Wednesday, August 31, 2005

Ok, so I've been reading this memoir by Wendy McClure, I'm Not the New Me." It's decent. Anyhow, this book is really based on a website. There's this overweight chick, Wendy, and she starts a website to make fun of weight loss, track her progress, bitch, ya know, the usual.

So I finally remembered that I've been meaning to see if she still writes on it. It turns out she does which I think is pretty cool. Ya know, reading almost daily blogs by an author I happen to be reading. So, in her book she talks about these conventions she gets invited to for bloggers, folk, etc. They find her. So her website got all 'famous' and she's all cool now and has ten million friends.

So in her entries, she references people with obscure names and the name is in orange which tells my brain to click. So I click and I'm swept away to (enter obscure name here's) blog. I read an entry or two. I see a new color and I click and I'm swept away to (obscure's) site and then he/she says that he/she and (obscure's) were interviewed by (hip magazine) and I click on whoever's name that is and they just have an entry about poo colors and nothing in particular. I click again. I read. I click again. I read about garage sales. I click. I read. IT NEVER ENDS!!

Did I miss something? There's conferences for this stuff? There are whole worlds of people who have absolutley nothing better to do than read 12 dozen of their favorite linked sites and then just start all over again? I imagine one day missed would require ten hours of reading to catch up on. I have my favorite site and my brother's blog but I also have yellow post-it notes on my monitor reminding me to look. This is so bizarre to me. Is this kind of like the equivalent to my thirteen year old days on aol hanging on every word some 'kid' typed to me? Those were fun times. Ten hours straight, no sleep, feeling like my life had meaning. I WAS THIRTEEN!

Wow. It's true. You can get famous just by being this invisible online writer. Then you can get famous by writing about it. Then people can see how you really just look like everyone else when you go on book tours. But it's ok because you'll be interviewed by cool magazines and get to write articles for the Chicago Sun Times about the new Dove commercials because you write about being fat and the new commercials feature new and improved curvy women.

Where have I been? My head hurts.

Good & Evil

I don't remember how we got into it, but I got into a discussion today about God and the Devil over a cigarette with a colleague. She pointed out that when people say they don't believe in something, they're actually confirming it exists. They are choosing not to believe. It made sense. I had never thought about it like that. BUt I think when someone says they don't believe in something, they're politley saying that 'something' does not exist and they just don't want to sound like jerks about it.

Jane says, "Thank God for this wonderful day!"
Dick says, "God doesn't exist."
Dick just gave Jane a proverbial bitch slap.

Example II:
Jane says, "Katrina was woven by the Devil."
Dick says, "I don't believe in the Devil."
Jane can do one of several things here. Recite a persuasive speech she wrote in college. Apologize and give him a pat on the arm and tell him everything will be ok. Simply say, "How can you not believe in the devil?" and proceed to ask about 15 other very annoying questions Dick will not want to answer. Maybe then he'll bitch slap her for real. Here's your devil, bitch! SLAP! Hahaha

Anyhow, our discussion led to how the devil is always with us. We have free will. The Devil entices us with nice things. She reminded me that the car I came within an inch of buying back in May was the work of the devil. I never thought of it that way. I knew the car was a bad idea but I really really really wanted it. My 'good head on my shoulders' defeated the devil's enticement. He wanted to see me further in debt and suffer with car payments. I said no.

I added, "Is that why most of the richest people in the world suck?" She agreed. The Devil gave them everything they wanted as long as they shit on everyone else in return.

Hmmmm, it was an interesting discussion which led to talk of reward. I never consider the bad shit that happens to me the work of the devil. I consider it my own foolishness. I do thank God for the good stuff though. I'd like to consider myself a 'good' person. I've experienced horrible things and did things I'm not proud of but I never actually set out to do something bad. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. I set out to do good and got caught up in all that is evil and I paid for it. I still pay for it. But I came out a better person so I'm grateful for all that evil too. I'm glad she and I spoke though. Pretty neat concept?

I just remembered how we got into it. I said I watched Ring 2 the other night and that I wanted to see the Excorcism of Emily Rose which led to how people get posessed and so on and so forth.
Those suffering Katrina's wrath are in my prayers. I feel helpless and I find myself feeling twinges of guilt when I laugh too hard or simply 'forget', but I've been praying and I'm confidant in knowing that I am truly grateful for all I have and I take nothing for granted....except maybe the water cooler at my job. I feel bad but I accept that there's nothing I can do except donate $20 to the American Red Cross and I'll be sure to help any survivors who happen to wander up to Philadelphia. I wish I was in a higher position to help, but I'm not and I accept that. I help people almost every day in other ways.

Those looters really fucking pissed me off though. I can't even get into it. Seeing the live footage of that. Where the fuck were the police? Why did that jack ass cameraman just stand there and film? They spilled out of the local 'whatever mega mart' spreading in all directions like a swarm. Yeah, maybe I shouldn't be so concerned with crime right now. But damn, I wish something like oh ummmm a, NATURAL DISASTER AND COMPLETE DEVASTATION would make people reconsider being criminals or just bad people and make them a bit more appreciative for life.

