Did everything that happened 24 hours ago actually happen?

Yeah, I have tangible proof.

Weird.

It's not hate, it's

the absence of love.

I don't hate you, I just can't look at you.
And I regard everything you do or say with suspicion.

Mistrust YOU created.
Sorry.

You appear happy. You behave like someone, if even forcibly, in love.

I don't believe you? Not because I don't want to.

I'm sure it isn't all bullshit, but I don't know where to separate.
Maybe I never did.

I also once trusted you NOT to bullshit me. Simpler times.

Am I free yet?

I don't want to speak too soon because these things have tended to change, week by week, for too long now. And finding out that this is all falsehood next week will really depress me.

But maybe that's part of the grander construct.

Maybe it's that I see no more reason to love him.

Did I misconstrue empathy for love?

Because now that there's no empathy, no reason for worry, or perhaps a feeling that I haven't the right to empathize or worry, mill over his tragedy, being that there is no real place in his life for me...

I don't feel anything!

Maybe a little queasy.
But it's probably just that I drank too much last night.
By the way, are you kidding me, not bothering to say goodbye?

Josh's Alan

When we’ve learnt to stay apart is when we can come back together again.

There’s a woman’s face against the marble wall and that’s the sound of the accordion she’s playing. The harpsichord next. The songs she plays, they remind you of when you weren’t seventeen. It’s not like it was when she was really there -- that’s not to suggest that she’s all here right now -- and me?

I’m pregnant on another one, it’s going to be a boy and he will take my place and his son his. When I’m a great-grandfather I’ll have a heart made of perfume and pinecones, but mostly just a bottle of wine on the corner of the street again.

You said “we have to be careful.”

I said “I wish I could put it all back together again.”

You said “maybe next time around,” and then I realized we had failed for the first time yet again. How many time around the circle will it take? “Very close this time,” you said with a sad expression hanging from your face.

“Sure can’t we give it another go?” I asked. You said no. Not this time. I wondered if her songs that sat there next to us knew what it was that I’d eventually have to do in order to make all my shortcomings up to you. The songs? They said nothing.

But doors open, and doors close. People come and go, that’s what makes us want to turn around, but we can only remember now.

FUCK.

I reject this concept of quarter life crisis.

I think I'm going to let myself be angry.

Let myself fall off.

Dig a me shaped hole and rot there for a while.

WHY THE FUCK SHOULD I PUT ON A SMILE FOR YOU?

And then I'll go really far away and forget about all of this bullshit that I've somehow convinced myself is worth the misery.

IT'S NOT.

I'm going to turn off all the speculation that builds in the silence.

It's not real! IT'S NOT REAL!

Movie Night

Do you think it's possible to be in love with someone, and not want to be with them?

At the same time?

Genuinely and truly?

How can this ambivalence be possible?

Well, anything is fucking possible, but everything is still impossible.

I'm not sure what I mean by that, but it's not just a note of despair. I mean that anything is fucking possible when it's just happening to you, but everything is still impossible when I am actively participating.

So, it's a more PRONOUNCED note of despair.

I've discovered Netflix Watch Instantly, so I've been watching these terrible quote "Cerebral Foreign Dramas" and quote "Romances Featuring a Strong Female Lead", and these people in love are always longing for each other's embraces and imagining futures together and praying, praying, praying that that bitch would just disappear.

But I don't think that's it. Because all of these things send a sharp pang of fucking fear up my spine. Not a twinge, a pang, it lasts a while, but it's worse than the usual quakes I've always had. A gaze will stop my heart, only because I want to stop myself from seeing it. I want to run so fucking far in the opposite direction, I'm starting to imagine a small voice screaming somewhere in the back of my mind whenever he's present. And as for that bitch? Like her where she is. As long as she's around I will not ever, ever, ever end up in bed with him.

Does this coincide with my actions?

Well, no.

Because

more than anything I feel like I have to bear my teeth. Put on a mean face. Or at least a brave one.

Because I still care what he thinks.
And I don't really care about anyone else's opinions.

The other night he sent me into this completely blind frenzied RAGE because he looked at me for too long. Wasn't a big enough deal. I was drunk and couldn't do what I usually do, keep it in my periphery but pretend not to notice. I was too drunk for that, so I yelled, and then I kind of slapped the shit out of him. Really hard, too.

I haven't recovered from this. And of course, my kicking his ass is just a point in his corner.

Anyway, also in these movies, the smitten characters (though mostly men) are able to fill the vacancies of their beloved, if only for a fleeting 3.5 minutes, like with whores or their co-workers or people they pick up in bars.

Here's another delineation. Everyone repulses me. Can't look at them.

I don't even really feel lonely. In fact, right now I'm feeling like there are almost too many people around. And like I'm involved in too many lives. I guess I can let them distract me, and I do when I have to, but I don't really feel like burying myself in anything else.

I'm burying too much.

I think what's really driving me to distraction is the fact that he was the bravest thing I've ever done, and now that it's over I'm back to being a huge pussy.

That's what's really depressing me, not having to watch them dry hump not ten feet away from me.

Though it doesn't exactly help.

Also, I've been listening to too much Fiona Apple, and she just sets me off into crazy.

But Jesus, how does one stop listening to Fiona Apple? That sounds even more impossible than getting over him, or trying to quit smoking,

so I'm just not going to do any of those things.

Not yet.

Need to keep writing regularly, or I'll end up talking about it too much, and people will suspect things. I don't want anyone to know. As far as everyone knows, I am not in love. Though it's still true that I don't want to be with him. So none of it matters and it shouldn't make any difference.

