It’s no secret that I’m broke. I was broke the day I was born and will probably exit it broke as well (if student loan debt is any indication). As I’ve mentioned, I work for a Jewish non-profit humanitarian organization here in NYC. So, my point is that I don’t get out much. Non-profits don’t make you a millionaire and the only people I really know in this city I either work with, live next to, or the few strays here and there I knew in another lifetime (and they decided to move here as well).
Near the end of work, one of my co-workers, “Celia,” who has also written/produced an off-Broadway show, invited me to go to this party. Well, let’s not lie, I was invited to represent the organization, not as a real guest or anything, which is just fine with me since mingling and socializing are NOT my forte. Having some sort of “job” at a party would enable me to enjoy it without feeling obligated to mingle. Seems Celia knows a guy from college who is now some big fancy stockbroker making tons of money and apparently has given quite a bit to our organization here and there. He was throwing the party for his co-workers and such. Paying for this posh meat-district private party in a swanky club, and including a totally free bar all night.
What’s that? Totally free bar? I had my first shot within 15 minutes of being there. A few hours later I was floating on air and loving everyone, as were my three co-workers. Trying to push a charity during a snazzy party in a very dark room lit by the occasional candle was not that easy. Besides, like I said, I suck at schmoozing. One of my co-workers, in a previous post mentioned as “A-Mot,” managed to score $1200. I felt stupid.
Let’s talk about A-Mot again. As always happens, A-Mot was my big “work crush.” Just my type, brainy, mild-mannered, HOT, and … stuff. He even occasionally wears those Clark Kent glasses which drive me crazy. My interest began to wane simply because I got bored with no action. And then around election-time, I was walking with him and another friend and out of A-Mot’s mouth comes, “Oh yeah, MY GIRLFRIEND BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH...” Don’t ask me what the fuck he said after that.
*SIGH*
Of course.
Anyway, I’ve been REALLY off him since that, though I can wait. I’m pessimistic about relationships, especially of anyone in their early thirties or lower. I feel like if you really like someone who’s got a gf/bf, then just wait. I mean, still date, search, flirt, whatever you do with the other fine species out there, but keep an eye on the prize as well.
ANYWAY, back to the party. I really don’t drink that often, though I’d say about ½ the time that I actually do, I kind of go nuts. I’m not apologizing or making excuses – it feels great and it always comes at the right time. Plus it gives me just enough social lubrication to do what I want but not might when I’m sober.
Plus, it sure helped a lot that A-Mot was drunk as well. Of course, he seemed fantastically charming to me that night.
I wish I remembered more from that night, but there are three distinct things that jump out at me – one was cute and funny, one was warm and fuzzy, and one was just damn embarrassing.
Let’s start with cute and funny since it’s harmless. Basically, after spending the whole night with A-Mot and the other co-workers: The Tower (male, 6’6 tall), and “Heather” (fun, desperately-seeking-nice-guy-with-benefits), we were all drunk and all friendly, floating from here to there, smiling, and occasionally dancing like idiots. At one point, when we were leaving, we were going down in this gigantic freight elevator (it’s just so COOOL to be going down in a freight elevator), and A-Mot started wildly dancing in front of me (not to me), doing some things that convinced me that the man is very flexible. I wonder if he stretched out before the party. I was sitting in this chair in the elevator, near passing out, and then nearly puking with laughter after he started his personal jig. I wish I could show a small movie of it, since it was like watching Plastic Man boogey, but I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it.
Warm and fuzzy happened twice, I think. Well, I know it happened once for SURE. The second one may just be fantasy. It was pretty late in the party. I was pretty smashed. The kind of smashed where you know you should just be still and quiet for a little while, utilizing Jedi mind tricks to calm your tumultuous stomach. I was alone, leaning up against the bar, lazily watching the party slowly wind down. A-Mot comes up to me, and from what my hazy recollection can tell me, he asked me a series of questions, basically making sure I was alright, I think.
“Are you okay?”
- I’m fine, thanks.
“Do you want another drink?”
- Absolutely not.
“Do you want to go home?”
- Not yet.
“Do you want a hug?”
- YES!
Next, he held open his arms real wide and I held out my arms like a three year old wanting to be picked up by daddy. The hug was very tight, and very long. Even in my drunken state I remember thinking, “This is awesome! It’s going on and on!” Though of course I have been lusting for this guy for months, the truth is that I saw the embrace as a very warm and sweet thing, and not really sexual. Doesn’t mean I don’t attach sexual fantasies to it *cough* but it wasn’t like that. In fact, every time I think about it since then, I just grin. I want another hug.
I left the embarrassing to last. You might not consider it as humiliating as I do, but then, I obsess. Background: many months ago when I first started lusting after A-Mot, I did what I always do – relentlessly research him (mostly through Google-related sites) to find out as much information as possible. I remember one of my main goals was simply to find out his age. But I found out a lot – like that he had gone to some damn fine schools and was a super-genius scholar for a bit. (*pant pant*). He also writes poetry, is a political activist of sorts (women’s empowerment and justice in Latin America), and one of my favorites – he loves hammocks!
Laugh if you will, but I LOVE LOVE LOVE hammocks. Like riding horseback, it’s one of those things I never get enough opportunities to do. I could buy a hammock, sure, but where the hell would I put it? In my tiny NY apartment? Slung from what? The cracking window frame to the chipping-away door? So, his comment stuck with me. I love a guy who loves hammocks!
So, at some point late into the evening when I was drunk enough to be chatty and close to him and yet TOO drunk to be using any kind of real discretion, I leaned over and whispered into his ear something to the effect of how I loved the fact so much that he loved hammocks. His face got all confused. You can imagine his surprise. Almost immediately after it emerged from my mouth I knew I had faux pas’ed badly! I tried to back peddle, but how the fuck do you back peddle from that? He was like, “Um, how do you know that? Did you read my bio or something?” I don’t know what I spluttered out to try to appear flip and regain some semblance of dignity. The world should just have swallowed me up at that point and gotten it over with. Now, I can’t remember exactly at what point chronologically happened during the night. I just HOPE it was before the hug and not after.
To try and placate myself, I do remember that at some point AFTER that he made a comment about going over to the plush and comfy couches set up around the large room to sit down and we did, well, we sort of landed on them after losing our sense of gravity. I have a pleasant memory of being sprawled out on this couch next to him and oh-so-nonchalantly having my right arm resting on his left thigh. Well, it was nonchalant initially, but at some point I did realize where my hand was and did not remove it. Sadly, the others came over and we all left after that.
