Well I’m back. And I've been lying this whole time.

​hi. 

It’s been a long time. Probably because I have spent a great deal of that time avoiding having feelings. All that depression, anxiety, ADHD, codependency, speculation about cyclothymia or even bipolar? Turns out it's just complex PTSD. C-PTSD is a nice term for "really fucked up childhood." The only shocker here is that it took me 34 years to figure it out.

Well... yes and no. One of the hallmarks of C-PTSD is the way it changes your brain into a wily fox that can dodge in and out of your consciousness, and loves to masquerade as, well... all those things I listed above that mental health care providers have suggested might be a problem. Turns out it can even cause autoimmune problems. (Perhaps I'll elaborate when there's an appropriate moment, but I was just diagnosed with Inflammatory Bowel Disease, wherein the immune system attacks your large intestine. Fun!)

Anyway, I've known C-PTSD is a thing for me since my dear sister found Surviving to Thriving a few years ago. Even though I read that and The Body Keeps the Score*, I never really fully grasped just how big a hold this thing has on me, and kind of figured that my journey with my therapist would just work things out. I guess I just expected that, now that I knew what the problem was, it would just go away. 

HAHAHAHAHAHA

A few months ago, Laura, my sister, brought her 12 year old daughter to visit me here. They noted how I was constantly on the move, trying to always do more more more, to squeeze more into their visit and to show my niece every cool thing there was to see here. In fact, since Laura's cancer diagnosis (more on that later too), she can't do as much as she used to, and even though she was doing a bit better than she had been, my drive to be DOING so much became a point of contention between us. A couple months later she told me that my need to be constantly on the move reads to her as inauthentic or desperate, like I can't just sit with myself. 

This is something I've been ruminating on for a couple of months now. It's been floating in the back of my mind while I watched countless episodes of Drag Race and did months of crossword puzzles, avoiding a confrontation with...well..with anything. Meanwhile, I signed up to make Laura's youngest daughter a Halloween costume well beyond the scope of my sewing capabilities, my old clunky SUV died in Pennsylvania, I've been dating again. I've been barely working and thus freaking out about finances constantly, in spite of which I planned a birthday party and made a costume for myself for that, plus I have spent an inordinate amount of time online shopping for....what? I have no idea. I've bought things, but I really could not tell you I needed any of them. I just wanted to spend the time on... something. Anything. Anything but having to confront what's wrong.

Enter Chris. Like I said, I've been dating again, prompted by knowing I had time off of work after finishing the World's Hardest Pilot. Who wants to sit around and deal with themselves when they're not working? Not me! So I got back on the apps and started making a few dates. Then there was Chris--a guy I knew. A really hot guy I knew way back when I was a PA. God knows when I met him or when the last time I'd seen him was, I just knew him. I think maybe I met him in 2010? 2011? Anyway, whenever that was, he immediately registered my crush and I used to get in trouble with the ADs for flirting and chatting with him. I think I used to run away from him a lot because I liked him so much and it scared me.

Anyway, present day! Let's focus on the present. I saw Chris on the app, and I clicked like, because I liked him. It was very pleasing when I saw that he had already clicked on me! Then he wrote me a message. I could kind of hardly believe that. Then he asked me to hang out. I was certain this was not a date, that it was just about catching up. It was a date. He likes me! Turns out Chris likes me, and I like him. Or he liked me... I kind of am not sure if he still does. More on that later. But anyway, liking Chris and trying to date him has backed me into a corner of wondering who the fuck I am and why the fuck he might ever want to be with me. I couldn't figure it out until he told me he believes in aliens. 

I was a little floored by that. He has exhibited much in the way of being susceptible to conspiracy theories, and I had been wary of this, unsure what my feelings were. But when he said he believed in aliens, it was too much confrontation for my unsure-of-its-feelings brain and I shut it down with a lie, paraphrased: "I've never really thought about that. It just isn't something I have wanted to think about." 

