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You had me at “heh”….7.16.04

There is something seriously awry when the presence of an adorably cute 4-year old girl in your office to distract you from work with inane banter that makes even less sense in that it is not being mumbled from the bar stool next to you does nothing for your mood. (Example: “I used to only have chocolate coins but then for my birthday Anne gave me a candy flower. It was a flower made out of candy. Then I could buy it with chocolate money if I hadn’t eaten them already.” Ah.) She is all summery-little-girly with the white scuffed sandals and sundress and sweaty bobbed hair and she is way more interesting than anything I have to concentrate on in my office and still…I just wanted her the fuck out. I wanted to be bitter and pissy and miserable and I did not want some nice little girl in my office making me feel stupid for acting so petty.

I am stewing in my own juices, people. I am fixated on the last relationship I had, on why it ended like it did, on why I have absolutely no interest in trying to replicate the good parts of it with someone else, on how this job is maddening and now that I am really busy it is still not professionally satiating, on a person that I can finally relax with but am shut out of feeling anything else for, on my dad’s reaching out for his coffee and picking up the sugar, the ridges on its surface were the quickest giveaway, and on living somewhere besides a city for once. Has that been it all along? I am thinking about towns, and 2-lane roads, and mountains. And will that change anything? And why do I waste my money so much? How am I ever going to finance my escape? I went to the thrift store today and cleaned up on things I cannot live without, e.g. an ashtray that looks like a telephone, a ceramic jug that looks like it's a pair of wrinkled pants, perhaps denim but it is hard to say. It is kitschy and wierd and wonderful, perfect for summer entertaining (bye-bye, Martha) and I can't think of anything worse. Unless it's pants that look like a pair of wrinkled jugs...And true, they were super cheap, but you see the issue.

I like how Robin used to say, “Fuckity.” Fuckity.

I also like the following from Girls Are Pretty. Great bitter fodder:

Break love down into seven stages: Confusion, Surrender, Ripping Metal From Metal With Seeming Superhuman Strength To Pull The Object Of Your Love From A Car Wreck As A Seeping Puddle Of Gasoline Approaches, Suspicion, Disillusionment, Experimentation, Murder-Suicide.

The beauty of feeling bitter and somehow vaguely, self-righteously wronged is that there’s no way to actually stop this feeling by reaching some desired goal, some identified outcome. Yes, the carousel of bitterness will spin you ad infinitum, ad nauseum even, but don’t bother to look for the golden ring. It’s not there and all there is for you are creepy calliope dirges being thrashed out and the annoying emotional dissidence brought on by what is now just ANNOYING self-pity—both of which may give one a colossal headache. Which I have right now.

So since the stopping point is to be brought about by an–as-yet-indeterminate force of nature, destiny, or cathartic drug-induced experience, all I’ve got to do is lean back, straddle my chipped little Victorian horsie and enjoy the ride. It is not a total lost cause: Being bitter is a great entree’ into feeling high-and-mighty, somewhat holier-than-thou, as in, ‘Oh, cry me a river, baby. You don’t even know.’ I spent last night hanging out with a pal, giving him sage advice and nodding ironically as he complained about this and that. Yeah right. Like he's got problems. Oh, I got trouble.

So, there. Heh. A sound that I don’t think I’ve ever uttered but somehow it just feels nasty and cynical and removed and slightly more highbrow than a big fat raspberry which I am actually blowing as I write this. And for the record, I hate the whole “heh” thing. I don’t know why but it gives me the heebejeebies on the order of “huzzah!” (please die) or the worst, “I ‘heart’ this slarvy whatever.” I ‘heart’ Belle and Sebastian and my whole twee little pomade laden product placement indie farce. I ‘heart’ all that like I ‘heart’ the poor little poodle owned by the totally pretentious dude down the street that has been just been given its summer “doo” and, with its strategically placed tufts of hair, looks like a bad case study from the Canine Topiary Institute. So cutesy wootsy it makes me ‘heart’ the sight of my cat’s dreadfully ungroomed dreadlocked state of her dingleberried butt hairs. See what I mean about being bitter? It’s the best.

And I have spent waay to much time lately sitting around and alternately reading and staring at my cat's posterior as she sprawls before me. I so completely ‘spleen’ this summer so far. By the way, I think I totally ‘black lung’ YOU. Kisses!

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