Sunday, August 28, 2005

Thank you, Nocko

Despite my depressed state, I knew two things this morning. I needed my prescription filled and I needed fruit and yogurt because one of the most stable and consistent things in my life happens to be my diet.

I went to the pharmacy and made the usual walk down the card aisle and a card happened to catch my eye. This is perfect for HC. Right below it was yet another card. I grabbed both.

I dropped off my prescription refill and asked the pharmacist to please put the cards with my prescription. I'll be back in twenty.

I walked across the street over to the supermarket and of course fruit and yogurt turned into a $30 order. One item happened to be a case of 24, 24 oz. bottles of water for just $3.99. I was very thirsty and have a thing about tap water. Always have. I figured I'd manage.

I struggled across the lot and took a break before crossing the street to pick up the prescription. My card was declined and as it's three days before pay day, I was nervous about my debit card. I forgot about the cards and figured I'd make HC a card and I got my prescription.

To make a long story short, I was sad about the cards, sad about HC now keeping me at arm's length, and these groceries and awkward case of water (15 lbs. maybe more) are cutting off all circulation and I can't manage on my own.

I take 10 steps, stop, rest. Five steps, stop, readjust. Everything is slipping, the plastic handles are stretching. I can't hold the water with both arms like a baby because of the bags. I stop and put whatever will fit into my giant 'bag of death' as HC calls it, which is slung over my left shoulder. The pain, sadness, helplessness, and humidity is making me shaky.

I'm starting to drip sweat and my v-neck cotton tee is getting pulled down by the case of the water and I'm afraid I'm showing too much cleavage. I'm sopping wet, my eyes are welling up and to top it all off, I've passed over twenty people on the street who all just managed to stare at me blankly. Not to mention that I have a half-sleeve tattoo of a beautiful, very realistic angel on my right arm and I wonder, even though it's just a tattoo, why isn't it inspiring anyone to help me?

I make it through the crowds and stop to rest. I'm staring at the water and all logic was absent. The logical thing would have been to leave it. The thought never occurred to me. I'm choking back tears and rubbing my arms where large red dents have been engraved into my flesh and I want to kick that water so hard. A boy pops his head out of a pizzeria under construction.

"How much further you go to go?"
"A few blocks." I'm trying not to look at him. I'm trying not to cry.
"I'd gelp you, but I can't leave."
"It's ok. Thank you. You're the first one who offered." I said that last part in that first phase of crying. Where you know the waterworks are coming.

I managed a few more steps. I didn't want him to see me crying in front of his store. I stop and now I'm a mess. An oblivious mess.

"Oh sweetie, let me help you. Where are you going?"
There was a beautiful African American woman who looked my age picking up that God awful case of water and standing there looking at me.
"um, two blocks, um, 7th street." I'm retarded I tell you. I'm wiping at my eyes trying not to look at her. I'm tripping over my words. Trying not to cry is just making me cry worse. It's like when you're on the verge of tears and someone asks you what's wrong. All you can do is wave them away and give them that 'please don't ask or I will explode in a display of water works' look.

I regain a little composure. "Please don't take that. " I try to hand her the two bags instead.
"Nope, I got it. You rest."
We started to walk and I apologized to her and said I'm having a really bad day through a nervous, cry, laugh. She asked if I wanted to talk about it. So I told her about HC and.....just kidding. I said, "No, it's ok. That water just did me in."
"Yes it's quite awkward. So what's your name"
"I'm Nocko."

I continued to thank her the whole way which took only about five minutes. The whole walk from door to door should take ten. It had taken me 25 just to get to where Nocko found me. She told me that the grocery store will let me borrow a cart as long as I promise to bring it back.
I thanked her again at the door. She told me to have a good day with a smile.

I opened the bag from the pharmacy and HC's cards were in there. I guess that's stealing, but I really didn't know so I'll let that one slide with a smile. I'll help someone with something tomorrow to make up for it.

All Alone: Part II


It's Sunday morning now and I'm trying desperately to fight the urge to call HC. I think we may have broken up last night. Yesterday was a very long day which included surprise frantic friend ringing doorbell at 9:30 am, frantic friend holding me up until 1:00 pm. Argument with HC somewhere in the middle. A quick resolution that left me feeling good enough to take a shower and go read my new book in a bar. Walked home with a buzz. Talked to mom for an hour and had a good time. I honestly can't remember if that was followed by another fight with HC or just a nice, long talk. The fights have gotten so frequent that they just seem to blend into one another like this forever ongoing battle between the 'always wanting to explain how I feel until I've explained so much feelings have trouble existing' and the 'defensive, I'll bottle this up until I break up with you later tonight and you won't know what hit you.'