At work the next day, I was…..late. As I reached my desk, my co-workers kept commenting on how A-Mot, Tower, and Heather had all been at my desk several times already to see me. What a bonding experience alcohol is! These are three people at work that I would normally never be going out with. No we’re all chums. As I sat down I saw three post-its stuck to my screen that looked somewhat..phallic. “Who put these penis post-its on my screen?” I asked. Then right after that it clicked. It was a salt shaker! The next one a bottle of tequila, the next post-it, a lime. I guess my drink of choice that night was well-known.
And sadly, everything did go back to normal. A-Mot and I did not suddenly become deeply in love. But thankfully, the hammock comment hasn't been mentioned, so I am praying that he was too drunk to remember it (yeah, right). Life goes on, I guess. At least now I am comfortable with him (hopefully I will no longer trip in the hall again when he appears), and will look forward to future opportunities. And … wait.
P.S. Oh, and I forgot to tell about Heather and “Mandy.” Mandy was A-Mot’s childhood friend who was brought along to the party. I call him Mandy since he had a striking resemblance to Mandy Patinkin, though admittedly, he was much younger, and hotter than the real Mandy. He hit on me, and others, before settling on Heather. I liked him, but I kind of got the feeling he was looking for a vagina, and not a woman. Not that I’m against meaningless sex, but I was too distracted by the unavailable, hug-worthy A-Mot. Heather did take him home that night, and just like the scumbag guys you hear about….he never called again.
Monday, December 13, 2004
Monday, November 15, 2004
Dogs, Darkness, and Dickheads
So, I’ve been doing some dog/housesitting on the side to make any kind of (tax-free) money I can, and really, to pay back my step-father the money I borrowed from him to move. He keeps reminding me that I have to pay it back by Christmas. I know! It’s just not easy sending big paychecks away like that. Sucks, really. But as I know, it was my choice to move. Nobody better expect anything for Christmas/Hanukah from me except my warmest wishes for a holiday season.
ANYWAY, (ADD distractions!), it was pretty late at night and I had to take the two dogs I was taking care of to “the park.” A massive, beautiful “ecologically-friendly” place called, Prospect Park in the embarrassingly affluent Park Slope community of Brooklyn. Due to the fact that it was wicked cold and I don’t fancy walking deep into a dark park at night, I decided to take the dogs to the closest grassy knoll possible. As I approaching it, I heard shouting. Chock-full of profanity and anger, there was no doubt it was some sort of fight involving more than two people. I held tightly to the dogs' leashes in case I need them to save me (which I was seriously doubting since they slobber joyfully all over anyone who looks their way). I was on the park side of the fence on this “grassy knoll” which was elevated about two feet from street level. The park is surrounded by this stone fence, about 2-3 feet high, with the sidewalk and street on the other side.
As things got closer, and the shouts and profanity louder, I could make out three teenagers up on the knoll with me, and below on the sidewalk, a homeless man with his shopping carts and personal possessions. They were screaming at each other and the teenagers were throwing anything they could get their hands on at the homeless man. As I got closer, one teenager picked up this metal pole as long as a javelin (and much heavier) and threw it right at the homeless man, hitting his arm. These weren’t boys out on a stupid prank, they were seriously attacking this man. I was so appalled by what I saw I could hardly contain myself. I began shouting, “Hey, stop!” but they didn’t seem to hear me. Choking on anger and adrenaline, I took off sprinting toward the boys screaming, dogs keeping pace along side me, oblivious to the drama unfolding. As I was nearing the boys, one who had now picked up a large metal trashcan, holding it above his head, ready to throw at the homeless man, I started screaming every single profanity I’d ever heard in my life at them. I didn’t know what else to do.
“You dumbshit motherfuckers, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?! ..." I won’t get into all of it, but let's just say I would have made Collin Farrell blush. Yet it wasn’t ‘til I screamed out, “I’m calling the cops right now you pricks!” that they took my meager assault a bit more seriously. They dispersed immediately, running in three different directions, shouting over their shoulders all the way. And during all this time, the homeless man and the teenagers had still been exchanging curses at the top of their lungs. As the boys disappeared down side streets, I approached the homeless man and asked him if he was okay. He was still pumped up from the experience and it took him a minute to calm down. The whole time he was gripping his arm that had been hit by the pole. He thanked me for my help and said that they had got his arm. He talked about how they were part of a gang and this thing happened all the time. I was stunned. It had been such a vicious attack – I guess I had always figured homeless people were harassed, but I thought such situations as terrible like this were rare.
Luckily, someone had called the cops, as a patrol car glided up to the man. By this time I had let the dogs free so they could frolic among the forest area. As soon as I saw the cops, I trotted up to them. I was afraid they wouldn’t believe the homeless man and think he was crazy. I told them everything I saw and asked if they knew who these boys could possibly be. They said things like this happen every night, but they didn't know who the boys were. The male policeman was surprised when I pointed to the big metal pole, now leaning against the park wall, and told him that had been hurled at the man. The cop hefted up the pole and grunted. He was stunned at how heavy it was. “They threw this?’ he asked in disbelief. “Yes!” I said, “I saw the whole thing.” I then pointed to the large metal trash can, now lying on its side a few feet from me and told how that had been their next cannon fodder. The police then told the homeless man to go over to 16th street where it would be “safer” and they drove around the area, though we all knew it would be in vain. We couldn’t identify them in the darkness.
I whistled to the dogs who ran up to me and jumped off the wall. I grabbed their leashes and started walking back to the house, down the same streets the boys had taken off on, and it was only then that I had a twinge of fear. I didn’t know who they were, but they would know me. I had two dogs, a bright yellow breaker on, and a ridiculous hat (it looked exactly like the one Han Solo and Luke Skywalker were wearing in the opening scene of the frozen planet in The Empire Strikes Back. All fur, all around my head). I was pretty identifiable. Would they try to retaliate? Truthfully, I wasn’t really that afraid, but it did occur to me to keep my eyes open. So everytime I passed a group of teenagers hanging around (and they were all over) I stared at them closely. Nothing happened. We got back to the house and I spent the rest of the night watching Forensic Files and eating cereal.
ANYWAY, (ADD distractions!), it was pretty late at night and I had to take the two dogs I was taking care of to “the park.” A massive, beautiful “ecologically-friendly” place called, Prospect Park in the embarrassingly affluent Park Slope community of Brooklyn. Due to the fact that it was wicked cold and I don’t fancy walking deep into a dark park at night, I decided to take the dogs to the closest grassy knoll possible. As I approaching it, I heard shouting. Chock-full of profanity and anger, there was no doubt it was some sort of fight involving more than two people. I held tightly to the dogs' leashes in case I need them to save me (which I was seriously doubting since they slobber joyfully all over anyone who looks their way). I was on the park side of the fence on this “grassy knoll” which was elevated about two feet from street level. The park is surrounded by this stone fence, about 2-3 feet high, with the sidewalk and street on the other side.
