mae_craft

I'm going to call it a shit fuck.

Thursday. I'm crying because I fucked up. No one loves me. Everyone that has ever loved me has been treated like shit because I'm an unlovable monster. And yet - and yet, I have hope for old miracles:


Sunday. New miracles and it's stupid. It's embarrassing. I'm on a date and it's good. I feel okay. Jesse shows up with a woman. Jesse shows up with a woman and fucking asks me out in front of the woman and in front of my date. Shit fuck. "let's catch up over breakfast sometimes this week". Fuck. And yeah, apparently, Maggie agrees with Nix. Jesse was a rebound - no, actually, the 4 guys I slept with between Nix and Jesse were my fucking rebounds. If I hear Maggie or anyone so much as judge or invalidate the sincerity of my feelings in my fucking relationships - I will fucking smack them. And yes, I went into the restaurant bathroom, hunched over the toilet in tears and prayed to the God of love to give me strength and that if I had so much as an ounce of love for Jesse at any time, I would show him kindness now and let him be free. Let myself be free. Let us be happy...awww, shit fuck:

I wrote my father a letter. I need to send it to him.
I got into a art show - even if it is mediocre.
Now, I just need to take some tango lessons and all my new year's resolutions will be reached.

For the first time ever, I filled a notebook up start to finish. Today is my last day, and accordingly, the note card I chose at random was about walking away from writing.

Jesse gave me the journal when I bombed my GREs and decided to give up on grad school altogether - October 20th. I titled the journal "Joie Ravengeant", which is French for Ravaging Joy. The first 50 pages or so are all about the adventures of a failure. The Failed Lover. The failures of intellect. It goes on and on -- and then, the break up. The horror or rejection. Trying to slap myself into shape. Recuperating. I think that might be the overall theme of the journal: recuperation.

I didn't write very much this morning, like I had wanted to, but I took a lot of pictures which is at least some kind of creative work.

I gave Nix her stupid ugly rug, and for once, she didn't blast a shit ton of negativity at me.

I interview with Bard in an hour. Better start researching the school...

I'm hungry all the time. I don't think I'm absorbing nutrients. Interview today. Analysis and brunch due Sunday.

Things are starting to pick up some speed again.

A penny fell off my ass in the shower this morning. I'd been in the shower for awhile, so it must have really been on there. I picked it off the shower floor and tossed it in the bathroom. I found it later, and it was heads up.

Here is my horoscope. I'm optimistic.

The ideas will flow thick and fast today: keep a pen and paper handy to jot down each flitting thought. You'll be riding on a creative high; don't waste the buzzing energies with mundane matters, although a rather clingy person might try to stake a claim on your precious time! Be gentle with them!

I dream of quitting the way I used to dream of suicide when I was a teenager. I imaging cleaning out my desk. I imagine my letter of resignation. I imagine telling the owners about the months - who am I kidding - years of sexual harassment from the likes of Eric and Nicole. The constant bullying from my supervisor. The shots people take in the office. The pot they smoke outside. The coke they deal downstairs. I'd end by saying that my job is not a healthy place for me to spend my time.

But no. That won't happen. I'll probably get fired. And if I did ever quit, I'd do it tight lipped in the kindest way imaginable. It's important to me not to give into the negative energy of the job or the feelings I have about the job. I don't need to seek revenge on people that made me feel like shit every single day for months and months and months. People I had to suck up to or make out with just to be kind to me in front of my co workers. No. I can't give into it. I need to create my space of dignity and hold my head up. Only nice thoughts about co workers. Only nice thoughts about the work I'm doing. Positivity. Positivity. Positivity.

Still I would be so nice to give into being a self-respecting asshole - if only I could throw a dildo at someone's head instead of a burger. That would fucking RULE!

Hey You,

I took your advice, and rented some porn. My goal of the night was to ejaculate. Jesse used to say, "come on my cock, baby, come on my cock" when we were fucking, and there was just something magical about those words that would make me come all down his hairy legs. I didn't ejaculate last night, and after coming three times I just felt lonely and sad. They kept spitting on the girls' vags and it really grossed me out.

Speaking of, I spit into your rice milk this morning. ha ha. Just kidding. I've got nothing against you - well, I do. And maybe I'm not kidding. Ha ha. hoo hoo. Maybe I am.

Spit!

It's times like these, when I'm looking at pictures of Jesse looking super hot with a super hot little lady at his side that I have to remember the wrapping paper he made for Christmas, in all seriousness, entirely composed of pictures of himself. I have to remember the acne, the way he couldn't look at me when we were having sex, how he was controlling, and kept his arm around me in front of people - not to show affection, but ownership. I have to remember that he whines a lot. That he talks in a squeaky voice - that he doesn't let other people talk. That he sees the world in two categories: superior and inferior. I have to remember how angry he'd get when I mentioned grad school in any context. And how he dumped me the morning of my GREs after I made him sausage and eggs.
It's also good to note that he was never nearly as dark and stormy as I always was. Nor was he moody. He was kind, gentle, sweet, ambitious, and damn it, he was smart too. We had good conversations - well, when I could get a word it.
*sigh*
What the hell am I doing with my life?