I'll do my homework, though, really.

And watch movies.

It's not love, it's

Stockholm Syndrome!

Right?

Right?!

Now to search the internet for "Treatment of Stockholm Syndrome",

"Prescription Drugs used to treat Stockholm Syndrome",

"Street Drugs used to treat Stockholm Syndrome".

Facebook, I quit you.

I enjoy staying at home. Where, currently, the only 2 decisions I'm making are whether to light another cigarette, and then, which ashtray to ash into.

I hope reading this blog will be amusing to me someday in the future, when I'm less of a miserable human being.

I really am an optimist at heart. But in my current situation, or, since I've gotten into this post-adolescent, soon to be post-graduate funk I've dug myself into, everything fails me.

Am I being too critical of myself or of others?

I can't commit to small tasks unless it is to avoid people in my life. Kate gets home from work, let me do the dishes. My dad's calling. Maybe I should miss his call and then will myself to send an important email, order textbooks, figure out what exactly is the meager balance in my checking account and will I still make rent if I buy another pack of cigarettes?

So, I can only be productive if I'm being destructive in some overthought concept of equal measure. I'm so irrational that I've made a system for it--to be completely stagnant, to stop time. A flat line.

I think he's in love with her.

I think, the man who couldn't fall in love, the reason I decided against being in love with him, or fighting for him, has fallen in love with the girl he kissed three days after taking my virginity.

So, if you could look at this situation visually: you're in a car on a one-way road that is your life, your person. He's driving downhill, further down, further down, until he reaches a flatline. And I'm just up ahead, this past year, a flatline. Starts to speed ahead, just meandering. Then...a speed bump. A first and second virginity. The peak of an orgasm. The month-long period he fucked me.

And then he fucks her, and starts uphill.

That, non-readers of this blog, is why I am quitting facebook.

lady in the cellular mailbox

"You have seventeen new messages.

First message sent -

Message deleted.

Next message, sent -

Message deleted.

Next message, sent -

Message deleted.

Next message, sent -

Message deleted.

Next message, sent -

Message deleted.

Next message, sent -

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Next message, sent -

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Next message, sent -

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Next message, sent -

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Next message, sent -

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Next message, sent -

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Next message, sent -

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Next message, sent -

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Next message, sent -

Message deleted.

End of new messages."

A Spy in the House of Love

"Guilt is the one burden human beings can't bear alone. As soon as a crime is committed, there is a telephone call, or a confession to strangers."

"There was no crime."

"There is only one relief: to confess, to be caught, tried, punished. That's the ideal of every criminal. But it's not quite so simple. Only half of the self wants to atone, to be freed of the torments of guilt. The other half of man wants to continue to be free. So only half of the self surrenders, calling out 'catch me,' while the other half creates obstacles, difficulties; seeks to escape. It's a flirtation with justice. If justice is nimble, it will follow the clue with the criminal's help. If not, the criminal will take care of his own atonement."

"Is that worse?"

"I think so. I think we are more severe judges of our own acts than professional judges. We judge our thoughts, our intents, our secret curses, our secret hates, not only our acts."

She hung up.

oh, what 2 months and a half can do.

I lost my virginity on May 7th, 2009. Correction. As it was after midnight, the exact date was May 8th, 2009.

May 8th was the birthday...is the birthday...of my very first love, David, the one I should probably have lost it to, probably, if only I had not been so sexually afraid until very late in life.

At around 6:00 a.m. on May 6th, 2009 I had twenty pages of politics to complete in something like eighteen hours. And then it just happened. We were finally left alone, quiet, drunk, tired, and it just started happening. No thought realized. Entirely in earnest.

My legs were shaking violently and couldn't support themselves alone. I'm a shaker. Problem solved as he lifts me onto the bar, then climbs up after me, now horizontal. More thoughtlessness. Nipples bitten, clitoris swollen.

Even this, truly, was all new to me. New to me in the sense that I was giving into it finally. No guilty thoughts racing in a steady head, only a desperation to know where his tongue would dart next. This kind of freedom was never accomplished when I was touched by David, who was born twenty one years ago, two days later.

This man on top of me was almost a decade my senior. Emotionally, many cruel decades my senior.

I don't mean to be writing erotica, but it sounds like I am.
Don't judge me if I start sounding flowery.

Virgins: Never call it your flower. The higher the pristine pedestal upon which you place yourself and your virginity, the louder the crash when you both inevitably fall. You will get fucked. You will enjoy it. Maybe not the first time, or the second, but not long after.

Still intact, I left the bar perhaps around 7:30 a.m., bewildered and aroused as I ever have been. Still, there were twenty pages of politics to be written, and one mandatory night of rest to sleep on it. I wrote and wrote and wrote, taking excruciatingly longer than usual whenever I had a mental flash from a few hours earlier.

Just before midnight on May 7th, 2009, twenty four hours after having completed twenty pages of politics, I came to his house in a slip and high heels.

"Tassia, you're already undressed. Did you come here just to fool around?"

Yes.

General Review of the Sex Situation

So why, really, why am I so happy?

I don't think I've ever been disappointed about something making me happy.

My mother told me today that I was moving backwards. That I was more responsible when I was younger.
I told her that was true only to an extent. She probably sees right through me, and that I'm just just this increasingly hopeless woman.
That's probably giving her too much credit.

