Tom Cruise' Boots

I have been having some big trouble getting to sleep and staying asleep. I told Christine that it did not feel like anxiety- at least not the traditional want to scoop my eyes out after pinching every assface who wronged me that week or this lifetime kind of feeling, just a kind of bodily tension, as if I had muscle in my body or something. So I had this really weird conversation with my legal drug dealer and he suggested the BIGGIES like trazadone ( to me that truly sounds like the drugs they give to actual crazy- chop up your grandpa people). He explained the uber sedating effects of the trazadone-ish drugs and then we just ended up coming back to clonk-you- on the-head- my standard drug of the evening. I had not had any clonk- you- on the head for a good few months; exhaustion and self-loathing was boring me enough to make me sleep at night until last month. This morning I was in this deep sleep and all of a sudden Tom Cruise and I are in this really swank hotel suite. He is too short- as he is- and way to all American boy- but he completely bonked my brains out. I mean it was teeth gnashing, eyeball rolling, back scratching boot knockin. When I woke up and remembered how mad Katie Holmes had been because Tom Cruise was bangin someone else, I wondered if Joel was going to be mad too. So I made Joel french toast.

My biggest fear is that blogs will be a part of our archaeological record.

Whoo hoo! My first Ad on the anti-blog- it works, it works! And people are going to send me actual money - I will post how much money I am making.

I think I am going to try "monetizing" this anti-blog as an experiment to see what Google thinks would be good ads for my anti-blog. The following words correlate to the kind of ads I am hoping to see on my page- this is not actual content so no need to read this: agriculture, itching, burning, bloating, oily, flaking.

Everybody poops- well maybe not

The anti-blogger. This is what the world wants and needs. Not the technicolor blog with the pictures that I took that prove that I am sex-worthy; not the uber-spielkus qualifiers that give away everything private to get a fan base; not the side postings / load o' other people's blogs that outsmart their very own blog but must be blogged about in order to have maximum symbiosis; not the inner most thoughts that actually prove to be the very reason to keep reading them in hope that you don't come away with "that's it?"- that's your mark on the world or excuse me, "blogosphere"?

I thought about posting the pictures of the blogs that you should not read or think about- the ones that will somehow ( I know it) suck brain cells out of your eyes because the drivel factor becomes so viscous that it bleeds through your corneas. But rather- I will ramble about things that are getting way over blogged and things that could still use a good blogging. Today I begin with constipation. Constipation is the perfect metaphor for people who are trapped in explaining sexual re-birth, finding their inner whomever, and being what they never thought they could be. I chose constipation because constipation is that very state of needing to do something that everyone else is doing- maybe even billions of people are doing what you need to do when you are constipated right this very minute- and you can only do it if you take a different path than what others are doing to do it: you cannot shit because you do not have the basic things that other people have to make it happen naturally. I am not saying that the constipated should feel bad about being constipated- but I do advise that hyperfocusing on crap-ping is not going to help you crap. It might make you feel like you will crap- or help you imagine crapping- but I don't know if talking about and thinking about crapping makes you crap. I could be wrong.

So: If you are having a re-birth- is it that you want to have it and invite others to see it- or is it that you are not really having it and maybe if you blog about it and connect with others who are blogging about it- it will make your rebirth have that almighty eyeball popping mouth opening sweat drying, finally I crapped feeling?

National Banality Day

Today is National Banality Day, and to celebrate this inauspicious occasion I decided to pay attention to things that don't really matter and not pay any attention to the items in my day that usually need my love and consideration. The first thing I did this morning was to read items about things that can be stuffed into my "trivial facts for lulls at parties" mental file. Then I purposely did not check my personal email since that would be tending to people I care about. Right now I am working on two projects to continue the festivities of National Banality Day; a banner that says "many people walk upright on pavement" and a clock whose hands rotate around the same hour. Later I plan on thinking of the lint in our dryers and listening to as many telemarketers as I can at home when they call during the dinner hour.

Just when you think

you know somebody- you find out that anybody can do anything anytime to anyone for any reason ....despite rules, etiquette, compacts, contracts, promises, respect, and even love. I learned that trust is not something that is absolute for everyone; a person( the anti-absolutist) can act trustworthy, say they are worth trusting, and perceive themselves as trustworthy and then one decision can nullify the concept of trust for the truster( the absolutist). There seems to be no reason to trust anybody, but there is a reason to ignore the entire concept since trust can be such a nebulous concept. How do people make peace when their consciences are extraordinarily, fundamentally different? Is tolerance the act of accepting and embracing someone who would hurt you based on a non-absolute conscientious? Is like- consciences really the item that men and women should be concerned about when seeking a mate rather than sexual, intellectual, or even emotional compatibility? OR maybe it is just like consciousness that will propel a relationship towards peace and longevity.

there's not too much between me and...

