I'm trying not to let a pity invitation crawl under my skin and vibrate through my bloodstream but it's forcing my stomach into a mild nausea and feeding energy into my fingers as they fly through my hair and around my nails.
You are an afterthought.
It's one of the lowest and darkest things you can be. Especially when you first think an invitation is sincere, that people really do want to spend some of their precious free time with you. You're light in your steps and the friendless, loveless world you've created for yourself doesn't seem so prickly-grey anymore. But hold up. You find out your friend spoke with the person who invited you and she probably used the words should and why not.
I started watching The Rich Kids of Beverly Hills and like most reality TV shows stuffed with over the top and out of this world characters you're prepared to hate and mock and pity, after the third episode (if you make it that far and I almost always do) they end up being not so terrible, kind of funny, and a hell of a lot smarter than you originally gave them credit for. In one episode the billionaire's daughter throws a pool party and she and her friends spend a fair chunk of time ruminating on whom they should invite. Only close friends. People they trust. People they can laugh easily around. They have names for those on the outskirts who show up to events by way of third-string invitation: Groupers. Bottom feeders. Take your pick with the phrase but either way it's ugly.
This show is ridiculous and meaningless but I'll be damned if I didn't identify with that sloppy grouper the pretty ones snark at. And anyway who are those people who are always invited to things?? Regardless of the friends I have, the people I date, the folks I spend time with and share the same air with, I rarely receive these thing invitations. It usually doesn't bother me to tag along as the "Oh we haven't met, I came with so-and-so, you've got a great place by the way" party goer but today my feelings are an exposed, raw nerve and even the lightest touch is blinding.
I accepted that pity invite and I'm leaving in an hour and I look pretty damn good and after a drink or two (or three or whatever) hopefully I'll forget that I allowed myself to indulge these thoughts.
Friday, April 25, 2014
Thursday, April 24, 2014
I dreamed a dream
I had a dream last night that stuck with me. A dream where I was getting to know someone in a way that if I had slept a little longer, if my brain synapses had fired off the right connections, would have surely evolved into something romantic. It left a quiet, soft warmth in the pit of my belly.
There's a guy (in real life) whom I see at the Downtown Crossing T stop fairly regularly at the same spot (the platform near the end of the train going toward Forest Hills) and around the same time (5 p.m). I find him achingly cute and have for the longest time--maybe since October? There's something...endearingly dainty about him. He's not so tall, very slender, always well put together, always wearing the most beautiful glasses. I imagine he's the proprietor of some "Aristanal [insert any noun] Shoppe." We stand next to one another on that platform enough so that I never worry it'll be the last time I see him; and I stand alone enough so it's always a shock to my system, a flip of my stomach when he walks up next to me. One time I swore he craned his neck to watch me get up from my seat and walk out of the train. I think he is the first person I allowed myself to be attracted to, to have a little meaningless, shallow crush on, after my ex and I broke up.
So anyway this dream was about him.
I sat next to him on the T, struck up a conversation and enjoyed easy, natural talk. He was going to a bar I was all too familiar with and would I like to join him? A yes couldn't have poured out of my mouth any quicker. Then, as dreams are wont to do, all of the sudden we were somewhere else. We were already friends, loose-lipped and giddy. Wherever it was we were alone and I desperately wanted him to kiss me, or fuck me, or give me any easy excuse to press our flesh together. It didn't happen, but I wasn't disappointed because the company of this new-found friend was enough for now.
And that was it. This dream makes me feel comfortable and content, perhaps only because my subconscious acted as it should have: playing out a sweet short story in the grey slimy mess of my brain what I hopelessly cannot play out in life. I'm pleasantly surprised there's not even a tinge of lonely and pathetic lurking behind those feelings; their swallowing blueness will take hold of me some other day I suppose.
Maybe this dream is a prophecy and I'll talk to him one day. Maybe I'll find out he's terrible, married, gay, or all three. Maybe I'll just nurse this grade-school crush and do nothing except steal glances at him on the train and remember how I feel right this very moment.
