What I Do on Saturday

Today I decided to completely re-arrange the furniture in my bedroom. I had been kicking the idea around for a while, moving the furniture in my mind, imagining how it would look this way or that, and finally said “fuck it” and started moving stuff. Firstly, I was amazed at the amount of hair on the floor behind the bed. I mean, it looked like a Shetland pony had exploded or something (maybe I should start wearing clothes to bed again… nah). So anyway, after I managed to vacuum all of that up, I started the rest of the really heavy lifting. Moved the mattress and the box springs out, unloaded the bookcase, unloaded the armoire, took the drawers out of the dressers, took the dressers and the bookcase out and then determined the best solution to the unsolvable angle problem posed by trying to maneuver the bed and the armoire past one another. It was nudge nudge switch nudge nudge switch for a bit, but I now have a new floor plan. Amazingly, the new arrangement is supposedly more beneficial in terms of feng shui. Which is nice, because I couldn’t give a ripe red ass about a bunch of made up bullshit. On the other hand, if my fame does begin to increase and I do find a relationship, well then, that’s why Jesus invented something called “coincidence”.

P.S. Bonus points to anyone who can tell me where the name of this posting came from and why it is significant.

Why not?

You know, I just got stood up, and I was writing this really thoughtful, introspective piece, and then I was like “Fuck this.” That’s not me. Well, (sigh), okay, it IS me, it can be me, but it is not the me that everyone else gets to see, because this is my miseducation of Lauryn Hill: when you let people in, you get played like a chump. SOMETIMES. Confused yet? Good: me too. I had this thing… well, okay: I was trying to have this thing with this guy. But he doesn’t want my thing. Wait, that makes me sound bad, let me rephrase: he does not want a thing. Or so he says, and frankly it doesn’t matter, because either way I still got no thing (just sort of mentally fix that sentence in your minds so that it is talking about relationships and not dicks). So, la la how the life goes on. I’m trying, right? I mean, making an effort to put myself out there, meet guys… except I wonder if I really am trying. I have an intensely pessimistic attitude: I’ll always be alone, for whichever of the many hundreds of obvious reasons, but me, alone, yeah: it’s just how it’s gonna be. So, I am projecting this quantum wave of negativity out to all potential guys, and they are completely repelled (although, to be a dickhole about the physics: they would also have to be negatively charged in order to be repelled and I can’t believe that I am talking about physics in the middle of my discussion about why I am undesirable: this only underscores my point). The nice way to think about it is that I am too special: I am a good guy with a lot to offer. That’s what my friends tell me. I don’t want to insult their perspicacity, but if I’m so great, why aren’t the guys beating down my door? The other homo at work (well, the other male homo at work: I forgot about the PE teacher, and surprisingly the music teacher) tells me that I have to kiss a lot of frogs before I find my prince. This sounds more like it to me, but then I wonder: is it worth it? Is it honestly worth my time and effort to be jerked around emotionally, to deal with an endless number of “slimy” guys, on the off chance that one of them will turn out to be okay? I’m kinda leaning towards “no” on that one, but then I think: what the hell else will I write about? I mean, you can only read so much about me having wet dreams or nightmares when I sleep on my back. So, I dedicate myself to you, gentle readers… all six of you. For you, I will continue to put myself out there. For you, I will make myself emotionally vulnerable. For you, I will share the details of every awful date, every worthless loser, and every awkward rejection I have, meet, and receive. You bitches better appreciate it.

Extra Special note: I have posted another profile on yet another online service. To view it, and the duplicate blog postings, you may click here. Enjoy!

Spoon!

I stole a spoon. Not from a restaurant or store: from a gas station. Although, I suppose, since the spoon was just resting on top of the gas pump I stopped at and there were no signs of ownership or merchandising, technically I only acquired the spoon. But “I acquired a spoon” just doesn’t have the same ring to it, now does it? I don’t even know why I took it. True, I’ve stolen silverware before: I used to take forks from this quaint little dessert place that my friends and I would sometimes go to late at night. It’s not as though the forks were so great: I took them more as a comment on how desperate I was to experience something. That place is closed now, although I’m pretty sure that the loss of three forks was not what drove them under. But this spoon, simply sitting on top of the gas pump, waiting for its destiny… I needed to have it for some reason. It certainly doesn’t go with my flatware. In fact, it is a quite hideous spoon: white handle with soft blue flowers, web of cracks woven through the plastic, rough-edged bowl almost certain to abrade your lips if you ever put it in your mouth. I certainly don’t intend to eat with it, or even include it with the rest of my silverware: it is ugly, and should be shunned accordingly; hidden away with the seldom-used gizmos that have a way of steadily accreting in the secret spaces of our kitchens. So I didn’t take it because I needed something to eat with, or something to display. I think maybe I took it because it was lost, because it used to belong to someone and now it belongs to me. I wonder how it came to be on top of the gas pump; what the story is behind it. Did a harried mother set it there while she was trying to juggle six different things and a carload of screaming children? Perhaps a drug user abandoned it there to avoid getting caught with paraphernalia (I doubt it, though: there were no scorch marks on the bottom). Maybe it was left by someone who’s a geocacher, and now I have fucked up their carefully organized quest. What I hope is that it was purposefully left behind. Think about it: a spoon on top of a gas pump? It’s no Easter Island, but still a little mysterious. How great would it be if someone left it there to make people think, even for just a moment, about something outside of themselves?

