Will kill for a cigarette. Actually, I don't want a cigarette per se. I want smoky lungs. I am trying my darndest to quit this week. Yesterday I had my last 5 cigarettes and was so ill for the vast majority of the day that I didn't even fully appreciate them when I had them. I smoked out of habit and not desire. Now that I have desire, I have sworn off the habit.

Last Thurday Bess and I took a walk, eating ice cream for dinner and securing the necessary puffy paint for a wedding binder for Amy. Friday, said binder was compiled followed by copious pints of Stella. Cigarettes weren't so enjoyable when you have to stand outside for each one. Maybe I'll settle for a glass of wine over a cigarette right now.

Jesse stayed with me Friday night, entertaining and be entertained by me during commutes to / from Brooklyn and into Jersey. He likened the chain-holders that train conductors wear to a hybrid fanny pack/holster/pez dispenser. This continually makes me giggle. Like right now. Almost funny enough for me to forget I want a cigarette.

Saturday night, the boy took me out to dinner. He ordered chicken since he wanted me to be able to share. By the time our meals had arrived, we'd had already drank several delicious margaritas, chowed down on the chips and salsa and were ultimately full just a few bites into our plates. I didn't get taste his meal until I stole a few bites early on Sunday morning. I also smoked cigarettes on Sunday morning. I smoked two in a row actually while drinking black coffee. I can't remember what his meal tasted like but I do remember the taste of black coffee and cigarettes on my tongue.

Sunday was one of those endlessly frustrating days. I didn't wake until late and was cranky. I went to my parents' to felt a bag, but it took much longer than I thought and didn't shape up as I had hoped. By 3:30, my mother and I were finally driving to Brooklyn to drop off boxes in preparation of moving. Luckily, the Verrazanos was just opening after being closed for most of the day for a bike race. Even though we were on the road much later than I had wanted to be, we couldn't have gotten over to Brooklyn any earlier. We dropped off boxes, bought fresh cheap produce and she returned be to the boyfriend's house. I made us chicken fajitas for dinner. I burned my wrist while flipping a tortilla. I have a pink rice-shaped mark on my wrist, only it's about 25 times larger than a grain of rice. I sat with a tea towel stuffed with ice around my wrist and smoked a few cigarettes while the boyfriend fell asleep on the couch.

I am going to buy yarn this afternoon to use to make a baby blanket for my cousin who is due next month. I will design and work on this blanket tonight so I don't desire a cigarette. I may even spend all of my money on yarn so I won't have any money to buy cigarettes. I think if I can hold out until tomorrow night, I can steal one from the boy during American Idol. I think I can steal one tomorrow night regardless of whether I smoke any between now and then.

They say you ahve to want it to stop it. They say your will to not smoke needs to be strong. I just wish, however, that I could have one or two a day. But there's no way to do this without buying an entire pack and 1 or 2 can quickly turn to 10 or 20 or a carton. I would pay a dollar for a cigarette. But it's all or nothing. And nothing is what I am sticking with (other than, you know, the nicotine patch that is my crutch).

Tuesday, May 6, 2003

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I contest that the very best reality television is not found on CBS, ABC or Fox (with the last having rather the lowest quality of reality television) but rather is to be found on PBS. PBS is my favorite television station to begin with and has been for the vast majority of my life, or 26 years, which ever is shorter. And for the past two nights, The Manor House has supported my contention that indeed PBS reality television is top-notch, top-shelf and top-o-the-class.

The best parts are the people who are trying to live as Edwardian sevants once lived, completely unable to cope with scrubbing and cleaning all day long. The single sister of the Lord & lady also loses her shit and realizes that the Edwardian era was hell for single women. She probably would have killed herself back in 1905. On the web site, I took test that determines what job I would have held in 1905 England:

When you're young, you're almost blinded while working with lead in a factory. As a result, your ability to get work is drastically reduced. You manage to get repetitive manual work but sometimes you wonder whether it would be easier to follow your mother into prostitution.

