Changes: That Shit Cray

At about 3pm yesterday (Sunday) I smoked my *last* cigarette. Around 8pm today (Monday) I smoked what I guess was my *first* cigarette. The internal debate went on for hours and involved a lot of bargaining. With myself. I will not regret my decision. Allen has control of them now. This will end in tears. As it began. I cried, no, I sobbed, for almost a solid two hours, mourning my cigarettes as though my best friend in the world had just died. I also realized I was feeling homesick for the old apartment. "I want to go home!" I wailed. This has been a common exclamation throughout my life. I'm always looking to go "home", wherever that is. But I'm sure it exists somewhere and I will know it when I get there.

I wish I had the same interest in keeping up with this blog as I used to have. I just. Do. Not.

It's 8:40pm. I already want to smoke again.

I am too hard on myself. People actually say this to me. If I was so hard on myself I wouldn't be slowly destroying myself. I'd be cutting this shit out. If I actually believed in self-preservation as much as I think I do I wouldn't be drinking and smoking and sedentary-ing myself straight to dementia and death. I am a curious mix of my mother and father. Or listening to fucking Pitchfork's Top 100 Adult Contemporary Hits of 2011.

But do you want to know the main reason I'm trying to quit smoking -- right now, that is -- ??? Because I'm going to New York this weekend and I'm afraid I won't be able to smoke in Mayor Micro-manager's town. Swear to Jesus that's what's been going on in my head about this. A friend of mine is presenting at HOPE Number Nine. And I'm going because I want to stick out like a sore thumb or something.

Fuck. What have I done? I'm still exhausted from Sob-Fest 2012. I have no concentration, not enough time in the day for the things I want to do.

I have 4 projects I need to work on but have only ever so slightly started working on two of them. And so it goes.

There is just something in my head that blocks me. I already felt better (physically) after 26 hours of not smoking. I feel better, good, even, during the day when I haven't drank the night before. But something in me tells me that I don't deserve that feeling. I'd rather be fuzzy and cloudy and sluggish, just unclear, rather than feel "good". There's a lot of "I don't deserve _________" that goes on in my head.

Fucking therapy. It's wrecking me. I'm waiting until tomorrow to call my therapist to tell her I can't make my Thursday appointment in hopes that she won't be able to fit me in on Wednesday. Last week was brutal. I just... I don't even remember what exactly she asked me that made me start crying but it happened. And I was like, "I don't even have a reason to be crying right now." And she goes, "Obviously you do." Which of course made it worse. And she keeps asking about my parents like I don't tell her the same thing every god damn week. Does she not remember or is she fucking with me? Cos she remembers other things.

No, it wasn't my father. It was my mother. It was always my mother. And my sisters. They gave me these labels. The men in my family always loved me. This is complicated. It explains everything. It really does.

Yet she's strangely been affecting my self-esteem. By telling me that my drinking (her main focus) is greatly reducing my self-esteem she's somehow increasing it. I don't know. She's crafty.

This one's dedicated to Schulze. Damn her.

XO... Jen

It's cold out here. Cold, okay? I'm thinking about my Mellow Yellow fingernails and my Air blue toenails while sitting on the deck with the tiki torches lit and drinking Golden Monkey and chain smoking.

Babies, I've seen a new therapist for two sessions. Babies, I've been reading xoJane like it's my new Jezebel because it is. Cat's back. No, I'm not going to start one of my "I don't understand the ladies" rants... as easy as that might be.

What was I going to start? (Are you my lady doctor, "my lady"?) I had the horrible realization today, while talking with her, that I've been here before. I think she likes me, for the usual reasons: I'm smart, I get it... But I don't. That's why I'm there. I know. But I don't. It's the same old song and dance. Me me me me me. The same me from 2005. The same me from 1999. The same me who knows what to do but is too afraid to do it.

I was sitting there today thinking, "HELP ME", knowing the whole time that only I can help myself. So I listed off my 4 main reasons for being there and she said something like, "well, you're here to make yourself stronger, so you can make these changes." We've talked about all 4 of my issues in two 50-minute sessions. Now what?

Stare off into space.

That's how I talk about important things. Staring off into space.

"Does [this happen]?"
"... No ..."
"Does [that happen]?"
"... No ... Eh. No. Not really."

Hmm. I get the feeling she wants drama. I tend to downplay things. Yet dream the drama.

"Yes."
"No."
"Yes!"
"No!"

It's not that.

Two nights a week. "Two."

