There should be three posts here.

I like pudding (chocolate) and angel food cake.

Sullen teenager or adult realist?

Would disappearing from the face of the earth actually make a difference?

Odd but true

Sometimes I think my future-ex understands me better than most people in the world do. At least that's how I felt when he met my train last night smiling his crooked smile, and held me very tightly and kissed the top of my beautiful curly dark-red (for now) hair, deep in the guts of dank late-night Penn Station.

I didn't have to explain, and it was lovely.

There had to be a reason, really, we were so together for so long; at least it wasn't all for naught.

From the pillow of Wonky New Age Toronto Hotel, or whatever happened to mints?

Citrine: Energizing, invigorating and positive. Citrine can increase motivation and relieve felings of inertia, improve digestion, clear congestion and may work to purify the blood as well. Raises self-esteem, heightens perception, enhances creativity, promotes harmony. Encourages kindness, brings wisdom.

Pretty nice fucking rock. Good thing I didn't attempt to eat it.

Shoot me.

Not only have I been required to pontificate on the minutiae of the attorney-client privilege all day and giving myself the world's worst headache, and being sorely underpaid for it, and listening to idiot girls turn up the volume on the IM and wheel each other around on document carts while playing patty-cake (these girls are in their twenties), I just saw the valedictorian of my law school class leave the same place I am working and get into a black car, suited up and gorgeous.

I gracefully slid behind a pillar.

Please.

If you haven't seen this show

you are missing out.

Go check out Ampersand at the Magnet Theater on Sunday nights.

Sheer fucking joy. Two person improv. Furf is a lovely piece of...improvisor.

Seriously, he's done a fine job of putting together a unique and briliant show. Don't miss this!

I loved it, wet and freezing, And Rosie is a goddess for brewing up coffee. A goddess!

Love, love love.

Sunday afternoon

Shit.

I had a dream that I was standing in the middle of Eight Avenue, somewhere in Chelsea. There were cars barreling down on me and there was no way that I was not going to die. In the brief period of time-dilation I was experiencing, I realized fully that I had gotten myself into the situation, somehow, that it was almost nearly doomed for utter failure, and that maybe, just maybe, if I balanced myself on the thin white stripe of paint in the middle of the-

Then I woke up.

I have just spent the better part of the afternoon in Teresa's, a terrific coffee shop on First Avenue; the time can be broken down into several phases:

1. Brunch with Mark. Why I don't tape some of this stuff and just write the damn bits myself is beyond me. They're too good. Today's conversations went especially blue, veering off into porn temp agencies, animal bukkake and how to get panties onto a chicken. The omelettes were lovely.
2. Waiting out torrential rainstorm/waiting for my mother meeting me with Sephora purchases
3. Returning to Teresa's so my mother could indulge her blintz fix, requiring me to order more tea. My mother is often intentionallly hilarious, sometimes unintentionally. We broke out the Jewish Sisterhood bit for her, which she thought would be a definite hit.

Long afternoon. Although spent with two of the funniest comedians you haven't heard of.

Got lots of work ahead of me, but a head full of snot and a closed throat. Hooray!

Update

Throat: scratchy
Voice: Husky, diminishing
Thirst: great
Liver: actve
Blood: very thin
Concern about bodily injury: great
Feeling about being alone at the moment: mixed
Number of drunk dials performed: 1
Number likely to result in/affect potential booty calls: 0
Exhaustion: intense
Enjoyment of evening: high

Movie Quotes

"I am not your consolation prize."
- When Harry Met Sally

"I though of that old joke, y'know, the, this, this guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, "Doc, uh, my brother's crazy. He thinks he's a chicken." And, uh, the doctor says, "Well, why don't you turn him in?" And the guy says, "I would, but I need the eggs." Well, I guess that's pretty much how I feel about relationships. Y'know, they're totally irrational and crazy and absurd and, but, uh, I guess we keep going through it because, uh, most of us need the eggs. "
- Annie Hall

Summertime, or what I remember most.

We used to go to the beach, a lot. Every summer.