Right after I said it, I knew I had lied. I let it go, believing it was a white lie and didn't really matter. But it stuck with me. I could have just told him the truth: I needed more time to find my feelings about it. My sister used to watch things with aliens that scared me when I was little and so I have enjoyed believing that science shows us that sentient beings from outside Earth are not likely to exist. These are innocuous truths; why hadn't I just said them instead?

That same evening I lied some more, although perhaps more to myself. I asked him what he wanted us to be, something amorphous like that. I told myself I was asking the right question, but I was too scared to ask if he felt like we saw enough of each other or too much, if he wanted us to be exclusive or preferred to keep things open and casual. I botched it though. When I clarified I just said I wanted to know what he wants. It blew up in my face, he asked if I was seeing other people. I told him I was, which I had told him up front... and he was incredulous. He obviously had not expected that. I was a little drunk and kind of hoping it would make him laugh told him about a grip I'd gone on a couple coffee dates with. 

And then I wondered why his communication changed with me. Jesus fucking christ.

The lie stuck with me, and slowly it has become apparent to me that I have been lying constantly for the last 35 years. At 7, not knowing how to deal with my dad's suicide (not the worst part), I ate and got obese and my fatness gave me some social anxiety (not the worst part). When I engaged with the kids on my block, they teased me mercilessly (not the worst part). When I went to my mom for help, she continually told me to ignore them or avoid them and left it at that - and THAT is the worst part. That part taught me that I could not count on her for help. My sister didn't help either; in fact, she teased me about my weight too. That taught me I could not count on her for help. I was alone, and the only way to soothe myself was to hide in my books and write my stories (and eat, because food will fix it! And steal, because stuff will fix it!). And if I wanted to do that all the time, I had to get my mom and my sister and my teachers and everyone else out of my way. I had to control the narrative. I had to lie. Constantly. 

And I never learned to stop. I've dealt with negative consequences over and over and over, but never anything so bad as to make me stop. In fact, some of the lighter consequences just made me better at lying, or at least better at convincing myself of things that are not true. Thinking back now, I think I can see where others have seen it in me and decided to disengage with me or stop trusting me...friends, lovers, coworkers, bosses, even Laura. 

For 35 years of my life I have been faking that I'm perfect - and obviously nobody's perfect and obviously my constant inability to be authentic has led to some REALLY imperfect shit (being late because I am dishonest with myself about the amount of time I need to get things done, not following through on things because I convinced myself I'd have more time or energy, failing to ask for help when I was overwhelmed, taking jobs I was not particularly qualified for, getting drunk and saying things--true or false--that conflict with lies I've already told, etc., etc...) Anyway, I have been doing my best to control the narrative of my life so that I look as perfectly imperfect as possible, even down to having a separate blog from this blog back in the day because I was afraid that people who knew about this blog would see certain things that I felt I wanted to write about but was afraid to show them! 

I have lied to my therapist, I have lied to my family, I have lied to my friends and employers and definitely to my lovers, and basically anybody that I care about. In fact, the more I care about someone's opinion, the more I lie to them to try to make myself look better to them. No wonder I keep getting my heart broken! No wonder I have had friction and frustration from Aunt Jude, whose judgement I inexplicably fear above all others! No wonder I barely know what my feelings are or who I am and can't identify what value I bring to this world--I have been lying to myself over and over and over!

I am so, so ashamed of myself. I am ashamed that I have been dishonest with so many people. But I am also ashamed that this fucked up bullshit has robbed years away from a life I wish I could have lived honestly. 

That all ends now. No more lying. No more pretending to be anything other than what I am. I am shooting for radical honesty--Laura made me laugh when she said that if I do that, my tendency to lie will probably help me fall somewhere in the middle. But I really hope not. I really really want to be honest. With you, with myself, with anyone who will listen. I'm not perfect, and I'm exhausted of trying to pretend that I ever could be. I just want to be me. 

