Get Happy!

Okay, so may last couple of posts have been real downers: whiny, self-pitying and the like. I can get like that sometimes, especially when my blood sugar is too low and the reading on the scale is too high. But now I'm starting to look on the brighter side of things. I'm starting a new exercise regimen, and exercise always improves my mood. Also, J bought me the cutest little laptop to do my writing. Now I don't have to be at home, struggling through distraction after distraction just to get something down. Right now I'm at a Borders book store in Santa Monica. I'm enjoying a day off from work, which I really needed. The day is absolutely gorgeous. I look outside the window and see dazzling sky, a rich, spotless blue. The perfect sky makes me wonder about the endless beauty of the world in those places I can't see but believe to be. Alright, I'm getting a little too romantic again.

The only thing keeping this day from being completely perfect is the agonizing soreness of my body from yesterday's workout. I hired a personal trainer for a short time to help me work out an exercise plan, and my god, did she put me through the gamut. After thirty minutes on the treadclimber, I did seven additional minutes on the wave machine to work my glutes, and after that my trainer guided me through an weight lifting routine for my upper body. I can barely move a muscle now, I'm so sore. On top of that I have a bit of a headache. This morning I went to bed with the same nagging head throbs I went to bed with last night. It could be that I didn't get enough to eat after my workout yesterday. Or it could be all the freakin' sodium that was in that chopped salad I ate at the cafe. I mean that place has got to be the worst for misleading the public on the nutritional content of its menu. Here I'm thinking I'm eating a healthy salad, but then, with my trusty new laptop, I look up on the internet the cafe's nutrition guide, and find out that what I thought was healthy and good for me was laden with calories, fat, and get this--2100 mg of sodium. What the hell?

In case I forgot to mention it, thanks to my parents' cursed genes, I have high blood pressue. I should be taking medication for it, but I'm trying my best to bring it back to normal through natural methods. So I'm exercising regularly, changing my diet to a low calorie, low sodium one, with more fruits and vegetables, and taking supplements. Hopefully all this work will pay off in a trimmer body and a normal bp reading next time at the doc's. But I've got a ways to go. No worries. Challenges should be viewed as opportunities. So, go me.

Here We Go Again

Writing is the most aggravating, frustrating chore. At least it is for me. I don't enjoy as much as I thought I would. I hate every plodding word as much as I hate the features on my face. You can tell by the jarring, jerky sound of my writing that I have no instinct of rhythm, that my thoughts are random and scattered, and that I don't possess a useful thought in my head. I talk about the most inane, boring shit in the most awkward way. Every time I sit down to write I feel as if I'm trying to start the rusted engine of a decrepit automobile. If it even starts up at all, it revs and dies, revs and dies, gives out before it can make it up the hill, and slides back to where it was originally parked, sometimes a few feet behind it. And there's me behind the wheel, cursing the wretched thing to go; go some where--anywhere--just as long as I move.

Yeah, fuck writing. Seriously, fuck it. I can't stand it. It's the hardest thing I ever had to do. My hands actually ache the moment I begin to type. My brain rejects everything it produces in print, and commands that I go back and revise a word before I even set it down.

There's got to be away to kill this inner critic of mine. It's destroying my spirit, telling me I'm a failure before I even try. I want to write about my experiences working at the drug store, but I can't seem to get the thoughts in my head straight. It's like there's a cold war going on between my thoughts and my fingers; neither faction is reasoning with the other. And the treasures of my imagination hide in the dark, rejecting self fulfillment and objective expression, as if shunning the light of being. Why? I have such beautiful, lyrical dreams, mental images that sing with wonder. Are they perfect only in the shadows and fear the inherent impurity of form? This can be the only answer, for which I have my mother to blame. She gave me dreams but taught me to never act on them. Such is the way of witches. They never share their treasures with the outside world. They horde them, horde them in the darkest cave, in the highest tower, and the deepest pit. But I don't want that for my dreams. I want them to be born, no matter how painful the process.

Practice is pain, I suppose. I may as well grit my teeth and bear it.

Back For More

So last time I was in a funk about some stuff at work. You know, the usual stuff: bosses, obnoxious customers. Not much has changed since, but I do feel better now then I did then. I had the day off yesterday, and that did some good. I got to relax, hang out with some friends, treat myself to a soothing at home spa treatment. Now I'm ready for more come the night time when I punch in for work.

My sleep pattern, on the other hand, is really messed up. It's morning; I had just waken up, meaning I had slept during the night. Since I work the graveyard shift, I should have been up during the night, turning in for bed come the morning. What this means now is that I am too awake, of course, to sleep during the day since having already slept, and come nighttime, when it's time for work, I'll be too sleepy to do my job.

