tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82655401408910455222024-03-13T16:49:51.007-07:00Won't get therapy. Will talk to computer.Alexishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09524784542585595222noreply@blogger.comBlogger324125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8265540140891045522.post-9806213967619117632016-04-01T09:46:00.002-07:002016-04-01T09:55:24.316-07:00Batman v SupermanAt some point last night at the Newport Center AMC during Batman v Superman, which my date wanted to enjoy and whom I worry I irritated, and I do worry, I was overtaken, mentally, by a terrifying sense of misanthropy, futility and hopelessness. I wish I could say what was happening exactly onscreen when this feeling took me but I could only occasionally understand anything anyone was doing in this movie and now I'm quite sure I can't be very specific about that- only that it was over an hour into the thing - near the end of the second hour- I think.<br />
<br />
To be clear, the movie opens with little baby Bruce Wayne's parents being killed in front of him- that scene again- with this stylized, extreme close up of a gun placed through a pearl necklace and then firing and then close-up pearls flying everywhere and then "pretty" blood spots on the dead mother's face. That got me started. I thought, "Right, okay, this is some kind of wish fulfillment and this is the best we've got nowadays. This is romantic. This is what passes for romantic; this is what we are being given now as romantic- sick meaningless death. Do we think it's 'cool'? It's cool how the director dramatized the action of murder with objects in extreme close-up? A gun discharging, pearls flying- Are we detached? - as in, we think, 'That's creative.' 'Inventive storytelling.'? Are we MOVED because something about this symbolism strikes a chord? (If "we" is me, then no. Well, I said, "That's horrible. That's sick." - this marks, possibly, the beginning of my date thinking he might have done better to just come to see this movie alone. )<br />
<br />
And then there's the set up of the basic premise which we got from the last Superman movie which is that when he fights he's so strong he wrecks cities, making lots of buildings topple just like the twin towers on September 11th, 2001. Are we, again I ask, expected to be detached? Are we, somehow, MATURE, that we watch such a thing now aware that it really happens (though not because of Superman! I mean...) and still enjoy it as entertainment, that we purposely sign up for shock and awe that happened in real life repackaged as special effects in Superman's story? What is this ASSUMPTION, director of Batman v Superman Zach Snyder? I am trying to parse it. Is it like, "C'mon, you can admit it. This is a kind of wish fulfilment." I am insulted. I am worried for us all.<br />
<br />
Then we go to some terrorist cell thing happening in a desert and I think- okay so yes, I am supposed to be mature- this is supposed to be a mature superhero movie- because there's even terrorism just like real life.<br />
<br />
Then Batman brands a guy. <br />
<br />
Maybe the terrible disdain for mankind overcame me after Capitol Hill got blown up with everyone in it and then, as a plot point, was never revisited. (Me to date who really doesn't want me to talk in the movie anymore: "So they're all dead now?")<br />
<br />
I think it wasn't then though- because I think then I went to the bathroom. Not sure.<br />
<br />
So I don't know when it was, exactly, in the course of the movie's action, like I said.<br />
<br />
But I'm worried that Batman v Superman put a maybe-I'm-finally-dating-someone-who-is-genuinely-kind-and-much-much-less-neurotic-than-myself-but-praise-the-lord-he-is-sweet upward GOOD progression on a rockier course. Fuck this horrible movie. It makes me feel, damn it, bereft for humanity, and honestly as if humanity is <i>past tense</i>, that something this cynical is being served as entertainment blockbuster fare. The characters aren't cynical. The movie is cynical. The movie thinks I'm a monster.<br />
<br />
And then I have to feel like a snob for having this terrible set of thoughts? I can't blame that on the director I GUESS, but I think I kind of blame that on the director. <br />
<br />
<br />Alexishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09524784542585595222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8265540140891045522.post-57543343365186433352016-03-04T08:26:00.005-08:002016-03-04T08:26:56.626-08:00CHEAP PEOPLE or great moments in rolling over in bed and it's snowing; you imagine if you could afford to still go to therapy with the same therapist who gave you analysisI have quit the latest in secretarial jobs.<br />
<br />
I'm writing a play, I like it, about a woman who quits her latest in secretarial jobs but in a more dangerous set of circumstances.<br />
<br />
Anyway, when I worked there, oh- there is an Investment Bank, eventually my desk was moved to be beside this British man with an extremely wide ass and a very posh accent... 's office.<br />
<br />
This poor man wanted to be cool. I took him drinking with myself (duh) and myfriendS (who crashed the holiday party) after the holiday party. He bragged (pitifully) that the Junior Associates liked the novelty (as if) of his drinking. He bummed one of my cigarettes - he told me way too much about infertility treatments with his wife. He wanted to be told he was different from the other bankers which I obliged. I know how to act at corporate after party drinks. I know a lot of things. And I don't think I can get as drunk as a banker. I am a writer! Through and through! <br />
<br />
At any rate, we said we'd drink together more, and we did. The last time was after he came by my desk on a Friday before the big winter snowstorm was expected to hit, saying "Well Alexis, is it beer o'clock?" <br />
<br />
MyfriendS thinks the Brit is great. He loves the accent. I think he's not so great and here's why: I think he should pay for everything we do, should ever we do anything, 100% of the time, 100% on him no question about it. He's a "Director" at the bank. I am a temporary secretary.<br />
<br />
I spent months at this bank I worked for with no benefits at all on an hourly basis gunning to have my hourly rate moved from $23.00 to $25.50 (before taxes), and then unsuccessfully spent months gunning to be hired as a permanent employee.<br />
<br />
So going out for a drink with this Brit can cost me, easily, my whole day of pay. If I take a taxi home to Jersey City because I'm tired and drunk and can't stand to wait for and experience the PATH train - easily.<br />
<br />
I'd say easily the whole day's pay after taxes- just to pay for drinking, eating, and getting home.<br />
<br />
He is practically suicidal. I see that. I am a perceptive woman after all. His teacher wife is asleep. He wants to drink with exciting me and exciting S. Poor artists are a lot more fun? Well, no kidding.<br />
<br />
Man up and pay for everything.<br />
<br />
Maybe it will even help with the misery.<br />
<br />
That's what I say.<br />
<br />
So the last time we went for a drink before this blizzard was to land, I said 'sure!' - I had nothing to do but maybe try to get groceries on this Friday night. And he awaited a text from his wife or this visiting acquaintance to let him know he needed to leave and get back to Brooklyn.<br />
<br />
He paid for somewhat more than what he had. I paid for somewhat less than what I had. <br />
<br />
He left eventually, concerned to have heard from neither acquaintance nor wife.<br />
<br />
I said "go- go - it's fine. Go ahead. See you Monday".<br />
<br />
The waiter said to me, as I gave him my credit card to pay what was uncovered by the Brit's cash, "he left you here?"<br />
<br />
I said "Well- He's a work acquaintance- and a married man also".<br />
<br />
Still, said the waiter, "I would never do that. I would never leave you."<br />
<br />
Now I would say to my therapist, "What do you think? Do you agree with the waiter that he shouldn't have left? Do you agree with me that he should have paid the whole tab? If you were me, would you like him, as a friend, any longer - I did pay less than I owed if it's all even Stevens. But do you agree it's somehow repellant- for me to pay at all?"<br />
<br />
She would wonder why I'd care what she thinks.<br />
<br />
I don't really NEED to go back tbecause I'm onto the analysis answers pretty well. :-) But I would love to go back because it's very bonding to have someone listen to you THAT MUCH.<br />
<br />
Lots of love,<br />
Alexis<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Alexishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09524784542585595222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8265540140891045522.post-83711698236229065752015-01-29T06:27:00.001-08:002015-01-29T06:35:40.418-08:00Proofthat, evolutionarily speaking, human beings in the United States in 2015 are essentially bugs is that we collectively accept a business day that begins at approximately 9am. IT BOGGLES THE MIND.<br />
<br />
There is no necessity at all to wake up at a time like 6:30 or 7:00 am and "get ready"(at best brush your teeth and remember your building ID) for a day at a desk writing email.<br />
<br />
I find it terribly depressing.<br />
<br />
I would like to run for president on a platform that no calamity and only benefit could come from making traditional workdays begin at 11am or later.<br />
<br />