That Buddha

You know, he was so right: desire really is the cause of all suffering. We desire things, and we suffer because we can't have them, don't get them, they turn out not to be what we wanted when we do get them, or once we have something we want we move on and want something else. So where does that leave us? Fucked, of course. Fucked, fucked, fucked.

Kind Cruelty

This is just going to be a quickie: I am in the midst of shopping. You know how I am not a leather queer? What with the dead animal flesh and me being a vegetarian and all? Yeah, well apparently there is a section of the bondage fetish market dedicated to the cruelty-free consumer. VeganErotica.com sells “condoms, bondage gear, and other items” according to their write-up in the PETA catalog. Yeah. Because, you know, just because you are into inflicting pain doesn’t mean animals have to suffer, right? I swear, sometimes I tremble at what lies ahead.

Sob to your mother

This morning, just before I woke up, I dreamt my mom had died. It was really bad; pretty much all I remember from the dream was that I was collapsed in the parking lot of what I’m guessing was the funeral home, just sobbing, you know those great big racking gurgle-y sobs that only the very young or the very devastated can manage to produce. Yeah, them. I also remember feeling completely hollowed out, like someone had taken a melon baller and scooped out my insides, perhaps to display at a macabre brunch with festive sprigs of rosemary and thyme. Sure enough, when I woke up I was on my back (see the July 23 entry for why this is relevant; sidebar: I picked the right date out of the entire list of entries on my first try. Freaky, huh? We now rejoin our abnormal conversation). The intensity was such that I almost called my mom the second I got out of bed. But I took stock, assured myself it was a dream, and prepared for the rest of my day. Occasionally, my thoughts would drift back to the dream as I worked, but mostly I was too damn busy. I got home, was catching up on some email, and decided I really should call my mom. I was talking to her, telling her about the dream when it happened: I started bawling. I do not know what it was, maybe a combination of the various stress factors I have been under lately, but I let loose. My mom asked me if I was okay, and I told her that I was. Because I am. While I am not sure whether the dream was representative of something else in my life or not, I’m all right and even luckier to know it. Oh, and if anyone thinks this means they can call me a big sissy girl for crying on the phone to my mommy, I’ll let Betsy and Priscilla speak to you about that. Kisses!

Happy VD

Hello Darlings!

I was all prepared to write you a bitter diatribe against this day, this “holiday” as it were, but I find myself unable to. What’s this? You may gasp to yourselves, has our bunny at last found love? Has he, through a combination of medication and years of intensive therapy, finally been able to evaporate his inner ocean of cynicism, leaving behind a salt flat of sincerity? Bitches, please: I warned you about smoking on the crack. No. This is not some mushy-gushy mash note to the non-existent man in my life. Rather, it is a rallying cry to revel in my singularity (not in a singularity; while there would be an infinite amount of room for the guests, the party wouldn’t last very long, what with being crushed down to subatomic size while retaining the same mass and all). Anyway, through a recent conversation (which was in actuality a nearly interminable monologue), I have come to realize that all of the loves I have experienced have come to… nothing. Not once in my life has my affection ever been reciprocated. Ever. This is not to say that no one has ever expressed affection for me; it just hasn’t come from anyone with a penis. So. Why am I cheered by this? I’m not. See, it’s been more like finally understanding a math problem: I give plenty of love away, but get nothing in return. This is not the practice of a smart investor, but of a crazed eccentric, who… shit, I hate it when my analogies turn on me. Well, to shorthand it for you, kiddies, I realized that while love is not something that you can fill a bathtub with, it is something that I have been sorely lacking in my life. Since I can’t seem to find anyone else with a penis to love me, I have decided that I am going to love myself (waiting politely while everyone comes up with masturbation jokes). Yesterday, I was all set to break out with a black outfit for today, fierce scowlings, and just wrap myself up in my own drama. Then, I started to laugh at myself, because it was silly. “Honestly,” I said to myself, “You make this huge stink over what crap this holiday is, and it’s all because you think you can’t enjoy it unless you have someone else. Alone again, you were saying, just trying to work yourself up for a sniffle or two. But let’s take a look at what you have: the most awesome friends ever, your family loves you, you are funny and smart, you bake like a superstar, you don’t really look as bad as you pretend to think you do, and you have all the things: the job, the car, the house. Desire is the cause of all suffering, baby, and what else is it that you really need?” And I just started smiling like I was a helmet and harness away from riding the short bus. I kept doing it, too. My parents noticed it when I saw them; mom even remarked on it. I mean, if this is it, if this is all I get, well then goddammit (sorry Rachel), it’s still pretty good. So, even though I may be alone this Valentine’s Day (which is the first time I have uttered those two words all day), I am not without love. Oh, but don’t worry: I will still be your same old vicious and mean-spirited little bitch; it’s just that now I’ll have a twinkle in my eye.

