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4-30-03 Have Your People Call ... Me
I need a job. I mean, I need a real job. And how, exactly, does a twenty-one-year-old with five months of office experience and a proficiency for pouring drinks prove herself an asset to Company X? She can't. Therefore, she beefs up her resume, purchases one pair of spiffy yuppie pants, and applies for an internship. She tells the interviewer that she is hoping to work her way up so that she can pay for college. Then she throws months of her life away puttering around an office, answering phones and distributing coffee. Yippee.
There are no words in the English language to accurately describe how this feels. There's no point in trying.
I promised myself I wouldn't cry ...
I lied ...
"Her breath pure as whiskey, my heart fell in love."
Two. My liver is terrified. Sometimes, when it's really quiet, I can hear it weep.
You know what I love? Getting birthday calls from people I never thought I'd hear from. I got two of them today ... ah, whatever shall the weekend bring? So, surely this is a week of joy and jubilation, yes? Well, if that's what you think, you're right, fuckball! In fact, I think I'm going to treat myself to a whee. Here goes: WHEEEEEEE!
That was awesome.
I'm acting like an idiot.
...
I'm not done yet either. I need to come up with a cute little alias for He Who Cannot Be Named Because Doing So Will Cause This Site To Be Discovered Through A Search Engine And Result In Assholes Making Speculations About Our Goings-On In An Extremely Public Forum. I toyed with the idea of calling him HWCBNBDSWCTSTBDTASEARIAMSAOGOIAEPF, but for a plethora of reasons, that's retarded. I also considered Master of the Bedroom, but that might be too much information for the faint of heart. So henceforth he shall be known as Bob. Sorry, M of the B. You're Bob. Where was I going with this? Oh, right; Bob wrote my birthday in his date book. Is your birthday in Bob's date book? I don't think so. Checkmate. And the reason I bring this up is to throw out a warning to Dan. If Bob calls to say happy birthday, I am putting you on speed-dial and badgering you incessantly until you answer. And believe you me, I will never run out of unique messages to leave on your voicemail. Since you missed the Totally Unexpected Reconciliation episode and the Totally Unexpected Acts of Kindness episode, you will, by god, experience this one as if you were here. Which, by the way, you should be. What the crap is wrong with you? Going to school. Pfffft. Feh.
Guess that's it for now. I just realized my laundry's been sitting in the dryer for five hours. Whatever. I paid my $1.25; I can do whatever the hell I want.
Sorry, I know I've been out of comission for a week, but you have to understand that I only have FOUR (4) days left before I become an actual member of society. Twenty-fucking-one. I'm mildly pleased about this; thus, I've been spending most of the last couple of weeks in the fetal position under my desk, rocking back and forth, counting off the seconds on a stopwatch. Okay, I'm exaggerating ... a little. But I promise you this: the city of Boston isn't going to know what hit it.
Now. It's April, and I've already broken all of my New Year's resolutions. (Namely, get exercise, smoke less, eat fewer Hostess cupcakes, generally behave.) But there's two-thirds of a year left to go, so I get my first do-overs! My April Resolutions:
1. Never call anyone ever again. Or, at least people who don't call me. Unlike certain ex-boyfriends of mine, I can take a hint.
2. Find some way to make existence up to mother. Maybe I'll clean out her fridge. Then I'll finally find those expensive cigars I put in there eight or nine years ago.
3. When walking down street minding own business, do not turn around upon hearing loud obnoxious whistling. Seriously, what the fuck is that? What am I, some kind of supersmart chinchilla that is trained to hump your leg at the mere suggestion of a whistle? No, no, no. And no.
4. Turn twenty-one already. Jesus Christ, this is torture.
I finally saw My Big Fat Greek Wedding. What the hell am I supposed to say? It was good? Oooh, that's original. It was funny? Sure, no one's said that. I decided that I'm going to make a tribute film entitled My Big Fat Irish Wedding. In it, everyone will forget about the wedding until the night before. Then they will freak out and try to put together outfits from Contempo Casual and Macy's. They'll arrive an hour and a half late via the groom's brother's Cabriolet, wearing snowsuits over their wedding clothes so as not to get them dirty. Then the groom will splash on some Axe deodorant, the bride will run a comb through her hair, and viola! Marriage. Nobody remembers the reception, so why bother putting it in the movie? We'll just throw in a slow-motion shot of the families stumbling out of the party at four in the morning, covered in bruises and spilled whiskey. Ah, l'amour.
Christ, it's cold in here.