Let me explain.
After 2 months thinking I had to punish him...put him in a time-out, if I can think of it in baby terms...what?...there were some good, effective moments but mostly it was just kind of who am I kidding? Did I really think it would stick? Did he? It was never really my intention to cut him off, not really. Not that I expected him to fight for my friendship. But he took it to a completely different level of fucked up and mean that I just had not accounted for. I had to do what I did. I can't let him get away with everything.

Basically I am settling for a relationship that consists of me bestowing love upon someone who can never fully return it because of, and I quote, "crippling emotional problems". I'm settling for fondness in exchange for sincere adoration. And lust. So much lust.

So, is that okay?
Does that make me a masochist?
Am I a pathetic person?
To be so happy to have that person back in my life? For my mood to have been lifted this much, after two miserable months, because of three drunken hours with a man who's NOT in love with me?

And sex.

How long am I just going sit around lusting for him and not pursue anything else? Mind you, I've done this sort of thing before and I guess it's in my nature, but I was much younger then and not nearly as sexual. So I wasn't really giving up anything that I really wanted.

But I want it.

And what if I did pursue something else? He will. He has.

I just really don't want to, not remotely.

Obviously he would have no right to be angry or even call attention to it. He gave up any rights to that.

Maybe I need to just do something and find out, just to answer that question. Also, I need to make sure he is really, really, really drunk when I bring it up later.

And see? The excitement here is gauging his reaction to something, rather than having delightful sexual relations, because he won't let me have any with him.

It's just I'm living a twisted, amorphous reality that I don't really understand, and the further I ebb away, the more blinded about all of this I think I'm becoming, and I just need to find out more. What if I do this. What if I say this. I told him I love him, not that I understand him.

I'm a troublemaker.

I can't help myself anymore.

better late than never: A Response to TBNYU

So, recently there were some fun times here in NYUtown...in the form of building occupation and topless protestors (my new friends Keri and Nadia)! Take Back NYU is a group primarily concerned with disclosing John "Give Me a Hug" Sexton's big bad budget bullshitting, though, like any stooooopid, hotheaded, wish-we-were-flower-children NYC college students, things got out of hand real fast.

Sarah Shears wrote this article for The Arch webjournal, thearchjournal.com:

A Proletariat of Undergraduates

Taking shots at the students behind the great NYU cafeteria occupation of 2009 is about as fair a sport as fishing with hand grenades, and the usual name-callers have already called them all of the usual names. These young radicals embody everything Bill O'Reilly imagines the sixties to have been, from their incoherent list of demands beginning with amnesty for themselves to pleas for vegan food—not provided by companies that use prison labor—to all-night Hegel study sessions. Even a belated note of support from Noam Chomsky himself.

With the hope of uncovering something deeper, we interviewed three of the press contacts listed on Take Back NYU's website. Colin Dillon, a 2008 alumn, told us, "I think the way people are framing it —'How can you go to a 50k-a-year school and complain'—you can tell how they're going to react." The group he says, has been working for the past two years, with little success, to pressure the administration on the school's affordability.

But it's not clear how else this can be framed.

To recap: The occupation began last Wednesday when a group of students—many of them TBNYU members, and not all of them from NYU—gathered in a cafeteria at the Kimmel center on Washington Square South and barricaded themselves in the building. While the administration waited them out, the students issued a set of ambitious and wide-ranging demands, beginning with amnesty for all involved and moving on to a seat on the University's board and scholarships for 13 Palestinian students. They also appealed for the "human right" (their phrase) to leave the barricades they'd erected, and to use bathrooms.

Much of the best reporting on the occupation came from Charlie Eisenhood of the impressive student website NYU Local, who filed dispatches while embedded in the cafeteria.

Outside, supporters and opponents of the occupation competed for attention but were united by their common acknowledgment that laying the shtick on heavy was the best response to the situation. Dissenting students held signs saying things like "YOU SUCK", and "PROTESTING-you're doing it wrong." Two female supporters displayed solidarity by standing outside topless with signs vowing "Exposure until Disclosure"—a display that inspired a professor at another New York university to crack, "at least something good came out of all this."

After a two-day standoff, the occupation ended riotously but without much violence when the authority figures—after the expiration of a deadline to leave or be punished—pushed the piled-up chairs and tables out of the way. The end of the siege was recorded In this damning video taken by a young, non-NYU, student who had been part of the occupation and somehow thought it was a good idea to share his record of it with the world.

Do yourself a favor and watch the video in full—it’s the “This is Spinal Tap” of campus radicalism and a more powerful indictment of TBNYU than anything their detractors could hope to produce.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Q6KAg6qEGY

The security guards and administrators wait patiently as the students stall and curse at the university staff. As a staff member asks the students for identification, the man filming raves turretically about the need for "consensus", and "Democratic process". The camera then turns to a young woman—keffiyah about her neck and arms flailing in the air—screaming "brutality! brutality!" As security guards gingerly try to remove her from the balcony she'd been on she yells "Don't fucking touch me" and "He touched me."

In the background a white, dreadlocked student putters about with a skateboard as various refrains are heard: "scumbag fucks, that's what you are" and "dirty fucking rats." The cameraman implores his fellow protesters to be civil: "we need to look at the situation, the hierarchy here, the power relationship".

That relationship is established by a middle-aged security guard with a paunch and an eastern European accent who'd been patiently waiting in the background: "Son, there's no co-cooperation. You just, you guys need to leave."

The cameraman replies, "We need to democratically decide on that... in a consensus area." He's granted 10 minutes in said "consensus area," and when the security guards following him decline his request to leave, he asks them to cover their ears and pretend they're wearing earmuffs. He adds, "This is all on camera, so if there's brutality it'll be, uh, it'll be filmed."