"Do you think you could commit to only [doing this thing] twice a week?"
"I could..."
"Will you?"
"I will."

Knowing I was lying the whole time.

"We should keep you broke."
"Ha, ha... ha."

"You should write about it." Journaling she said. Fuck me. I do. And it's always the same thing, over and over again.
"Bring it," she said.

She just found the key to my heart.

Oh, I will. I will bring it, sister.

Reek. It Rhymes with Seek.

I keep telling myself I'm going to come up with something. Something as great as the three-part brilliance that was the story of my father's funeral. Something as absurd as the history of "Tainted Love" trilogy. I've been mildly perturbed at (or with, you choose) myself for not having more to say about my mother's funeral but it was a very different situation. And I was drunk the entire fucking time. Like literally. There was a lot of drinking that week. I was sitting in the front row during the eulogy drinking straight vodka out of a water bottle. When it was time for the after-party I was wasted and didn't even notice that my 18 year old nephew was also drunk and just randomly yelling nigger and faggot from the corner of the kitchen.

We can't have nice things.

I guess I'm kinda telling a story about it now so let me add that after B. scared everyone away and K. came back with his room mate and co., I got blazed and remember D.'s brother telling us a story about how his baby had died recently. I also remember asking said brother where he was from because he was very New Jersey. He's from Elkton. He took me saying he seemed Jersey as a compliment. Kids.

Something happened to my original image so here's a photo of the outside of "BG Books"
(My sisters have a used bookstore here. In Elkton. BG stands for Big Girls.)

But I don't know. I'm here. Here. My stomach has been trying to kill me the last few days. In retaliation, I assume, for my hedonistic behavior that started with PMS and ended(?) with my birthday weekend. Turns out you can gain 5 pounds in two weeks. You just have to work at it.

Yeah, that's whatever. She said, as she ate another piece of chocolate.

I'm going on a solo adventure this weekend. The crazy part is that I'll be driving. All the way to Philly. By myself. In the White Knight of Texas. If something deeply upsetting doesn't happen during my travels I'll be fucking surprised.

I need more anger. I think that's what's been missing. Or a decent celebrity crush. (Mind your business.) I've been stagnant and bored with just everything. I hate admitting that I'm bored. The whole "if you're bored then you're boring" thing. I don't want to be boring.

I want to be adored. I want everyone to love me. Which is total bullshit because the actual stress from that isn't any fun, either. Even a little bit of attention does my head in.

I never know what I want. Except the total eradication of all insects.

Indomitable spirit. That's what I have. Am I right?


I'm reposting this, from August 2010. Because I can and because I listened to it tonight and it's not half bad. And I didn't cry while listening to track 7. I think that's a first.

I've been thinking a lot of uncomfortable "thinks" lately. To commemorate this I've made another mixtape for you. It's called "Sad Sack" (that's the link) and I am not providing artists or titles in an attempt to avoid prejudice.  Although, I did provide some sample lyrics so you could figure out the songs from that. JFGI.

1. How it feels to hate yourself because of your appearance.
     "I wish you'd see yourself as beautiful as I see you."

2. How it feels to have to fake being ok every day.
    "Do you want me to smile? Well, I'll try."

3. How it feels to not have any control.
    "C'mon, mood, shift, shift back to good again. C'mon, be a friend."

4. How it feels to interact with other people.
    "I wish you the best, you snake."

5. How it feels to know your dreams, and the dreams of those you love the most, will never come true.  See song 6.
    "May all of your dreams come true."

6. How it feels to grow up poor.
    "Tell 'em all they can kiss our asses goodbye."

7. How it feels to know too much about your parents' relationship and how it has affected every aspect of your life. I am being dead serious when I tell you that I can't listen to this song without crying like a baby.

    "Because of you I find it hard to trust not only me but everyone around me."

8. How it feels to be constantly fucked over. See songs 5 and 6.
    "Must I weep and mourn?"

9. How it feels to fuck up when you're young.
    "She's feeling more alone than she ever has before."

10. How it feels to love someone who's just as fucked up as you are.
       "You're not free now; you're not innocent; you're transparent; and you're right."

11. How it feels when a friend dies and you know he was a better person than you'll ever be.
      "Goodbye my friend."

12. How it feels to feel ok sometimes. Even if it's artificial.
       "For all the shit, for all the dear departed, for all the war, we've still got beer."

