Sadness and The City

I went into one of my two crappy jobs today. Apparently there was a miscommunication between the manager and my coworker. She thought he was asking for the day off and asked me to come in to cover his shift. When I got there, he was there. So I spent nearly an hour getting to work only to be told they didn't need me. And I needed the money. So I wasn't in the greatest mood when I got sent home. Truth be told, I wanted to drink.
L came downtown to meet me and we went out for drinks. Later we met her friend at some hideous gay bar full of old men who glared at us. We were the only two women there. The only saving grace was the cheap drinks. Flash forward two hours and I'm being awakened awkwardly by some employee in a frozen yogurt shop. Apparently, my drunken mind thought it would be a good idea to get frozen yogurt. Problem was I pretty much feel asleep at the table with my yogurt! When he woke me up it was all melted and there were white smears of dried yogurt all over my black down coat. How humiliating! I've never passed out in a public place. I got up and left in daze. Later on the train some bitchy girl yelled at me on the train for being in her space. Hmmmmm. This is a crowded subway in New York, how am I supposed to NOT be in her space?! WTF??!?! I was so tired and sad and out of it and angry at that point that I'm surprised I was able to catch both my trains and make the trek home.

Maybe my brother is right. Its just more of the same. This urbanity is killing me. The annonimity, the hustle and bustle, the crappy jobs, the loneliness, the crunch of it all, is exhausting. I'm over it. Nothing exciting or miraculous or even fun is happening here. I'm so sad inside. So weary to the core of feeling lost and not connecting. This hideous nightmare of loneliness never seems to end. I wouldn't wish this on anyone. It makes me sick. I feel heartbroken that this is my life.
Maybe I need to get out of the city. Go to the country. Do some physical work. Breath fresh air. Read. Write. Feel like human being again.

Dreams and Memories

Listening to this tonight and remembering long, long, ago being in love with my first boyfriend. He played bass. We used to stay up all night talking and listening to music. Completely in our own world and just getting each other. I miss that.
It feels like I'll never have that kind of connection again.

Strange Times

The President played the saxophone
sounded so alone
it was on the news
And from Ursa Minor
in what looked like an
all-night diner
came lonely luminous creatures
whose only human feature
was singing the blues
- Magnetic Fields

I went to meet Baboon Heart Boy at the Neptune Diner the other night at nearly 1 am. Everything seemed slightly surreal. He asked me why I hadn’t written another blog posting about him. “Well you haven’t given me much to go on.” was what I told him. Which was true enough, I hadn’t seen him since the Cracker Jack incident and that had already been documented for posterity. Really all that had transpired between us since then was a lot of late night text messages from him asking me what I was doing, a few vague replies from me about me being out or being busy. Then there was one bizarre phone conversation in which he abruptly asked me if I was in love with him, to which I laughed and said, “NO. I hardly even know you.” That was about it.

So anyway, we’re sitting at this Queens dinner in the early hours of the morning. I’ve been feeling kinda bummed lately – far away from home, jobless and purposeless in a strange city. I thought seeing him and going to the weird diner might cheer me up. I never learn…

I sit down next to him in a booth. He launches into a volley of probing questions about my sex and dating life; when I don’t provide him with immediate answers he starts guessing. I turn the questions back on him. He refuses to answer. The whole time he is observing me scrupulously, taking in every detail, at one point he brings out a little notebook and starts scribbling in it. I assumed he was drawing since he’s an artist but later I realize that he was writing something. God only knows what it might have been. He then starts with his amateur analysis of my character telling me I’m crazy, that everything I think about others is my own projection, wondering why I would want to share things with the world on my blog, etc. He asks my opinion then declares that I’m contradicting myself.

Once I realize a ‘normal’ conversation is not possible with this guy I lose interest in talking and decide instead to observe the inhabitants and environment of the diner: middle aged guy with a belly at the counter hunched over his eggs, bored looking Latino servers in polyester vests standing around surreptitiously watching us, a couple sharing a milkshake, rows of carefully placed miniature boxes of breakfast cereal (how I loved those things as a kid!), porthole inspired mirrors (to go with the whole Neptune theme) and endless dusty brown wood paneling stretching from wall to wall.

Later he walks with me toward my house. I stop him several houses away and thank him for walking me home. I leave him alone on the corner, slightly surprised.

Really, you gotta give a little if you expect to get a little.

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

The last guy that I hung out with was a good looking, talented and successful artist. He ate Crackerjacks in his bed and told me he had a baboon heart.

I told him I was from another planet. Might as well be.

Negativity

Alright, I can admit that I’m hardly Little Miss Sunshine. Little Miss Typhoon would be more apt if one had to use the weather to describe my temperament. Still, I have to draw the limit somewhere. So, when I awoke New Years Eve and the first thing my friend said was, “Its 2010 and we’re both MISERABLE.” I had to stop her. NO. Just, NO. I didn’t leave behind everything I know to move 3000 miles across the country to be miserable. HELL NO!!!

I'm a Fighter AND a Lover. I'm not resigning myself to misery.
Things are gonna get better DAMMIT!