The little girl I used to be believed it when bullies told her she was disgusting and unlovable, and she kept lying because she desperately wanted to hide those qualities from other people. But now that I'm a big girl I know that the right thing to do was to tell that little girl that those bullies were wrong, and to show the bullies that they were wrong by being the best person she could be. If I'm going to be my best, I have to let others help me. I have to let people in on who I really am, flaws and all, instead of just trying to control the narrative. 

So. Radical Honesty is the new directive. Let's see where it gets us.

*Since we're being radically honest, I got through about a third of The Body Keeps the Score and was no longer able to pay attention because... Attention is hard for trauma brain that wants to hide from its trauma. Especially attention to subject matter that forces one to see the trauma brain for what it is. I listened to Surviving to Thriving on audiobook, which, since I'm constantly listening to podcasts, means I can tell you some of the highlights but certainly didn't deeply retain a lot of its contents. I just learned that the trauma brain doesn't learn from listening too well, something that I suspect may be covered in the book.

Camel caravan in New York, 1942

A reader emailed me the link to this photo. I love it! Maybe someday I'll incorporate it into my layout... Maybe someday I'll have something substantial and profound to write again...although I guess I'm not doing so bad with that, even with the kickass, ass-kicking job. I've also still somehow managed to be out and about with friends having fun, loving life, and absolutely not dating, not even the nice girl (so nice, but our schedules are just not working out--I did have the decency to tell her though, instead of just letting it fizzle).

My new and lovely friend Payroll and I had a talk about how much dating is not fun, especially when you haven't been in the game for a long time. So for now, forget it! Friends with everyone! Stupid moony girl to no one! Ginger passion fruit martinis for all!

And now, the camels:

The glamorous movie business

I have a 6:00 am flight tomorrow morning that leaves out of Newark. How long does it take to get to Newark from my house? 45 Minutes. That means I have to leave at 4 am.

Which means I should have gone to bed about twenty minutes ago.

Before I go to bed though, I have to clean my apartment and pack. I need to make sure the cats have plenty of food and water for two days. My neighbor is checking in on them tomorrow night.

Before I can do that, I need to get home and stare into space for a minute.

Before that I need to take a taxi home from the Upper West Side.

Before that? Schlepping camera equipment from the street up to the D.P.'s apartment.

Before that a subway ride up the red line from TriBeCa.

Before that switching out the front page of 120 packets of sides. Right now all I can do is wait. They haven't even called in the martini yet. I've been here since 8. am. I feel bad for Jeff. He's been here since 6:30. My POC is a saint for being so calm. Still, somehow I love it. It sucks sometimes, but a lot of jobs suck all the time. I think either I'm a little slap-happy, or I'm about to reach nirvana.

Hey, that's not me in the pool...that's some kind of weird robot or something.

I've been going a little overboard on the social stuff lately. Too much drinking, too much dating, too much eating out, too much worrying about what other people think, too much caring about things and people that are not myself.

This is classic Feminine Mystique behavior.

If you know me in the real world and we have spoken in the last month, you probably noticed how I seemed vapid and surface-y, and it might have annoyed you a little bit, because you know I'm better than that. In fact, I could read the irritation in some of your voices. Believe me, I'm with you! Reading over some of my blogs from the last month, I'm a little annoyed with myself. I mean, I'm very excited and lucky to have lots of really nice, creative, amazing friends and all, but I've busied myself showing off my wildly fabulous surface cool so much that I lost my normal, even-keel substance-y cool.

At work, I've been flighty, pestering Original Data Guy and 2.0 constantly with my chattiness and my antics. Granted, they're chatty too and they don't seem to mind, but I know they have more important things to do. Meanwhile I feel like all I've been doing is blogging all day and maybe chatting a bit on facebook. Nobody seems unimpressed with my performance, and I know I've really whipped a lot of the division's admin stuff into shape during my short time there, but I just don't feel like I'm doing anything particularly necessary, or at least not much. Mostly due to a lack of interest in nonprofit administration, my work has used up very few of my intellectual or creative resources. And quite frankly I can work at a mindless job, but I need to be kept pretty busy to ward off the daydreams and to keep me focused.

