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.