That pretty much sums up my life to this point any how.
This summary proves without a doubt that PBS is by far better than any Survivor, any Millionaire this or that. Manor House, Frontier House, Whore House, PBS does it best.

Wednesday, April 30, 2003

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I was reading an article today about how vitamins just may well be bad for you, since the typical diet is fairly balanced and few people show up to the hospital these days with vitamin deficiencies. They mentioned that most people usually get Vitamin D through the sun. This really bugs me. How do we get a vitamin from the sun? Are there tons and tons of Vitamin D flying through space on the sun's rays, waiting to hit human skin that will instantly absorb it? If you have a mirror and are reflecting sunlight, are you also reflecting Vitamin D? When sunlight passes through a prism, are you also fracturing Vitamin D? I have always taken this piece of information for granted but cannot accept it any more.

The single best chocolate on earth is Cadbury's. It's worth digging for change in your desk drawers for. Cadbury's is scientifically engineered to alleviate period pain, bloating and mood swings. Easter should fall more closely in line with my menstrual cycle.

As a perpetual cuticle-biter, tearer and shredder, Liquid Band-Aid is a miracle. It seals those snags and painful ouchies I give myself; the ones that will repeatedly open, causing a line of blood to build up along my cuticle. Some genius invented it, who ever it was may just be able to also describe how the sun's rays have Vitamin D. Why don't light-bulbs?

The negative part about the story that we really don't need vitamin supplements is that VitaminWater is not beneficial to anything except for the company that owns it. Instead of getting strung out on sugars like a soda drinker, this stuff has been getting me strung out on vitamins. Between VitaminWater and sunlight, I may just die from a Vitamin D over-dose.

Tuesday, April 29, 2003

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I spent too long baking in the perfect sunny day yesterday. I am now a lovely shade of pink. Actually I am a startling pink; I am burnt. But there are some good parts to being sun-burnt:

1) Hue matches fading pre-period acne spots, ridding me of the blotchy appearance.
2) Don't mind the boyfriend stealing the covers since my arms are too hot for them.
3) Refreshing color change after months of being ghostly white.

and then there are some not so good parts:

1) No tolerance for sleeping next to above mentioned boyfriend as any unnecessary skin contact hurt.
2) Bright pink skin doesn't help my "I was sick on Friday" plea but instead makes it look like I took the day off to go to Miami for the weekend.
3) Obviously, it hurts. I can't use enough aloe or drink enough water.

I am not sure when I loved my city better. (A) A sunny Sunday of walking across the cemetery, walking through downtown and then sitting in Central Park for many hours. (B) Walking from Penn Station to Delancey Street in the misting rain with Jesse as our eye-glasses became coated in fine veils of rain, drinking coffee and sharing a cupcake.

This morning, I decided that Bush is going to center his 2004 election campaign on "This time, the popular vote will also be won." He will then state that if need be the votes will be botched again as several counties in Floraida, Texas and Alabama have already agreed to have voting booth problems if need be. Monday morning thoughts are so damned negative.
Monday, April 28, 2003

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It such a relief to know that the pain like dying or having a heart attack on the wrong part of your chest is inflammed muscle and interstitial areas of your ribs. It's nice when your doctor is checking to see what's wrong and the second your face flintches in pain, he gives you nice drugs and it all goes away. It makes you feel stupid for thinking you were dying earlier in the day. It's nice to know it's just your muscles and none of the vital organs. The skeltal system seems so much less important than the guys deep inside. The armor can be nicked, just don't tell me anything wrong is happening inside.