Eh...boring shit, I know. My life isn't very exciting, as you can tell. No jet setting around the world for me. No lunching with beautiful people, or shopping at trendy stores, or hopping from one exclusive club to another every night. Just work, sleep, and catch up sleep seven days a week. If I'm lucky I'll money and time to check out a movie with J and our friends, maybe go out for dinner. I don't even get Thanksgiving off, which is the best time for us to hang out with friends. More than likely I'll get Christmas off, but I don't care much about that holiday because my enjoyment of it is very particular. I have to have all the right things set in place: the right decorations, the right tree, the right holiday music, the right food and the right company. Anything less than that just doesn't feel like Christmas to me. And anyway, that's the time most of us fly back home and force ourselves to stand the company of our relations.

My family and I don't really talk, so I don't see them for the holidays. And J's family is a bunch of lunatic Jehova's Witnesses. As part of their wacko religion they don't recognize holidays.

Still, I guess it's better to have Christmas off than not.

Graveyard Sucks

I have to keep telling myself that it's only a fucking job. But it just gets to you sometimes, you know? You bust your ass to work hard, to do everything right, to give it your all, and the only reward you get out of it is not getting fired. A lot of old timers keep telling me that there used to be a time when you had something to show for your effort: a nice home, a generous retirement, a highly esteemed reputation within the company. Well, it ain't like that anymore. Now there's only shit pay, long hours, and punishment for making mistakes.

If you haven't guessed by now, I had a pretty bad day at work. Actually, it was a pretty bad night, I should say, since I work the graveyard shift. The night itself wasn't so bad if you don't count all the annoying homeless people who give you hard time; but come the morning, just ten minutes before clocking out and riding high, looking forward to a hard earned day off, my supervisor counts my register and grimly reports that it's short five dollars. And, she adds, yesterday it was short fourteen dollars. Talk about taking all the air out of my little balloon. I honestly don't know how my register came up short. I try so hard to be exact. One more screw up like that and I'll get probated, and suffer further humiliation by having someone watch over me while I ring. I almost broke out in tears--almost. I refuse to cry in public.

But for an agonizingly long ten minutes I had to hold it all in and keep ringing up sales, like a good little store monkey. I didn't do a very good job at keeping my composure. Even if I didn't cry, my attitude was still kind of pissy. That's because the guy I was checking out was a right dickface idiot who couldn't tell his own ass from a hole in the ground.

I don't want to get into what happened there. What happened is what always happens with customers, because customers are all the same: spoiled, helpless little children with a self-entitltement complex--all because they're spending money on you, and have been brought up in that good ol' American aphorism 'The customer is always right.' I can't think of a more corruptible phrase. By the way customers act their cash couldn't have been holier if it had fallen out of the Virgin Mary's ginny. Okay, the whole of them aren't that bad. But they come pretty damn close.You can measure their egos in dollars and cents; no matter how much or how little they spend they're trading more than just currency--they're trading sacrifice of dignity and self respect. And boy, do I know the feeling every time I had to steal away into a bathroom stall and just grit my teeth. I know dollar is never just a dollar. Even when you have it right there in your hand, it doesn't seem to exist. At least, that's the way it is for poor fucks like me. Our money doesn't 'grow,' as in make a profit, and neither do we get to keep it for very long. Over time, a numbness sets in after seeing bank accounts of less then twenty dollars month after month. Every day you go to work it feels like you're doing time. For eight hours you're stuck there. You're not free to do what you want, to say what you want, or to be your own person, and the hours drag and drag with you doing the same old routine you did the night before: scan, ring, bag...scan, ring, bag...scan, ring, bag. Work feels like forever, but the money never stays. In my case, it goes straight to those things needed to keep me alive and sane, which is ironic since working so hard for it stresses my body and spirit.

It's just a job. It's just stupid job.

This is my mantra.

Actually, I feel a bit better now that I've written about it. Hopefully my next entry won't be such a downer.

Ugh! Working the Graveyard Tonight

It's past two in the afternoon, and I have to be at work in eight hours. I should be getting some sleep, but my head is pounding, not to mention the bright ass sun is shining all its glory onto my face. And it's hot as hell, too. Who can sleep in the heat, except lizards and scorpions? Mammals are not meant for this kind of thermal abuse. Shit! I have to go to sleep. My stomach hurts, the air is too dry, my skin itches, and there's too much noise going on outside. Why did I ever agree to do the graveyard shift? It sucks. Sure, I don't have to bother with all the annoying Daywalkers. Customer service just isn't my thing, and I can't bring myself to pretend to care about their stupid lives, as is guaranteed by my company's television commercials.