You get the feeling the consensus auteur feels some remorse over a lost opportunity when the students are peacefully escorted from the cafeteria he'd deemed their "safe space."

In our exchange, Mr. Dillon was convincing when he talked about why there should be protest over the high cost of NYU, but not when he tried to justify the “direct action" and the conduct of the protesters. He said the administration had been dodging the group for two years, but declined to answer on the record if TBNYU saw the occupation as a sensible means to achieve redress.

"I have not been a part of the research, I have mostly been involved with the organizing of events," said Emily Stainkamp, another TBNYU press contact, responding to a question about whether her organization reviewed public records such as NYU's IRS 990 form, the reporting form for nonprofits, before they occupied the Kimmel center.

Perhaps before getting the university to ship surplus supplies to Gazan students or reforming NYU's powerful bureaucracy, TBNYU might want to brief their press contacts on their core issues.

What is it with these kids, we wondered. Maybe their education is to blame.

The Wednesday after the liberation of the cafeteria, an article ran in the New York Times questioning the value of studying the humanities in a period of economic distress, and expressing concern the field would become the redoubt of the wealthy.

It's a cynical view, but one borne out by a petition posted on NYU's Faculty Democracy website, and reposted on the TBNYU site, signed by almost two hundred NYU professors, most of them in the Humanities:

“Allegations of excessive use of force against the protesters should be investigated promptly by an independent university committee. We view the Kimmel occupation as symptomatic of a deeper malady afflicting NYU: a lack of educational community. In such a community, students would not find it necessary to take over buildings to make their voices heard and their ideas respected.”

Huh? It's a thoughtful petition, just one responding to some parallel-world protest. It's clear the students have been paying attention to their professor's double-talk. Consider their decision, “in the interest of tactical flexibility” to reverse their original position against property destruction. "Though we realize that this choice to revise our original policy may undermine ideological consistency of this action, we feel that reacting to the changing situation of the occupation is more important than adhering to any dogma, even our own."

It's hard to see how students breaking into a private space with a laundry list of incongruous demands, and then holding a dance party—really!—is an honest attempt to create an "educational community." Perhaps we haven't been well enough educated.

On the phone, Stainkamp said, "I'm kind of depressed to see the media coverage of us, but extremely pleased to see all the support." Asked if she'd encountered any professors hostile to her political views, she said, "I am mostly involved with radical professors with radical views that are in support of us."

When we asked Dillon, who's now working as a tenant organizer and otherwise came across as the most articulate of the bunch, what went wrong with the brave rebel's reception, he said:

"I think that there' s strong Zionist presence at NYU and in the U.S. and the Gaza demands set many people who feel passionately about Israel against us."

Clearly, that was the problem.

By Sarah Shears

Harry Siegel contributed to this report.

Naturally I don't condone violence and frivolity in my politics. But...that corner of my heart that sinks into my stomach when it thinks of my parents paying $50,000 a year responded in this way:

"I feel compelled to throw in my two cents here, as I'm currently enrolled at NYU. I was not involved in these protests, merely a spectator, and I've been highly entertained by this whole media circus.
And it was a circus. I myself am a senior studying politics, and I think these students were tactless and deluded.

Of course they come across as arrogant, used force when it was entirely unwarranted (a security guard was injured when a group of students raided the building from the outside), and certainly the list of "demands" is laughable. As for trying to recreate the 1960's, sure, there were probably plenty of Tisch film students in that crowd who worship Godard and wanted to put on a show.

But to say that these students are all trust fund babies is unfair. It's easy to say that, to write off these kids as spoiled hipsters who are infiltrating your east village haunts. I can say that in my experience, that's a huge part of going to school in this city. It's annoying, no doubt. There are still plenty of hard-working students here, whose parents simply wanted them to go to the best school they could get into. Maybe that's trite and misinformed, the allure of a 'big name' private university. They're not necessarily rich. Maybe that makes them irresponsible. Higher education should be affordable, and schools like NYU shouldn't cater solely to the upper crust. It's a generational defect.

Budget disclosure is absolutely an issue that should be addressed, but unfortunately, the efforts of Take Back NYU have been completely derailed and mishandled. Projects like the new campus in Abu Dhabi, the increasing presence of NYU abroad, an almost nonexistent diversity policy...and my TA's still aren't being paid fairly? That's bullshit, and John Sexton is a crook.
I'm sad that this project was led largely by kids with Che Guevera tee-shirts and hammer and sickle tattoos, but what can you do. At 18, 19, 20 years old? Of course, they're going to do whatever Noam Chomsky tells them to do."

What do you think? Too defensive? I don't want to sound like a crybaby. I'm annoyed that I published an unnecessary comma in the last sentence.

Urban Dictionary for Jill, Rated NC-17

So, because I miss you, I searched your name on urbandictionary.com...

and here's what happened.

Mature audiences only

1. Jill

the "girl" a guy is taking home to have sex with.

this girl is really his hand, that he is going home to masterbate with. hold it up and the fingers spell out J-i-l-l.

makes him sound cool, even though everyone knows he's pathetic and can't get any.

guy1: "me and my girl had so much sex last night"
guy2: "yeah me too, i met this fucking hot chick named Jill.


1. jill off

The female version of jack off: unassisted autoerotic stimulation.

Her boyfriend was out of town, so she got in the hot tub to jill off.