This morning I slapped a nicotine patch on in my panic, in my need for the drug but fear of smoking something while having localized pain in the general vicinity of my lungs. The relief of knowing a handful of free samples will fix me up made me want a cigarette. I didn't plan on quitting today but this weekend. I pulled it off and threw it in a dumpster, lighting up a cigarette and swinging my bag of sample anti-inflammatories up 5th Avenue with the sun on my neck, squinting my eyes to the pain.
Thursday, April 24, 2003

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Last night I strangely vivid dreams. I dreamt I was walking on my hands, like this was a completely normal thing to do. I was walking around the apartment of my old college roommate and randomly walking on my hands since it seemed to make me really happy. Another old roommate who was also hanging out insinuated that I was on something to be so darn happy about walking on my hands which so offended me that I was defensive, rude and caused one of those awkward situations where I put the other friend in the middle. It was one of my confrontational dreams that I decided I have because I am generally non-confrontational but above all else I fear and avoid this one thing in my life.

I also had a dream feauring a minor celebrity that I recalled in the first few minutes of awakedness but have since forgotten who it was. It must not have been as impressive as the dream I had about a murder mystery while camping with Zack from Saved by the Bell.

I have been outrageously tired as of late. I take a eye shut from West Fourth to 34th Street each morning. On the ride home, I nod off through the most part of Brooklyn. I go to bed by 11:30 pm. I just can't seem to feel fully rested enough nor fully energized. I drink coffee more often than I used to and find getting through the 3 pm slump at work is harder and harder. I exercize in hopes of giving myself energy but wind up feeling more sleepy when done.

I woke up this morning with terrible pains in my chest, specifically my left breast area so at least it's not my heart. I am waiting to go to the doctor shortly. I think I also may have had some sort of panic attack because I have the same pains now but they aren't freaking me out as much. I couldn't really think straight this morning. I was trying to decide whether or not I should go to the hospital and whether or not I was going to die. I was trying to think of what it was that I needed all the while dealing with this pain like a shot or the soreness after getting a shot.

I quickly wrapped golden ribbon around the box of the watch I got the boyfriend for this birthday. I think the packing looks shoddy but I know he won't care too much. On my birthday, I met him; I wonder if the watch is a better or worse present. I couldn't think in a linear way this morning to do this and then this and then leave for work. I was randomly walking around my apartment. My heart was racing because I was frightening myself. I called one of my doctors and she talked to me and told me I probably wasn't dying based on the fact that I was clearly pacing, breathing normally and able to talk. I needed that reassurance.

I am waiting to go to the doctor. I am going to my doctor for the reassurance that I am okay, that this lingering pain is really nothing.
Thursday, April 24, 2003

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The most disgusting piece of news of late, the most manipulative piece of new of late, the most blatant abuse of the flimsy American sentiment:

President Bush's advisers have drafted a re-election strategy built around staging the latest nominating convention in the party's history, allowing Mr. Bush to begin his formal campaign near the third anniversary of the Sept. 11 attacks and to enhance his fund-raising advantage

On the fifteenth of every month, I get TransitChecks that are my money deducted out my paycheck before taxes. I get $60 each month. I generally let them lie around my desk until I know my metrocard is to expire and then get a new one. For whatever reason, I recall taking them with me one day. Maybe I don't recall doing this this month, maybe it was something I did last month. Regardless, my TransitChecks are no place to be found. I've searched for them high and low, in backpack and shoulder bag. I was digging through my wallet today, in the little hide-away place that I keep cards to drug stores and friends' business cards. I was hoping maybe I hid them there. Instead I found a folded $20. I lost $60 but found $20.
Tuesday, April 22, 2003

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Despite that fact that I had a fairly good weekend, I am very moody and cranky today. Certain people always set me off regardless of my mood and today they are managing to illicit extra revoltion and anger than normal. I would be better off not being at work today. I would be better off isolated from large parts of humanity until my tolerance for the lesser humans around me increases.

Friday, I had Good Friday fish dinner with boy's mother. I bought her an Easter Lily, 2 feet tall that I carried around Manhattan and tucked away from weary commuters on the train to New Jersey for fear they'd damage it. Carrying around a plant tends to make strangers think I want to talk to them and I honestly desire improptu conversations about things like crossing 7th Avenue and the book was reading precisely to avoid dealing with people on the train.