We'd take the train to Point Pleasant, Ocean Grove, Asbury Park, Spring Lake; the subway to Coney Island, or Brighton Beach. Coney Island was Nathans and Brighton was knishes, and once we went to the surly Georgian grocery store, and going in one at a time so someone could watch the stuff. LIRR to Oakdale and my dads, even the summer we swam too far and had to be rescued, or East Hampton and my aunts, like when I laughed at him for his fear of fishing as I merrily baited hooks and trolled with my uncle out towards Montauk Point. We went to Newport after the Bar exam and sat in the cloudy cold sand anyway and rode a real schooner and ogled the tan deckhands together. We went to glorious Miami Beach and stepped out our hotel and onto the sand, the glamourous life. Ocean Grove NJ was a dry town with tent-cottages and a huge cavernous church hall and we walked to Bradley Beach and had spaghetti and snuck wine back to our inn and sat on the windy porch and drank it with glasses we bought, leftover new years glasses I think, and talked and looked at the clouds and listened to the wonderful angry storm-surf. Point Pleasant was the best, day tripping, or that Raymond Carver like hotel where we laughed at the tiny railroad and went to the batting cages and he found me the perfect twenty-five cent arcade with ms pac man and we made love in the shower after the beach and flopped on the bed and ate fudge after a perfect dinner at the restuarant that teetered on pillars moored into the surf.

Those were good things, good summers.

RIP Peter Jennings

So, I almost finished the dreaded paperwork.

What did it take? Lots of crossouts, some bad Chinese food and fifty minutes of douche-baggery on the phone.

Just need two more terribly obvious documents and some fuzzy math.

And a few hours sleep. Fucktard, that's me.

Baggy eyed fucktard.

It better not be hot tomorrow, I gotta dress to depress.

Night all. I've got 'Landslide' going thru my head now. I'm overtired, my face's broken out, and I'm obsessed with this little bump on my forehead.

And, yeah, RIP Peter Jennings. I'll always remember shoving you out of the way at that tiny news shop on 72nd street when you were walking your dog and buying Marlboros. And then looking up outside the news shop and seeing who I'd just shoved.

"Hey there...nice dog."
"Thanks." Lighting up, and sauntering away, tall and gorgeous.

Damn.

Yeah, it's like that.

So this got me good today, from a folk-station I found on iTunes (WUMB, from Umass-Boston - iTunes has improved their radio station selection drastically). So I had to find the lyrics, download the song, etc.

When I get sucked in, I get sucked in, yes I do. So what? Go on, leave me to my maudlin shit. Go!

Along those lines, anyone catch Six Feet Under. My mom called it the saddest show she's ever seen on TV, ever. It was pretty harsh. Harsh!

Anyway, here's my song du jour, properly cited and all.

Still staving off the progress of my divorce nicely, thanks for asking. Just to complete the maudlin trifecta.

I haven't eaten since noon today. Why? Dunno. Oh, I had some cabbage. Why? Dunno.

Here's the damn song.

from www.cowboylyrics.com:

(as performed by Emmylou Harris and Don Williams)

Artist/Band: Van Zandt Townes
Lyrics for Song: If I Needed You
Lyrics for Album: Legend

If I needed you would you come to me,
Would you come to me, and ease my pain?
If you needed me
I would come to you
I'd swim the seas for to ease your pain

In the night forlorn the morning's born
And the morning shines with the lights of love
You will miss sunrise if you close your eyes
That would break my heart in two

The lady's with me now since I showed her how
To lay her lily hand in mine
Loop and Lil agree she's a sight to see
And a treasure for the poor to find

Six Feet Under

What the eff?

Although I dumped an ex from a sickbed, effectively. That part made me all nuts.

In all 'art' even the stupidest - People see what they want to see.

Even fucking television.

And I repeat - what the eff?

Although I don't really believe it. And if I do, then...suck-o.

Kind of a spoiler, no?

Well, watch the rerun anyway, it ain't my fault if you haven't.

Dreams

Morning dreams are the weirdest

The first dream was that I was about to make love to a gorgeous, dark-haired vaguely-familiar-looking (but I don't know who she was) woman (For some reason, I knew how to do this). Literally, right about to do it. But we were in my grandmother's apartment, downstairs. And then the dream ended, or shifted, or I woke up; I don't recall. Anyway, it never happened.

The second was a bright sunny day in the city; it may have been the meatpacking district around Gansevoort. I saw a good friend, who I'd been expecting for ages, off in the distance, at a bus stop. I couldn't reach him; I was walking quickly up the street, but my path was blocked, by well-meaning but chatty improvisors. I tried waving; I think he saw me but I couldn't be sure, and I needed to get to him. I remember lots of sunlight and shade and sunglasses, we both wore sunglasses. Then, I woke up.

Back...kinda

Well, I've got my messed-up website up.