There's a guy (in real life) whom I see at the Downtown Crossing T stop fairly regularly at the same spot (the platform near the end of the train going toward Forest Hills) and around the same time (5 p.m). I find him achingly cute and have for the longest time--maybe since October? There's something...endearingly dainty about him. He's not so tall, very slender, always well put together, always wearing the most beautiful glasses. I imagine he's the proprietor of some "Aristanal [insert any noun] Shoppe." We stand next to one another on that platform enough so that I never worry it'll be the last time I see him; and I stand alone enough so it's always a shock to my system, a flip of my stomach when he walks up next to me. One time I swore he craned his neck to watch me get up from my seat and walk out of the train. I think he is the first person I allowed myself to be attracted to, to have a little meaningless, shallow crush on, after my ex and I broke up.
So anyway this dream was about him.
I sat next to him on the T, struck up a conversation and enjoyed easy, natural talk. He was going to a bar I was all too familiar with and would I like to join him? A yes couldn't have poured out of my mouth any quicker. Then, as dreams are wont to do, all of the sudden we were somewhere else. We were already friends, loose-lipped and giddy. Wherever it was we were alone and I desperately wanted him to kiss me, or fuck me, or give me any easy excuse to press our flesh together. It didn't happen, but I wasn't disappointed because the company of this new-found friend was enough for now.
And that was it. This dream makes me feel comfortable and content, perhaps only because my subconscious acted as it should have: playing out a sweet short story in the grey slimy mess of my brain what I hopelessly cannot play out in life. I'm pleasantly surprised there's not even a tinge of lonely and pathetic lurking behind those feelings; their swallowing blueness will take hold of me some other day I suppose.
Maybe this dream is a prophecy and I'll talk to him one day. Maybe I'll find out he's terrible, married, gay, or all three. Maybe I'll just nurse this grade-school crush and do nothing except steal glances at him on the train and remember how I feel right this very moment.
Sunday, April 6, 2014
Wahhhhhh
One of my friends at work recently told me that I give up too quickly. And she is (unfortunately) 100 percent correct. Excuses are so easy to pick up and regardless of how big or small they are, or how many I find along my way (so many!) they fit perfectly in my pocket. But I should really empty out my pockets! I keep saying I want to write and yet.....I'm not writing. I started this blog bored at work thinking it would become some sort of saving grace and yet........less than a week after I started I more or less stopped. I know I could easily find freelance work or even write little things for a journal I once interned for and yet.........I sit on my ass and do nothing. Ugh! I'm the worst!
I decided last week that if I'm still at my job in June I'm going to quit regardless of whether or not I have a new one.This job is killing me, making me miserable, etc etc. If I absolutely have to find something, I will. If I'm comfortable enough I know I'll never be as fully motivated as is necessary. And surprisingly, day after agonizing day, I am comfortable enough. So I guess I need to lose my source of income for that motivation. Yeesh.
I have loads of free time--a nice by-product of having only 2 friends and no hobbies and no boyfriend/hookup/what have you--and instead of shamefully browsing Buzzfeed and crafting some fairly shitty tweets, I could be writing for money! Or at this point writing for free let's be real :-(
The sun's out, it's kinda sorta warm, and I've got my whole life ahead of me.
I decided last week that if I'm still at my job in June I'm going to quit regardless of whether or not I have a new one.This job is killing me, making me miserable, etc etc. If I absolutely have to find something, I will. If I'm comfortable enough I know I'll never be as fully motivated as is necessary. And surprisingly, day after agonizing day, I am comfortable enough. So I guess I need to lose my source of income for that motivation. Yeesh.
I have loads of free time--a nice by-product of having only 2 friends and no hobbies and no boyfriend/hookup/what have you--and instead of shamefully browsing Buzzfeed and crafting some fairly shitty tweets, I could be writing for money! Or at this point writing for free let's be real :-(
The sun's out, it's kinda sorta warm, and I've got my whole life ahead of me.
Monday, March 17, 2014
Zac Efron (not quite fan) fiction
Inspired by this post.