a cookie. A really big cookie with at least 500 calories. Or a mini-spending binge. Or some fine sulkery in the library tonight for a few hours. Or staying at work for the next 4 hours even though my head is about to explode in pain from a three day migraine headache. Every time I read something that refers to the boyfriend's ex-wife and what they share I go to a most unspecial place. When I was little and something ugly happened that I did not like I used to hide in the dirty laundry hamper. The smell of my parents enveloped me, and my pain was soaked up by the t-shirts and underware. When I was around ten the volatile climate in my house sent me to my room where I spent hours or even days evaporating into my radio and books. Today it's shoe shopping, car eating, and hiding out in otherwise inconspicuous venues like the hardware store.
I hide because I feel that the sadness is oozing out of every part of my body and it makes me so unsightly....I hide because I just cannot deal with what I know: my mom and dad hated each other and the boyfriend and his ex-wife have something that the boyfriend and I don't. I hide because I am dumb enough to read the blogs that the boyfriend writes that refer to what he and his ex-wife or as he likes to write it "we" has.
Little Emma Ruddy is in my room drawing on a whiteboard that was specially made for someone of her size. She's describing her love of whiteboard markers- she is talking to me about how they can even erase with your hand. She's my friend Tom's kid. I have this urge to ask Tom if she really is everything in his life...does he love her more than he loves himself- more than he loves his wife Val? And when he is with other people does she stay in his soul, or does she just erase?

what a dish

After putting up some blinds in the apartment I decided I deserved a treat and popped on the tellie. Ah, Food Network, my calorie free substitute for historical binge eating. There's that stiff frigid one, Sandra Lee- OH MY GOD- AND her huge bouyant breasts in front of her grill and limes. Jesus fucking christ- now Sandra Lee is being primped for pimping. It's bad enough that my daily bouts of nausea are spurned on by the slap fests of my inner Betty Friedan and Hugh Hefner, but now generation boobalicious has gone banal and it makes me wanna open up a big can of intellectual whoop ass. But that never helps me make friends.
It takes me back a few months when that song "It's hard to be a pimp" was nominated for some big dumb award that I really did not care about. What I did care about though was the fact that somebody who rented out the loins of others was whining about his life. How about my song brother? How about "It's hard to have a thought", or better yet, "It's even harder to love sex, be a pervert, be a girl, and have a brain." Twenty years ago with my first boyfriend I learned that guys like naked pictures. I attempted to teach Matt how stupid looking at porn made him seem- this was his soft spot- appearing stupid. I found stashes of magazines with titles like; Young Asian Butt Holes Ready for your Schlong- Wet Naked Naked Wet Wetness, Naked Nude Naked Teens not Really Putting on Clothes. After too many shouting matches and more revenge fantasies than I could count I let Matt, and every boyfriend after that win.
Somehow, years later the other women my current boyfriend ogles doesn't affect me with enough rage to perform interpretive dance, but his need to exercise his inappropriate flirting muscle does bring on a nausea that would make Sartre jealous. He names it as an "indulgence"- something that his sexless wizoned marriage provoked-substitions of 99cent hamburgers before dinner for marital duty. What's interesting is that his flirting is in a category with clandestine donut runs. I wonder if he realizes it would be much easier for me if I had found powdered sugar on his lapel. I wonder how it is that his little ole' habit could bring on a pain in me that takes me right back to the days when my father would burst into flames and take our doorknobs off our bedroom doors, or put chains on the cabinets so I couldn't snack between meals. The last time I checked I had evolved into a confident, respectful, reasonable human being- but when I imagine the boyfriend telling another woman that she is "ferociously beautiful" I feel like I want to humiliate and then promptly pick up the nearest fire hose and kill everyone who ever hurt me.
That saying that "trust is earned " has been ringing in my ears whenever the dark and hairy "indulgence" issue rears its greasy head. So, does that mean that I am the employer and boyfriend gets a weekly paycheck? It would be really cool actually if trust worked like that- if boyfriend could do some sort of task or work that would merit direct deposits of trust with tax free respect from the employer (me). But for now it seems that we will both just have to stay with our day jobs and 100 calorie portion control cookie packs as evidence that our lives make sense and are under control.

My favorite thing about blogs right now is that nobody in the universe can be left out; the blogosphere is a fraternity that’s given a righteous voice to those nameless faces who chew gum or walk upright on pavement. If you are divorcing- there are essays, stories and clichés for the guilty, the griefstricken, and the intellectually amicable. If you are having a tough time with the summer humidity, there’s a place where you can go so you won’t feel alone anymore; your uncomfortable moisture problem should not go unnoticed- you are after all a human being with feelings and opinions.
My new boyfriend, a separated father of three helped me see the path to justice through blogging. After having my fill of quippy, web 2.0 minded people I decided to revive my own blog- hell, I can drop names and revel in my own cleverness in hopes that someone will respond too!
So I answered my own prayers and decided to write about my extraordinarily unique position of being the girlfriend of a newly separated guy who has three kids in hopes that there will be others wanting to share in my exclusivity.
The best part about being the girlfriend of a newly separated guy who has three kids a.k.a. GONSGw/3K, is that I have never had so much opportunity to self-scrutinize. During the first six months of the relationship the big temptation was to actually buy into the very part time mellow feeling about the fact that he was not divorced yet. This was powered by a fantastically dramatic dialogue with my inner Ghandi:

Anne: “What the fuck, I’m not vacationing in Martha’s fucking Vinyard with HIS GODDAMN EX-WIFE so that he can be with his kids.”
Ghandi: “If you say anything resistant he will not come to these ideas himself.”
Anne: “Why in God’s name would I go to a house that he shared for ten years to celebrate the birthday of HER child?”
Ghandi: “At the end of the day it’s only cake, ice cream, and Ethan Allen furniture.”

Ghandi took it pretty hard with a blow to the head after that, and unfortunately the episode ended with me recognizing that all the therapy and rationale in the world could not stop me from bingeing on thoughts about the only family life I had ever known- my childhood.