I met a girl on Friday who was "anti-gay". She's old and over it. She was also a very angry, judgmental alcoholic.

Not me, I may be in the gutter right there with her in every other way, but I'm pretty high on gayness. For instance, I just claimed my "coming out" song. It's 5:15 by The Who.

I love it...




Why should I care, why should I care?



Girls of fifteen

Sexually knowing

The ushers are sniffing

Eau-de-cologning

The seats are seductive

Celibate sitting

Pretty girls digging

Prettier women.



Magically bored

On a quiet street corner

Free frustration

In our minds and our toes

Quiet stormwater

M-m-my generation


Uppers and downers

Either way blood flows.


Inside outside. Leave me alone.

Inside outside. Nowhere is home.

Inside outside, Where have I been?

Out of my brain on the five fifteen.


On a raft in the quarry

Slowly sinking.

On the back of a lorry

Holy hitching.

Dreadfully sorry

Apple scrumping.

Born in the war

Birthday punching.


He man drag

In the glittering ballroom

Gravely outrageous

In my high heel shoes

Tightly undone

They know what they're showing

Sadly ecstatic

That their heroes are news.


Why should I care?
Why should I care?

When I got back into civilization on Friday, I had a whole weekend to explore the single life. To go to bars, dressed up cute as a button, flirt, laugh, meet acquaintances -- the works.

Turns out none of that happened. I wanted to call you all weekend. I wondered what your doing, and for all I know, I did call you at one point or another in my drunken lonesomeness. I'm afraid to check my phone. It records my weaknesses more than any blog post I've ever written.

Tonight, driving back from The Mix I told my friends that I was still in love with you and that it killed me everyday.
Jack Daniels. Side of Ginger Ale. A few beers during the game.
That's all it takes.
"You still see her"
"Everyday"
"She was your first, that's why"
And then I went into this great fucking monologue about how I still love Spanks and how he killed me a millions times over with worst pain imaginable. How I had talked to him today. How he said he was getting married. How I didn't care, but was so jealous. I want a relationship. I like relationships. And damn it, that doesn't have to mean that I'm weak or needy - contrary to the opinions of Bay Area consciousness. How no matter what nasty things we did to each other (and we did horrible hurtful things), we have always been dedicated to loving each other and following that love to -- to our separation, to our friendship, to our work ethic. And that if I could just love her out of this mess. If I could just love my way through the pain and loneliness. If we could just dedicate to the love -- we might have a chance at falling out of love and building something solid. But fuck, I can't. It's so hard. I see her everyday and want to prop her up on the cupboard when she pours her coffee and bury my head in the smell of her crotch. God fucking damn she smells so good. She's a goddamn panther with her smell.
"What do her tits smell like?" Allison says
"I don't know - like her"
"Oh, sorry, wrong conversation"

Allison has a friend from Minnesota with a tattoo of the Mississippi running down her arm that she wants me to meet. Le sigh...

We're interviewing potential roommates and the one we liked the most is seeing a boy that I had fucked in the kitchen and doorway not so long ago. Mags wants to know if it will be a problem. It won't. I don't have feelings when it comes to pornography.


So I don't know. I'm lost. I pray to St. Anthony. I hope it works out.

When I got back into civilization on Friday, I had a whole weekend to explore the single life. To go to bars, dressed up cute as a button, flirt, laugh, meet acquaintances -- the works.

Turns out none of that happened. I wanted to call you all weekend. I wondered what your doing, and for all I know, I did call you at one point or another in my drunken lonesomeness. I'm afraid to check my phone. It records my weaknesses more than any blog post I've ever written.

Tonight, driving back from The Mix I told my friends that I was still in love with you and that it killed me everyday.
Jack Daniels. Side of Ginger Ale. A few beers during the game.
That's all it takes.
"You still see her"
"Everyday"
"She was your first, that's why"
And then I went into a great little monologue about how I still love Spanks and how he killed me a millions times over with worst pain imaginable. How I had talked to him today. How he said he was getting married. How I didn't care, but was so jealous. I want a relationship. I like relationships. And damn it, that doesn't have to mean that I'm weak or needy - contrary to the opinions of Bay Area consciousness. How no matter what nasty things we did to each other (and we did horrible hurtful things), we have always been dedicated to loving each other and following that love to -- to our separation, to our friendship, to our work ethic. And that if I could just love her out of this mess. If I could just love my way through the pain and loneliness. If we could just dedicate to the love -- we might have a chance at falling out of love and building something solid. But fuck, I can't. It's so hard. I see her everyday and want to prop her up on the cupboard when she pours her coffee and bury my head in the smell of her crotch. God fucking damn she smells so good. She's a goddamn panther with her smell.
"What do her tits smell like?" Allison says
"I don't know - like her"
"Oh, sorry, wrong conversation"

Allison has a friend from Minnesota with a tattoo of the Mississippi running down her arm that she wants me to meet. Le sigh...