As things got closer, and the shouts and profanity louder, I could make out three teenagers up on the knoll with me, and below on the sidewalk, a homeless man with his shopping carts and personal possessions. They were screaming at each other and the teenagers were throwing anything they could get their hands on at the homeless man. As I got closer, one teenager picked up this metal pole as long as a javelin (and much heavier) and threw it right at the homeless man, hitting his arm. These weren’t boys out on a stupid prank, they were seriously attacking this man. I was so appalled by what I saw I could hardly contain myself. I began shouting, “Hey, stop!” but they didn’t seem to hear me. Choking on anger and adrenaline, I took off sprinting toward the boys screaming, dogs keeping pace along side me, oblivious to the drama unfolding. As I was nearing the boys, one who had now picked up a large metal trashcan, holding it above his head, ready to throw at the homeless man, I started screaming every single profanity I’d ever heard in my life at them. I didn’t know what else to do.
“You dumbshit motherfuckers, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?! ..." I won’t get into all of it, but let's just say I would have made Collin Farrell blush. Yet it wasn’t ‘til I screamed out, “I’m calling the cops right now you pricks!” that they took my meager assault a bit more seriously. They dispersed immediately, running in three different directions, shouting over their shoulders all the way. And during all this time, the homeless man and the teenagers had still been exchanging curses at the top of their lungs. As the boys disappeared down side streets, I approached the homeless man and asked him if he was okay. He was still pumped up from the experience and it took him a minute to calm down. The whole time he was gripping his arm that had been hit by the pole. He thanked me for my help and said that they had got his arm. He talked about how they were part of a gang and this thing happened all the time. I was stunned. It had been such a vicious attack – I guess I had always figured homeless people were harassed, but I thought such situations as terrible like this were rare.
Luckily, someone had called the cops, as a patrol car glided up to the man. By this time I had let the dogs free so they could frolic among the forest area. As soon as I saw the cops, I trotted up to them. I was afraid they wouldn’t believe the homeless man and think he was crazy. I told them everything I saw and asked if they knew who these boys could possibly be. They said things like this happen every night, but they didn't know who the boys were. The male policeman was surprised when I pointed to the big metal pole, now leaning against the park wall, and told him that had been hurled at the man. The cop hefted up the pole and grunted. He was stunned at how heavy it was. “They threw this?’ he asked in disbelief. “Yes!” I said, “I saw the whole thing.” I then pointed to the large metal trash can, now lying on its side a few feet from me and told how that had been their next cannon fodder. The police then told the homeless man to go over to 16th street where it would be “safer” and they drove around the area, though we all knew it would be in vain. We couldn’t identify them in the darkness.
I whistled to the dogs who ran up to me and jumped off the wall. I grabbed their leashes and started walking back to the house, down the same streets the boys had taken off on, and it was only then that I had a twinge of fear. I didn’t know who they were, but they would know me. I had two dogs, a bright yellow breaker on, and a ridiculous hat (it looked exactly like the one Han Solo and Luke Skywalker were wearing in the opening scene of the frozen planet in The Empire Strikes Back. All fur, all around my head). I was pretty identifiable. Would they try to retaliate? Truthfully, I wasn’t really that afraid, but it did occur to me to keep my eyes open. So everytime I passed a group of teenagers hanging around (and they were all over) I stared at them closely. Nothing happened. We got back to the house and I spent the rest of the night watching Forensic Files and eating cereal.
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
Effects Sideways
Hi, I’m back.
I just re-read my last post and wanted to jump out this 10th story window. Don’t worry, I won’t. They haven’t quite put me on suicide watch yet.
In fact, today, I am feeling great! For the most part, except for my laundry list of side effects. Let’s get into that, shall we? As previously reported, I am in a medical study to see if ingesting very high doses of anti-depression pills can “cure” someone of depression quickly and without the help of any therapy. Purely physiologically.
For the past week or two, I have been on the top doses of both the pills. It’s rather staggering. In the morning when I take my pile of pills, I think, “This can’t be right.”
The side effects have been the worse I’ve experience in my life, and yet, they’re all “liveable.” Well, kind of. I’m still trying to decide whether to junk this or not. I’m really the “grit your teeth and take it” kind of person if there’s a goal within sight (well, except for maybe exercising).
At first I started shaking. Nothing dramatic, just in such a way that I would be hard-pressed to thread a needle or to operate on a patient. Good thing I’m not a surgeon then! I felt unsteady all the time, like I was going to lose my balance at any point. I was a little bit nauseated all the time. My head would swim, especially if I turned it quickly. I would have to often stop for a second to gather my thoughts before performing an action, just a pause, but noticeable to me. And my usual foot jiggling that I do throughout the day accelerated into rapid fire jiggling and sudden, unpredictable jerks as if the country doctor hit your knee with one of those reaction hammers.
Fun, eh?
Then the worst part. My sleep was roughly disrupted. I would fall asleep fine enough since I am often exhausted by the time I climb into my lovely nest. And then…
I would wake up at 2am. I would go back to sleep.
I would wake up at 3:30am. I would go back to sleep again.
I would wake up at 5:15am. It was much harder to get back to sleep, and the alarm would be going off anyway at 6:30am.
Let me tell you, sleep deprivation is a powerful thing. It just turns you into a zombie-like, disoriented, grumpy, depressed, unfocused person (like I need more of that). I was beginning to panic. The solution? Cutting back on the pills, taking sleeping pills, or living with it.
The sleeping pill seemed like the best choice, but ANOTHER pill? How much can my body take? But how many more choppy nights of loss sleep can I take? In the end I went with the pill, and I take it, sometimes. I only take it if I can go to bed at a reasonable hour and it’s a weekday. I can’t believe I take sleeping pills now. I’ve turned into Elvis.
So here I am a few weeks later. Last week I felt like shit. Today, I feel better. Much better. I don’t if this is just a temporary thing or the beginning of the end. I’m hoping for the latter. I still have side effects to deal with, and though they are lessening, they are ever-present and aggravating.
This isn’t happening as fast as I had hoped. I mean, I was willing to steer through all the side effects if the barrage of pills did the trick – to cure me quick. Raise my serotonin levels, damn it! I know I’ll be fine. The waiting just sucks.