1. JILL TILL

The female version of wank bank - A conscious thought by females to mentally photograph a person so as to be able to masturbate or jill off while thinking about them at a later date. Jill off is the female version of jack off: unassisted autoerotic stimulation.

"That dude is seriously hot!"

"Yeah, I might put him in the jill till"


1. Jill zone

The area a guy gets stuck in when he is too ugly or not cool enough (etc.) to get sex but still too good, somewhat attractive enough (etc.) so that he can't get pity sex... hence he is stuck with only Jill - (the hand a guy uses to jack off with, the fingers spell out JILL)
Why do I have to be stuck in the jill zone!?!?

I couldn't have been better looking to get out of the jill zone, could I?!?

Are u kidding me?! Even melvin gets pity sex, i'm stuck in the gay jill zone!!!


1. Jill in the Box

The action taken such that when having sex in a car with a sun roof, the man thrusts upward so that the woman's (Jill) head emerges through the sunroof and moans in delight. Similar to the childrens toy the Jack in a Box especially when performed with random thrusts.

I was dogging in the park last night and whacked it while watching a Jill in the Box.


1. Jill-of-all-trades

1. a woman who is versatile, and who can perform many different activities very well.

2. the gender opposite of a Jack-of-all-trades

Jealous Girl 1: I hate Katey. She already has the corner office, and she just finished running a marathon.

Jealous Girl 2: I know, right? Did you hear that she's dating that new guy, Eric? You know, the one with the abs.

Jealous Girl 1: Ugghhh! She even baked this cake for Linda's birthday. And, it's amazing (wiping frosting from mouth.) She is truly a Jill-of-all-trades.


1. Jill Tits

Someone with rather small tits, often called "Mosquito Bites" or "Bee Stings"

That new girl has some major Jill Tits, can she even physically wear a bra?


1. jill-hookup

When someone says they have a hookup to get you a discount and in the end the hookup was more trouble than it was worth. (since it was a ghetto-hookup)

see ghetto-hookup

Yeah, that was a jill-hookup, got a savings of 6 bux...


1. Jilli

some one with a nice booty

guy1: dammnn did ya see that girls ass?
guy2: dude yaa it was such a JILLI!


1. Jill Pickle

A lesbian who is too amusing for words.

or

A gay man's good female friend.

I love chatting with my Jill Pickle.

2. Jill Pickle

A cucumber used by a female to masturbate.

Dana doesn't have a boyfriend, but she knows how to turn a 8 inch cucumber into a jill pickle when she's lonely.


1. jilldash

The simultaneous and competitive rush towards the women's bathroom which occurs in a restaurant with single-occupant restrooms when the occupant vacates.

During happy hour at Thaiphoon, fistfights occasionally break out during the jilldash.


1. jillaroo

The Australian nickname meaning cowgirl.

Wow... that's one fine Jillaroo.

2. Jillaroo

1. An extremely unattractive or "undateable" guy
2. Someone that one must avoid flirting with at all costs
3. Male who tends to spend most time alone on the computer
4. Opposite of a jackaroo

Girl #1: Eww! Rachel check out that jillaroo!
Girl #2: Yea Kaitlin, he's totally undateable!


1. jillass

The female version of jackass.

That Jessica can be such a jillass sometimes!


1. Jillianare

A Fly Ma or Woman who's got a body money cant buy

"Man Did you see that she's Jillianare!!"

"Man Girl even my money couldn't buy your Jillianare body"


1. Jilla

Slang for Crack Cocaine mainly used in Brooklyn, N.Y. around the downtown area mostly Smith st., Gowanus, Wyckoff Projects and Red Hook.

Yo did you see her? i think she smokes Jillas now


1. jillinkla

a state of mind where one thinks about everything eg. life, god culture, music...etc and attempts to makes sense of everything, only succeeding in confussing themselves after which they get into a state that they don't want to think

you: what if hitler never died? what if i was never born? what if the sky was pink? what if..........

someone: that person has gone jillinkla.


1. jillion

Large number that has yet to be invented.

Fry: One JILLION dollars.
Audience: *Gasp*
Auctioneer: Sir, that's not even a number.

2. jillion

An imaginary word that is meant to describe a number far beyond comprehension.

Angela's dad has a jillion dollars, that rich bastard.


1. jillybangin

the act of getting really fucked up. usually on weed and booze at the sametime. any combination of intoxicants that gets u retardedly buzzed.

lets go get jilly banged son. i havent been jilly bangin in a long ass time.


1. jillyflickin

created by a man to replace the term "fucking around"

My boss caught me jillyflickin behind the shed.


1. jillywillicker

a word tht is sed wen u are shocked.

u are having me a jillywillicker?!


Shlove jew,

1. Tassia

A totally gorgeous, generous, sweet, friend who is absolutely trustworthy. A funny very shy girl who enjoys hanging out with friends.

Tassia is the perfect friend.

because my life is an increasingly lame post-9/11 narrative

...fueled by booze, cigarettes, and cafe bustelo. And not sex.
I need to take down the recycling more often.

"he was too drunk to fuck anyways."

"He looks at you like a bunny that just found a carrot."

