.
Lust : The temptation exists, but I don’t really act on this one… But that deserves a blog entry all to itself. I will not be writing that tonight.
Pride: Check. I have a blog, which I think is proof enough that I’m prideful. After all, I think my writing deserves to be read. And I take pictures of myself a lot.
Sloth: I’m one of the world’s best procrastinators (I say “best” because I’m successful at it… I get my stuff done, I just do it at the last minute). That comes from my lazy streak, and also the fact that I work better under pressure (the pressure of a deadline seems to work especially well).
Wrath: I have my moments. Who doesn’t? It’s hard to be a passionate person without having wrath. My words can get downright violent. And I stay bitter about certain things for years. The way I think on it, bitterness falls under wrath.

In general, though, I’m not a big “vice” person. I’ve never picked up a cigarette. I’ve never touched drugs. I didn’t start going out and drinking until after I was 21 (well, 22, actually). I like to think that the D.A.R.E. program worked on me (if D.A.R.E. needs a spokesperson, I’m there). When I asked a friend recently if I had any vices, he answered by suggesting “chocolate?” But really, I don’t even eat chocolate very often (except when it’s in ice cream… like chocolate chip cookie dough… mmmm). Um, does cuddling count as a vice? Because I’m all over that one. Otherwise, I’m hard-pressed to come up with something.

Maybe that’s pathetic a little bit. Maybe innocence is a form of emptiness. I worry about that sometimes. Am I not living my life to the fullest because there are so many activities that I refrain from? I try not to dwell on it, as it could get depressing. Luckily, I have The Monkees, The Beach Boys, and Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass to cheer me up. And I don’t feel one iota of guilt about that.

May your days be guilt-free and bright.

Much love,

~A~

Pantslessness & Delayed Goodbyes

I promise you that I will not be updating this blog every day in the future (maybe every week or so... we'll see). For the moment, it still has its novelty. It’s remarkably cathartic. I forgot how much I truly enjoy rambling in written form. For those of you who don’t know (which I assume is most of you), I had an online journal in the past. I began it when I went off to college as a way for my friends from back home to be able to know what was going on in my life. I wrote for four years. I never allowed anyone I knew from school to read it, in case I wanted to vent about them without them knowing (I also wouldn’t have wanted a couple male friends of mine to know that I was completely crushed on them. Of course, I’ve since told them this, but it would’ve been mortifying at the time). I promised a couple of my friends that I would allow them to read the journal as soon as we graduated (because after that point, who cares?).

Then, tragedy struck. Just a few short months before I left college, my journal disappeared. Actually, lots of journals did. Curse you Diary-X and your server failure! I was heartbroken. It felt as though a part of me died that day. I believe I actually wept over it. And I’m fairly certain I made a couple phone calls on the verge of nervous breakdown to people who didn’t quite understand the magnitude of this calamity. I put gads of time into carefully chronicling my existence, and all evidence of that was gone.

I eventually realized that I don’t need those old entries (as much as I would like to have a record of them). I learned a lot from the book Dear Mr. Henshaw (it was required reading for me around third grade, I believe). There was a boy who kept writing letters to his favorite author, never receiving a response. As the boy grew up, he realized that he didn’t need one. It was nice to think that someone was reading about his problems, but the important thing was for him to be able to write them down. He was only truly honest with himself when he was writing. It allowed him to have distance from his problems, so that he could better solve them.

The same is true in my life. Writing things down created more vivid memories for me. I don’t need to rely on re-reading those entries in order to recall events clearly (although, rest assured, I have set it up so that every entry I create for this new blog is automatically e-mailed to me. And I’m saving them as Word documents for good measure). I don’t need anyone to comment on what I’ve written (allow it does add a touch of sparkle to my day when they do). I kept a journal in high school that was an actual book. No one ever read that to give me advice, and it was still worthwhile. Actually, I’d be horrified if they had. It’s lurking in my closet right now. I’m embarrassed just thinking about the things I did back in the day. For example, I was awestruck by certain boys in high school, and in retrospect I am perplexed by what it was that drew me to many of them. My point (yes, there is occasionally a point to my tangents) is that it’s not about the readers. It’s about the writer. This is all a sort of therapy for me. Anyone who’s willing to trudge through these waters, God bless you. If, by some fluke of nature, I gain faithful readers, I will do my best not to scare them off. After all, it’s rather flattering if people choose to become an audience for you.