"She put down all the men she's bedded in Hollywood, and you were one of them."
The words cut through the din of the other paparazzi and Zac paused; his eyes, blessedly hidden behind sunglasses, widened and for a brief moment he forgot how to breath. The immediate flashback was intense and arresting--a blur of body parts, the stink of sweat and stale cigarettes--he closed the car door and pursed his lips together, not fully conscience that their edges turned up into something of smirk.
It was back in August of '07, a party at a music producer's mansion in Malibu. He was riding high off of the success of High School Musical 2 and Zac wasn't sure how he'd pulled it off but he couldn't remember a single sober scene he'd acted. Everyone knew what he did during his frequent bathroom breaks and no one dared to say anything. He was immeasurably glad they didn't. Uttering those lines with a straight face and "honest emotion," dancing poolside with Ortega yelling at him after every goddamn take ("Christ Zac we worked on this sequence for three hours last night. I need more from you.") -- it was impossible to get through without a little extra help.
That August was humid and sticky, every August in LA is, but this summer the central air in his house kept breaking and he'd wake up in the middle night gasping for air and soaking in sweat. He and Vanessa spent days holed up in his place despite the oppressive heat; they lied on his bed drinking whiskey and smoking blunts and fucking. "Your place is cooking us," Vanessa would slur. "We're roasting like chickens. I think I like it though. I think I would taste fucking delicious." They were enabling each other more than they were dating and it had stopped being fun awhile ago but their bodies fit together so nicely and Zac didn't expect anything from her and she had long since stopped expecting anything from him.
Zac hadn't been to this producer's house before but it made no difference. All beachside mansions looked the same and he had grown weary of their homogenous opulence--the furniture a crisp white, floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the ocean, big, bold, abstract art on the walls. He remembered, after the night's first hit of molly, standing inches away from one of those pieces, transfixed at the bright globs of paint that jutted off the canvas, and with an urgency he was certain he'd never felt before reached out to touch the paint; but the producer grabbed his wrist and threw it down. "Fuck, man. This is a Still. No touchie." The roughness and abruptness of the producer's touch excited Zac and his dick got hard, fast. He poured himself a drink and sat down on the couch.
Lindsey sat down next to him. It must have been after the the third time she left rehab and even though she was hell--bloodshot eyes, hair greasy at the roots and skin like burnt amber--she was fucking sexy. They stared at each other and said nothing. Zac felt his heart beat through his chest, could swear everyone saw it like he was a goddamn cartoon or something, and his breath quickened. They were still silently looking at each other when he grabbed her hand and put it over his cock. She let out a short laugh and led him into the nearest empty room.
They each snorted a line of coke and started fucking immediately after. They kissed but the cigarettes that drenched her tongue repulsed Zac and he buried his face in her hair. Lindsey's hair smelled so sweet, like an overripe ripe peach, and he filled his mouth, clamped down, and pulled. Her yelp of pain quickly dissolved into a moan of pleasure and he kept chewing until, after a few deep thrusts, he grunted and came. He couldn't remember if she did and frankly he didn't care. He pulled a few strands of her hair out of his mouth and after they both dressed they parted, barely saying goodbye.
Zac hadn't thought about that night in years. When his friend made a hard stop at a red light he jolted forward and tumbled out of his reverie. "You OK, dude? Pretty quiet over there." "Yeah man, everything's cool," Zac said. He looked out the window and shut his eyes.
"She put down all the men she's bedded in Hollywood, and you were one of them."
The words cut through the din of the other paparazzi and Zac paused; his eyes, blessedly hidden behind sunglasses, widened and for a brief moment he forgot how to breath. The immediate flashback was intense and arresting--a blur of body parts, the stink of sweat and stale cigarettes--he closed the car door and pursed his lips together, not fully conscience that their edges turned up into something of smirk.