I can ride a bike again

I bought a new seat for my bike this weekend. I had a little trouble deciding which one to buy. There was a whopping two for me to consider, and the one I didn't buy looked like it had a caricature of a penis, balls and all, on it. I know you're probably thinking "But that should have been a real draw for you". The reason I didn't buy it is because it didn't feel as squishy as the one I did buy. One of the nice things about it is that the seat I bought has two raised up cushy parts where your butt goes. It feels a little weird, kind of like there is a midget (oh, sorry: I forgot that is not the correct term. I meant a wee elf) running behind you holding your butt in his hands. This also means that there is, for lack of a better word, a channel where my dangly bits can be not mashed up against the seat, feeling every bump on the Trail. I was so excited after I put the bike seat on, I had to ride it just a little bit. I whisked right out into the gray afternoon, leaving my dinner (leftover homemade pizza from mom; we love mom) in the oven to reheat. It was kind of weird, and I will have to give it exhaustive street testing, but I think it will work. Of course, since I refuse (-ish) to wear my helmet, I will probabaly end up spreading my brains out on the pavement like caviar on toast points. But at least my pink bits won't be numb when it happens.

Full Throttle

I am sure that at some point in our lives, we have all wanted to choke the living shit out of someone. No? Just me, you say? Well then I suppose, in the words of Homer Simpson: “I’m a rage-aholic! I’m addicted to rage-ahol!” Anyway, this isn’t really about me (who the fuck am I kidding: this is MY blog and it IS about me. And sometimes stoats), but rather it is about the people and/or things that will eventually bring me to an aneurysm and sweet, sweet death. For instance, today was particularly rage-alicious. It started off with me receiving an email from someone concerning a document I created. This document is a mentoring log, of use to people who are Nationally Board Certified teachers who are pursuing the additional money awarded by the state for giving ninety hours of mentoring to teachers who are not Nationally Board Certified. I posted this particular document as an attempt to calm the waters during a particularly bitter debate occurring on one of our electronic bulletin boards (see, I am not always about to stroke out over something: I can be nice, bitches). Now, not to be an utter snot about it, I used the existing log as a template from which to create mine. Mine is prettier, but otherwise contains exactly the same information as the other log. This email I received said that my log was nice, but that I didn’t include a line for signatures. This is when I flew off the handle. I wanted to write back: “Of COURSE there isn’t a line for signatures, because they aren’t required, you ignorant crack-whore!” Instead, I responded: “I am not sure which signatures you are referring to. I used the existing mentor log as a template to create this one and included everything that was on the old one.” I even went back and checked this, because, for a brief moment, I wondered if I HAD inadvertently left something off. I hadn’t. This knowledge was like throwing an oil tanker on the fire of my rage. Not only was she correcting me, but she was incorrectly correcting me. She wrote back late in the day that the mentor is required to sign each sheet and I didn’t leave a place to do that. Once again, I went back to the original document AND THERE WAS NO FUCKING LINE FOR MENTORS TO SIGN ON. Now, regardless whether or not these logs do need to be signed by the mentors, THIS BITCH IS STILL MISSING THE POINT: THE LOG I MADE CAME FROM THE ORIGINAL LOG. IF THERE ARE ANY FAULTS ON IT, THEY ARE FROM THE ORIGINAL DOCUMENT, GMFD. Okay, I think I can let it go now. Just watch the news for stories of a crazed librarian, and please remember to lock your doors.