So says my Global Personality Test

Extraversion	||||||||||||||||	70%
Stability	||||||||||	38%
Orderliness	||||	18%
Accommodation	||||||||||||||||||||	90%
Interdependence	||||||||||||	43%
Intellectual	||||||||||||||||||	74%
Mystical	||||||	30%
Artistic	||||||||||||||||||||	83%
Religious	||	10%
Hedonism	||||||||||||||||	70%
Materialism	||||||||||	36%
Narcissism	||||||||||	36%
Adventurousness	||	10%
Work ethic	||||||||||	36%
Humanitarian	||||||||||||||||||||	90%
Conflict seeking	||||||||||||	43%
Need to dominate	||||||||||||	43%

Romantic	||||||||||||||||	63%
Avoidant	||||||||||||	43%
Anti-authority	||||||||||||||	56%
Wealth	||||||||||||	43%
Dependency	||||||||||	36%
Change averse	||||||||||||||	56%
Cautiousness	||||||||||||	50%
Individuality	||||||||||||||||	70%
Sexuality	||||||	23%
Peter pan complex	||||||||||	36%
Family drive	||||||||||||||||||||	90%
Physical Activity	||||||||||	36%
Histrionic	||||	16%
Paranoia	||||||||||||||||	63%
Vanity	||||||	23%
Honor	||||||||||||||	56%
Thriftiness	||||||||||||||||	70%

Stability results were moderately low which suggests you are worrying, insecure, emotional, and anxious.

Orderliness results were low which suggests you are overly flexible, improvised, and fun seeking at the expense too often of reliability, work ethic, and long term accomplishment.

Extraversion results were high which suggests you are overly talkative, outgoing, sociable and interacting at the expense too often of developing your own individual interests and internally based identity.

trait snapshot:

craves attention, messy, open, rash, irritable, likes large parties, low self control, weird, fragile, does not like to be alone, emotionally sensitive, worrying, depressed, heart over mind, does not respect authority, dependent, not rule conscious, not good at saving money, more interested in relationships than intellectual pursuits, likes to fit in, very social, frequently second guesses self, phobic, suspicious, not careful, outgoing, vain, compassionate, aggressive, likes to make fun, hates to lose



...but!
I don't think I should have to trust anyone that can't spell EXTROVERSION, anyway.

photojournalism

crazy towwwn

I've completed most of my tour. I say that now with some renewed confidence.

Alright. So the only thing you can do once you've pretty much broken THROUGH the bottom of something, is try and regain power. Right? Sometimes you can climb out of the well.

I wonder if this has been what some people would call a nervous breakdown. It's really never something I've considered for myself. I thought that was a sort of myth, in that it only happened to people that were chemically disposed to that sort of thing. I am not clinically depressed, but I've come to understand it a little.

Today I listened to the lyrics of "trees get wheeled away", a Bright Eyes song Kate mostly plays in the apartment. How irritating, that my life should somehow emulate that song. "There's a virgin in my bed, and she's taking off her dress, and I'm not sure what I'm gonna do..." ugh, GROSS.

Jill told me it would take at least half the span of this whole event to really get over it. Let's see. August to February is...six months? So three months. Three.

I told him I couldn't see or speak to him in any real capacity. Wow, what a drama queen, what an asshole. The truth is, if I try my hardest to go back to a sort of hum-drum interaction, and lie to myself about what's happened and how it's made me feel, the elation followed by the disappointment I felt, I'm just doing that martyrization thing again. He doesn't deserve to have me around now. Two weeks ago, I think I would have done just about anything for him.

This didn't occur to me--the idea that I needed to cut him off, rather than begging him not to do the same to me--until I spoke to some distant family member. Sometimes you need the right kind of person to really listen to you. I told my stepfather's sister about it, and she's around his age, and about as unstable as I am. I had told her about him on Thanksgiving when I was stoned, that I was falling in love with this man...she asked about the ring I was wearing around my neck. His ring. Which by the way, we never acknowledged.

Because that sort of thing would happen again. And again. I would get older, and he would get lonelier, and drunker. And what if I don't find anyone else? And what if I do it all over again? What if I try to convince myself that he will come around? Come out of it? And just waste more of my time on someone who will never love me?

And even if I didn't go so far as to do that, there would still be conflict and paranoia and jealousy and defensive behavior and delusion. That's already happened. And why should I put myself through that? I can't control my subconscious. I was in love, he barely bat an eyelash. I am not hurtful, and I don't aspire to be. He can't be the bigger man, he's not emotionally armed for that. He will always wound me. He has a spear, but no armor.

After I recapitulated and gave her an update, she gave me a long stare. I said something about just waving it off and staying friends, and how having some part of him was better than having nothing, and she shook her head.

"You know after you've felt that way about someone, you can't just go back. Don't pretend it didn't mean as much as it did."

Let's talk about how I'll maybe never see Charlotte again.
No, let's not.

I'm not sure how long I will stay up nights worrying about him. Whether he's sick, how will he get to see a doctor, has he been eating, is he reading, is he writing, what is he doing with himself and is he getting through the day, though never actually wondering whether it's my fault, whether I am hurting him, or neglecting him, because he never gave a fuck about me. I don't think I ever really penetrated him at all.

pen·e·trate

v. pen·e·trat·ed, pen·e·trat·ing, pen·e·trates

v.tr.

1. To enter or force a way into; pierce.

2.

a. To enter into and permeate: The insistent rhythm of piano practice penetrated each room of the house.

b. To cause to be permeated or diffused; steep.

3. To insert the penis into the vagina or anus of.

4. To enter (an organization, for example), usually surreptitiously, so as to gain influence or information; infiltrate.

5. To grasp the inner significance of; understand.

6. To see through: keen eyes that penetrate the darkness.

7. To affect deeply, as by piercing the consciousness or emotions.

v.intr.

1. To pierce or enter into something; make a way in or through something.

2. To gain admittance or access.

3. To gain insight.

Yeah, I didn't accomplish any of those things. He accomplished them all, except for #3. Which, if you don't remember, was " to insert the penis into the vagina or anus of " me. Though he could have. Well, not the anus.