It was back in August of '07, a party at a music producer's mansion in Malibu. He was riding high off of the success of High School Musical 2 and Zac wasn't sure how he'd pulled it off but he couldn't remember a single sober scene he'd acted. Everyone knew what he did during his frequent bathroom breaks and no one dared to say anything. He was immeasurably glad they didn't. Uttering those lines with a straight face and "honest emotion," dancing poolside with Ortega yelling at him after every goddamn take ("Christ Zac we worked on this sequence for three hours last night. I need more from you.") -- it was impossible to get through without a little extra help.
That August was humid and sticky, every August in LA is, but this summer the central air in his house kept breaking and he'd wake up in the middle night gasping for air and soaking in sweat. He and Vanessa spent days holed up in his place despite the oppressive heat; they lied on his bed drinking whiskey and smoking blunts and fucking. "Your place is cooking us," Vanessa would slur. "We're roasting like chickens. I think I like it though. I think I would taste fucking delicious." They were enabling each other more than they were dating and it had stopped being fun awhile ago but their bodies fit together so nicely and Zac didn't expect anything from her and she had long since stopped expecting anything from him.
Zac hadn't been to this producer's house before but it made no difference. All beachside mansions looked the same and he had grown weary of their homogenous opulence--the furniture a crisp white, floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the ocean, big, bold, abstract art on the walls. He remembered, after the night's first hit of molly, standing inches away from one of those pieces, transfixed at the bright globs of paint that jutted off the canvas, and with an urgency he was certain he'd never felt before reached out to touch the paint; but the producer grabbed his wrist and threw it down. "Fuck, man. This is a Still. No touchie." The roughness and abruptness of the producer's touch excited Zac and his dick got hard, fast. He poured himself a drink and sat down on the couch.
Lindsey sat down next to him. It must have been after the the third time she left rehab and even though she was hell--bloodshot eyes, hair greasy at the roots and skin like burnt amber--she was fucking sexy. They stared at each other and said nothing. Zac felt his heart beat through his chest, could swear everyone saw it like he was a goddamn cartoon or something, and his breath quickened. They were still silently looking at each other when he grabbed her hand and put it over his cock. She let out a short laugh and led him into the nearest empty room.
They each snorted a line of coke and started fucking immediately after. They kissed but the cigarettes that drenched her tongue repulsed Zac and he buried his face in her hair. Lindsey's hair smelled so sweet, like an overripe ripe peach, and he filled his mouth, clamped down, and pulled. Her yelp of pain quickly dissolved into a moan of pleasure and he kept chewing until, after a few deep thrusts, he grunted and came. He couldn't remember if she did and frankly he didn't care. He pulled a few strands of her hair out of his mouth and after they both dressed they parted, barely saying goodbye.
Zac hadn't thought about that night in years. When his friend made a hard stop at a red light he jolted forward and tumbled out of his reverie. "You OK, dude? Pretty quiet over there." "Yeah man, everything's cool," Zac said. He looked out the window and shut his eyes.
Turn that noise down
There are certain sounds people make that cause me such discomfort, sounds so tingly and itchy when my skin absorbs the vibrations my body shudders and shuts down. Constant, heavy breathing; the squishing and smacking of lips, tongue, and teeth as they suck and bite and tear fingernails; full, open mouths eating soft foods; cracking knuckles.
I wonder why I have such a fixation on oral sounds? Now that I think about it they're almost the same noises a dude makes while going down on me but I'm usually able to ignore the unpleasantness of the slurping .. unless it's all slurp and no satisfaction (ha ha?).
Anyway I hear all of these damn sounds (except the pussy one) at work. It's especially irksome because hearing them somehow feels too...intimate. Loud open-mawed chewing is not only sloppy as fuck (how old are y'all) but it forces me to imagine your mouth and the sludge that you're moving in and around your teeth before it goes sliding down your gullet. I don't want to think about your Lean Cuisines like that. No one does. Nail biting is a pruning and preening that should be reserved for the home (pray tell where do all those nail bits go oh right the carpet we all walk on that's NASTY) but it's also an undeniable manifestation of anxiety; it opens the floodgate for all sorts of personal and private problems I now imagine you have.