I'm back from New York, again. Actually, I got back last night, but I was tired and hung over. I had a great time. Better than great. Is there a word that combines "fabulicious" with "sextacular"? No? Crap.
Here's one thing I learned from my weekend with this particular little diversion: Being famous is simultaneously pretty damn cool and pretty damn sucky. First, picture Scenario #1: Smoking has been banned in New York bars. You're taking your date(?) to a bar at three in the morning. Both of you are smoking a cigarette outside before going in. It's freezing cold, windy, and raining. Then suddenly, the door flies wide open, and an attractive young bartender squeals, "Oh my god! It's [your name]! Yo, smoking's legal in here for you, man!" See, that's nice. It's also nice for your date(??), who is twelve days underage and nobody cares that she's drinking herself stupid in public.
But wait ... now there's Scenario #2: It's about two in the afternoon, and you're exhausted after a long night of drinking yourself stupid. You're also hungry. So you take your date(???) out for lunch. Not ten steps out of your apartment, some kid throws himself in your face. "[Your name]!! I saw you last night man, you were fucking awesome!" This continues for the entire twenty-minute walk to the restaurant, and resumes for the entire twenty-minute walk back home. That sucks.
But we saw Harrison Ford and Calista Flockhart at a Thai restaurant, so that was fun.
Inspired by this,
when I was at my mother's on Tuesday I dug out an old journal from my closet. I was never good with journals, so my M.O. was usually to buy one, write in it every day for a week or so, then forget about it for five or six months at a time, and only pick it up again when something major happened. Lather, rinse, repeat. Thus, the journal that I found spans about five years, which is great, because I can actually see my self-destruction unfold. And when you experience something like that, you just want to share it with the world. So here we go. (Connie, if you feel like I'm ripping you off ... sorry. I'll take it down.)
This one's from eighth grade. Explanatory notes are in brackets.
March 11, 1996 - I'm in France, and it sucks. [I spent a few weeks in Strasbourg when I was fourteen. I was an ungrateful bitch.] I've been here three days and Natasha [the girl I stayed with] hasn't taken a shower yet. Mrs. Heluk [chaperone] found out today that we were all smoking so she called a meeting. She started crying and collected all our cigarettes and lighters in a big pillowcase. I don't think she can do that. I spent money on that shit. I don't know how much it was because I can't do the franc-dollar conversion thing off the top of my head. Anyway it's legal here so it's none of her fucking buisness (sic). Yesterday there was a town meeting where they had beer and wine in little cups, and I think I got a little drunk. [I didn't.] Eric definitely got drunk, and then he puked all over this girl's driveway. Ha ha ha ha ha. We're going to Germany tomorrow. That sucks, I don't speak a word of German. None of us do. [Ungrateful, ungrateful bitch.] I miss Kyle [boyfriend]. OK, gotta go. I love Kyle sooooo much! [I swear to Christ, that's what I wrote.]
October 4, 1996 - Goddammit. Rich is such an asshole. I fucking fucking fucking hate him. FUCK! [Rich used to make fun of me because I had blue hair. Well, duh.] I loooove Kyle! :)
February 7, 1997 - Kyle thinks today is my birthday. I had to tell him it was in Feb. because when we met I told him I was 14 already, and I wasn't. So now I have to pretend to be all excited when he calls today. He is sooooo annoying.
January 1, 1998 - I need to get laid RIGHT NOW!!!!
July 8, 1999 - I had my wisdom teeth out yesterday, and I think I'm going to stab myself in the brain. Basically, Satan [dentist] said I should have them out before they start to grow in so they won't screw everything up. So the teeth aren't even born yet; on the X-Ray they were way up by my nose and in the back of my jaw. Oh, by the by, the surgeon said he might accidentally sever the nerve in my jaw and then I'd lose all feeling back there forever. La dee fucking da. [Note: He did.] They said that if I came home and put ice on it right away, then it wouldn't swell up, but guess what? They're fucking liars. Not only is it swelled up, there's a gigantic bruise down the left side of my face, so it looks like I was alley whipped. And then Joe [boyfriend] came over, so I had to call Beth to come over and chase him away. I just couldn't deal with him. But here's the up side: They gave a shitload of Percoset!! I think I'm only going to take like one or two now, and save the rest for when I can enjoy them. Percoset kicks ass.