I just re-read my last post and wanted to jump out this 10th story window. Don’t worry, I won’t. They haven’t quite put me on suicide watch yet.
In fact, today, I am feeling great! For the most part, except for my laundry list of side effects. Let’s get into that, shall we? As previously reported, I am in a medical study to see if ingesting very high doses of anti-depression pills can “cure” someone of depression quickly and without the help of any therapy. Purely physiologically.
For the past week or two, I have been on the top doses of both the pills. It’s rather staggering. In the morning when I take my pile of pills, I think, “This can’t be right.”
The side effects have been the worse I’ve experience in my life, and yet, they’re all “liveable.” Well, kind of. I’m still trying to decide whether to junk this or not. I’m really the “grit your teeth and take it” kind of person if there’s a goal within sight (well, except for maybe exercising).
At first I started shaking. Nothing dramatic, just in such a way that I would be hard-pressed to thread a needle or to operate on a patient. Good thing I’m not a surgeon then! I felt unsteady all the time, like I was going to lose my balance at any point. I was a little bit nauseated all the time. My head would swim, especially if I turned it quickly. I would have to often stop for a second to gather my thoughts before performing an action, just a pause, but noticeable to me. And my usual foot jiggling that I do throughout the day accelerated into rapid fire jiggling and sudden, unpredictable jerks as if the country doctor hit your knee with one of those reaction hammers.
Fun, eh?
Then the worst part. My sleep was roughly disrupted. I would fall asleep fine enough since I am often exhausted by the time I climb into my lovely nest. And then…
I would wake up at 2am. I would go back to sleep.
I would wake up at 3:30am. I would go back to sleep again.
I would wake up at 5:15am. It was much harder to get back to sleep, and the alarm would be going off anyway at 6:30am.
Let me tell you, sleep deprivation is a powerful thing. It just turns you into a zombie-like, disoriented, grumpy, depressed, unfocused person (like I need more of that). I was beginning to panic. The solution? Cutting back on the pills, taking sleeping pills, or living with it.
The sleeping pill seemed like the best choice, but ANOTHER pill? How much can my body take? But how many more choppy nights of loss sleep can I take? In the end I went with the pill, and I take it, sometimes. I only take it if I can go to bed at a reasonable hour and it’s a weekday. I can’t believe I take sleeping pills now. I’ve turned into Elvis.
So here I am a few weeks later. Last week I felt like shit. Today, I feel better. Much better. I don’t if this is just a temporary thing or the beginning of the end. I’m hoping for the latter. I still have side effects to deal with, and though they are lessening, they are ever-present and aggravating.
This isn’t happening as fast as I had hoped. I mean, I was willing to steer through all the side effects if the barrage of pills did the trick – to cure me quick. Raise my serotonin levels, damn it! I know I’ll be fine. The waiting just sucks.
Monday, November 08, 2004
Fear of a President
I could go on and on and on about this election. About how I was so devastated by Bush's win, that I felt desperate and panicked. As a friend of mine said in so eloquently in an email:
Oh god.
Oh fuck.
Oh no.
I was so energized about voting and the election and the chance to remove fucking Bush from his despot-ways of ruling the world. The next day, it was like my mom died.
www.sorryeverybody.com Check it out for a laugh and a sigh. I'll be there too.
*sigh*
Oh god.
Oh fuck.
Oh no.
I was so energized about voting and the election and the chance to remove fucking Bush from his despot-ways of ruling the world. The next day, it was like my mom died.
www.sorryeverybody.com Check it out for a laugh and a sigh. I'll be there too.
*sigh*
Saturday, October 09, 2004
Back in Black
I haven’t written in a long time and a million times I’ve wanted to. Every time I’ve started to though, I’ve been overcome by this overwhelming sense of ennui. This is really unfortunate since so many things, most of them dramatic, have happened to me in the past few months. Most of them have been shitty, but some of them have been okay to good:
-- I protested at the Republican National Convention, which was kind of cool and interesting until the end of the night.
-- I moved out of my posh East Village apartment with two lovebird roommates into a shithole up up Uptown apartment in Manhattan and so, went from having just barely enough money to being fucking frighteningly broke all the time and becoming very familiar with cereal as a meal.
-- I got digital cable and a cable modem internet hook-up (*CHEER!*) and then my laptop broke down, once and for all. (*SOB*). It looks like I won't be able to think about buying a new computer 'til January which means now I'm fucked since my phone service is connected to my cable modem hook-up. So, if I get rid of my cable modem (which I should), I'll have no phone service which I've already paid all the expensive start-up fees for.
-- I was a part of a crazy medical experiment which tests brainwaves and was filmed by ABC for a piece on it. The cap I had to wear with electrodes all over my head and face was something I’m sure any of my friends would have paid to see.
-- I’ve became overly-medicated like my grandfather once was.
-- I have developed an unusually close relationship to a urologist due to a medical problem that seems to completely flabbergast him and completely piss (ha ha) me off.
-- My genial ex-husband suddenly turned into a typical asshole one.
-- Just when I thought maybe I was going to get myself fired at work I got one of the most glowing reviews of my life.
-- I briefly dated some guy from the internet who started off great and ended up being a damn disappointment.
-- I was bumped from the Jon Stewart show (*angry scream*) and was shepherded off to the Collin Quinn show which was a fun experience, though missing J.S. after not only waiting several months, but also taking off early from work and standing in line for an hour and a half and HAVING TICKETS as well. Jon Stewart, you’re show is great, but that really sucks.
It is my goal to write about all these things, but I don’t know if it will happen. I’ve been feeling pretty depressed. Let me rephrase that, I’ve been Depressed. Notice the capital “D.” I know the signs. It happened once before when I was in grad school – my “forever” marriage had ended by my own doing, the reigning love of my life (different person) had moved in with me, treated me like dogshit, and them moved out all within the space of a year, I wasn’t doing as well in grad school as I thought I would (I started off behind), and I was broke (familiar theme). I spent about a full year praying to the non-existent god to catapult me in front of a fast-moving SUV and end my fucking miserable life since I lacked the courage to do it myself. After an initial visit to the counseling service with the intention of getting help with my already documented memory problems (in grad school you have to memorize GOBS of material), I ended up seeing a psychologist and psychiatrist respectively twice a week, medicated, and six months later, I was noticing the blooming flowers and the blue of the sky.