After dinner, the hankering for beer out of pint glasses became more appealing than the proposed video-rentals and couch-cuddling. The bar we first went to was not smoke-free and the Bass was strong and cold. "No French or German products sold here" was exclaimed on a huge banner across the room. The bartender agreed with the cold-sholdering of the Dixie Chicks. She had more bleach than blonde and a tight tank top that exposed her leathery brown skin from decades of summering at the shore, sagging middle-aged boobs and huge tattoo of a butterfly. I smoked my cigarettes and drank my beers, outpacing the boy 3 to 1, desparately searching the beers on tap and liquor stock for something that was indeed French or German but ultimately finidng none.

We met up with my younger sister and got carded. Hanging out with younger sisters allows one to feel younger by association especially when the boy is flipping out his pending 30th birthday. I continued to drink more beer while boys I used to know and obsess over eyed me from across the room. Time passed, all of our respective wallets emptied and it was much later than the agreed upon hour to go home. By much later, I mean many, many, many hours.

The following afternoon, or rather nearly noon, I was frustrated at my late start. I had a perfect day planned but it was supposed to have begun at 8:30 in order for it be a perfect day. In the car with my mother, the light reflecting off of her radio was blinding. The crinkle of brown paper bags as my father unloaded groceries at home was deafening. The only thing that didn't make me feel horrible was coffee. I resigned my plans and just went along with the day.

Hours were spent walking at the gardening center, looking at strange trees and the cost of azalea bushes. A hornet flew out of an over-turned terra-cotta pot I was inspecting, nearly causing me to drop it. The sun warmed my neck and slowly shiny and loud things didn't bother me. I refused to admit I had recovered from my hang-over beacuse I was pretending as if I hadn't had one to begin with.
Monday, April 21, 2003

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I fixed my problem with links in my comments.
I enjoyed actually accomplishing something.
Sometimes I consider making piles into neat stacks accomplishments; others would beg to differ.
I am not sure if I like to use comments.
I have to code each one by hand.
I feel like a loser when I code in comments by hand and then I do not get comments.

I had a dream last night about wearing a snug-fitting hat. It was one of those hats with earflaps and ties that go under your chin although most people wearing such styled hats rarely ever tie them under their chins. I was tying it though, real snug and tight. I could feel my cold tipped ear pressing against the warm smooth fresh hairless skin of my skull. My head was warm and protected, kept secure by ties under my chin. I contemplated how to make such a hat on the subway ride to work without using a pattern, looking off into empty space instead of reading the book in front of me. The looking off into empty space, not really registering what one is looking at can sometimes be confused with staring when your line of sight falls onto someone. The confused and annoyed look of the person who believes that they are being stared out snapped me back into reality.

I wonder if I fake neuroses or if I actually posses them. I wonder if the difference between neurotic and psychotic is knowing that the things that bug you aren’t real. I flip out about my pores but know that my feeling that they are crater-like is because I should not look at my face through my 5-times magnification mirror for so long. Sometimes, sitting on my sofa and being full of fraught is a good thing.

Friday, April 18, 2003

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"Do you honestly think about your workday at 5 am?"
"Yes I was. It's on my mind."
"I can't imagine such thoughts at this hour."
"Well then, what were you thinking about?"
"Animals with hooves. Specifically alpacas'. I wonder if they have solid hooves like horse or hooves with a cleft life a camel."

Drinking equation: 1 shot per hour stuck in traffic. Or per hour doing something tedious such as dealing with large family gatherings. It works in most cases other than extended famly reunions that run on for 8 or 9 hours due to risk of getting alcohol poisoning while trying to drink away this event.