You could finish your dream that you are cuddling a dog or at the funeral of a virgin whose father is acting inappropriate. Why is this funeral happening in 3 segments, lastly with the family and people from her Junior High Honors English class? - maybe you'd find out.<br />
<br />
You could make coffee and eat 2 eggos, one with honey, one with regular syrup. If you have a family, you could eat together. If you're a writer, you could write down your dream.<br />
<br />
If you are an Emergency Doctor, well okay- your hours can't conform to this.<br />
<br />
And people who are obsessed with money, and destroying the world with your greed, okay, every single hour should be spent in pursuit of that, and the early bird catches the worm.<br />
<br />
But I would like to re-direct the small amount of energy I have to fighting for a standard workday that begins at 11am. <br />
<br />
I won't win my presidential bid based on this single issue. But what fun to vet me!<br />
<br />
Did you sleep with a man named Hans in 2007?<br />
<br />
Yes. First I asked if he had any cocaine. I won his attraction calling him "My little Hansel". It was my birthday. And I repeat, if the workday began at 11am, you would have time to journal and eat Leggos with honey.<br />
<br />
<br />Alexishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09524784542585595222noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8265540140891045522.post-56428965997605390312014-09-15T14:37:00.003-07:002014-09-15T14:37:51.918-07:00Sex poem I scribbled waking up two months ago: <br />
<br />
In summer<br />
Even when the sun was out<br />
Celestial bodies were roaring<br />
Twisting limbs of nitrogen<br />
light years away<br />
<br />
Somewhere with farmland<br />
Kimothy ate french fries by a fence<br />
while his girlfriend ate that fast food apple pie from a sleeve<br />
<br />
They had sex right in the open<br />
went home watched trash tv<br />
<br />
E------ was fired from the summer camp<br />
for shoplifting from Sephora on her lunch.<br />
A parent saw her.<br />
E----- called her boss, said she'd be late, that she'd fainted.<br />
She was cuffed.<br />
The director leaned in the squad car window<br />
and fired her.<br />
This all happened in the space of half an hour <br />
<br />
They created small spaces in their clothing<br />
pulling his dick through his drawers<br />
and then his fly<br />
pushing her underwear aside<br />
So they could have sex a third time<br />
<br />
She laughed as he drove her home<br />
They could have done it the normal way out there<br />
no one was there<br />
<br />
He was drowned in love when she said that<br />
couldn't figure out why<br />
It wasn't the words<br />
and it wasn't the thought<br />
<br />
She felt it later,<br />
while they were watching<br />
Bachelorette in Paradise<br />
<br />
he made a joke<br />
not a joke<br />
<br />
He said "I can't watch this" and changed the channel <br />
Alexishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09524784542585595222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8265540140891045522.post-73705300533444943262014-06-22T18:05:00.002-07:002014-06-22T18:05:29.008-07:00I interviewed for new roommates today.I hope they didn't realize I am utterly frightened of living with another person here. It's the perfect place for 1. But the rent is so high, I have to have a roommate.<br />
<br />
I also texted the dick I am having great sex with (and inevitably wanted to change into date-able) about feeling dismissed by his innocuous enough (but still dismissive because he IS dismissive) texts. He won't call on the phone- like as <i>a</i> <i>policy.</i> (Divorced.) Come on already. Oh sex. Worth it, in spite of, or even for, the tears.<br />
Amy is visiting and I wish she lived here.Alexishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09524784542585595222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8265540140891045522.post-36613281252125245342014-01-29T05:28:00.002-08:002014-01-29T05:28:08.231-08:00One thingit's safe to say I'll never do is name a child, anyone's child,<br />
<br />
1. Brooklyn<br />
2. Bronx<br />
3. Manhattan<br />
4. Queens<br />
<br />
Maybe Queens.Alexishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09524784542585595222noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8265540140891045522.post-1092433260880980242012-01-27T21:04:00.000-08:002012-01-27T21:04:39.962-08:00Hesitant returnI'm back. Am I back? Let's try writing. I've set up life for it all day...<br />
<br />
or for three months<br />
<br />
and with a lot of analysis<br />
<br />
I mean that I finally have a carpet. It's beautiful, and importantly it is 5 x 8 feet of space on the floor I can sit on, or lie on. I haven't had this in many months. It's been a slog through ennui and avoidance, boredom, moving one thing after another to where it ought to go. Making space for the vacuum, sleeping 'til noon, making space to actually vacuum, getting it all into piles on the periphery.<br />
<br />
And just like that my psychoanalyst wants to get down to it then. My Question: What am I supposed to be doing? Her answer: That's the question. Right there.<br />
<br />
If you think it's easy, you're crazy. <br />
<br />
So my state of being, right now, is something like "half-alright" which is very close to alright, surprisingly close to all alright.<br />
<br />
Discoveries are banal but I am psychoanalysis' big proponent now, albeit warily: by which I mean, She makes the sessions count - I lose all focus, don't have an answer to a question, and then she makes that last fifteen minutes work, the genius, - she ends on: "You mean you don't deserve it?" .... me: "I guess that's another way of saying that." Her: "Let's end there." <br />
<br />
Thinking about what I want, what would be gratifying, I think perhaps part of my thinking goes: I've tried haven't I? I've done the wanting part. I want to be in a collaborative artistic environment. I want that. I don't have it. So I've done my part. Wanted it. Haven't gotten it. So I WANT my work to be learning to live without it. But instead, oh heaven, that's a dead end, and the prognosis is more like to keep working, keep trying, keep reading, keep having sex once in a blue moon for god sake, keep trying, and actually write sometimes for god's sake won't you? won't you? You won't? You want to obsess about, GODDAM, Facebook? technology? high school? Well why not on paper you fool. Oh because I was trying to just think it in my head and realize it doesn't matter and I tried as hard as I could didn't I? I wanted to come back to that conclusion, didn't I? <br />
<br />
I cry before her passive sweater dressed cruel-kindness that says "why do you think that is?" and I say, "Sometimes, ... these 'why' questions - I can't find the answer; there isn't an answer." and she agrees and says, "So let me rephrase that then - is there anything else it makes you think of?" Can you imagine this profession? <br />
<br />
<br />Alexishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09524784542585595222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8265540140891045522.post-21869754935899762772012-01-14T14:16:00.000-08:002012-01-14T14:16:47.945-08:00Well, it's been a while. I've been moving and going to psychoanalysis so... <br />
<br />
Well, I have to get out the door in 30 minutes, meeting mywonderfulfriendHol... Who would come out to off Broadway on such a cold night but she? <br />
<br />
There will be a bloody mary I suspect.<br />
<br />
I have a lot of ideas and someone should pay me. :-) XX xxxxAlexishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09524784542585595222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8265540140891045522.post-78260371182601258672011-11-05T12:19:00.000-07:002011-11-05T12:19:07.862-07:00Writing...Anyone do it in little fits of structure and structure and properly filling the space in tiny blocks and, again, little fits of, inspiration. And think about the deadlines most when you're a depression case and hating yourself for being behind them and having an ulcer? "Process". Call it that!Alexishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09524784542585595222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8265540140891045522.post-47703234839281700432011-10-29T18:13:00.000-07:002011-10-29T18:13:15.878-07:00Today I am going to work on STARAMA - a revision is happening and it's really demanding and it has to be done, with discipline.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But it's snowing, and I was smoking a cigarette, and thinking. So I'm blogging until I can get myself out the door to the cafe because that's where I decided I'll do revision work. Oh man.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But just now out back I was thinking about my mother. The link is coffee.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Now I'm really back, I am not going to the cafe. It really snowed! I thought it was a lot of hype but no. So I have been drinking coffee and smoking and listening to Aretha. I ate some raisin toast and drank two pots of coffee, and moved a houseplant inside to save its life. It's dripping melted snow in the kitchen now. Facebook.