This is one reason that every time I’ve started writing in this blog again I’ve stopped. 1) I hate spilling my private personal stuff all over the page like some kind of morbid road kill. 2) I hate writing stuff that makes me seem whiny, complaining, DEPRESSED! Nobody likes that. I’ve had enough friends who needed professional and pharmaceutical help to know that they’re not fun to be around after awhile. It’s like someone slowly drowning you in black water.
Anyway, not wanting to get to the point I was nine years ago where death seemed sweet and seductive, I wanted to get help. I have health insurance this time, but apparently its mental health component is pretty lacking. Not to mention that everything needs a referral and it takes six weeks to get in to see my regular physician. In one of the local papers I noticed an advertisement from Columbia University for people who thought they may be depressed and wanted to be a part of free services. To make a long story short, I was all over that. Here’s the catch: no talk therapy. Just medication. It’s free. They do all the medical tests, you talk to psychiatrist, etc. But it is what it is – a medical study. Medical studies have their own agendas as well do I. I’m there to get free medication, they’re there to use me as guinea pig to (dis)prove their theory. I have no qualms with that, though I do admit I was rather disappointed not to have shrink sessions. I enjoy therapy. I feel it was valuable for me last time (as was the medication). But this is how it is. They want to try and experiment to see the effectiveness of aggressive medication (I won’t get into it now) and no therapy. Hell, I’m curious myself.
This is why I tell very few friends about this blog. I like to write about my experiences in Bangkok and NYC which they usually enjoy reading, sure, but I also need this blog to barf out all this secret stuff I’m ashamed of, just like I did on this page today. Sure, to the couple of people who actually KNOW me and might read this, I’m pretty humiliated right now, but that can’t really be helped. I have some damn good friends in my life right now, not a lot, but I’d say the quality of my friends is fantastic. My mother’s been pretty great too for the past year or so (so strange that I’ve often wondered if she’s secretly dying). And yet, I don’t feel like there’s anyone I can really talk to about this, and let’s face it, Depression still has its stigma. In fact, I know one person I know who may read this and puke on his own. He’s never really believed much in mental illness.
And naturally, I’m ashamed of my own weakness. Sometimes I even surprise myself at how independent and strong I am. Sometimes I feel I can do just about anything (not in that euphoric bipolar sort of way, mind you! *cough*). Sometimes I think there’s not anything I can’t adjust to. And yet, here I am, nine years later, back on the weak track. Yes, yes, I know all the arguments against that. I know all about how it’s more about a drop in your serotonin levels than it is about being “blue.” Nevertheless, I am disappointed in myself. And I think it makes me less attractive as a person to know, as a friend or lover. I know that personally, when I have met men with an enormous amount of baggage, I have just flat out not been interested (unlike my early twenties when I would have relished the challenge to “save him!”). And here I am now, a baggage carrier myself. Blah.
Well, the pills begin tonight. In eight weeks I should be flying higher than a kite. Will it be me or the wellbutrin???
-- I protested at the Republican National Convention, which was kind of cool and interesting until the end of the night.
-- I moved out of my posh East Village apartment with two lovebird roommates into a shithole up up Uptown apartment in Manhattan and so, went from having just barely enough money to being fucking frighteningly broke all the time and becoming very familiar with cereal as a meal.
-- I got digital cable and a cable modem internet hook-up (*CHEER!*) and then my laptop broke down, once and for all. (*SOB*). It looks like I won't be able to think about buying a new computer 'til January which means now I'm fucked since my phone service is connected to my cable modem hook-up. So, if I get rid of my cable modem (which I should), I'll have no phone service which I've already paid all the expensive start-up fees for.
-- I was a part of a crazy medical experiment which tests brainwaves and was filmed by ABC for a piece on it. The cap I had to wear with electrodes all over my head and face was something I’m sure any of my friends would have paid to see.
-- I’ve became overly-medicated like my grandfather once was.
-- I have developed an unusually close relationship to a urologist due to a medical problem that seems to completely flabbergast him and completely piss (ha ha) me off.
-- My genial ex-husband suddenly turned into a typical asshole one.
-- Just when I thought maybe I was going to get myself fired at work I got one of the most glowing reviews of my life.
-- I briefly dated some guy from the internet who started off great and ended up being a damn disappointment.
-- I was bumped from the Jon Stewart show (*angry scream*) and was shepherded off to the Collin Quinn show which was a fun experience, though missing J.S. after not only waiting several months, but also taking off early from work and standing in line for an hour and a half and HAVING TICKETS as well. Jon Stewart, you’re show is great, but that really sucks.
It is my goal to write about all these things, but I don’t know if it will happen. I’ve been feeling pretty depressed. Let me rephrase that, I’ve been Depressed. Notice the capital “D.” I know the signs. It happened once before when I was in grad school – my “forever” marriage had ended by my own doing, the reigning love of my life (different person) had moved in with me, treated me like dogshit, and them moved out all within the space of a year, I wasn’t doing as well in grad school as I thought I would (I started off behind), and I was broke (familiar theme). I spent about a full year praying to the non-existent god to catapult me in front of a fast-moving SUV and end my fucking miserable life since I lacked the courage to do it myself. After an initial visit to the counseling service with the intention of getting help with my already documented memory problems (in grad school you have to memorize GOBS of material), I ended up seeing a psychologist and psychiatrist respectively twice a week, medicated, and six months later, I was noticing the blooming flowers and the blue of the sky.
This is one reason that every time I’ve started writing in this blog again I’ve stopped. 1) I hate spilling my private personal stuff all over the page like some kind of morbid road kill. 2) I hate writing stuff that makes me seem whiny, complaining, DEPRESSED! Nobody likes that. I’ve had enough friends who needed professional and pharmaceutical help to know that they’re not fun to be around after awhile. It’s like someone slowly drowning you in black water.
Anyway, not wanting to get to the point I was nine years ago where death seemed sweet and seductive, I wanted to get help. I have health insurance this time, but apparently its mental health component is pretty lacking. Not to mention that everything needs a referral and it takes six weeks to get in to see my regular physician. In one of the local papers I noticed an advertisement from Columbia University for people who thought they may be depressed and wanted to be a part of free services. To make a long story short, I was all over that. Here’s the catch: no talk therapy. Just medication. It’s free. They do all the medical tests, you talk to psychiatrist, etc. But it is what it is – a medical study. Medical studies have their own agendas as well do I. I’m there to get free medication, they’re there to use me as guinea pig to (dis)prove their theory. I have no qualms with that, though I do admit I was rather disappointed not to have shrink sessions. I enjoy therapy. I feel it was valuable for me last time (as was the medication). But this is how it is. They want to try and experiment to see the effectiveness of aggressive medication (I won’t get into it now) and no therapy. Hell, I’m curious myself.