We're interviewing potential roommates and the one we liked the most is seeing a boy that I had fucked in the kitchen and doorway not so long ago. Mags wants to know if it will be a problem. It won't. I don't have feelings when it comes to pornography.


So I don't know. I'm lost. I pray to St. Anthony. I hope it works out.

I miss salsa dancing. I'm listening to salsa music right now.
I just sent this:
------------------------------------
Hey Stephanie,
I sincerely apologize, but I won't be able to attend the interview in person, as I'm unable to afford a flight and accommodations in New York. Is there any way that I could do an interview over the phone or via email?

Thanks for your time,
Rebecca

-----------------------------------

And now for my second bug email of the day -- wheeling and dealing with the devil.

I'm trying to take better pictures of myself with all the faces I give in the mirror instead of the usual puker-up cheek-sucking poses. I want to show them to my kids when they're going through puberty and say - this is it. This is the best you'll probably be able to do.

I'm also getting very drunk on a regular basis - it's rainy and cold. I'm in the hills - what else is there to do?

I think the greatest moment of breaking up with Jesse was when I went over to his place for dinner this week and he pulled out a roll of wrapping paper he had made with pictures of himself. Not just of himself, but pictures of himself with a mustache that were framed between a weaving of red and green ribbon.

I laughed hysterically. I mean, the man was obsessed with himself, and it always bothered me - but to see it there in wrapping paper form, one big roll of it - just fucking cracked me up. This poor man is 30 years old - what the fuck is he doing? I told him it was the epitome of who he was, and he agreed. Then he gave me a sample. Ha ha ha! I thought it'd be fun to just have around, you know, to remember that I used to date someone who was completely incapable of relating to people, loving, and showing warmth.

I started feeling bad about it, but then had the rest of my sentences interrupted with interjections about himself through the rest of the night and realized that he's fine. He's just fine without ever having contact with anyone else in the world including his family and closest friends.

A bottle of wine later, I put on my jacket and looked one last time at the wrapping paper before packing it into my purse. Then I fucked up and said, "You're really got some problems."

Apparently, that didn't sit well with Jesse who thought the wrapping paper only showed that he was comfortable with his body and face. He took it back and said I didn't appreciate it enough to have it. Boo.

It would have been funny to hang up at my cubicle and laugh at throughout the day.

There's a beaver story I've been keeping up on.

On Thursday, a "disoriented and possibly injured" little fuzz ball squeezed through a small opening in the wire mesh filter that was placed on Alhambra Creek as part of a system to maintain the water level and prevent downtown flooding. The beaver built a 6-foot dam across the creek downtown!
So fucking cute...but there's a sad turn...
The little guy was sent to the wildlife museum by an officer of the Contra Costa County Animal Services Department after "bumping into the concrete walls of the creekbed, toppling over in the water and then swimming away again". Poor little baby furtooth! Luckily the baby's okay and so is Martinez.

Tonight, there's Pizza, Poetry, and Beer at Escape from New York at 7:30pm. No one wants to come with me.

There's also a really cool "Walk on the Italian Side" tour of Northbeach on Jan 12 at 10am at the Northbeach Museum (1435 Stockton Street) where Alessandro Baccari will show slides of Northbeach from the 1850's and 1906 earthquake in addition to walking around the area. No one will go with me to that either I'm sure.

Bummer.

Now, about Swisher I just have to ask - What's mamma gonna do without her honky?

I work here.

It's hard to talk to my exes. I mean, it's nice. We're friends. I just can't stand them sometimes. They're both just so frustrating in such different ways.

I had an attack of guilt last night, remembering how I had made love to both of them under the light of my Virgin Mary light and thinking that our love was real, our love was holy, and true. But it's amazing how untrue it became and how fast it was to unravel. It must not have been real - I must have been lying to them, to my religion, to myself. All those things meant so much to me once. But not now, and I'm left with guilt.

what to do. what to do.

I'd like to read this book, for starters:
The Long Embrace

Yeah, well, when the pipeline gets broken and I'm lost on the river bridge
I'm all cracked up on the highway and on the water's edge
She comes down the thruway ready to sew me up with thread
Well, if I go down dyin', you know she bound to put a blanket on my bed.

Hot sex dream about Debi last night! We were riding horses. Strangely, she had the hair around her ears shaved - early 90's style - weird, but it didn't matter because when I touched it, it was soft and lovely. I want to tell her about it - maybe I will, but I'll cut out the sex. Hmmm...

Someday, I need to tell Nix that I'm sorry for everything I put her through while coming out as a bisexual. And then tell her thank you for helping me find that.