Isn't that how a store gets you to come in and buy their junk? By somehow getting you to feel as if you matter, that you are the center of the universe, and that all your little aches and pains and ouchies are major crises that we have sworn obligation to resolve? Puh-leeze. Go jump off a cliff. A couple of nights ago this dimwit comes rushing into the store, cradling her hand with the other, her index finger pointing up as if it were radioactive. She comes over to my counter all panicky demanding to know where the Neosporin was located. I tell it's downstairs and in what aisle to find it. Of course the idiot doesn't find it and I have to go escort her personally to the first aid aisle.

"What happened to your finger?" I asked, becasue from what I can tell, it looked perfectly fine.

The lady whimpers, "I burned it on a curling iron." She showed it to me, as if expecting me to kiss her boo-boo. I looked it over and immediately judged that 'burned' was a bit over the top. The tip of the finger was slightly red, nothing a steady stream of tepid water and a little patience couldn't cure, but it was far from bubbling and blistering like a couple of doozies I had experiened in my childhood. My mother didn't make a big deal of that, so I guess I picked up a tendency not to get overexcited about minor injories. Crybaby kept going on about it as if the damn thing had been cut off.

I pointed out the Neosporin to her without commenting on her finger. Crybaby looks at me and asks, I shit you not, "Will it take the 'ouchies' away?"

I was amazed. 'Ouchies?' Are you fucking kidding me?

"What are you? Five?"

She looked a little embarrassed after that, silently grabbed the Neosporin, and followed me back to the cash register. After the transaction, we exchanged goodbyes. Crybaby didn't look up once the whole time after that, bringing her head up again only when she was out the door. An obvious Daywalker. She had come rushing to the pharmacy in the middle of the night in her pajamas and fuzzy slippers for a slightly red fingertip. God. Grow a pair, you dingbat.

I hate Daywalkers.

So, long time, no see

'What the hell am I doing?' is a question that runs through my mind daily. There are so many things in my life I want to improve, but I have such helter-skelter way of going about it. I jump from one routine, get bored with it, and move on to another, more exotic and fun one. Take this blog, for instance: I started this thing to get motivated about writing, and it's been months since I've been here. What have I been doing all this time. Writing, of course! Well, kinda. There have been other things on my mind lately, but the point remains writing has not been my first priority and it's damn well time it was. I'm sick of my lack of commitment and consistency. From now on I will breath, eat, and drink writing!

But there's one more thing: I have my health to think of too, and that always seems like a major project. I'm overweight and my blood pressure is way high. I'm supposed to take medication for it. I don't. That's bad, true, but I didn't have medical insurance for the longest time because I had been out of work. I got a job now, at the drug store. It sucks and it pays shit, but hey, I get medical coverage now. It seems like I'm working just so I can see a freakin' doctor; the money I make is pitiful, barely enough to pay the outrageous Santa Monica rents. Were it not for my boyfriend taking care of most of the bills, I would be stuck at my mother's place *shudder.*

In spite of it all my optimism remains steadfast. I just joined the YMCA, and I'm starting a new diet. This time I can't afford to fail. My health is at stake. Hopefully, the a new diet, stuffed with brain helpful goodies, will help me think better as I beef up on my writing skills. Wish me luck.

Day 2-Early To Rise

I wake to many puzzling questions in the morning. Like for one, who was in the rabbit suit? Or how did that spider get in there? Today, the question that troubles me is why was Pierce Brosnon, dressed in a pin striped suit, chasing my child self through an abandoned warehouse with a knife in his hand? Oh, what a fun ride it was. In the dream I get the better of Mr. Brosnon.

Houses are a huge subject in my dreams. In one of them, while walking down a forest path, I came upon a construction site, where a group of gnomes were building a gigantic gingerbread house. The foreman (think of a gnome with a hard hat) spotted me watching them, and greeted me pleasantly, as all gnomes are want to do.

'What a beautiful house you are making, sir.' I say to the gnome.

He shakes his head at me and says that they are not making a house at all. 'We're making space,' he says. 'It's the space that is important; the space is what matters.'

I was confused.

'You see,' he explains, 'we have to think about the person who will live here, what space she will want to occupy. What matters is the compartmentalization of emptiness. The walls have no value because they can come down. But the space will always remain.

And just as he said those last words the gingerbread house caved in and collapsed to the ground. All the poor little gnomes fell with it.

The foreman just laughed and shrugged his shoulders. 'It happens,' he said dismissively. 'After all, it is a gingerbread house.'

I wasn't so accepting. 'But all that work you put into it...what a waste of time.'

'No, you don't understand!' Jumped the gnome. 'We don't expect to actually finish the house.'

'You don't?'

'Don't get me wrong...it would be nice to finish it, but one shouldn't have too high expectations. It has been like this for a long time, you see. We build a house, we get so far, and then something knocks it down. All there is left to do is rebuild. As long as the foundation is solid, the house will keep from falling away completely to dust.'