This is why I tell very few friends about this blog. I like to write about my experiences in Bangkok and NYC which they usually enjoy reading, sure, but I also need this blog to barf out all this secret stuff I’m ashamed of, just like I did on this page today. Sure, to the couple of people who actually KNOW me and might read this, I’m pretty humiliated right now, but that can’t really be helped. I have some damn good friends in my life right now, not a lot, but I’d say the quality of my friends is fantastic. My mother’s been pretty great too for the past year or so (so strange that I’ve often wondered if she’s secretly dying). And yet, I don’t feel like there’s anyone I can really talk to about this, and let’s face it, Depression still has its stigma. In fact, I know one person I know who may read this and puke on his own. He’s never really believed much in mental illness.
And naturally, I’m ashamed of my own weakness. Sometimes I even surprise myself at how independent and strong I am. Sometimes I feel I can do just about anything (not in that euphoric bipolar sort of way, mind you! *cough*). Sometimes I think there’s not anything I can’t adjust to. And yet, here I am, nine years later, back on the weak track. Yes, yes, I know all the arguments against that. I know all about how it’s more about a drop in your serotonin levels than it is about being “blue.” Nevertheless, I am disappointed in myself. And I think it makes me less attractive as a person to know, as a friend or lover. I know that personally, when I have met men with an enormous amount of baggage, I have just flat out not been interested (unlike my early twenties when I would have relished the challenge to “save him!”). And here I am now, a baggage carrier myself. Blah.
Well, the pills begin tonight. In eight weeks I should be flying higher than a kite. Will it be me or the wellbutrin???
Back in Black, Part I: Protesting at the RNC
Forgive me for writing about something that is so far in the past that no one gives a shit anymore. But since this blog has always been a selfish endeavor – to 1) practice writing on a consistent basis and 2) record my experiences in Bangkok and NYC – I hope you’ll overlook its staleness. I just don’t have the greatest memory and I enjoy reading about past events which are hazy, at best, in my mind.
During the last night of the RNC, when “W” was going to speak, I had worked late, ran some errands, and got home somewhere in the 9pm hour. Seconds after I was in the door, I got a call from “Adam” who was there at the protest, marching down the street with a giant crowd somewhere near Union Square. I was shocked and impressed. Though Adam is always willing to argue his political view, I never took him for someone actually getting out there and doing something like this. That was more of my territory, though I hadn’t done shit so far except for hang out with some academics studying the protestors in a hotel overlooking the protestors’ path.
Standing there, still with keys and bag in hand, I suddenly thought to myself, “WHY am I not there? I really do care about this election. I’m terrified that “W” will be re-elected. Why am I at home?” It wasn’t too late. My phone was beeping warnings at me that it didn’t have much juice left before it died, but I knew it would be crucial in order to meet up with Adam since he was obviously on the move somewhere between downtown and midtown. I plugged the phone into its charger while screaming into the phone, “I’m coming, I’m coming! I’m coming down now!” He kept telling me not to bother, but by then, the conversation was over to me and I hung up. As I quickly shed my work clothes and put on something more appropriate for running around the streets, I hoped that my phone would charge just enough to be able to call and find Adam once I got there.
In a few minutes I was out the door, and I turned off my phone to save energy. As the subway was chugging along, I felt a thrill. It felt right to be there, and although the majority of people at my work (a non-profit with politically-minded individuals with very strong feelings) had participated in various protests already, I had shied away from it. I’m not sure why. Though I wanted to be there, I didn’t know what to do, which one to join. I’ve always had my issues with activists, something I deal with a lot now, especially working for a non-profit that has its own advocacy concerns.
It wasn’t long before I reached 34th street and Broadway. When I emerged above ground, I was shocked to see more cops and barricades than I have ever seen in my life. I kept trying to edge my way over to Madison Square Garden, but it was blocked at every single possible street and side road. The cops weren’t stupid. I was sending text messages to Adam that I was there, as I circled the area looking for a good place to put myself.
I was in awe by the mass of people, mostly protestors, of every type and kind. Every group you could think of was there, all angry, all against Bush. There were the Jews in their side curls and black suits and hats. There were black Muslims. There were pro-choice protestors, labor unions, and groups that I couldn’t even figure out. What fascinated me even further was just the dialogue that was going on. I saw these wildly different groups talking to each other. They were having amiable political discussions, they were sharing their views. There wasn’t any shouting or arguing, there was a real unity out there. People were united to get rid of Bush, despite the fact they all came from such diverse backgrounds.
Finally, I called Adam as my phone beeped annoyingly in my ear. He was many blocks away. He couldn’t hear me, and I felt like each word was precious. After I hung up I sent text messages about the state of my dying phone. I would find out much later that his phone doesn’t receive text messages correctly.
More time passed and everytime he called I cringed that this might be the time the phone died. I was rushing around, phone to ear, still trying to find an “in.” Finally, on the third call he said he was just a few blocks away and coming toward me fast. The group that had been at Union Square had decided to come back to the heart of the protest. I started running.
The advance of the cellphone at such a moment is so funny to me. The frantic text messages, the shouting your position to your friend on the other end. It’s a tactical weapon of sorts. People were organizing, and organizing well, by use of their cellphones. And now, in a time when it would have been IMPOSSIBLE to find Adam in this cornucopia of human life, we were zeroing in on each other.
Somewhere about 35th and 8th avenue (really guessing at this point), I saw his waving hand. Boy, was I relieved. Walking up to him, I saw he had a long sticker stretched across his chest declaring, “Fuck the Republican Party!” I thought he looked pretty handsome at that moment.
We spent the next hour or so walking closer and closer to the convention, shouting out slogans like “Tell me what democracy looks like – this is what democracy looks like!” That was my favorite one. I felt pumped. I felt happy. I was glad I was there. I was hoping that somewhere inside his comfortable world, that Bush knew we were here and what we had to say.
After some time, things started to get tense as we strained up against the barricades. There was a band marching with us that banged drums and blew horns in such a way that you felt you were rising right up off the ground. You wanted to show louder louder louder as they pounded away.
Then there were murmurs throughout the crowd as it seemed the “protesters negotiator” was discussing things with the police. At a certain time (I believe it was 11:30pm), the presence of the protesters would be a violation of war, since they were blocking the street, playing music, and making noise. “Anyone inside the barricades when it hits 11:30pm are going to get arrested” it was warned. Adam and I were deep within the barricades but could also easily escape at that moment if we needed to. We pondered our options. It was true that the police seemed to be gathering around the barricades, but arrest us, now? It didn’t seem possible. I certainly didn’t want to get arrested, that was for sure. I couldn’t post bail and I had to go to work too. People began to sit down in the street and were encouraging others to do the same. Oh well. We sat.