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I went home for a night a few months ago for dinner at my mom's house with all of us and my mom's baby sister and her husband and two of their four daughters and my grandmother. Grammy was about to leave for Florida, now to be her permanent residence, having been helped by my aunt with a General's precision to empty her house in Philadelphia. Grammy had been staying at my mom's for some matter of weeks and the story goes (per Ben) - three nights before leaving, she freaked out at my mother, upset these two sisters didn't even want to see eachother - around the corner from each other all summer. It is confusing to me too. It's troubling that Grammy doesn't seem to know what it is either. Families can be mad it appears. Anyway, my aunt is hyper intelligent and psychosexually a little - ha! funny. One wonders what runs in one's family when it seems like a mystery to the matriarch too. I know Grammy acts grand and that's just how she describes Nanny as acting too. We've got that quality running through us- we teach it down to the first daughter. Around the women of the family, I think I probably get a bit hyper-analytical - frightened of the family thing... but also thrilled! Who else can you actually tell family stories with where you, ha, tell the truth, drink a glass of wine, cry laughing that you people were allowed out in public - That is what it was like, fairly often, growing up with my mom and her, my, family. I know there are other loud insane families out there but mine was really quite show stealing there for a while. In Boston Markets in Pennsylvania, in Malls in New Jersey, at Earnest Hemingway's historic home in Key West, in a town called Odell... Indiana? Ridiculous scenes.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My favorite story is remembered by Amy and is called "WHERES MY COIN?!" That's the Boston Market one. Ridiculous. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My point is I have a great time as long as there's wine. I do it for the kids I tell you... and myself. If you're going to have an absurdly dysfunctional family that can't even reasonably leave the house much less go on vacation from when you're nine to seventeen, the reward is wine when you're older and your grandmother freaking out and insisting on seeing her progeny. With all the bedbugs this summer, Grammy and I didn't even have martinis and steak, our big plan. I'll do that for Christmas though.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So the point of this is not actually WHERES MY COIN... I told WHERES MY COIN when Ben was outside and I kept it down. I'm not a bitch. My point was going to be something about else... I have been writing this with the loose idea of telling how when I was real little my mother told me drinking coffee like I always wanted to do - would only drink milk with coffee in it- would stunt my growth. And took the opportunity walking in the city past a little person to tell me that's what she meant - if I kept drinking coffee, I'd would be a little person. I told everyone that memory and my aunt, who I haven't seen in six years, since my Grandfather's funeral, turned to her daughters and said "Don't turn against me like that girls." I just laughed. I think that's a funny story about my mom! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I took another break, you missed it. I'm waiting for Indian food. The point was my mother being a weirdo and how when I tell nice stories about her, they're still weird. :-)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I watched Into the Woods last night on Netflix and that is he most psychodynamic musical ever made. The Witch. When she self immolates. You're all liars and thieves like his father like his son will be too oh why bother you'll just do what you do. And the chords are ascending in some diminished seventh or do I know? That is probably the best part of the best show. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Oh sigh. I have not revised my script, still today. I am listening to Into the Woods. I am considering buying a ticket to California for next weekend. Just a hotel in Santa Barbera maybe. It's January weather in October. Can you imagine? Stephen Sondheim. Stephen Sondheim.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
</div>Alexishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09524784542585595222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8265540140891045522.post-13045282419596540342011-10-23T19:02:00.001-07:002011-10-24T06:43:29.322-07:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
So long story short, Friday, my roommate believes the small
and apparently painful bites she has found on herself are bed bug bites… again. This was the hardship of the summer and this
time around, we simply have to address by removing books, and fabric to a reasonable
degree, to plastic bags, and calling for a treatment – we can’t do what we did
this summer again, either of us. She calls the landlord who hates us, he says
we can break our lease, so tired is he of bedbug news, and I overhear her
making her case that this isn’t anybody’s fault. He, it seems, is saying the same thing he always
says: “We’ve had that place for twenty-five years and we’ve never…” I yell out,
“It has nothing to do with the last twenty five years!” He calls me later in
the day (I am the “good cop”. Honestly I
am very kind and measured with every horrible fool I must deal with after my six
years in Astoria. It’s the easiest
tactic for me. I think I get screwed
over sometimes for being “too nice” but I’d get fucked over as much trying to
be “harder” and in a way I’d be fucked twice because I’d be trying to be
something I’m not. I stand my ground- I don't back away from obvious sense, and reiterating it as many times as I must, but I don’t throw out the baby that I’m
small and pretty and these landlords for the most part are old-country enough
they can’t show me their dirty core motivations, or backtrack as soon as they
do if I just make the right face. I know. I’m no fool. But I appreciate if we
all stay on the social niceties page.
Without this face, I’d be a whole other person… something of a frightening
idea. ) and an imbecile exterminator comes to really and truly drench our house
and all our things in chemicals - “once and for all” as it were. My roomie gets the
hell out to meet her guy, a new guy since the last time we went through this,
but, ah not so unfamiliar. I am not
fucking anyone right now so when we do these insanely toxic treatments,
there’s no go-to place for me. It’s not
her responsibility. I feel for her that
she is the one experiencing these bites. But at any rate I find myself stranded
in Astoria. When I brave return to my
house six hours after the treatment I find the air indoors wholly un-breathe-able,
drink a bottle of wine outside and call D-------, to tell him I "actually have a big favor to ask": would he pick me up? Can I sleep at his house? First my stepmom tells me to get a
hotel room. I appreciate the advice, but
no. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One
of those websites for hostels or deals</i>” – I mean, there must be a better
way. (you know I love hotels, but to find a deal I'd have to internet search in the toxified house, take a train into manhattan- it was already 8:00pm. A hotel?)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Status updates you can’t post to facebook: A diminished sex drive compared to say, my
twenties, is a blessing and a joy. Late
in the summer I went on a “The last straw. That’s it.” okcupid date. A lunatic whose clothes smelled musty, who I
met late at night downtown, he was working the soundboard at “Under St Marks”.
A group of Canadians, singers, comedians, had the place for the night. As I
shimmied into the backmost aisle seat in the underground pit, I palmed my cell
phone, and held it low under my chair.
He texted “Hi.” I listened to the
curly haired stand up comic on “stage” implying incest, screwing up his joke,
riffing on his name, his uncle, incest again and texted my “date”, “have you
seen ‘Fame?’” He texted back, “No. Why?”
I texted nothing. He texted to come over
to the booth which I did between acts. I whispered “Which dial is his monitor?
I’m obsessed with monitors” He said “You just want to show off your knowledge.”
I smiled. Not the wittiest retort
although true. When the show was done, I smoked out back with the Canadians.
Ky, my date, commenced giving me massages (which could not relax me since I
didn’t know yet if I wanted him touching me).
I spent the next few hours trying to relax, tensing to his advances,
trying to relax enough to enjoy the adventures he sought for us, explaining
that we wouldn’t be sleeping together over 2:00am coffee, then pressed against
onlookers at a Doug E Fresh show(!) and then fleeing as Ky frowned. The cab departs. I realize I am not dating any more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
The realization I am not dating
has yet to give me anything but pleasure in thinking it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Early in the summer, before I wasn’t dating, D------- took
me to the beach in a rented car. The
trip was a great success, and at the time, I’d laid myself a gauntlet that a
male person would bring me somewhere in a car
with-God-as-my-witness-I’ll-never-go-hungry-again style. After the beach, it was back to D-------’s
house. (We dated a couple years ago but it ended when he yelled at me about his
workday on the phone. There’s an old blog post about it!) I had my period which, though bloody and
messy, meant I was at least feeling like sex.
I blew his enormous penis.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Break. That was a
funny break-point. I’m in my made bed now, in my aired out bedroom, wanting to
get to my point. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That would be: that day, the idea of his huge cock and
blowing it turned me on. I know I blow
his mind when I’m into it. How wouldn’t I?