I’m already somewhat of an internet celebrity. And by internet, I mean “intraweb”. At work, I am the current “Employee Profile” on the homepage (and I will continue to be for somewhere between 2-6 weeks, if past profiles are any indication). This means that every time anyone in my company attempts to go online for any reason, they are greeted by a particularly unflattering picture of my smiling face. I’ve been getting recognized in the elevator a lot. It’s always a bit awkward. After I admit that I am, indeed, the person they thought I was (and they take a moment to seem pleased with their own brilliance for making the connection), there’s nothing else to say. So we continue to stand next to each other for a few more floors, wondering if it’s best to make an attempt at conversation, or to just endure the silence. I’ve also been stopped in the ladies room, on the café floor, and in the lobby. Just this afternoon I chatted about it with a friendly chap while waiting for the L to arrive. I have had grazing acquaintanceship with him on account of us both previously being staffed by the same temp agency. Then the train came, he sat down with his book, and our fringe-friendly relationship returned to its normal “smile-and-nod” state.

As soon as I left the station, I came straight home to my apartment, giggled when the change in air pressure I created by opening the door knocked my fan over, and promptly took off my work clothes. We had to dress in business casual attire today, for reasons unbeknownst to me. Actually, they sent us an e-mail explaining it, which I chose to delete unopened, in favor of ignorantly grumbling about the inconvenience (there was another cause for grumbling at work today: a major protest encircled our building, the exits were blocked off, and we were instructed not to leave. I’ve never seen the café floor as crowded as it was today. I ended up skipping lunch and watching online video of Britney Spears’ phoned-in performance at the VMAs instead).

Honestly, taking off my work clothes is always my first priority when I get home. I have a completely different wardrobe for “me” time. I never wear socks when I’m alone (frankly, I don’t wear them to work very often either. Albert Einstein never wore socks because he said they cluttered his thoughts. He was a genius, so it was probably a little more acceptable for him to not wear socks… but I don’t care. I dislike wearing them if I don’t have to). And often, my around-the-apartment outfits don’t include pants. It’s a new thing I’m trying. Turns out, I’m happier when I’m not wearing pants. Walking around in underwear is both comfortable and liberating. It makes me feel like this space I pay hundreds of dollars in rent for every month is truly mine. I dance around in my underwear. I fold clothes in my underwear. I wash dishes in my underwear. I highly recommend it. Being stripped down to essential articles of clothing makes all activities slightly more enjoyable.


This evening, I cooked dinner in my underwear and a t-shirt. And by dinner, I mean I put 4 eggs, half a red bell pepper, and two slices of colby-jack in a pan, cooked it, and called it food. For me, that’s some hardcore cooking. I’m horribly out of place in a kitchen, which is unfortunate, since I adore food. One of my attempts at baking brownies resulted in a strange brownie-soup that refused to solidify. It defied all scientific explanation. Most of the time, I know what I’ve done wrong after I’ve done it. Like the time I accidentally put the Jell-O in the freezer instead of the fridge and ended up with inedible Jell-O-flavored ice. I can make sandwiches rather well. And I’m brilliant with all forms of pasta (I am, after all, half Italian). For most things, though, it’s better if I’m not involved with the preparations.

Evidently, I’m a finicky eater. I don’t understand how that’s possible, as I can think of a sundry of foods that I would delight in devouring. But apparently my tastes don’t align with the things most people are willing to eat. My mother actually has to keep a list of the things I don’t eat for when I come home to visit (she’s puzzled as to how she ended up with a child who doesn’t eat fennel, lentils, or gnocchi. I maintain that these foods are not found in the average kitchen on a regular basis). In case you were curious, I don’t eat any animals that I deem “cute” (so no pig, duck, or sheep, but I’m cool with chicken, turkey, and cow), anything that used to live underwater (with the occasional exception of tuna), most nuts (except cashews and peanuts, although I think peanuts are technically legumes), and oranges (which most people are especially disbelieving of. I don’t like oranges, orange juice, orange Creamsicles, orange candy, etc. I’ve never liked them, and I doubt I ever will).

I have cravings for combinations of food that other people would call “strange”. I think this originated in elementary school, where I had a penchant for mixing all the foods on my lunch tray into an unappetizing goulash and eating it so that the other kids would find me entertaining (I was willing to try whatever I could to make friends. It rarely panned out). I put condiments on just about everything I eat. I eat mashed potatoes with red wine vinegar and Worcestershire sauce. I eat slices of provolone with yellow mustard. I once ate a particularly odd concoction of Half-Baked Ben & Jerry’s ice cream (it’s chocolate-fudge-brownie crossed with chocolate-chip-cookie-dough), caramel sauce, hot fudge, and green olives. Yes, you read that right. Green olives. With pimentos, if that makes a difference. And you know what? It was sensational. Of course, I was sick as a dog all through rehearsal the next day, so I won’t be revisiting that one. Unless I’m ever pregnant, in which case, all bets are off (although it has been hypothesized that if I become pregnant, I’ll start eating like a normal person. I think that theory is more for entertainment than plausibility, but one never knows).