As 11:30 came, I looked around anxiously, but it had become clear that there wasn’t going to be any of the mass arrests as there had been before where police had just started grabbing people at random and throwing them into police trucks. Sitting there, finally having a rest, we continued to chant and shout out.
But the numbers had thinned. Many people, frightened by the threat of arrest, had high-tailed it out of there. I had mixed feelings. I could understand wanting to get the hell outta Dodge when the possibility of jail looms, but I also thought that if you had come down to protest, well, this was it. This was what it was about. I guess, how much does it matter to you? As I was to find out soon, I had my own threshold.
Time passed. Even the cops looked bored. It was half past midnight and all that was left were some die-hard hippies. I realized that the protest was over and it was time to go home. Of course, the die-hards weren’t having any part of that. And that’s when I lost my faith (in those who remained) and wanted to get the hell outta Dodge myself. You could tell, the die-hards wanted to get arrested. And the impression that I got was that it wasn’t an arrest for the cause, it was an arrest for themselves. A line had been crossed in my opinion. A line from being true to what you believe to the cause being about you and your image of yourself. The “street cred” you’d gain from being arrested. Your fight “against the man.” I wanted no part of these people who remained. If I had gotten arrested in the throes of the full-out protest, that would be one thing, but hanging out ‘til the wee hours of the morning practically begging a cop to haul me in seemed cheap and undignified.
Adam and I finally got up and walked away. It was late and I was tired, but I was happy that I had showed, if only briefly. And since it was Adam, and our relationship thrives on conflict instead of harmony, we made sure to have a huge, knockdown argument on the street before I descended underground to my subway. *sigh*
During the last night of the RNC, when “W” was going to speak, I had worked late, ran some errands, and got home somewhere in the 9pm hour. Seconds after I was in the door, I got a call from “Adam” who was there at the protest, marching down the street with a giant crowd somewhere near Union Square. I was shocked and impressed. Though Adam is always willing to argue his political view, I never took him for someone actually getting out there and doing something like this. That was more of my territory, though I hadn’t done shit so far except for hang out with some academics studying the protestors in a hotel overlooking the protestors’ path.
Standing there, still with keys and bag in hand, I suddenly thought to myself, “WHY am I not there? I really do care about this election. I’m terrified that “W” will be re-elected. Why am I at home?” It wasn’t too late. My phone was beeping warnings at me that it didn’t have much juice left before it died, but I knew it would be crucial in order to meet up with Adam since he was obviously on the move somewhere between downtown and midtown. I plugged the phone into its charger while screaming into the phone, “I’m coming, I’m coming! I’m coming down now!” He kept telling me not to bother, but by then, the conversation was over to me and I hung up. As I quickly shed my work clothes and put on something more appropriate for running around the streets, I hoped that my phone would charge just enough to be able to call and find Adam once I got there.
In a few minutes I was out the door, and I turned off my phone to save energy. As the subway was chugging along, I felt a thrill. It felt right to be there, and although the majority of people at my work (a non-profit with politically-minded individuals with very strong feelings) had participated in various protests already, I had shied away from it. I’m not sure why. Though I wanted to be there, I didn’t know what to do, which one to join. I’ve always had my issues with activists, something I deal with a lot now, especially working for a non-profit that has its own advocacy concerns.
It wasn’t long before I reached 34th street and Broadway. When I emerged above ground, I was shocked to see more cops and barricades than I have ever seen in my life. I kept trying to edge my way over to Madison Square Garden, but it was blocked at every single possible street and side road. The cops weren’t stupid. I was sending text messages to Adam that I was there, as I circled the area looking for a good place to put myself.
I was in awe by the mass of people, mostly protestors, of every type and kind. Every group you could think of was there, all angry, all against Bush. There were the Jews in their side curls and black suits and hats. There were black Muslims. There were pro-choice protestors, labor unions, and groups that I couldn’t even figure out. What fascinated me even further was just the dialogue that was going on. I saw these wildly different groups talking to each other. They were having amiable political discussions, they were sharing their views. There wasn’t any shouting or arguing, there was a real unity out there. People were united to get rid of Bush, despite the fact they all came from such diverse backgrounds.
Finally, I called Adam as my phone beeped annoyingly in my ear. He was many blocks away. He couldn’t hear me, and I felt like each word was precious. After I hung up I sent text messages about the state of my dying phone. I would find out much later that his phone doesn’t receive text messages correctly.
More time passed and everytime he called I cringed that this might be the time the phone died. I was rushing around, phone to ear, still trying to find an “in.” Finally, on the third call he said he was just a few blocks away and coming toward me fast. The group that had been at Union Square had decided to come back to the heart of the protest. I started running.
The advance of the cellphone at such a moment is so funny to me. The frantic text messages, the shouting your position to your friend on the other end. It’s a tactical weapon of sorts. People were organizing, and organizing well, by use of their cellphones. And now, in a time when it would have been IMPOSSIBLE to find Adam in this cornucopia of human life, we were zeroing in on each other.
Somewhere about 35th and 8th avenue (really guessing at this point), I saw his waving hand. Boy, was I relieved. Walking up to him, I saw he had a long sticker stretched across his chest declaring, “Fuck the Republican Party!” I thought he looked pretty handsome at that moment.
We spent the next hour or so walking closer and closer to the convention, shouting out slogans like “Tell me what democracy looks like – this is what democracy looks like!” That was my favorite one. I felt pumped. I felt happy. I was glad I was there. I was hoping that somewhere inside his comfortable world, that Bush knew we were here and what we had to say.
After some time, things started to get tense as we strained up against the barricades. There was a band marching with us that banged drums and blew horns in such a way that you felt you were rising right up off the ground. You wanted to show louder louder louder as they pounded away.
Then there were murmurs throughout the crowd as it seemed the “protesters negotiator” was discussing things with the police. At a certain time (I believe it was 11:30pm), the presence of the protesters would be a violation of war, since they were blocking the street, playing music, and making noise. “Anyone inside the barricades when it hits 11:30pm are going to get arrested” it was warned. Adam and I were deep within the barricades but could also easily escape at that moment if we needed to. We pondered our options. It was true that the police seemed to be gathering around the barricades, but arrest us, now? It didn’t seem possible. I certainly didn’t want to get arrested, that was for sure. I couldn’t post bail and I had to go to work too. People began to sit down in the street and were encouraging others to do the same. Oh well. We sat.