In other words, I was bored as hell with my day to day grind, so I started focusing on other people to stay excited about life.

I know what you're thinking. "Hey, wait a minute, that's not the brave, enthusiastic, mildly narcissistic Miss Adventurous we know!" And you're right. Under the shroud of the Mystique, I have not been myself. This living in the moment stuff has been bullshit. I've been living in moments, sure, but really only with other people. And that ain't me.

Now this is me: This week I'm starting a new job and hopefully continuing on my personal Yellow Brick Road toward dream fulfillment. I'm going to be tested with menial tasks, often exhausted, and occasionally needing some support. I promise though, that I will do my absolute best to truly live in the moment and to keep sight of who I am along the way, and that includes appreciating all of you and living my own life on my terms.

F--- YEAH.

I just did the unthinkable.

In one word I turned down a $40k annual salary for $650 a week, for a maximum of twelve weeks.. In that same word, I rejected the possibility of health insurance, paid vacations, or a 401(k). That word rejected a 9 to 5 schedule of laxidaisical event planning and scheduling meetings (and yes. blogging) in favor of 13 hour workdays of thankless phone answering and running back and forth and NEVER messing up, if at all humanly possible.

That word was a resounding and unequivocal YES.

I have to thank Aunt J one more time, and I'll probably thank her again tomorrow. Without her endorsement, who knows how long it might have taken? I certainly didn't expect it even this soon, but I'm sure glad it happened. Now I just need to make the best of it and impress the hell out of everyone in the production office...but if my past jobs are any indication, that will come naturally to me!

Because I... AM A ROCK STAR.

an APB and the week-long Laundromat Blues

Missing: One retro-cool fingerless glove
Last seen: on my couch
Accused of: making me ten minutes late for work


I'm not sure, but I think its disappearance has something to do with this grisly scene, which greeted me this morning:

I think it's time to get rid of some of my yarn stash. If anyone's interested in a multicolored assortment of fine natural fibers, let me know!

-----

A Pox On the Guy at My Laundromat

Every time I drop my laundry off on a Sunday I ask, "can I get this back tomorrow after work?" It's natural, see, because Monday is the day for all the boring, life-management tasks that I don't want to do. Which is why you are most likely to receive an inane text message from me on a Monday: "Yo! I'm in line @ the grocery. Whatcha doin?" or "I just hauled 15 lbs of cat litter home on the subway!" or sometimes just "I miss you dude!"

So, naturally, when dropping off my laundry on a Saturday evening or a Sunday, I expect to pick up the laundry on Monday after work. Inevitably, the guy shakes his head and says, "I don't know...," like it's some big fucking chore to actually provide the service for which the establishment was opened. I mean, I know the weekend is when they get the MOST drop-offs, but seriously! It's not like I'm dropping it off at six o'clock on a Sunday or anything either; I always go in the morning on my way out of the house.

My big problem comes in further down the line on Tuesday evening, when, inevitably, I go out with coworkers (remind me to tell you about Original Data Guy later and how much cooler he is than originally expected) or I have to work late, or I have some other important function to attend. Why? Because it's Tuesday. And Monday is the day when people take care of their boring crap, and since Monday was boring, it follows that Tuesday people will have things to do and ask me to do the things with them. This is just the reality of the hectic social schedule I live in (didn't think you'd ever hear me say that, did you).

So now it's Wednesday. And there I am, frantically looking around for my missing glove--shut up, I love those stupid gloves--and above and beyond not being able to keep my right forearm warm, I also have no dance pants. I have belly dance class on Wednesdays, and it really sucks to carry that big fluffy skirt around to work with me, so on Wednesdays I wear dance pants. Except for the last three weeks in a row, because Jerk-Off down at the laundromat can't possibly get my single load of laundry washed, dried, and folded by Monday at 6 pm. That's 21 hours of open-laundromat time.