As far as intercourse, well that’s oookay. I come too fast and then have to sort of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">put up with </i>the huge thing. Sad to say, these are the facts. It’s a
relief when the whole affair becomes too bloody. I’ve come and we can clean up
and relax now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
So we try this again. What a perfect thing right? He doesn’t drink,
he has wheels, he loves to read, he isn’t asking for a girlfriend, he has an
enormous appendage, he’s nice to women.
I travel out to his place in summer heat – an hour or more on the
subway, what he calls “Prospect Heights” I insist is “Crown Heights”. I’m hungry and upon arrival realize I don’t
know what I’m doing there. I don’t want
to have sex. Now I’m just at his house.
We eat a little, he goes and buys me a bottle of wine and opens it with a
drill, we eat, go to bed, and I tense to his touch, toss and turn with horrible
dreams all night. He is angry at me in
my dreams for not having sex. We have
long conversations about what a confusing and unfair person I am. When I wake up and push him away, then touch
him lightly, feeling sorry for these pushes, I try to explain and he lets me
dig a nonsense grave. “It doesn’t feel
natural. It feels to me… today. It feels
to me…. Now…. That I don’t know, it just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">isn’t
right</i>… just to be so <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">reasonable about
it</i> – like I can’t do this. I can’t just kind of say ‘You’re here. You’re
fine. Lets have sex so we both get
some’ Are you angry? Does that make
sense to you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
I think he was kind of angry or
at least rejected-feeling. I don’t
know. After I pushed him off again and
explained how I was feeling, and I think told him that I wanted a boyfriend to
be with, not a buddy, that I needed to feel… something, he had a Eureka moment
“So none of that is my fault!” Me: That’s right. Yes. It isn’t you at all. We went for brunch and I played some jewel
game on his iphone and it felt like being in a sexless relationship. The kind I’ve nearly never had, always too
busy having sexual connections that arrive at me feeling agonizingly in need or
want, or fucked up relationships, always sexually strong, and then everything
else smacks us, knocks two crazies out cold.
But I feel like an asshole who won’t touch his penis, no matter what
I’ve said. And eventhough he seems totally fine having realized it’s not his
fault.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
Anyway, maybe you think this is
a lot of writing all just to say “there’s no chemistry” or “you’re just not
that into him”. I feel like there’s an
interesting thing to articulate though.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
I called D------- last night and
he was there for me. He took me to a
diner, he stopped at a bodega so I could get some Claritin. When we got to his
house he vacuumed up all the cat hair and downloaded Real Time so we could
watch it. As we laid in bed after the show was finished, he touched my breast and I didn’t like it.
He went out to read on his couch so I could sleep and came back in around 5am and we only lightly
cuddled, mostly just slept next to one another.
I was relieved. I didn’t want to have sex. If I did, I would have felt like I was for
all those reasons listed above.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
I love my diminished sex drive
of the past few months. It’s serving me
enormously well. When’s the last time
this blog went months without me <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really
liking someone</i> a.k.a, often a.k.a, having had a lot of sexual chemistry with
him, and then feeling disappointed when he was pleased with that great sex time
and that alone, or some other angst like that.
That last straw date and really feeling like it was the last straw was
amazing. I like how I feel. It seems to me, yet, a shame, that if I ever
was – and I think I once was, evidence suggests… - I now am not able to get
myself going for someone just because, hey, that’s hot. I especially feel a little sorry if he went out of his way to
be so nice and is asking nothing of me. Just wishes I wanted it. Just feels me right there. I can't fault him. I'm the one who wants to just sleep in our separate spaces. I'm the one who feels that way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
In this long ass, poorly articulated
attempt to articulate, I am saying: oh
me oh my- once I’d have sex with someone because they were nice to me. It was not always a disaster wherein thereafter I was
in love- it was sometimes but not always. But now that’s all done. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
When I have to explain how it’s
all done, all my enthusiasm for your cock, I feel so defensive- as I attempt to explain I think it is as if I’m saying “Oh I have issues. Yes I’m frigid- it’s my issues” and that is
really not it at all. I just don’t want a nice man with an erection who went
out of his way for me to feel rejected so it ends up couched that way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
I am so grateful that it hasn't
turned out like so many told me it would (not so far) – that my thirties would be
a time of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aching</i> sex drive. That I’d just need dick DICK where ever it
may be found! Maybe it won’t last, but
deprioritizing sex and particularly deprioritizing dating feels so right. I don’t even know if I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wish I’d found a great relationship instead</i>, I am liking it so
much. All I can possibly do right now is
think about myself, freak out about myself, worry about myself all the
time. I am open to love- which would be
someone actually seeing and getting these machinations of my mind, and loving
them. But right now, unlike so many
other times I’ve chronicled, I’m not even longing for it. You see, I’ve given up my friends. I’ve given up and it feels very good. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
I couldn’t be a hooker for a
place to sleep and I do sort of feel sad not to have given that fun and
acceptance to the nice, good, kindly person who gave me that place to sleep. But I cringe to the penis! And that feels
good. What a crazy blogpost.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
I love you all so much my
friends, you may not even know. I love
you more more more more more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
-Alexis</div>Alexishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09524784542585595222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8265540140891045522.post-43762982965141626882011-10-17T16:06:00.001-07:002011-10-17T16:06:52.421-07:00I didn't want to work on my shitSo I ordered a sushi feast.<br />
<br />
Going to straight to hell.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
AlexisAlexishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09524784542585595222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8265540140891045522.post-69762612664382436472011-10-17T08:52:00.000-07:002011-10-24T06:43:41.719-07:00All day, all weekPlease read my friend Kelly's blog post about when we went to Zucotti Park last week to see some Occupy Wall Street. <a href="http://oodlesofcharm.wordpress.com/">Kelly, the straight bomb.</a><br />
<br />
Having been last week, my contribution since has largely been talking to disapprovers while out and about, correcting their perception, media-backed, that the kids, (and Kelly, I too cannot help calling them kids. It's something about idealism. Well I'm probably about to say it...) smell and are dirty and spoiled. I try to appeal to the fact that I and whomever I'm speaking to live in New York so we know from horrible smells, and my olfactory was not in the least offended down there - they should really go see and smell for themselves. I also tend to mention how much I feel for the "kids". As with every generation, the media has consistently indulged a reduction of theirs to "they're apathetic, brainwashed by their computers, and now, if they're doing this spoiled". But kids are supposed to be idealistic! I want to thank them. That's how I feel. Do we want a whole country of people who, what? buckle down, buckle-down-and-you-should-too. How ridiculous. By how ridiculous I mean how unrealistic about humanity.<br />
<br />
Today I have my third consultation for psychoanalysis - I guess we'll decide the schedule (at least four times a week!) and payment today. I feel like I've had one realization already.<br />
<br />
Let me tell you why I love New York this year, today. NYU's free Health Clinic. Many thoughts, share them in a sec.<br />
<br />
Some details on my conversation with that guy Kelly talked about in her post. He is what really worries me. The movement itself should encounter division and problems myriad any minute now as movements must. Their "consensus" thing is bound to, must, mutate, frighten, be frightening, etc. But that is fine - that is natural - that is the discussion- that is the experiment. But the gunman, the Charles Manson, the psycho who ruins everything and discredits by ruining. That's a thing. This guy's delicate psyche gave me a real fright.<br />
<br />