As 11:30 came, I looked around anxiously, but it had become clear that there wasn’t going to be any of the mass arrests as there had been before where police had just started grabbing people at random and throwing them into police trucks. Sitting there, finally having a rest, we continued to chant and shout out.
But the numbers had thinned. Many people, frightened by the threat of arrest, had high-tailed it out of there. I had mixed feelings. I could understand wanting to get the hell outta Dodge when the possibility of jail looms, but I also thought that if you had come down to protest, well, this was it. This was what it was about. I guess, how much does it matter to you? As I was to find out soon, I had my own threshold.
Time passed. Even the cops looked bored. It was half past midnight and all that was left were some die-hard hippies. I realized that the protest was over and it was time to go home. Of course, the die-hards weren’t having any part of that. And that’s when I lost my faith (in those who remained) and wanted to get the hell outta Dodge myself. You could tell, the die-hards wanted to get arrested. And the impression that I got was that it wasn’t an arrest for the cause, it was an arrest for themselves. A line had been crossed in my opinion. A line from being true to what you believe to the cause being about you and your image of yourself. The “street cred” you’d gain from being arrested. Your fight “against the man.” I wanted no part of these people who remained. If I had gotten arrested in the throes of the full-out protest, that would be one thing, but hanging out ‘til the wee hours of the morning practically begging a cop to haul me in seemed cheap and undignified.
Adam and I finally got up and walked away. It was late and I was tired, but I was happy that I had showed, if only briefly. And since it was Adam, and our relationship thrives on conflict instead of harmony, we made sure to have a huge, knockdown argument on the street before I descended underground to my subway. *sigh*
Thursday, September 02, 2004
It's a Police State!
I hate having the Republican National Convention here. Almost everybody does. It's pretty creepy to be walking to work, to the store, etc. and see cops on every fucking corner, in every subway, on every train. They're directing traffic, they're blocking off streets, they even told me to cross the street to the other side yesterday. I guess I'm threatening. Roar!
Last night on the roof of my building (well, I'm actually moving out TODAY!), which is one of my favorite places to be, I gazed lovingly at the Empire State Building, like I always do. It was lit up in festive red, white, and blue, no coincedence. Disturbing this lovely site were a posse of helicopters, noisily encircling the ESB, and shining lights like a small sun around the city as they turned. I must be a few miles away from the building, and everytime that helicopter turned in my direction, it was like someone had just trained an interrogation light onto my face.
I watched some of the RNC, including a chunk of Arnold's groan-til=you-want-to-puke speech. How many people in this world saw Nixon on TV and were so inspired they had to be a Republican?!?!?! Clinton, JFK, even Reagan, okay! I can see them being sufficiently impressive to make you want to be like them and be in their party, but Nixon??
Then onto the joking and smirking bad-girls, the Bush twins. The "we're so cute and precious, *nudge* *wink*" speech really inspired feelings of hostility in me. Why is that everytime I see some of these Republicans speak, I get an overwhelming desire to first destroy my TV, and second open-fire on Madison Square Garden? I'm a pretty docile lass, and I can't even imagine owning a gun (what the fuck for?), but listening to some of these people and the unbelievable things they say is like some sort of psychological, hypnosis-induced homicidal tendencies switch. When Rudy Guiliani said we owed it to the victims of 9-11 to vote for Bush, I had the intense simultaneous feeling of screaming, crying, and projectile vomiting.
Then there's Laura Bush who my roommate believes is the smartest politician at the whole RNC, since she has everyone snowed over with her "I'm just a simple librarian with pure thoughts and deeds" persona. You picture her knitting in the white house while discussing how we really really really need to help "the children."
I can't stand all of this. I sometimes feel so overwhelmed (again) with that fact that there are still so many people who don't see "W" as this frightening force of destruction. Is a nice fat tax break REALLY worth fucking up the whole country over? And come on, how many people REALLY care if gays marry? How does that threaten or change YOUR life (scary, prejudiced, straight Christians) in ANY way? If Bob and Steve marry, does your own life just fall to pieces? Give me a break.
Maybe it's because I'm older, maybe because I'm more aware of politics, maybe because I really do believe in the Democratic party, but I am really afraid of Bush winning again. And at the risk of sounding like a wacko patriot, I am really afraid for my country.
Last night on the roof of my building (well, I'm actually moving out TODAY!), which is one of my favorite places to be, I gazed lovingly at the Empire State Building, like I always do. It was lit up in festive red, white, and blue, no coincedence. Disturbing this lovely site were a posse of helicopters, noisily encircling the ESB, and shining lights like a small sun around the city as they turned. I must be a few miles away from the building, and everytime that helicopter turned in my direction, it was like someone had just trained an interrogation light onto my face.
I watched some of the RNC, including a chunk of Arnold's groan-til=you-want-to-puke speech. How many people in this world saw Nixon on TV and were so inspired they had to be a Republican?!?!?! Clinton, JFK, even Reagan, okay! I can see them being sufficiently impressive to make you want to be like them and be in their party, but Nixon??
Then onto the joking and smirking bad-girls, the Bush twins. The "we're so cute and precious, *nudge* *wink*" speech really inspired feelings of hostility in me. Why is that everytime I see some of these Republicans speak, I get an overwhelming desire to first destroy my TV, and second open-fire on Madison Square Garden? I'm a pretty docile lass, and I can't even imagine owning a gun (what the fuck for?), but listening to some of these people and the unbelievable things they say is like some sort of psychological, hypnosis-induced homicidal tendencies switch. When Rudy Guiliani said we owed it to the victims of 9-11 to vote for Bush, I had the intense simultaneous feeling of screaming, crying, and projectile vomiting.
Then there's Laura Bush who my roommate believes is the smartest politician at the whole RNC, since she has everyone snowed over with her "I'm just a simple librarian with pure thoughts and deeds" persona. You picture her knitting in the white house while discussing how we really really really need to help "the children."
I can't stand all of this. I sometimes feel so overwhelmed (again) with that fact that there are still so many people who don't see "W" as this frightening force of destruction. Is a nice fat tax break REALLY worth fucking up the whole country over? And come on, how many people REALLY care if gays marry? How does that threaten or change YOUR life (scary, prejudiced, straight Christians) in ANY way? If Bob and Steve marry, does your own life just fall to pieces? Give me a break.
Maybe it's because I'm older, maybe because I'm more aware of politics, maybe because I really do believe in the Democratic party, but I am really afraid of Bush winning again. And at the risk of sounding like a wacko patriot, I am really afraid for my country.
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