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.