The guy I was sitting next to on the train this morning had seriously bad breath. Not just "ate something bad and now my breath stinks" breath but my mouth is emitting a cess-pool-like gaseous stink. It was kind of hard to breathe now and again with the smell. And in that olfactory storage in my brain I remembered that his breath smelled exactly like my great-grandmother's who died when I was 3. It smelled just like that sunken mouth coming at my cheek to kiss me.

Yesterday, I recalled the certain magic I used to look at the world through as a child. I believed that trees and plants and nature posessed these awesome magical powers and abilities and the natural world was one comprised of great mystery. While I can say I still hold a great deal of respect and amazement towards nature, those fleeting beliefs that trees held powers and flowers could sense things that you couldn't register are no longer as strong or without doubt.

"Where are you?" I hear through the window. "Hello?" "Where did you go? You were sitting there and then you disappeared."
"I was outside looking at the sky. It's purple and pink and blue and white. It looks like cotton candy. I was just looking at the sky."

Thursday, April 17, 2003

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It's darn close to hot outside. And I am inside with a pile of work waiting for bits from other folks until I go further and a handful of papers I can go through. But outside there is sunshine and people walking around in flip-flops, shorts, brightly smiling faces as they feel warmth against their skin for the first time in months. But I'm stuck here working. And ready to jump out the window just to be outside. I am pretty convinced that the boy called from Riverside Park after he finished his work for the day just to mush it in my face. Just to let me know how beautiful it is and how he was enjoying sitting on a park bench looking at New Jersey. Not to let me know his where abouts or to say hi. Primarily to make it all the more worse.
I wonder what feels longer: (a) the hour and a half before the end of the day before a long weekend or (b) the same time period on the most gorgeous day in longer than my stunted short-term memory can recall.
p.s. Upon investigating, the last time it was this darn warm (87 at last check) was September 10, which would have been over 7 months ago. Maybe God is happy that the president is saying the war is nearly over. Tomorrow we get punished with a drop of nearly 50 degrees and rain for the president messing around with Syria.
Wednesday, April 16, 2003

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Bribery isn't always overt. Bribery comes in subtle ways that are inescapable. No one is asking me to do this, but the lure of money, the promise of getting what I need keeps me here. How great would it be to just throw up my hands and say no more? How wonderful to enter a long-time unemployment after working for years on end?

But there's the money they give me. The money that will be carefully saved over the next 5 months to form a cozy and adequate stash to allow me to begin graduate school, allow me to think for a few months that I don't need to take out loans. Unfortunately, grad school doesn't begin the week after you decide where you want to go. It's months down the line and without anyone ever saying it, I know I'm being bribed.

"Stay here and we'll make it easier. Stick around and we'll give you money. Maybe you can even get those new glasses you've been talking about since January. If you leave now, how will you ever be able to get that cheap used car preferably in a horrible color you are dreaming over? We will pay you to do this rather than enjoy yourself."
Tuesday, April 15, 2003

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My apartment is pretty large. I never felt cramped in it while I shared it with another person and now that it is all mine, the amount of space I have was over-whelming. So last night I re-organized. I moved couches and desks and major pieces of furniture. Since I'm moving shortly, I wanted the keep where things were hung on walls the same. In the end, it looks like a completely inhabited space. My living room has two couches. The other bedroom is now set up as a study. And my bedroom appears more spacious than ever.

After several hours of pushing around heavy things and praying I don't scratch the floors, inhaling about 4 ounces of dust, stragegically placing books, sewing machines and the like across surfaces I felt very zen. So I ordered sushi. I hadn't ordered in months. They forgot where I lived from back when I'd get it once a month or so. It felt good to sit on my living room floor, eating cold fish rolled in rice while watching whatever trashy Fox reality show was on.

To wrap up my domestic evening, I crocheted.

I am embarassed to admit all this. What did you do last night? redecorated, ate sushi sitting on the floor, sang a song with my bird, crocheted.
Tuesday, April 15, 2003

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