And I've still got my messed-up life.

Huzzah!

Like the tapirs?

More meaningless crap.

Today I got Digital Cable. If my eyes don't deceive me, I have a channel that plays Nothing but Football (what the rest of the world calls Football, not what we Americans call Football.)

Whooooo!

I've also got eight zillion music video channels. Damn. The remote is bigger than a vibrator.

Ewwwww!

I am going to buy (well, pick out and have her dad reimburse) my little cousin a new flute for her elementary-school graduation present. I get to try new instruments out and get the kid a nice one! I am very excited!

Awwwww!

We'll write a comic about it.

Last night at an ungodly hour I was watching "American Splendor" which always, for some reason, makes me choke up a bit.

Do you ever find weird, eccentric things romantic?

And another thing....

I will teach myself how to build a website from scratch with a blog via Wordpress and a calendar if it fucking kills me.

Which it might.

which is why I only start this projects at five bloody AM.

Fuck a duck, I'm insane!

And another thing....An Open Letter to "D"

You know what? I don't need to keep this up here. I've said my piece and I've taken it away. Lost in the sands of time.

But thank you for causing me to re-examine the purpose and wisdom of keeping this journal, and the nature of the material that goes into it. For better or worse, things are going to change. I am a bit sorry and somewhat sad by all of this. But wiser, as well.

Best regards,
Michelle

The Comment that Makes me not want to Post Anymore

"To those I admire In this great big statistically-(no offense) unlikely divine hell, what are the odds, I mean, they must be astronomical, to say the least, of logging into her blog? And yet, (a figure of time) there it was, on the very big www,… she as brave and blunt as my Adrienne and I felt like that Alice, oversized and plodding, trying to squeeze through a small door never meant for my huge, greedy appetite. Like a bulimic in a bakery, wolfing down a bottomless cake, (hearing that voice of J. Alfred running endless, cynical, drunken commentary on everything I do.) And right there, in plain text, she was outing herself. And me in my grey box, confessing metaphors to her like I had broken some techno-modern commandment…(booming voice) thou shalt not read the intimate details of thy ex’s ex’s blog.)Like stepping foot in Xanadu, or eating a peach, or like having sex with your mother Ginsburg would say… not meant for my eyes (forgive me). But why not my eyes? Whose then?How could I resist the all too intimate references to his oh-so bigger-than-life need for obliqueness in a dismal world of DNA repetition? A cat named HomeboyA preference for Wagner (very Freudian)A predilection for betraying highly intellectual, somewhat rubenesque, mildy-sardonic, bluntly comedic, overly-sensitive, somewhat histrionic, (he never forgave me either), well, you get the point. Indulging my pain at her expense or my expense and her pain…E=mc2. (My tendency to disassociate not to be mistaken for indifference). And I wondered if she would be insulted (or could forgive me) for the implication of there being an “us” now - being in that sacred club of self-appointed martyrs whom he had the pleasure of spiritually bankrupting. (Did I ever forgive him?). Some ill-defined chosen-people club of gullible romanticists with concentrated fantasies of being in love. (verb or noun, it’s just like those evasive little electron-buggers). (Eliot knows, I don’t always carry around this much baggage.)And it wasn’t the subconscious attraction to narcissistic father-figures, or the autonomic addiction to over stimulating under-achieving synaptical-firings, or the avoidance of intimacy through a vengeful cloaking-device of food, although God knows I tried,But rather, those obscure, seemingly-insignificant, idiosyncractic synchronicities that bonded me to her in a way I had never before felt so close to anyone else; These things cannot be measured: (so said Jung)(Plagiarism as a form of honor) Poetry, food, Joplin, Oz, Homicide, the repetition of sex, words, quantum laws, cheese. I love cheese for Christ’s sake. Who would have thought that cheese could be such a binding factor? (the metaphors are getting silly now). (And there’s something about sex that is always funny). And maybe in time, (time as a metaphor) she could come to a place, where the need to feel loved again exceeded the need to be damaged. (my therapist said blaming myself is power). To be hurt and cheated on and betrayed and lied to in the exact same way is what Adrienne would call repetition as a form of death. (My father’s gift as well). like the hot house figs or the urn that holds the ashes or the sign on the bus…just minor props… just an understudy…(she throws off her apron and quits). And I forgave myself almost immediately for being jealous that your poetry was better than mine. But I could have predicted that with a little quantum theory and a bottle of Red Clarinet."