We didn't utter a word to each other.

It's just all kind of amazing to me.

Trust me guys, I can't wait until I have something better or more consuming to write about either.

I thought I was finished discussing this too.

Roar.

So I've been trying to post forever, but my internet connection has been so spotty in the apartment. Let's see if I can bang out this entry before it fails me again.

First of all, I think I'm going a little insane, and feel a little stunted and very stupid. I don't know, my interactions with certain people in certain environments are just increasingly tense and uncomfortable. And I really feel like I'm doing my best to avoid this. I don't understand! I've been through this shitstorm already. I don't feel uncomfortable, I think I've accomplished closure, but I keep upsetting everyone. I'm trying to be pleasant, but there's apparently this embittered, condemnatory undertone involved. And everyone is so defensive. What the fuck? I don't even know what I'm saying to these people. It doesn't seem all that important to me.

Have I become tactless?

I think I've been really well-behaved. I've let everyone else call the shots, time and time again. I've been hugely manipulated, taken for a complete fool. There was this whole staged, calculated performance, of which I was an oblivious co-star, and I took it for sincerity? I completely fell for it. I acknowledge this, that I'm a bit of a sad little idiot, but why exactly do I have to make penance for having honest feelings, and trying to behave like an adult? I haven't freaked out in any overt, public way. You should be nice to me. I've tried to do everything right by you. You're just so disingenuous.

I think much of it has to do with underlying feelings of guilt, but more prominently and importantly, the anger and resentment of feeling guilty in the first place. Such occurrences are rare.

Well, I'm sorry. I won't liberate you from that guilt, which is entirely unnecessary and a waste of time, by being an asshole. That's not my role.

Sad little idiot.

I'm not all that sad anymore so much as I'm frustrated, but I'm certainly little, hopefully becoming less and less of an idiot as I'm being rudely awakened by the World of Fucked Up Dudes.

W-FUD. Dub Fud. This is code.

You know what helps?

Pretending that such men are Eunuchs. Especially because they like reading literature about the middle ages, have recently been very into growing their facial hair to a really appealing length, hair on head growing longer and longer and usually unkempt, covered by some kind of dark hood, the earth tones, the long coat...the jar of testes kept safe in their cave-like dwellings.
So, in my imagination, he's a monk. Asceticism counteracted by Alcoholism. Generally somber, all-suffering, bearing the weight of the world and his own plethora of knowledge always, committed to his reading and clerical celibacy, disciplined, punitive, dark eyes sad and enormous against pale skin, pupils often dilated and never ending, and most importantly, No Genitalia. And sometimes his voice gets really high for no reason. Especially when he explodes into laughter.
It really works. It's a completely asexual image, he's been a complete douche, and rather than being sort of into said douchey behavior, any sexual AND emotional connections are entirely voided.

He's vilified everything, everything I've ever felt has been completely invalidated. There's nothing to be sad about, it's gone, it's almost as if it never was. I still can't bring myself to hate him. I'm assured more and more every day that he's doing me a huge favor.

"the castrated ones sit on the corner smoking
they want to feel the bulges in their pants start to rise
At the sight of a beautiful woman, they feel nothing
but anger, her skin makes them sick in the night
Nauseous, nauseous, nauseous."

There's a Regina Spektor lyric for everything.

So if Father Matthew goes into monastic solitude, I'll deal.
I don't have a choice.

Chronicles of Moronic Behavior

by T. M. Rosa

...is what I'm thinking the title of this blog should REALLY be.

I was in a horrible, paralyzing panic yesterday because I had lost my journal, the one I write by hand. Then it occurred to me that I may have left it at the cafe. And I did. Ugh, I got so drunk at Theater of Fools. Sure enough, I called Tom, asked if he had seen a notebook with a cat on it? And he found it, left it precariously under the register, for me to retrieve later.

The very last paragraph I had written was completely scathing on the subject of my boss. If Tom read that...if my boss read that...mmm...it definitely made threats of voodoo, santeria, and online defamation.

Even more of a concern would be every single goddamn intimate detail of my failed love life becoming public knowledge, amongst my co-workers, all those people that hang out at the club, the subject of at least 15+ pages of writing, who also works at the club...

FUCK. FUCK FUCK FUCK. FUCK.
It's safely back in my possession. I really shouldn't bring it around in public.

I think this website is fairly unsearchable. I'll check on that later.
Writers like Dorothy Parker and Robert Benchley used to leave their personal journals in their offices, to be read by whoever the fuck.
Yeah, absolutely not. I doubt their internal monologues were this retarded.

I'm not a particularly private person. I can't bury anything. There are at least four people in the world who know every last neurotic detail. One of them is dwindling. Half of them read this here blog, irregularly. But who really wants to know all this morose bullshit I have going on?

My nails are beautifully manicured and polished. Glossy glossy glossy. It seems unfitting, but who am I to scoff at my mother's idea of female bonding? I don't like being pampered, even if you're paying too much for it. It's just uncomfortable. Why is this strange woman massaging my calves? I haven't shaved in 2 weeks.
Also, pumice stones. On the balls of my feet. Even worse, the little arc between the ball and heel. I am ticklish.
What is it about being tickled? Why do we laugh? We don't enjoy it.
Being tickled is so torturous, and by the way, only acceptable when carried out by a parent or sexual partner. Otherwise, please get the fuck away from me.