And now my Thursday is ruined because I have to go allll the way back to the PLG right after work to make sure I pick up my laundry so that I can have it for the weekend! I certainly hope that there is something good going on in Brooklyn on Thursday, because once I get home I am not going to want to sit around and put all that laundry away. That is just not one of the moments I'm looking to live in!

Some Odd Numbers

One
The number of loving, caring, well-meaning sisters I have that told everyone in my family that I'm "dating."

Three
The number of blogs I have. One is a place I throw some random writings both fiction and nonfiction (no, you can't read it--it's all unfinished and unpolished), and I just started a new private one... Because there are personal things, and then there are private things. If you want to read my private things, email me with a good reason why I should let you.

Five
The number of people in my real life who have asked me a question along the lines of, "so who's this Producer guy?" None of your damn business, that's who! God! Quit reading my blog if you're gonna get all protective! Or at least be a little more sly about it...

Seven
The number of "dates" I have been on since I moved to New York. Since you keep asking.

Nine
The number of my family members I have identified as readers of my blog through my stat counter (I see you). Most of them probably changed at least one or two of my diapers.

Twenty-Seven
Three years away from thirty.

Full Disclosure

The reason I started my Legend of Miss Adventurous series is that I am not always 100% truthful with myself about the events of my life. In fact, I'm not always truthful with other people either. Sometime during my childhood I developed a nasty and self-destructive habit of casually omitting certain facts about things to people, even the people I care about the most. And in fact I outright lied about many many many things up until I was about 18. Lied straight to the faces of people I loved and respected, and even lied so much about some things that I started to believe the lies. I've gotten much better about it over the years, but I do still compulsively lie about weird details, particularly to hairstylists and chatty people on airplanes. I really let my hair down with those types of people. I used to make up alter egos in bars, too.

I got on the subway with AIG and Data Guy. The car was nearly empty; they sat down, and I stood in front of them to facilitate conversation. Data Guy asks, "Is that a normal thing for you? Not sitting on the subway when there's a seat available?" Without any forethought I said, "Sure, sometimes. I sit all day, so it's actually kind of nice to stand." The truth? More like this: "No, actually I really look forward to the DeKalb stop every morning, because that's usually when I can get a seat. I'm actually a little exhausted right now from wearing heels all day, but I feel like if I stand here I can talk to you guys easier, and then maybe I'll make a real human connection."

I know that one's not that bad, but here's one for the books! When I was seventeen, I drove my car to the mall to do some Christmas shopping. After the mall, I decided to stop at Old Navy for some completely unknown reason, since I kind of hate Old Navy. While I pulled into my parking space, I completely misjudged the angles, and I hit a truck. Just bumped the corner of its back bumper with the side of my car door. No big, right? Wrong. I KEPT GOING. Like an idiot. I kept going! There was scratching and screeching! I pulled all the way into the space! Afterward, someone GOT OUT OF THE TRUCK. Mortified. I was mortified. There was a massive dent in my car door (that remained there for the duration of the car's lifetime). Luckily, no damage was done to the truck. Embarrassed as hell, I drove home and concocted a tall tale. I burst in the back door with tears streaming down my face and cried to my mom and stepfather: "Someone hit my car and then drove off!"

No joke. I even maintained the truth of that statement as recently as two years ago. I don't know if they still believe it, but they never told me if they don't. That is probably the most extreme case of lying, and I think it may even have been the point when I realized I needed to tone it down a bit.

Really and truly, there is nobody, not my ex-fiance, not my best friend, not even my sister, who knows everything about me. That is fine with me. In fact, I doubt there is anyone who wants to know it all.