13. How it feels to get older.
       "I'd rather stay here in my room; nothin' out there but sad and gloom."  

14. How it feels to keep on livin.'
       "Don't let them bring you down and don't let them fuck you around cuz those are your arms, that is your heart and no, no, they can't tear you apart."

Panic Button

I'm having one of my "going quiet" episodes brought on by an impending job search. Or at least I think that's what it is.

I've been trying to write everyday on my lunch break and it feels like each day I have less and less to say. Or I'm just repeating the same things over and over again. Yesterday there was this: "I know. I'm totally blank. Because I should be doing at this point. Not thinking."

But it's the idea of "doing" that triggers the panic. (We could get into some deep psychological shit if I were to start unpacking that sentence.) And then I mentally (and physically) shut down and I'm just "no, no, no, no, no. I'm going to stay here where it's safe. Here inside myself, inside my head, here inside this apartment, inside this windowless office at work. It's okay here. It's not so bad." When really I want to scream and break things. And escape.

Forgive me for what I'm about to do here, I know he can be hard to take. I may have mentioned... no, actually I don't think I ever finished writing that, about how much I identify with Kanye West. I think it's still a draft. Anyway. It probably won't be clear to you but I have a special affinity for this song. We're both assholes.

Last night I just sat on the couch, watching TV, not even looking for anyone to talk to online. "No, no, no, no, no." The Killing, Mad Men, Drag Race. All the while eating the candy and drinking the sweet, sweet Coca-Cola I bought at Target after work. Thinking, fuck it. All the while wishing I was fucking drunk. Then I went to bed.

It's always the same. I know I just have to give it time. I'll come out of it. When it has to be done I'll do it. Sometimes it's just nice to succumb to the desire to hide and eat like an asshole, even knowing the whole time that you're only hurting yourself. Because you feel like you deserve it. And I know how to hurt myself best.

God. Even writing this is making me anxious. I've got that weak, shaky feeling you get. Do you know that one? Just from writing. And my hands are all sweaty. I'm a god damn mess.

But I'll come out of it. 

I Demand a Recount.

Guys, guys, guys! My birthday is coming up. It's a big one and, as usual, I haven't made any plans. Story of my life. No plans.

I mean, there are a couple of big ones I'm working on. Moving back to Philly being the main plan right now. Yeah, yeah, yeah. We've been here before. 2 years ago. I think it's all about Wawa. But I've updated my resume (last week), made an application on Penn's website (this week), maybe next week I'll actually start applying for jobs. Five months isn't a long time. You get used to living in PGH and it's hard to get out... you get lazy and used to paying your bills.

But I'm getting old. And I know it's overly dramatic but the other day I literally wrote that if I don't get out of here soon it's going to be a death sentence. I can't die here. I have better things to do.

I'm in a panic about bringing it up to my boss, though, because he's an old man who has told me and everyone else repeatedly that I can't leave him because his dead wife sent me to him and if I leave her ghost will haunt me. He says this. I think he's only half joking. But the thing is, I could really use his help with finding a job. GRR!

And I know I'm kind of PMS-y right now. And I have to pay taxes, another reason Pittsburgh has been fucked up. We've never owed money until we came here. Trying to find a job stresses me the fuck out. Our clothes dryer stopped working. I'm blaming Heather and all the weird shit she puts in there like boots and stuffed animals. No one's called about it being broken, though. Why would we? My birthday, needing a haircut, grocery shopping, driving to Philly at the end of the month, all these things are stressing me out. And I'm tired, very, very tired. Don't even get me started on the drinking, or rather the trying not to drink and the cake and the McDonald's, potato chips...

Yet I'm feeling strangely optimistic right now.

I know. 

Status Retort

28 March

Every night this week I've been like, I'm going to write and work on my resume and look for a job and watch this movie. It hasn't happened.

Did I ever tell you about the time I started crying (!) while listening to "Firework" by Katy Perry? That was a shitty night.

I ate two double cheeseburgers from McDonald's yesterday (because I wanted to) and still weighed a pound less this morning than I did yesterday. That was a neat trick. Food issues.

The best shiz evar.

I need more time.

Wow. WOW. That's some fucknasty shit The Sir just had. Jesus. I have to switch rooms.

Btw, I would totally snort coke off a dick. Just for reference. Know that I would do that. You're welcome.

I need to look at photos. Take photos. I wanted to tell stories, like I said in the last entry. But I haven't gotten around to that either. Addiction issues.

I have trouble writing honestly. Even in my personal writing. I can't let go. I haven't even been able to think well the last few days.