I'm fairly good friends with my coworkers but it's no doubt superficial on all fronts. I don't like most of them enough to really know them and I'm pretty sure they don't like me enough either. Any ~real~ conversation we've had almost always spills out after a few drinks and it's certainly never mentioned again afterwards. I'm not so sure that registers on the Genuine Sincere Friend Scale. Maybe it's not simply an issue of who likes whom, though. Within the coworker-friend relationship there are boundaries to be sure. Monday through Friday, 9 a.m.-5 p.m. bantering and bitching is cool. If immediately followed by 5-8 drinking, also cool! That's light and fun and forgettable. If we wander into territory outside of work-approved times/subjects/locations conversation becomes clunky and awkward. When relationships gain weight they gain responsibility and I just want to wind down with a beer, man. I don't want to hear about your problems I've got enough of my own.
So coworkers bite fingernails or chew on reheated pasta or scratch dried skin off their head and then maybe eat that dried skin (???? OK that's not a sound there but IT DOES HAPPEN IN MY OFFICE SPACE) and their story, their demons, their insolvable, unpredictable, innumerable issues start to push through and I put on my headphones to drown it out and push right back.
I wonder why I have such a fixation on oral sounds? Now that I think about it they're almost the same noises a dude makes while going down on me but I'm usually able to ignore the unpleasantness of the slurping .. unless it's all slurp and no satisfaction (ha ha?).
Anyway I hear all of these damn sounds (except the pussy one) at work. It's especially irksome because hearing them somehow feels too...intimate. Loud open-mawed chewing is not only sloppy as fuck (how old are y'all) but it forces me to imagine your mouth and the sludge that you're moving in and around your teeth before it goes sliding down your gullet. I don't want to think about your Lean Cuisines like that. No one does. Nail biting is a pruning and preening that should be reserved for the home (pray tell where do all those nail bits go oh right the carpet we all walk on that's NASTY) but it's also an undeniable manifestation of anxiety; it opens the floodgate for all sorts of personal and private problems I now imagine you have.
I'm fairly good friends with my coworkers but it's no doubt superficial on all fronts. I don't like most of them enough to really know them and I'm pretty sure they don't like me enough either. Any ~real~ conversation we've had almost always spills out after a few drinks and it's certainly never mentioned again afterwards. I'm not so sure that registers on the Genuine Sincere Friend Scale. Maybe it's not simply an issue of who likes whom, though. Within the coworker-friend relationship there are boundaries to be sure. Monday through Friday, 9 a.m.-5 p.m. bantering and bitching is cool. If immediately followed by 5-8 drinking, also cool! That's light and fun and forgettable. If we wander into territory outside of work-approved times/subjects/locations conversation becomes clunky and awkward. When relationships gain weight they gain responsibility and I just want to wind down with a beer, man. I don't want to hear about your problems I've got enough of my own.
So coworkers bite fingernails or chew on reheated pasta or scratch dried skin off their head and then maybe eat that dried skin (???? OK that's not a sound there but IT DOES HAPPEN IN MY OFFICE SPACE) and their story, their demons, their insolvable, unpredictable, innumerable issues start to push through and I put on my headphones to drown it out and push right back.
Friday, March 14, 2014
Friday Funday
Fridays are the worst. HA! Who says that who thinks that. Listen sometimes Fridays suck because there's no worse feeling than feeling antsy at 3:34 on a Friday afternoon. I swear to god I'm never not antsy at 3:34 on a Friday. And then I take that anxious energy and pick the shit out of my cuticles; if no one is looking I pick the shit out of split ends (sometimes I do it when people are looking sry); my stomach feels queasy and the pointlessness of my life, my job, my existence, bubbles up and splatters all over the damn place. Because I realize I really am working for the weekend. That's who I am now :-( A paper pusher who pushes paper to the front, to the back, sometimes to the side if I'm feeling punchy; and ultimately pushing it toward the soft, gentle glow of Friday at 5:00 p.m. Or 4:53 let's be real. And weekends are great. Don't get it twisted I love sitting around reading for hours, walking for hours, making big meals and filling up my time with shit like that. But I know I'm coming back on Monday! And it's all the same again! And again! Shit I'm only 23 and it already feels like my life is an endless loop of 9-5 days dealing with the same people and the same work with no end in sight, just that glow.