Wait...never mind, I take that back. There is definitely one person who wants to know everything about me, and it is indeed someone with whom I am not always forthcoming with the facts of my life. (I'm talking about myself here, in case you're not following.) I guess I feel like if I write everything down, and if I make the information accessible to other people, then I can't change it. And to tell you the truth (yes, the real truth), I think it would all be a big relief, like I had nothing more to hide. And then I wouldn't ever ever lie again, right? Right?

I wish I had the answer to that. And I wish I could be totally and 100% forthcoming on every single tiny detail. The truth, however, is that I am a proud person, and there are things about my life that I just cannot disclose to anyone with broadband Internet access. Originally I intended for this blog to be completely anonymous, but it just isn't working out that way. Not only is my sister my blog's biggest fan, but I also posted a link on Facebook, where I network with (get this) my family. Seriously, my mom is on Facebook. And so are my sweet little cousins. And other family members. Come to think of it...I just took that link off of Facebook.

Not that it's your fault! Oh no no no, don't think for a minute that you spoiled my shot at self-actualization through my super awesome blog by being friendly and familiar or by commenting or even just knowing who I am...not at all. Quite the contrary; it's great knowing I'm not alone in this big scary city in this big scary world, and that there are nice people who are actually on the level. I love the comments I get, I love that people are actually reading this thing, and I think it helps give me the confidence to continue on in search of the truth about who I really am.

One thing I promise though. I have not lied here, and I will not lie here. In fact, I'm just not going to lie period, not even to a manicurist. The whole point of this New York adventure is to find myself, and the real me is definitely not located within a pack of lies.

I know this is a little heavy. Thank you for reading.

I miss you today. Not the you that used to get drunk and embarrass me, or the you that expected everything to always be taken care of for you (by me, whether you knew it or not), but the other part...maybe a part that isn't even exclusive to you. What I miss is having a lap to snuggle into, and a chest to spill tears on, and arms to hold me, and a mouth to kiss me and tell me things will be okay. I used to believe it with all my heart when you said that.

I saw a man get hurt on the subway stairs a few days ago. I thought I was okay, but today the image flashed back into my mind. There was so much blood everywhere, and he was moaning and convulsing...the sound was horrible, like nothing I have ever seen before, like a cow, maybe. I imagine it would be the noise made by the cow in Apocalypse now, when the natives try to sever its head, but the machete only cuts halfway. I kept thinking I should do something, and all I could remember from your stupid EMT flash cards was "jazzy hands."

My God, there was so much blood. It was spilling out of his crushed skull like a drain pipe. It pooled up around his face and started dripping down the stairs. The sight of the blood paralyzed me--I'm still not sure how I managed to call the station manager on the intercom. I wanted to scream. All those people were just walking over him and I wanted to scream at them. But the blood...I couldn't. My mouth wouldn't open.

Finally, a police officer descended the stairs. I was watching this all through a metal gate, and it was like watching, I don't know, a scene from Twelve Monkeys or something, where the lighting is all dismal and weird and the depth of field is really small. The police officer shouted at the man: "Police! Sir! Police!" like he was accusing him of vagrancy. How dare he lie face down on the pavement like that, with crumpled one dollar bills littered around his limp hand, with a river of blood gushing from around his brain?

I couldn't help thinking about my dad. When he shot himself, did he do it in the face? Did the bullet go through the side of his head? The back? Or was it front and center, like he was executing himself? Did the blood flow like that? Was there a puddle in the car? When they found him, was the blood still wet? Did it drip off his hands like at the end of Gorillas in the Mist? Did he die right away, or did he have time to think about it while it happened? If he thought about it, did he regret it? Did he ever imagine that I would sit in Bryant Park someday sobbing violently and asking these questions to my ex-boyfriend through a notebook? Didn't he ever wonder what would happen to me because of him and his stupid gun? Why didn't he think about that? Why didn't he love us enough to stay? Why did he have to be so selfish and why am I so selfish all the time with my anger and my fear and my time and my money and my things and my love? Why am I always so afraid? Why is it so hard for me to believe that I'm not going to end up just like him? Why is it so hard for me to understand that the world isn't forcing me to be like him? Why is it so hard for me to understand that it's okay to be happy?