Ugh. Anyway. Day the next.

29 March.

Allen's birthday. We went to Salt tonight and it was ah-mezin'. Tim Robes ended up being our server, until he decided to buy us a round of drinks and disappear. That was very kind of him. I had oysters and lamb and bourbon. Allen had beef cheeks/tongue and sweet potato gnocchi, scallops and some oak-aged beer (i.e. high alcohol). Would go back. We talked about horror movies and moving and how "it's my birthday".

I still have dead roses in my bathroom from the anniversary. I like having dead flowers around. It's like living in a crypt. Or so I like to pretend. Dead, dry roses are the best.

Sneezing like a ma-chine over here. All god damn day. The allergy meds aren't working today. "This is my face," I just said to A., with my sad mouth-breathing self.

Sometimes your mom dies.

I don't like being a mouth breather.

Do you love me? Do you hate me?

Oh, then we went to Giant Eagle and tried to buy a cake in the self-checkout and of course we couldn't, and we were like, "we just want to buy this cake..." Nah, it wasn't *that* dramatic.

You're welcome.

Short Stories

I remembered this for some reason this morning: When I was probably 6 or 7 I was down the road from my house, I know I was alone but I don't remember if I had my bike. It was a Sunday afternoon. Our neighbors hadn't picked up their Sunday paper from the end of their driveway but I thought that I had found it so I just picked it up and took it home. I liked to look at the ads and the comics. So I took it home, all proud of what I had found and showed my mom. She was livid and demanded to know where I had gotten the paper from. We didn't return it, though.

For some reason that memory reminds me of falling off the picnic table. Mark (my childhood bff) and I used to put folding lawnchairs on top of the table and just sit there, facing each other. I assume we were talking about stuff, not just staring at each other but who knows. This sort of lawnchair, aluminum and plastic arm rests, and that "fabric" that would fray and rot:

So anyway, I don't know if it was part of the game or not but somehow we'd keep pushing the chairs back towards the edge of the picnic table and one of us would usually fall off, backwards, in the chair, and onto the grass. It was fun.

Which reminds me of another memory. I really need to go through my photos and scan some of them so I can tell more stories, I think there might be a photo of this.

For some reason that is unclear to me now, Diane and Janet took me and Chris (but not Jessica) on a trip to visit my brother Ken in Boston. I was probably like 8 or 9 so Chris would have been 5 or 6 and his sister Jessica would have been 3 or 4. Jessica was left with my mom. I really don't know why she wasn't allowed to come with us... strange. So the afternoon or evening that we left my house (Chris and I in the back of a pickup truck with a mattress for us to sit on for the 8 or so hour drive) Jessica was understandably upset. She jumped on the... what would you call that thing...

I don't know who that kid is, not my photo.

The thing next to the slide, in between the slide and the swings in the above photo... Anyway, Jessica gets on this thing and just starts going, back and forth with all her little might. And she's wailing! Just crying and crying like she would never stop as we pull out of the driveway. Chris and I were laughing in the back of the truck. We were totally evil. Then later, in Massachusetts somewhere, we both bought giant gummy rats and ate them on the trip home.

Hey Boy

"Gender is futile"  -AMH III

So. This has been in my head a lot lately:

I don't know why. It's just there. Probably because I feel like I've been fucking up a lot lately. Like a boy. And I'm emotionally like a boy. My head is like a boy. Without getting into too much detail... let's just say that I'm more a boy. In some situations.

I wrote that last night when I was a little drunk. I realize now that this is not going to make any sense since I don't really relate to this (or any) Beyoncé song. It's not about the song. Though it is true that that song is in my head a lot, it comes up on my iPod a lot. And it is true that I think I behave more like a man in some situations than a woman. I'm talking about stereotypes, obviously.

...

I can't recapture what I was thinking last night.

I can tell you that around 2am, while watching The Lost Boys in bed, I suddenly decided I wanted a pickle. But I wanted more than just a pickle. I wanted a pickle wrapped in ham. So that's what I got. I wrapped a pickle in ham and ate it in bed. While watching The Lost Boys.

So anyway, I've always hated gender stereotypes being applied to me but I'm more than happy to apply them to others. Girls, specifically. Because girls are stupid and mean and constantly judging you and absolutely-under-no-circumstances are they to be trusted. Am I right? Yes, that was a joke. Sort of. I've always hated it when groups break up into boys and girls, I think I hate sex segregation even more than I hate gender stereotypes. I freak the fuck out when I'm left alone with women. All though I'm getting better at dealing with this, I still feel more comfortable around guys.