A coworker burst into my office space today, bee-lined for the nearest trashcan like she was going to vomit up her reheated lunch and spat some candy shit out. "Ahh where'd it go?" She bent down and looked for it. "I don't know where it went." She had the gall to laugh! "Sorry if you find something sticky back there..." Bitch! You do not spit out half-chewed candy into my space, miss the trash can and then not pick it up. I made her get on her knees to find it. She did and proceeded to tell me why what just happened happened but ugh it doesn't matter. I work with the weirdest motherfuckers on the East Coast. TGIF I guess!!!
A coworker burst into my office space today, bee-lined for the nearest trashcan like she was going to vomit up her reheated lunch and spat some candy shit out. "Ahh where'd it go?" She bent down and looked for it. "I don't know where it went." She had the gall to laugh! "Sorry if you find something sticky back there..." Bitch! You do not spit out half-chewed candy into my space, miss the trash can and then not pick it up. I made her get on her knees to find it. She did and proceeded to tell me why what just happened happened but ugh it doesn't matter. I work with the weirdest motherfuckers on the East Coast. TGIF I guess!!!
Casual Friday; casual racism
For the most part I like my coworkers but I often think they're maybe
racist? Or something! They might just be those white people who say stuff that's offensive (sometimes vague; sometimes with a fairly hard
edge) and anyone who is offended should *calm down* and *lighten up.* Does that a racist make?
One of our interns mentioned how she had a terrible literature teacher in high school--the intern grew up in northern China. My
white coworker expressed surprise. "You talked about him behind his
back?" "Yes of course we did!" "Isn't that...." pause pause "Isn't that
disrespectful? Like it goes against Confucianism values?" I rolled my
eyes in a big way and he defended himself saying we're all friends now
so he doesn't have to worry about the stuff he says around her. Rock
solid, bro.
The agency's staff retreat last spring featured a heavy emphasis on diversity in the workplace and how to recognize and avoid micro aggressions, casual racism, etc etc. The folks who came to speak to us about it were smart and nice and had some great stuff to say, but they were also dripping sticky sweet with sincerity and that always makes for an easy target. I admit it was a bit heavy handed at times but my other (white) (duh) coworkers were positively exasperated. "What, are they just trying to make us feel guilty?" "This is a colossal waste of my time." "It doesn't help anyone to be that politically correct, Jesus."
A few of us went out afterwards and near the end of the night when we'd all had a few drinks, when lips get loose and people start to feel a little too comfortable when they probably shouldn't, when they really have no right to, someone mentioned how she thought a manager got her own office solely because she is black. I guess that's what she came away with after all that diversity babble. I made only a half-hearted defense of the manager and left the bar wishing I'd said more. Was I so weary of these people and their words that I didn't bother to argue with her? Was my acquiescence just as harmful as if I'd agreed?
The agency's staff retreat last spring featured a heavy emphasis on diversity in the workplace and how to recognize and avoid micro aggressions, casual racism, etc etc. The folks who came to speak to us about it were smart and nice and had some great stuff to say, but they were also dripping sticky sweet with sincerity and that always makes for an easy target. I admit it was a bit heavy handed at times but my other (white) (duh) coworkers were positively exasperated. "What, are they just trying to make us feel guilty?" "This is a colossal waste of my time." "It doesn't help anyone to be that politically correct, Jesus."
A few of us went out afterwards and near the end of the night when we'd all had a few drinks, when lips get loose and people start to feel a little too comfortable when they probably shouldn't, when they really have no right to, someone mentioned how she thought a manager got her own office solely because she is black. I guess that's what she came away with after all that diversity babble. I made only a half-hearted defense of the manager and left the bar wishing I'd said more. Was I so weary of these people and their words that I didn't bother to argue with her? Was my acquiescence just as harmful as if I'd agreed?
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