'So how long do you intend to rebuild the same house?'

The gnome looked annoyed, as if I had dared to ask such an impertinent question. 'It's never the same house.' He argued. 'No, never the same house. Every time we rebuild, it's a brand new house. We never do work on the same house twice.'

'Okay...so how long do you intend building and rebuilding?'

'Until we retire.'

'And when is that?'

'Who can say? Now, if you excuse me, there's much work to do. Good speaking with you.'

The gnome foreman walked away to meet with his workers. There was more I had wanted to ask him, but he seemed really busy.

Day 1-Got Something In My Pocket For You

I live with the greatest guy in the world, although at first meeting he can rub you the wrong way. J is a solid guy. Sure, he can be a little pushy at times, but that's only because he can't stand watching people not live up to their potential, hence the reason why I am a constant source of aggravation in his life. He knows I can do better, so why don't I? J likes to think the world is black and white. It is for him, I guess.

This reminds me to think twice about giving J any credit for when he's right. Last night, after making my first post, I felt so good about accomplishing something I gave J a big hug and thanked him for getting on my case. J doesn't take gratitude or praise graciously. From then on he gloated and nagged me for butt sex as a reward. I told him patiently that I was too busy thinking about my career, my future, which was the truth.

'Why think about your career tomorrow, when you can think about your rear tonight? Har har.' I knew he was just getting. Then again, J is not a man to turn down butt sex ever.

I guess I could call J my boyfriend. Outside of living together, we're strictly monogamous, but that's only because we're too lazy to sleep around. It's just not worth the effort to chat somebody up, pretend you're interested in their life, and then finagle a shag out of the deal. Why go through all that trouble when you go somebody right there. Yet, J and I have a pretty fraternal relationship. He eyeballs women in front of me all the time. Sometimes I point them out to him. He calls me old bag, I call him prick. He would never ask to marry me, and if he did (never) it would piss me off. He knows me better than that.

And I know him. He doesn't want to get tied down with a wife and kids. That's just not his style. I'm looking at him right now as finishes up the jizz spatter in the raccoon and badger scene before he takes off for work. I wouldn't want any kid to have a dad who likes drawing cartoon animal porn. Gross. I must admit, though, the detail in his work is pretty good.

Day 0-What Am I Doing Here?

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God...this is my first blog ever and I don't know what to say...

Erm...Hi, I guess.

This wasn't my idea, but J's. J is the person I live with. We've been living together for eight years. It's like a marriage, with J as the nagging wife and me the hen pecked husband. Anyway, J got tired of me sitting on my ass all day looking at a blank screen. 'Start writing, asshole!' Says J. But I can't. I just don't have it in me.

'You know what you need to do?' (J often starts his sentences like this) 'You need to start your own blog.'

J actually stood behind me and watched me sign up to this thing. Like I said: he's like my freakin' wife.

God, another blog--another, fucking blog. Isn't the world sick of these things, yet? Do I really one be one of those people who shares ever single boring detail of her life with a group of strangers? What I had for breakfast...what mood I'm in...were my stools loose or solid?

No, I need to stop bitching. I actually admire people who have their own blogs. At least they're doing something with the lives. My sister, for chrissakes, has her own website! My lazy, shut in, lithium popping, bathe-only-Tuesdays sister has a freakin' website. She hasn't seen sunlight in five years and she has her own internet following. Surely, if that vampire can do something productive, so can I? I was supposed to be the good one, after all. The smart one. The one who went to college. My sister dropped out of high school and got a GED.

My sister and I have hated each other for years. Actually, she hates me. I don't really think that much about her now that we no longer live in the same house. I don't boil over at the mention of her name as she does at mine, and, to be very honest, I wish her all the best. But I was almost certain she was doing as poorly as I am, maybe a little worse. I didn't expect her to accomplish anything, and yet, last week my mom chirps on the phone that Sis has her own website and has finished a novel. Sonuvabitch.

That's my problem. I'm always under estimating Vampira. She may not show much ambition in getting a job, or ridding the stink on her person, but when she sets her mind to something, the bitch is unstoppable. Only thing is, there isn't much she gets excited about besides Japanese cartoons and hot wings. At least she doesn't over think every freakin' move, like I do. If I had such motivation I could really get my projects off the ground. This blog is a start. Guess I owe you one, J.

(Hey...who wrote that song 'Separate Ways'? That was Journey, right? Yeah, it was. J's little brother is on the phone boo-hooing over some chick he banged and broke up with. He's wants a list of songs to text the lyrics to his ex. I suggest 'Separate Ways' by Journey. J says 'Separate Lives' by Phil Collins because J is a giant vagina...so is his lil' brother. Who in the hell text song lyrics to his ex-girlfriend? Douche. I am so going to laugh in his face.)