My mother is a fantastic cook. Seriously. If you know my mother and are ever near her, I suggest conning her into making you a meal. It shouldn’t be too difficult. She’s Italian. It’s in her blood to feed people. Of course, I’m half Italian, and I don’t cook… But even if I did, I wouldn’t cook for others. No one but me would enjoy the foods I make for myself. If I’m going to spend time with someone, we’re going to have to have an event planned that has nothing to do with eating something I’ve made. Let’s go to McDonald’s, order off the dollar menu, and waste a significant amount of time discussing absolutely nothing. That sounds like a much better way to spend an evening.

Some people have described spending time with me as getting lost in a vortex. You lose time (usually large chunks of it). It’s like being abducted by aliens, but without the nasty anal probe to deal with. I think the time disappears because I provide such an entertaining alternative to anything else you could've possibly done. After all, time flies when you’re having fun. And fruit flies like a banana (sorry… I felt the need to throw that in, despite the fact that it was an intentionally horrible misquote). It probably also doesn’t hurt that I have no concept of time myself (which is probably why I have a tendency to be late for things… I blame that lack of skill on genetics).

I think the real reason time disappears is because I manipulate it. On a level that is not entirely conscious, I distract people from paying attention to the passing of time. A possible reason behind this is that I have a difficulty saying goodbye to people. Well, people I like, that is. I’m fairly certain I could do without people I don’t like… Anyway. Whether it be at the end of a night of hanging out, or the end of a phone conversation, it’s something I struggle with. If I enjoy the pleasure of someone’s company, I don’t want our time together to end. If we were having a blast, then obviously I would want the fun to continue. If we weren’t, I feel like we need more time in order for the good stuff to begin. In addition, I am plagued by a fear of loneliness. When I leave at the end of the night, I’m going back to an empty room. I’m going to sit on my computer, check my e-mail, see if anything is new on facebook, and then lie awake in bed (darn cathemeral sleep pattern) for an undeterminable period of time, wishing that I weren’t alone. When I hang up the phone, I have no one to talk to but myself (and believe me, I talk to myself plenty), and I end up in this boring, suffocating silence. I feel as though somehow, when a conversation ends, I’m being rejected. I wanted to be around you for longer than you wanted to be around me. I’ve been abandoned in some way. Saying goodbye hurts every time, even if only a little.

So I try everything I can to stop that goodbye from happening. I start one last story. I ask one last question. I give one more hug. When I am successful in delaying separation even by a few minutes, I feel as though I have proof that the other person likes me, and wants to be around me (again, this isn’t completely conscious… in fact, at the moment I’m writing, this is the first time I’ve admitted it to myself. And I’m a little shocked that I’ve never noticed it before. This writing stuff is great for cheap therapy). I won’t say that I have a sense of accomplishment, but it certainly gives me joy, especially if the other person gives up all together for a short period of time. If they put down their coat, or if they decide they’ll crash at my place, or if they ask me if I want a drink. *sigh* I feel a little more content just thinking about it.

I guess I’m emotionally needy. I always knew I was physically needy. I’m all for hugs and cuddling… and I’m a completely indiscriminate cuddler. If the person I’m cuddling with leaves, I will move on to someone else. I will cuddle with a stranger. I will cuddle with people of either gender (see? I’m not sexist). I will cuddle with the nearest pillow, if necessary. And I often miss my friends’ physical presences despite conversing with them frequently through other means, such as phone and e-mail. And now, on top of all of that, I’m emotionally needy as well. I crave companionship. Perhaps it’s a form of reassurance that I deserve love. Or maybe it’s a cry for attention. But if you don’t have anything to hurry off to, and you decide to pry yourself out of my grasp instead of lingering, there’s a good chance that you’re hurting me without knowing it. And if you give me a few more minutes, you will have left me a little bit more satisfied. Just feel flattered that I want to spend those few extra minutes with you, and consider allowing me to do just that.

I rather like the familiar Shakespeare quote on the subject, from Romeo & Juliet:
Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow,
That I shall say good night till it be morrow.

Alright, I’m off to go attempt to sleep and stop thinking about the not-so-abrupt goodbye I said earlier that clearly left me slightly disappointed for no good reason (why else would I have felt the need to write about this?).

Much love, sweet dreams, and lingering goodbyes,

~A~