In a flash I was back on the landing by the 2 train, watching the cop and the man, who was no longer convulsing. I think maybe he was dead. The paramedics were on their way, the cop said. Did anybody see what happened?

Truthfully, I hadn't. I had just heard the noise and then turned around to see him lying there. "I think he fell," I said. My voice was not my own. It was so loud, so sure. How was that voice coming out of me?

"Do you want to wait with him?"

I tried to speak again. I tried to say something that would make the poor man, if he was alive, if he could hear, understand why I was about to do what I was about to do. I opened my mouth, but I just shook my head and walked away. What does that say about me? What does it say that feeling so helpless and alone and vulnerable makes me wish that you were here, even though I know I'd hate it?

I feel selfish. I feel like a person who walks away from things and then seeks validation. I walked away from you and I knew you didn't even understand that I was doing it. I walked away from this man, and I couldn't even say I was doing it. I know it's different; with you the process took six months of planning and you could have talked me out of it, and with this the process took a split second and I didn't really have total control of my motor skills.
Even so, somehow there seems to be a connection.

It seems fitting that I no longer have the option of crawling into your lap and getting a kiss on my hair. It seems fair that nobody is going to tell me it will all be alright. In fact, I think that's why I walked away from the man. I know that if he was dead, I didn't want to know.

Okay, never mind. I didn't learn anything from The Feminine Mystique.

Shit! I'm doing it again!

Shit!

I had no evening plans this weekend, none at all. You know what I did last night? I watched a Netflix movie (Michael Clayton) and made brownies. Not to eat, mind you--not to eat! I made the brownies...oh, I'm pathetic...I made them to take to work on Monday. I made them to take to work in hopes that AIG will come hang out at my desk.

I winced while typing that.

Number one, I have placed far too much import on this stupid flirting game. Number two, I stayed in all weekend. Number three...brownies? Am I Betty Crocker now? Number four, I STAYED IN ALL F'ING WEEKEND. Shit Shit SHIT. I'm waiting to be rescued. Not good.

I am not supposed to be doing that. I'm supposed to be 'out there.' I'm supposed to be meeting all those cool New Yorkers I came here to meet. I'm supposed to be livin' the dream. I'm supposed to be finding out where all the PAs and ADs hang out. I'm supposed to, you know, have a life. Or something. I didn't move here to watch dvds and wait for a life to fall out of the freaking sky.

I should have been in a bar somewhere drinking cheap non-champagne and smiling lusciously at potential dates who are cuter than AIG and chatting up groups of strangers. I should have been making friends...doing my charming thing.

I'm just so sick of being alone that I can't put up with having to sit in a bar and feel like an asshole for sitting in a bar by myself. I don't want to eat dinner alone in a restaurant. I don't want to be 'out there' on my own. I don't even really and truly want romance. I just want some friends that I can call and say, quite honestly and comfortably, 'Hey, I'm bored and lonely tonight. Can we go out?"

(PDF does not count here. He has a dog and a boyfriend. Going out to him consists of spending two hours or less in a restaurant on the UWS.)

I've been all happy bouncy blogger lately too, trying this new thing where I keep a positive attitude. But no, not today. Not after I woke up this morning and realized how pathetic I've been this weekend. Desperately lonely blogger has reappeared, if only for a few moments, to reach out to the Internet with a measure of honesty--not that I haven't been honest with all my stupid crush and my chipper 'I heart everything' posts, just that there's this side too. Not in absence of minor social anxiety do I get bright and cheery, but in spite of it. So after this spasm of dismal and pathetic gloom I will once again put on my brave smile and step out into New York.

Good thing I'm off to bellydancing shortly. I hope we do shimmy drills today...there's nothing like jiggling your ass with a room full of other jiggling asses to make you feel less alone in the world.