Kelly kicked off how he approached - wanting me to agree that the people near us playing some kind of game were "ridiculous". Let me see if I can properly write our dialogue - which I'm usually so good at, but think I'll have difficulty with here because my heart was racing while I spoke to him. It's funny because I'd been emailing with my brother and sister about OWS and Revolution before Kelly and I went down there and I had left off with them that I wanted to write them about the personal and the political. How a "movement" suddenly throws into view for you how much they do meet. Like psychoanalysis, how it may bring a question of "who am I? How did I become me? Why do I have this ideal and not another? What do I want?" I didn't write that email I had percolating. But this conversation brought that thought "The political is personal. The personal is political" banging into my head- like "not only personal, the political can be psychological". It was something about this man's <i>psychology</i> that made me feel <i>in danger</i>.<br />
<br />
It's also hard to remember the conversation because the mode was one of cutting me off and then smugness. It wasn't terribly sensible and I was in a decidedly defensive position - so it's hard to remember as a whole.<br />
<br />
I suppose he was asking me why it was happening. I think that's it. And that was a hard one to answer cold off the top. As he told me I couldn't answer him I managed to answer something about "the social contract." Honestly, I was not beautifully articulate. I think I said "That's a thing right. There's a social contract."<br />
<br />
"Well what's that?"<br />
<br />
Me: Okay, let's see, well quite a few things. Let me try an example. Take social security. It comes out of your paycheck your whole life. That's a contract - that you're paying in so when you're older it'll be paid into for you. If I live to be 65, it's worrying to think it won't be there for me.<br />
<br />
An older woman, pretty older lady with painted nails and a warm sweater and lots of piled red hair, overheard and politely jumped in. Apparently Social Security was exactly one of the issues that had her there. She explained that she was older- she began to try to explain whatever her situation was with Social Security. But the man just interrupted her over and over to say "Are you finished yet? Are you finished talking? I'm not listening anymore- are you going to answer my question?" This guy was so alarming I tell you. We asked him again to clarify his question. She began speaking again. He started in with "not answering my question" again. She saw someone she knew who she had to talk to for some reason. She seemed to be an occupier and when you see what's going on there, it is pretty obvious that one would actually need to talk to one's friends pretty often to find out - particularly this day - if you might need to move your stuff, what the next step was to continue peaceful occupation etc. It's a hive, you know. So she, all politeness, excused herself to talk to her friend she had seen. I mean, I saw her see this person and realize she needed to talk to her/him. The man said, "She couldn't answer me. That's why she left." And I said "No- I think she saw her friend. Although the way you talk doesn't make people want to stay for more conversation."<br />
<br />
This is what I'm talking about regarding psychological problems though. What frightens me about this person is the inability to see motivations other than that people are stupid and have no point, "can't answer my question". I guess all I'm saying is that Kelly and I talked to a real sociopath.<br />
<br />
The conversation we continued to have following this was wholly ridiculous so my enthusiasm to transcribe it is fading, was never very strong. I don't have much joy in telling you how dumb this guy's questions which I kept on "not answering" were. He made me agree that 20% of 1,000,000 is 200,000. (vis a vis the social contract.) So, he questioned, if a person is making a million dollars and taxed at 20% and is putting in therefore 200 grand, should someone making 50,000 put in less?<br />
<br />
I mean, no one who reads this blog is so stupid they don't know how stupid a question this is. Me: "Well yeah, I'm fine with that. I mean let's talk about 50,000. Can they pay 18%? I mean what's left over afterwards? Capitalism isn't just taxes right? Like, people have to be able to buy stuff? If you tax 18% of 50,000 and leave the rest for the person to live on, can they still buy stuff after paying for wherever they live and eating regular meals, maybe going to the doctor? You definitely want them to be able to buy some stuff."<br />
<br />
Oh on and on we went, and on and on he scared me. We talked about how a bad diagnosis could bankrupt you forever if you don't have insurance. Him: That's YOUR problem. Me: Yes, yes it would be. (pause) Oh and yours. It's actually also yours...<br />
<br />
Obviously trying to talk about socialism was not productive. ;)<br />
<br />
And it was when I said that what was happening seemed revolutionary to me that he was most scoffing and angry. I asked if I could explain what I meant by that. I tried to say something about how what it seemed people were asking was an actual re-examination of global capitalism as a system. He said "You're delusional". I said the conversation had to stop then. Told him that's very disrespectful to me. He agreed and apologized (my heart raced - frightening.) I tried to remind him we had agreed on one thing. He believed the banks should have been allowed to fail. He believes recessions are a natural part of capitalism and capitalism should have been allowed to work to let the banks rebuild. <br />
<br />
Anyay, this man is useless as a tool to understand anything about what is happening with Occupy Wall Street and what the most interesting parts of conversation are there. I do keep thinking of him in relation to my revelation that the psyche, my own psyche, is interesting - incorporates trauma, incorporates other psyches battling I can't say what...<br />
<br />
He's more to me an exemplar of how we live in ourselves with a past and with problems and with defenses and with reactions and with old wounds and with old joys and we can bury them or we can use them or we can do battle with them or or or.<br />
<br />
More on the free clinic soon and how I am <i>working</i> unemployment my friends, working it. And how without me saying something, a person in his second month of medical school might have would up seeing my vagina, and my cervix. HILARIOUS. My whole day at the clinic was a joy and worth telling you about, but my favorite part was telling the third year med student who was about to get her big chance to "swab 360" in my "OS", "Thank you so much. Cool. But Sean can't be in here for that."<br />
<br />
XOXO love<br />
AAlexishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09524784542585595222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8265540140891045522.post-80122859759991573562011-10-12T07:18:00.000-07:002011-10-12T07:46:46.786-07:00haha did you see my morning wake up poem?haha So I <i>am</i> crazy.<br />
<br />
yup my memories are like rats sent to stars.<br />
<br />
ugh. Well I sent a message to my college boyfriend, having been recollecting what a traumatized mess I was by the time <i>he</i> got to have me. It wasn't the easiest because it's not like he wasn't sort of, well, difficult - far from a perfect love. And given just how many times I ended it, and it was always me, it makes all the sense in the world that we are not in touch at all. After the first time I broke up with him he said he hoped I died in a car accident, and we still got back together! College!<br />
<br />
Not everyone's life is like this I bet.<br />
<br />
But I'm finding a bit of a theme.<br />
<br />
Or I at least have a few phrases.<br />
<br />
One phrase: Living in the past. Interesting phrase isn't it?<br />
<br />
One theme: Even if I hurt my ex loves only unintentionally, in reaction they've been willing to treat me with the most cruelty they could summon. I've never ended a serious realtionship, one where we were saying "I love you" without the ending or the aftermath involving at best stark insensitivity (Jack - this was the least brutal, and me the least myself in a way - at 23? I don't know - the early 20's elude my analysis. I was more free/ less something, less psychicly heavy then than any other time) and at worst cruelty. My conclusion is kind of that men are weak.<br />
<br />
One important true thing, the truest?: Love and anger and pain= the same object, the same thing. Angry? It's another side of Love. Hurting? Another side of Love. In Love? Be SOO Careful. And even if you are, the risk is just so huge. I'm not saying not to go for it, young lovers whoever you are, I know your troubles are few, I know your troubles have the potential to be engulfing, and you should still try, but the odds are really stacked.<br />
<br />
Back to living in the past. I wrote a msg to my college boyfriend- just to say I'm thinking of him, understand from his end why we didn't keep in touch, don't expect to be in touch now and am not after that in sending him the msg, am sorry to the degree that I can be that the person I was may have, did in fact, cause him pain, and am glad we had each other when we did. He said this in response:<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">Hi.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">You know, I'm quite sincerely at a total loss for if, or how, to respond to this. But here I am, typing, I suppose.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">I accept your words as they were intended and do genuinely appreciate the sentiment. Regardless of whatever else I've thought about you then or now, I don't believe that you ever acted with specifically hurtful intent.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">And on my part, I certainly extend the blanket apology that I would to anyone I've crossed paths with for any general encounters with me between the ages 18-22 (I'll be charitable to myself here and leave the range at that).</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">My memory (in totality) is an absolute horror, and I've spent so long emotionally partitioning off what I did retain of that time that I don't have a lot of positive things left to reflect on. Neither do I doubt that they were there- it's just far from a deep well of pleasant or positive reminiscence for me. But for better or for worse, it has always been there. Take that for whatever you will.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">As I said, I have little idea what else to share, but I do hope that doing this is in whatever way helpful for you, and also that it is unrelated to a 12-step program.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">Best</span><br />