I talked to my mom about men. She knows pretty much everything, and gave me smart advice. 'What the fuck Tassia?' is right.
She told me I was too young. Not too young to be with this person, who's substantially older, even more so in terms of experience, but too young to be so irrevocably devoted to any one person, and consequently so miserable when I can't have him.
And I can't, maybe ever.

She's right, and I'm crazy.

My red toenails look so pretty, next to my tattoos.
I only rebel below my ankles.

Backbone Reinstated, the end of an era.

An email to my employer, who just yesterday stripped me of all my shifts at the cafe (via email), and asked me to stay on an "on-call basis", oh, and he owes me 3 months worth of pay from the summer :

I'm sorry, I can't accept this any longer.

No, I cannot be "on call". This is my main source of income. I won't be taken advantage of.

I worked as much as I did over the summer so that I could have some savings for the school year. Now my savings are depleted, and my credit is becoming a problem. After all this time, you're asking me to give up my shifts to people you had ME train, only to fill in when Tom has band practice?

I have to say that being a part of the Vox Pop "team" has been nothing but a huge disappointment. I came to this place interested in your political involvement, and a generally altruistic cause. I find your business practices extremely hypocritical. The "Books, Coffee, DEMOCRACY" slogan makes me cringe every time I walk into that storefront.

You've stayed out of legal trouble thusfar because you've gained the loyalty of people like Anthony and me, only to show us complete disrespect in return. We haven't had a staff meeting in months, you are secretive, you make promises about backpay that are never fulfilled. I understand that you are running a business in an awful recession, that you're trying to create an enterprise. But the truth is, you've been a terrible boss, and have turned out to be just another cutthroat businessman.

I don't want to hire a lawyer. If my parents knew anything about this situation (and I've kept them in the dark for this very reason), you would have a lawsuit on your hands tomorrow. Maybe even later this afternoon. They've been picking up your slack, and it isn't fair.

I appreciate that you've organized my paychecks. I am grateful to Anthony for putting payroll through every week over the summer. I would have quit this job solely based on the fact that you fired him after all the work he's put in, and all the sacrifices he's had to make because of your own shortcomings. There are just so many things wrong with that.

I understand that Anthony is on some kind of payment plan in order to catch up on his compensation. Please give me Janine's contact information, I'd like to get in touch with her about that.

I have a credit card payment due on January 16th. I hope you can help me out in some way before then. I think it's the very least you can do. I only ever received one of the checks I was owed, and I've refrained from asking since October.

I hereby submit my resignation from Vox Pop.

Good luck to you.

In Other News

Haha.

I've decided, I need to filter this thing a bit more. Let's talk about pleasantries. If any occur to me.

I've been handwriting the shit out of a new, tangible journal. Easily set on fire. So, let me be self-indulgent and obsessive compulsive far away from the internet.

Kayla got into a car accident this afternoon. No injuries.
I made fun of her. This was mean, I am mean. My only driving mishap, before moving to new york and pledging my allegiance to public transportation, was in my own driveway.
It was some Rosa family gathering, there were at least...20 cars belonging to assorted family members in my father's long, winding driveway.
I honestly must have made about 15 maneuvers so as NOT to hit anyone's car. When I finally thought I was in the clear, triumphantly moving forward, I completely fucked up my cousin Manny's bumper.
I had to walk back into the house, announce to 30+ family members that I had hit someone's car, all of the men followed me out to make sure it wasn't theirs...
My father was LIVID. My cousin Michael consoled me. It wasn't so bad.

Kayla seems to think that she is a far superior driver. Now the car is totaled.
So, I win.

Getting to the Hamptons for a last reckless hurrah before school starts is going to be a bitch.

Last night, Danielle came to visit! I've known Danielle for 12 years, which is more than half my life. I feel old. We also realized that she TOO was at the Bowery Poetry Club for my17th (if not 18th?) birthday. High school feels a millions years away.

My 21st birthday is Theater of Fools night. I'm going to make a huge deal out of this.

I'm getting on the pill. Not because I am looking to engage in lots of unprotected sex, or any sex, for that matter. My skin's been atrocious, my period unreliable, and my smoking habits increasingly vile. I'll have to cut down, at the very least. If I get fat, well, it's a good thing I've lost a bit of weight due to unprecedented post-adolescent depression and unrequited love.

I'm still nonsensically puzzled and a little disgusted by these biological processes.

Someone put a clamp in me.

December 31st 2008

You broke me.
I am decimated.

dec·i·mate

tr.v. dec·i·mat·ed, dec·i·mat·ing, dec·i·mates

1. To destroy or kill a large part of (a group).

2. Usage Problem
a. To inflict great destruction or damage on:

The fawns decimated my rose bushes.

b. To reduce markedly in amount
3. To select by lot and kill one in every ten of.

I'm in pieces, from bleecker to avenue a to new jersey, back and forth, back and forth.

"I'm fond of you, I'm not in love with you, but this is nice..."

None of your apologies were sincere. You're laughing to yourself.

You are a snake.

It's clear you don't take me seriously. For you this is mindless obsession, a farce.
I wish that were true, maybe I'll try convincing myself of it.

More fucked up than I've ever been before. And you were trying to avoid this? Great job, I hope you feel like a fucking hero.

"Don't pile shame onto this, there's enough shame in the world..."

I'm not ashamed of myself, you arrogant son of a bitch.
You should be.

What's sad is that I don't want anything to change. Not really.
But I'm fairly certain you never will.






I learned that heartbreak and LSD compliment each other nicely.
Happy New Year indeed.