April 17, 2000 - My first hangover! :) Hattie had a "cocktail party" on Friday, with a dress code and all that good shit, and all the drinks were make-your-own martinis and cosmopolitans. I'm a beer girl, so I was a little out of my league, I think. Plus I don't know how to make anything, so I had maybe eight cosmos and they were just putrid. I remember walking around forcing complete strangers to taste how awful they were. [Ex-Boyfriend's Name Deleted] brought his own beer because he won't drink anything else. It was kind of embarrassing at the time, but now I'm thinking maybe he had the right idea. Anyway, I don't remember much, but when I came in to class today, Ken (who was at the party) started laughing and he WON'T TELL ME WHY! I'm scared. Actually, scratch that. I don't give a rat's ass. [This was one of those sophomoric hey-isn't-it-cool-I-got-really-wasted entries, but it was sort of a turning point for me. Plus, like I said, there wasn't much to choose from.]
April 25, 2001 - Get this shit. I forgot my own fucking birthday. I woke up this morning to three cops pounding on my door. Our exchange went a little something like this:
Cop 1, extending a handful of Polaroids: "Hi, sweetie. Sorry to bother you, but do you recognize this guy?"
Me: "Yeah, he lives next door to me."
Cop 1, pointing: "Next door, there? In 303?"
Me: "I think so."
Cop 1, pointing to another woman in photo: "Do you recognize her?"
Me: "No."
Cop 1, flips to next Polaroid: "How about any of them?"
Me: "No."
Cop 1: "Did you know your neighbor at all?"
Me: "Not really. I've seen him around, but I just moved in two weeks ago."
Cop 2, gestures toward window: "He walked into the train last night."
Me: "...?"
Cop 2: "Yeah."
Me: "Um ... why?"
Cop 2: "We don't know."
Cop 1: "So, listen, I'm going to just take down your info, if that's okay."
Me: "Yeah, sure."
Cop 1: "Name?"
Me: "Jessica."
Cop 1: "Birth date?"
Me: "April 25th, 1982."
Cop 1: "Oh, happy birthday!"
Me: ".... what?"
Cop 1: "I said, happy birthday."
Me: "Wha -- OH! It's my birthday!"
Cop 2: "...."
Cop 1: "I know. That's ... why I said it."
So there you go. I'm officially retarded.
(Note: That title is meant as an upfront apology for any typos or grammatical errors that may be found in this entry.)
Well, I'm back in Boston, and it's still snowing. Today I saw a girl walking down Boylston Street wailing, "April! AAAAAAAAApril!" So true, little sister, so true.
So we've been having people look at our apartment lately, since we have an extra room for rent. Here's an open suggestion to all potential rentors: DO NOT show up early. I plan my cleaning schedule very very carefully, down to the projected minute of your arrival. If you happen to show up, say, twenty-five minutes before you said you would, and if your name is, oh, I don't know, Bob, I think you'll find the apartment in a state of disarray. Let me give you guys a mental picture. Bob claims that he's coming by at 5:30. At 5:05, the buzzer goes off. Jess is home alone, in the dark, watching the Ring. The buzzer scares the shit out of Jess, who simultaneously spills her beer and kicks over the ashtray. Also, she's not wearing any pants. Jess lets Bob in, giving her approximately eleven seconds before he makes his way upstairs. She is now faced with a difficult choice. Does she a) try to frantically clean up a gigantic pile of cigarette butts and a puddle of stale beer, or b) put on pants? With only fractions of a second to decide, Jess goes with option A, and is forced to display her living space to a young gentleman wearing only a wife beater and a pair of plaid boxer shorts.
Boooo! I don't think he's moving in. Or, the more disturbing possibility, he is.
Okay, balls. Time to go. Someone (WINK!) is going to be on Colin Quinn's show tonight, and I need to be in a proper state of mind for such. (read: intoxicated) Have a fabulicious Monday, everyone!
Looking good, looking good. Everything appears to be in order. I'm going to tell you what I did, not so much because I think you're interested, but because when I write it down it looks like more work than it was. I went through all the archives, organized 'em, and slapped 'em on up here for a-lookin' at. Also, because apparently all of the comments from before late September were erased, I took out the comment boxes. They were empty and it was making me sad. And then I put up links. Um ... damn, that's not really that much. So why did it take me fucking forever? I don't understand. No, you know what? I do understand. I suck. I just can't do anything right I should just hang myself in the basement an---
Oh. Wait. That won't work, because I'm going to New York tonight to (wink) take care of some (wink) business (wink wink). Business that, let's just say, I never thought I'd be taking care of again. But I am, despite the best efforts of some little turd who shall remain nameless (on account of I don't know his name). So if said little turd would like to kiss my ass on my way out, he's perfectly welcome. And wish me luck; I'm off!
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