<br />
<br />
So, that's what's making me think of the phrase "living in the past". Funny how it almost seems healthier to have the partitions up, and just be able to wholesale write off 4 years - "blanket apology" to those who knew you then, few memories of the entire time, than to remember it. <br />
<br />
It's nice he got back to me. I'm glad he's just trucking and there're no bad feelings and no one wants anyone's car crashing anymore. Don't know why it matters -> maybe I live in the past.<br />
<br />
XOXO time to make the donuts, send out a resume to Gawker to be their office assistant (how many of those are they gonna get? 60,000? Reformat this script. I have a pretty amazing life. :-) Later I get my second consultation and maybe we can talk about what it means to live in the past....)<br />
<br />
XO<br />
AAlexishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09524784542585595222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8265540140891045522.post-3701983843943872582011-10-12T07:01:00.000-07:002011-10-12T08:02:59.992-07:00I think<br />
twinkling red stars<br />
<br />
I think we send our memories to them<br />
our dreams<br />
a globe of the Earth<br />
with a blue whale half the size of iceland<br />
<br />
Our heads touched by people<br />
who touched them<br />
literally<br />
our hairs pressed down<br />
our forheads brushed<br />
our hair pressed down<br />
our creepy parents caught in the act<br />
our dark pursuers<br />
<br />
send them<br />
like rats<br />
off to the starsAlexishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09524784542585595222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8265540140891045522.post-41716961312624983592011-10-11T13:55:00.000-07:002011-10-11T14:26:09.522-07:00Let's do some bloggingA) I watched a movie called Lymelife and now I'm really badly in crazy love with Rory Culkin. Those eyes, those lips.... the acting. oh, oh oh. The character.... tortured teen. I guess it's inappropriate but there's no denying, I dream of Rory Culkin. I want him. I love him.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
B) Let's talk about crying. I've had one therapy consultation so far but before I got there I did a little amateur delving into the past, hit a little trauma, and arrived at good old-fashioned sobbing. This happened vis a vis my mother a couple years ago and vis a vis having my heart broken many many years ago, this time. It's pretty complex, wasn't any old heart break, but I won't bother with the story too much here... I guess the pertinent fact is only that both things constitute what I've experienced of traumatic emotional situations. Both times I seem to arrive at the uncontrollable crying from first thinking I can just, stylistically frankly, lay out what the trauma was, and tell the other person what it was and do so coolly, only to realize a few hours later that I'm feeling the same things I was feeling in the past which I had thought I could so cooly describe, effectively *get rid of* by remembering, laying out, sending away.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
(This time as I walked home from errands at night, I was suddenly sobbing in the street, oh New York, I turned toward a building and just sobbed and sobbed and a woman - she is named Wanda, asked if I was alright. I pulled myself together. We talked a long time. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Wanda: Are you alright?</div>
<div>
Me: Oh, yes. Yes I really am. (heaving breath) I really am.</div>
<div>
Wanda: Are you sure?</div>
<div>
Me: Yeah, it's just a memory. This isn't - yes, I'm really okay. I know it doesn't look like it.</div>
<div>
Wanda: Well, where are you going? Can I walk with you?</div>
<div>
Me: (actually composing myself somewhat) Yes. I'm, um, well I'm sorry. Thanks for stopping me.</div>
<div>
Wanda: See these tears in my eyes? I know what you're feeling. I'm going through it too.</div>
<div>
Me: I'm not even going though it -- this is like old stuff. Is yours, is it a love thing? That's usually it.</div>
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Wanda commenced to tell me what she's going through, in the present [which makes her seem like less of a lunatic than me to me] which is horribly difficult. Part of her problem today involves seeing her ex's family at Church a lot so I told her I'm Jewish but maybe we can do some kind of volunteering together some time. I hope we do it. She suggested Thanksgiving, but I won't be around here then so, I don't know, please remind me to call Wanda. ) </div>
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I came home to continue crying, got a hug from my roommate who is no stranger to needing therapy to deal with the past. And thank God she was around to tell me not to drink, to just drink water, which I did and gradually stopped crying, watched some something or other and went to bed. I didn't cry myself to sleep... and YET. And yet my eyes in the morning when I had some place to be. Puffed so they were barely possible to open. I would like to tell my body that if it's going to be so inclined to gush tears, reduce me to sobs, and keep 'em coming, then it would really be nice if my face could fucking handle that. But why even bother with the things you'd like to tell your body, right? Hello pine nuts? Hello pine nuts aren't poison but HISTAMINES actually might be hello? and etc. for everybody out there, and all that kind of stuff, yeah, right?</div>
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Then I go to therapy, or in this case just my consultation, and, of course I wasn't done with this crying jag yet so at the least my therapist must think I do need the therapy... so that's good. I told her how I almost thought in the weeks between writing my bio in order to get the consultation and the consultation that I became worried that she might think I was *too happy* to qualify. Like just thinking about my life so much with the anticipation of therapy was making me feel so great that it would seem like I didn't really need it. I told her this through tears. And then I told her about how I've always sort of had this problem that crying makes me feel like I'm crazy. </div>
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I know just how this conversation goes because I've had it every time I've started therapy (not many times, but enough) I'm always a sobbing mess by the time I've gotten myself to their office. I tell them, either "sorry" or "I have sort of a problem where crying like this makes me feel crazy."</div>
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and he/she says: What's crazy about crying?</div>
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And we could start right there if we wanted to, because I could tell her that when I'd cry growing up, my mother would say I was "emotionally disturbed" and look to psychologists for answers with what was wrong with me (which whenever I saw an actual psychologist was HER, but I'm digressing- not to mention seriously turning my blog into my issues with my mother, barf, but moving on...)</div>
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But we don't start there because I don't want to start there yet so I mention, through my tears, mopping up some more snot, that yeah yeah yeah, there are old reasons I feel that way but let's be serious- you don't want to feel out of control. You don't want to be crying. You're not supposed to be crying on the street. And especially about a memory, right? That is what we sometimes, in shorthand, call crazy behavior. </div>
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I don't know why I'm blogging this besides that I sort of want to.</div>
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Crying has just been a thing that I don't usually do, well -- empathetically for great theater I do, totally controllably, but not usually, not since a long time ago (in high school I was often a sobbing mess), but, now, I don't usually and when I do cry for myself, it feels sudden and I do it uncontrollably, frighteningly, can't stop once it's started, start feeling crazy for doing it. Crying. I wanted to write about crying.</div>
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I've stopped crying and am feeling better now for what it's worth. And it may be very worth noting that. You know, for the next time. It makes me feel crazy but I do stop. I can't stop it so should do it without the belaboring the feeling nuts about it. It's sort of a one way trip, a deep dive and then a re-emergence. I should probably eliminate to the degree that I can the part of the dive that's considering myself a total fucking lunatic but it also isn't too important to because I do stop. I guess I'm just saying that I should start to feel some safety about it. The people you encounter don't think you're "crazy" - they just think you're crying. You can't go out dancing or anything but you will live. You're just crying, a lot. </div>