New York, NY

This text to my brother pretty much sums up my first 3 weeks here:

Greazy Goombas, closet homos, anorexic business women, power mongering capitalists,
starry eyed Midwestern chewies, maniacal Euros, obsessive NY Giants fans, 12 hour work days, 1am dinner at Wendy's, rat race, bags-under-your-eyes-fatigue, grotesque wastefulness, rats in the street, tiny hot apartments with shuddering radiators, immigrant dreams, New York knuckle fuck!!!

Fortune Favors The Brave

Despite my rather grim portrait of my new life (?!) in New York, I do not have doubts about my move here. The fact is that I am a refugee, fleeing from my past failures. Like any immigrant I have brave dreams of a rosier future.

I never expected New York to be easy. Everyone knows that its not. I don’t even want easy. I don’t respect easy. I enjoy the journey. I relish the struggle.

When people ask me what brought me to New York, what made me leave sunny, idyllic California for the brutal, austerity of New York, its hard for me to answer. I didn’t come to get famous, I didn’t come to get rich, I didn’t come, really, even for school. The real reason I came is to change my destiny. Its that simple. And that complicated.

Oops I Did It Again!

Its sad to admit but I've haven't been having too much fun in NYC. My new job is running me into the ground! I've never worked so much in my life. Maybe I'm spoiled but I'm not used to 50 hour work weeks and 14 hour days with only one (unpaid) half hour break. Plus most of that time is spent on my feet frantically rushing around a busy restaurant catering to the needs of Upper Crust, Nice Enough but No Bullshit Bring-Me-What-I-Want-NOW-New Yorkers. The place is insanely busy. I spend most of my week running around (like a chicken with its head cut off), feet and legs aching, heart pounding, sweating uncomfortably in a black polyester vest and tie. It ain't glamorous, let me tell ya.

The only thing that has made my long shifts somewhat fun has been flirting with a cute busser. A lot of the guys that work there get really stressed out and aggro and yell at each other all the time. But this one is like an angel, always sweet and friendly and helpful. Not to mention tall and sexy. And only 22. Dear Lord help me!

We were riding the subway home the other day and he started up with the usual line of questions I get from non-American guys at work. It always goes like this: Am I married? Do I have a boyfriend? Why not?! They just can't seem to figure it out. How can a pretty, nice-seeming woman of a certain age not be with a man? How can she still be single and not even have a family? I always shut them up by telling them I am waiting for love, waiting for someone who truly has a good heart, who is loving and honest and kind. At that point I think I must seem like some crazy, high minded idealist to them.

Next thing you know we are having beers at a bar together. Then my new roommate called and told me that her boyfriend had been violent with her that day, she was staying at her sister's house and she wanted to warn me that he might try to come by the house that night. I felt horrible for her. I was tired and drunk and sad and I didn't really want to go home alone to the house with some psycho ex-boyfriend trying to get in. Honestly, there's been very, very little pleasure in my life of late. So, you can figure out what happened next...

We were crammed together in my little twin bed with the sound of the N Train constantly rumbling through the night outside my window. At five in the morning he said he couldn't sleep. He apologized and went home.

I lay alone in that little bed cursing myself. Cursing my rotten luck at love. Cursing my pathetic longing for companionship and affection. Cursing my raw need for sex and physical touch. I even thought maybe I could go to Iceland, far away from everyone I knew and end it all. Anything that would end the endless cycle of loneliness and stupidity.

In the morning I woke up. I felt OK. I'm used to these things, I guess.

Which came first, the ovary or the raisin?!

So I’m in New York. Everything’s great. Sort of. I found a job in just one week, an alarmingly short amount of time and a feat which has garnered the astonished praise of many. And within 3 whirlwind weeks I have my very own little room complete with a tiny twin bed all to myself in Astoria, Queens. In a conversation with my new roommate about the neighborhood (I was inquiring if it was safe) she noted that its mostly filled with young artists and actors and then said, “Yeah, my friend and I were just commenting on how many single, white women we see walking around here.” “Grrrrrrreat.” I replied sarcastically.

Oooops! I’m letting my jaded side show already. Keep it under wraps, girl. At least for the first week! Jeez.

Still, there’s no doubt that New York is filled to the brim with attractive, talented, young, ambitious women. Oh yes, they are everywhere, strutting down the streets in their fashionable knee high leather boots. Having a lot of cool women around is not a bad thing mind you, its just that if these smart, sexy, successful women are still single then my odds are not so good. And what can I say; I feel my dreams of ever meeting a man wither just a little more with the crisp fall leaves. It appears to be my destiny to swim in a sea of estrogen as my poor ovaries shrivel up inside of me like two dessicated little raisins.

Sob…[alone in my twin bed]

Let the Wild Rumpus Begin!!!

I've been so good lately. But after 5 months of chastity I sorta slipped up and had a FIVESOME with my ex coworkers last night. We were all out celebrating my move on to greener pastures. Little did I realize how green the pastures were gonna be...
The whole thing was ridiculous! It was like being in a porn.
I still can't believe it.
What a send off for my move to New York!!!