So I went out drinking again after that....with my book. (Different bar of course) I'm not down with going to bars by myself unless I have a book. The book makes me look 'busy, unapproachable'. It gives me that I'm not here to meet dudes look. The book acts as a comfort so that I can not be bothered until I feel more comfortable. I get comfortable somewhere between my first and second drink. Of course I keep reading, but I'll look around a little more and laugh if I over hear something funny. Sometimes, like last night, this could lead to decent discussions and good laughs. I had a good time at the bar last night. There were narcs, out of place swingers looking for young, hip couples, and yet another gay man who I had no idea was gay, and this tough as nails, rock a billy, tattoos up the neck which made her look like she was wearing a neck brace, ROLLER DERBY chick. This chick must have practiced showing off her neck tattoos because she looked like she couldn't move her neck and it was ridiculous. She was super hot though.

I spoke to Mike for a minute while I was out and called the moment I left the bar. We spoke again briefly when I got home. I don't much like walking home in Philly with a lot of drinks in me. I'd like to think HC doesn't either. He was going out again. From the party to the bar.

He called and woke me up at 12:30 on the button. I asked him to and only just now am I realizing how wonderful it is that he did that. As a matter of fact, he almost always calls on time. I guess that means that a.) He totally does think of me when he's out b.) He listens to me when I talk c.) Even though he was drinking and with all his boys, he still kept an eye on the time d.) all of the above

I'm such a bitch. This could go on and on forever and the underlying theme of it all would be that I ruin every relationship that I'm in and I think it's because of my mother. Sometimes I stop and hear myself nagging, nagging, nagging, crying, bawling, repeating, explaining, let me say just one more thinging. I hated when she did that and she still does I think. I do it. I probably do it even better than her. I'm going to stop now because I have to find a way to fix my relationship. HC didn't do anything wrong last night except not be home. He drank every day this week and I hate that. But who the fuck am I to crucify him for it. He doesn't do it like that every week. I just didn't want to hear him talk about the end of summer rituals. Excuses, I thought. He's a 25 year old guy with amazing friends. I really need to stop being this person I've become and start having more fun. I do have an amazing boyfriend. I've always known that. We all know that even if he became the man I thought I wanted him to be, I probably wouldn't love him anymore.

HC called.

All Alone: Part I

Some facts:
I live in Philadelphia
My boyfriend, mom, and friends live 1.5 hours north in Jersey
I don't have a car anymore
I have not yet spent one weekend in Philly alone since I moved here in August 2004

Friday I am feeling nervous excited and my anxieties are running high. I must say that there's not much to tell. I skipped out on work a little early, went to the gym, enjoyed the walk home, made a healthy decent dinner, watched some cooking shows and cleaned out my closets. I was in bed by 11:00.

My boyfriend, HC for the purposes of this blog, had a great Friday. It was the first time for him in quite a while that he did not have to pick me up. He slept real late and did something he hadn't done in months due to his busy schedule. He watched his favorite shows on tv all day, got stoned in the middle of the afternoon, played his bass, and relaxed. I missed him like mad and regretted my decision to take this weekend off from one another, but I really was pretty souped for him. I'd have to say it was the first day in a really long time that I didn't bother him. I felt like I actually did something right for a change in our relationship.

Later that night, HC got to play poker in his favorite bar with all his best guy friends until 2 am. Something he also does not get to do as I am always with him on the weekends. I truly am happy for him. He totally deserves it.

Thursday, August 25, 2005

It Starts....

By Jessica Ann

The same title was used over four years ago for my first entry on my online diary. Same name as well. I guess some things never change. My diary has since been locked due to lack of use and I need to figure out a way to get it back. I perused the collection of over 300 entries in what must have been late winter of 2004. I recall picking interesting entry titles at random and opening them as if mini time capsules on a page. I remember writing that. I can't believe I wrote that. Ohhhh, that's why I did that.

It was really quite amazing looking back. Yes, I know not that long has passed since that diary's beginning to the time I reflected back on it. But it felt like a decade. I couldn't believe I was the same person who had written all this depressed, estranged, psycho babble. Clearly, I may have had an audience in mind. Yet some of it was just beautiful. I could pull out the entries where I was clearly writing for myself.

It was addictive clicking and reading and I experienced moments of teary eyed remembrance, embarassment over certain times and certain people, fear when I read of old nightmares, old anxieties, that 'bad' part of my brain dubbed Criscipline at age 13. There was a several month span wherer I actually specified who wrote the entry; Jessica Ann or Criscipline. That part of me had a personality all her own, a unique writing style; black against the white that was my own, a unique attitude, and worst of all, a name.

So I name this blog Criscipline in remembrance of an old friend who was never very good. We've all had them. And yet they still weasel a way into the deserted corners of our hearts. Squatters. Or perhaps I name this blog Criscipline to mock the gimp now locked up and gagged within a dusty corner of my brain. (I'd like to think no corners of my mind or heart are dusty or deserted, but you get my point.) Or maybe I just do it for consistence. Or maybe because I always enjoyed her in moderation. Or maybe because this is just who I am. I don't know.

Regardless of the title, this blog will be for me to have a place to reflect. There will be no theme. The only consistency will be whatever is consistent in my life at the time. I write for no audience in mind. I will follow the advice of the Reiki Master and, "Not censor [my]self". I will create this time capsule for me.