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Am I saying anything here?</div>
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XOXO</div>
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C) When Hurricane Irene was coming I was doing a million things, a last push of compulsive anit bed-bug cleaning, rearranging all the furniture in the house, storm preparations, and finally sitting in bed eating bon bons, drinking Lindemans and watching Funny Face. But I've been saving notes by my bed since then that I jotted down that I wanted to blog about the hurricane. I was going to put them here, but I guess I'll just save them some more because, ha, there's nothing interesting about them not in the immediate. Sort of an interesting blog writing experiment whose answer may disturb us who blog, no?</div>
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XOXO</div>
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Alexis</div>Alexishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09524784542585595222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8265540140891045522.post-26336690725789161562011-10-09T18:12:00.000-07:002011-10-09T21:12:38.253-07:00YeahGod, that's the thing about remembering the worst hurts, going for it in a spirit of "getting somewhere with it" - when it really hits you, how long ago it all is makes you cry more, makes you laugh, makes you cry more. At least with me. On the one hand you think - this is not immediate, so you're fine, phew. Then just the fact that you're not fine, actually, clearly not, makes you feel Crazy. What if someone asks you what's wrong? And you have to say - it's nothing, it's fifteen years ago. It feels like sanity would be to actually be healed. To remember a moment you were abandoned and not fall apart. That's why I'm going to serious therapy now. I have my first consultation tomorrow. I suppose you're not healed ever of certain things, but there might just be an actual getting through it. It would just feel better NOT TO HAVE TO. I am putting a lot of faith in this therapeutic enterprise. I hope it's wonderful and I discover some reserves of strength rather than just puddling out. What will it be? how much puddling do you do before you're somewhere new. I guess you appeal for support and just the presence of the therapist listening until you are at the least tired enough of torturing the wound to move on by default and that's kind of the point. They aren't going anywhere. Unless they die. That's the thing. It's unrealistic to ever expect certain pain to go away. And it's horrible admitting that you're a person who is just always going to have to massage it and try to find some help dealing with it. <br />
<br />
This is why I love/hate celebrity sex rehab with Dr. Drew. I grotesquely feel sorry for those poor people who had such sexual trauma so young and are walking around in a haze of pain. Because when they admit it, they basically have to admit it forever. They were damaged and they always will be damaged. Who wants to be damaged? There's sort of not enough reward for it to be "fair".<br />
<br />
But Life isn't fair. They're not insane. I'm not insane. I'm just a stupid crazy person who can't tell my brain to stop looking for it to be fair.<br />
<br />
I'm going to fall in love with my female therapist about 6 minutes into treatment, I'm predicting.Alexishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09524784542585595222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8265540140891045522.post-34182555763970939752011-10-09T17:41:00.000-07:002011-10-09T17:41:33.780-07:00Jesus ChristYou think you're so strong and the past behind you but just press it and... I don't know. I'm always surprised.Alexishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09524784542585595222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8265540140891045522.post-72167898059485035332011-10-09T02:54:00.000-07:002011-10-09T17:42:07.118-07:005:40am Jolt awake with the idea I'll die and not exist. I think in my dream it became realized that someone proposing sex with me had AIDS. In the dream I successfully avoided sex, but, instead of relief, I woke up with the sharp relief realization that I'm still going to die and death is a thing. It was that thing where your mind says "and you won't be thinking any more. No more of this".<br />
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Maybe that sharp relief, as in bas relief, no psychic relief at all, is why the AIDS plays of the 80's are so good. Also being gay and theater. </div>
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On that callous note, back to thinking about lovin' arms, not death, and sleeping some more while it's dark.</div>
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Alexishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09524784542585595222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8265540140891045522.post-87372758259267066422011-10-06T10:26:00.000-07:002011-10-06T11:00:25.607-07:00<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/3WdS4TscWH8" width="420"></iframe><br />
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Holy God is this hilarious.<br />
<br />
Let me just transcribe a bit here.<br />
<br />
Classical music.<br />
Geology professor.<br />
He opens his ipad-shaped enough personal thing.<br />
The avatar tells him:<br />
Today's schedule (notably, Take Kathy to the airport by 2:00.)<br />
3 messages: Your graduate research team in Guatemala, just checking in.<br />
Robert Jordan a 2nd semester junior requesting a second extension on his term paper<br />
And your mother reminding you about your father (Geology professor stops the speaking avatar/ secretary) "surprise birthday party"
<br />
<br />
Then he gets his friend on the horn to do the lecture for him. --- "Contact Jill."<br />
Flemson<br />
"He was challenging Jill's projection on the amount of carbon dioxide being released to the atmosphere. I'd like to recheck his figures"<br />
"Here's the rate"<br />
Guy: "MMMM hmmmm - and what happened?"<br />
<br />
OH MY GOD. This is the funniest thing I've ever seen???? Do you remember 1987 now? hahaha oh what happened?
First, (it's no longer first, but "first") let me say that I saw this of course because someone put it on facebook this morning - it was not distanced from a general sentiment that wow - the supposed year on the computer is 2011 and the new iphone and siri whatever came out today and Steve Jobs died.
Steve Jobs isn't responsible for this particular projection of Apple's future though, because this is from when he wasn't there.
Secondly, I don't give a good goddamn. (2001: A Space Odyssey has the most ipad-like looking thing of any pre i-pad existing representations of future technologies I've ever seen. I'm sure I'm objectively right about this) This thing this guy's got is RIDICULOUS. When it makes the joke during the conversation?!?! ("4:15pm") and THE GUY'S ATTITUDE!!!!!!!!
I mean the vid is SORT OF predicting google type searching through a wireless technology. Yeah. Oh my god though. It is like an actual secretary ... and the way Herr Professor says "MMMMM hmmmmm. And what happened?"
And the classical music.
I just want to repeat these things over and over. I believe you are all with me enough that I don't need to explain how hilarious this is. I'm stopping. I have work to do. But wow- I didn't know we were going to be such calm classical music listenting, geology professor consulting fools with actual 2 dimensional helper robots, flirting up "dinner" over "research" while rememebring to take our wives to the airport in our, c'mon, Rolls, now. OH MY GOD THIS THING.Alexishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09524784542585595222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8265540140891045522.post-48034270321353636962011-09-29T19:56:00.000-07:002011-09-29T19:57:58.095-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ1r-Ych4H_0pqOQtz12cIeYuSBm7160nXcxYqng5bJQquDcW7iFViZTprmWzsh_6AQFe-bakVoCTCJR-bPCYgBKgz5znFYJyXGdAad_bbm0uMT-oeTHbhry4qKuZV5T6Uf-kz2ElN7hY/s1600/meandsteph97.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="218" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ1r-Ych4H_0pqOQtz12cIeYuSBm7160nXcxYqng5bJQquDcW7iFViZTprmWzsh_6AQFe-bakVoCTCJR-bPCYgBKgz5znFYJyXGdAad_bbm0uMT-oeTHbhry4qKuZV5T6Uf-kz2ElN7hY/s320/meandsteph97.jpg" /></a></div>
This one I like because this year 1997/98 was so very tumultuous - the big one of big confrontation by the end. My senior year. I know it's Fall of my senior year from my tshirt and necklace and longer hair and watch and the yellow leaves through the kitchen window. - so I like this because this year was so tumultuous and things so remarkably bad between me and my mom that I don't remember what my relationship was like with the kids so much. But this picture shows me that Steph cracked me up and it seems like she liked to. I remember seeing my therapist after I'd moved out, before I went to college and telling him (he was very very good overall - I miss that guy and would shed some blood to have dinner with him these days [can you tell I'm having fierce life memory time?]but I can somehow never really get a number for him or figure out how to get in touch) I was worried for and wanted to be around for my siblings and he sort of shrugged it off. Fair enough - I got what he meant- I was going to college- was I really going to lose sleep over what was going on with these kids. But I do think I meant it. That's one of the really funny things about looking back at all the craziness and difficulties - I never can without also realizing, you change any of it, you don't get what you've got. Right? Life my friends. Anyway - this picture was a happy find. Steph and I both were like - oh look - we were friends! this is great!Alexishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09524784542585595222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8265540140891045522.post-42538217095924749312011-09-27T19:33:00.000-07:002011-09-29T19:42:40.980-07:00My family bullshit scrapbook<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTrJgnOIFIcGWc6u5b7upvp1jb3uQ0z0cXkpF_NOUJgMMumapZaAgQpy_F2tJcUK49aFXgwmBQs7I78lrOqsagCdnEy660nGjg5KTPH-hyz1gSbt1KxyOTYR1hfBnuKtwugFK-4FAgrG4/s1600/thehappietdayofmaddie%2527slife.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTrJgnOIFIcGWc6u5b7upvp1jb3uQ0z0cXkpF_NOUJgMMumapZaAgQpy_F2tJcUK49aFXgwmBQs7I78lrOqsagCdnEy660nGjg5KTPH-hyz1gSbt1KxyOTYR1hfBnuKtwugFK-4FAgrG4/s320/thehappietdayofmaddie%2527slife.jpg" /></a></div>
Here is a picture of Madeline. She's at a dog show wearing a dog sweater and also a dog ponytail-holder. "Probably the best day of my life" -Madeline I thought I'd kick off with this.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmbVIYPB0XqEPTFvoLUfBmwpwoEA9RQuOqnpKtKhoGqEz3Lf5RWeMFmZ-95n3lyk0eMnyfurxj4hEIx4lUKvj4OOvs2PPEEATKFoXWb9K3UoM7DkJg9QOHAt-Wd3WCgs2E5OC49rVZVic/s1600/mom%2527swedding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmbVIYPB0XqEPTFvoLUfBmwpwoEA9RQuOqnpKtKhoGqEz3Lf5RWeMFmZ-95n3lyk0eMnyfurxj4hEIx4lUKvj4OOvs2PPEEATKFoXWb9K3UoM7DkJg9QOHAt-Wd3WCgs2E5OC49rVZVic/s320/mom%2527swedding.jpg" /></a></div>
This is from the day of my mother's wedding to my step-dad. That's my mom and her parents. This picture is hilarious because of my fake to the fakest smile. It was an extremely small ceremony and I was the only member of the wedding party, as it were. For the majority of the ceremony I covered my ears, which is well documented photographically. I also remember doing this. I was very grossed out by the vows. I remember the point where I covered my ears - they were saying something about "sharing bread". I had an aversion at his point in my life (I am five) to things being "mushy" and shared bread seemed LITERALLY mushy. As I told my sisters and brother when we looked at this, I think this is a case of me being five, and a whole day of ceremony/ celebration that was not about me. I knew not to actively misbehave but,flower girl or not, not about me, not too hot on the whole thing. Good thing I was still out of the loop on the whole moving to New Jersey thing.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcTepI5SjZeSHO4RszmoD3wyM0yBHFmrLcxdApLd9q02POwLLFtKXrFEm_ntL2tCiiPwtPX5sYlMmNvzRVtzo1QL4kM3x8QTxclSEgV23mucXlO55B7sy4-sgSvwG3kfJRTkZn3RJ8mUQ/s1600/meandgrammy%2528baby%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="223" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcTepI5SjZeSHO4RszmoD3wyM0yBHFmrLcxdApLd9q02POwLLFtKXrFEm_ntL2tCiiPwtPX5sYlMmNvzRVtzo1QL4kM3x8QTxclSEgV23mucXlO55B7sy4-sgSvwG3kfJRTkZn3RJ8mUQ/s320/meandgrammy%2528baby%2529.jpg" /></a></div>
Here's me and Grammy in Cape May. I sucked those fingers forever and I really don't know how I'd ever have learned left from right if it weren't for being compelled to suck on my left hand. I can still feel which hand it is. Freud? Freud and whoever has something to say about sides of the brain? Anyway, I am trying to distract my grandmother from the story at hand with this weirdo little doll. I am the same person I was when I was four!
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGom9xfx42eFX_Xzzu7yakhwLX4O6kZsVI8oNr3I3BNq3oonbKt6ARJrZKxYQynJwN4XhUVPQupbMK3cxNZz7fvRvmbXsam4KOsk6v5aBMQusD95m84lzfo7JVHNVotYsHphIxMBRpt90/s1600/independentchild.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="222" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGom9xfx42eFX_Xzzu7yakhwLX4O6kZsVI8oNr3I3BNq3oonbKt6ARJrZKxYQynJwN4XhUVPQupbMK3cxNZz7fvRvmbXsam4KOsk6v5aBMQusD95m84lzfo7JVHNVotYsHphIxMBRpt90/s320/independentchild.jpg" /></a></div>
What an independent child! This looks like creative bliss.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWuI6xn6Jt7fU33bZAxh6C_5Qdb-bHlAr0Fqz_XKkjkUwARv97Vx-KJKxRKR3luAqrVIWB8jRaBbq1IilZNaxnCnxxtVt84xIaKGJIZeALxeYPjsxYynwKs9l-Ttt9efwRZrR_EW4gMVs/s1600/meandgrammy%2528teenage%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="219" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWuI6xn6Jt7fU33bZAxh6C_5Qdb-bHlAr0Fqz_XKkjkUwARv97Vx-KJKxRKR3luAqrVIWB8jRaBbq1IilZNaxnCnxxtVt84xIaKGJIZeALxeYPjsxYynwKs9l-Ttt9efwRZrR_EW4gMVs/s320/meandgrammy%2528teenage%2529.jpg" /></a></div>
Me and grammy on the front porch. I was moved to rescue this photo because, ha, this is a great example of how I dressed as a teenager. I treasured that red velour thing.
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This seems very quintessential as well. I will write more on it soon, expand this post. It got later than I meant it to before I could do this tonight.
* The expansion. Everything about this photo is everything. Stephanie refers to herself at this and adjacent ages as "obese". She recently called me on what I have apparently *always* said to that which is "you are athletic". Funny. But that tweety bird bathing suit. That tweety bird bathing suit was what we were dealing with when trying to have anything but the worst thing when it came to attire. I mean, my mother only took me to shop at Kids R Us THROUGH 8th grade. Which is what my interesting style - well illustrated in this pic, was borne of. It was a happy revelation that I could make something of shorts and a white t-shirt and children's barrettes. Me and the mid nineties - we got along - I could work with what they were pitching. The pose Steph's doing, with the pursed lips and the hand doing that thing - this is a pose she affected for many pictures. I also don't think it's for nothing that she has put her arm around my mother who is looking off at the baby children. That's it folks. That is it. Amazing some photographs - I know that look of hers so well... nothing like the recognition you can acheive with a photograph. My mom - always sort of looking off disengaged with some thought. She likes to go away to where she goes like this. This is really her, man. this photo is amazing. The kids are so cute. I love how I'm just there in the middle of their mayhem looking at the camera. This is a truth photo my friends. I love it. And I love my teenage fashion if you didn't guess. I really do.
Oh my, my youth. I don't feel older!
XO
Alexishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09524784542585595222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8265540140891045522.post-59646439404207356332011-09-25T22:14:00.000-07:002011-09-25T22:14:29.481-07:00Status updatesyou can't post to facebook:
* Staining my pillows with tears. Hey friends! You wouldn't know it, but I find single and 30 and a "writer", I have to defend myself to my family every time I see them like I'm still a kid at home. And of course it is only because they are concerned about me! I am pretty sure I have an ulcer! Yeah, for real! I bet all of you who are married, or even in a good-looking relationship or hold a paying job that you can get behind do not have to do this! I think about this pretty often- how you're probably treated as adults by now, while I cry like crazy like I'm 16 after my family grills me and then grills me about why I don't seem to like the grilling!
Maybe I can find somewhere to give me a residency to clean up this blog into sections and try to make it actually visitable by people, and like interactive sort of --- like buildable-upon by subject matter.
But probably I can't and I'll be alone forever, unemployable, unmatriculated, and a source of concern to family members until their death or mine. I should soon start analysis and I know the analyst doesn't do much talking but we are going to have to talk about how to stop my family because I know they are trying to be nice and it's well intentioned. Believe me I know that. But it has to stop. I need to be treated like an adult. It kills me more than I realize. I seriously seem to have an ulcer, and I don't even know how upset I am until I am literally crying my eyes out (at least my lenses). It isn't fair. I can't answer for myself every time I see them.Alexishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09524784542585595222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8265540140891045522.post-53061975944530157052011-09-17T11:51:00.000-07:002011-09-17T11:51:08.302-07:00Internet addictionDelivery.com asks if I love my order so much I can't contain myself - do I want to share on facebook? I think about it because my order has Lox. Am I Jewish? I am as a matter of fact.Alexishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09524784542585595222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8265540140891045522.post-24402146529289983602011-09-17T09:27:00.000-07:002011-09-17T09:27:25.862-07:00YesThe altered-to-deadly-sexy version of Aaron Sorkin hitting on me in the kitchen of his theater in my dream last night complimented me on how well I opened a bottle of wine. Pretty much says it all.
* Google is doing its very best to force me to link my gmail and yahoo accounts and I refuse on the basis of not trusting this kind of pressure. What about in an "emergency?" they ask.What if my email accounts weren't linked? Well, I wouldn't be able to get on the blog if I had gmail on. In an emergency, you might not have this blog.
Alexishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09524784542585595222noreply@blogger.com0