I think I'm getting worse at writing. I don't really do much of it anymore. I don't really do much of anything anymore except look at porn and pictures of dead bodies on Tumblr. It's gotten to the point where it's almost like I don't even see it anymore, I certainly don't feel anything when I do. Totally desensitized. But what I was saying, about writing:

I pulled the tub that has all my old gurnels up two flights of stairs the other day, after falling on my ass while trying to lift it, because I was looking for copies of this zine I did back in 2000-2001. There were only three issues before I lost interest. Of course. They should make losing interest in things an occupation, I would be sooo good at that. Like, here, be intensely interested in this thing for a couple months and then you can move onto something else. It was called, unsurprisingly, Ghola. And they are terrible! The writing is atrocious. Worse than this blog, if you can believe that. The sad thing is that it's that way on purpose. I write like an idiot on purpose. Because I think it's cool.      

All right, I should get to work. If you read all of this guess what? I think you're cool.

Dear Mama

Annie Ruth Doyle Gray, June 5, 1935 - January 12, 2012.

My mother died yesterday, Thursday, January 12th. She was relatively young, 76, she would have been 77 in June. This is almost 2 years exactly from the time my father died. A little over 3 years since I'd last seen her.

The story of her last day is a cute one. My mother had Alzheimer's, had had it for a number of years and had also spent the last, I don't know, 4+ years in a nursing facility on a floor specifically for patients with the disease. My sister said she had a regular morning, woke up, was given/fed breakfast - she was on a special puréed diet - and told the woman who was feeding her that the oatmeal was terrible and that she should learn to cook. Later that morning, she went to take a nap and when the nursing staff went to wake her for lunch, she was gone. Janet, who saw her body, said she looked peaceful.

I don't know what she's going to look like, her body, I mean. Janet says she'd lost a lot of weight. She was always short, maybe 5'2" at the tallest, and when I saw her 3 years ago she seemed even tinier. So tiny. She was practically cute. Much different than the formidable woman in my memory who would slap me across the face when I said something she didn't like.

A couple photos from the last time I saw her, December 2009, I think.

And I don't feel like mourning, I don't feel especially sad, because I've already done it, to be honest. I did it 3 years ago after I saw her, when I realized, sitting next to her, that she wasn't there any more. It was strange, she still knew me, knew who I was, she would turn and look at me every once in a while and smile, but she was also very child-like. I knew that the person who had been my mother was gone, and so, not long after that visit, I let her go. And I have not regretted that decision to let her go when I did, even knowing she was still alive.

She was a tough lady, but a sad one, an angry one, and she had every right to be. She had been hurt often by men in her life, passing from her father's violence into the hands of her husband's when she was still a girl. She was tough and would put up a fight, but still, she wasn't strong. She should've gotten out of there but I realize how hard that would have been in the 1950s with small children to take care of. So she did the best she could, I think. Which is why I always forgave her no matter how much I thought I hated her or how often I thought she was weak for staying. I wish she could have experienced more happiness in her life, done more of the things she wanted to do, but it's been too late to think about that for years now.

Annie and cat, probably mid-1940s.

Annie, late 1940s or early 50s?

Annie, early 1950s?

I'm probably 2 or 3 here, 1979-80, Tony's Road.

Must have been 1984-ish or early 1985, Tony's Road.

Kitchen, Tony's Road, probably 1985-86. I love the look she's giving me.

Hideous Easter outfit, 1990 or 91, probably, Janet's on Blue Ball Road.

 

So nervous! Before the wedding, September 2002, Philadelphia

There's so much more to her story that I could relate and I only knew her for less than half of it, I'm sure there were more secrets than the ones that I knew, secrets that have died with her. Secrets that are probably best left unknown.

I love you, mommy. I really do.

NYE 2011/2012

Days later I finally get around to this. Here is what I played (or intended to play) on New Year's Eve. It was haphazardly put together at the last minute with one major outside influence (Allen, looking at you). Not my best work but it went over okay. The links are to Mediafire if you feel inclined to download.

Part 1 (played second and not in its entirety)

1. My standard "Jenifa" opening courtesy of De la Soul
2. "American Trash" (Porter Robinson Remix) - Innerpartysystem
3. "Call Your Girlfriend" - Robyn
4. "We No Speak Americano" (Original Mix) - Yolanda Be Cool & DCUP
5. "Hard in da Paint" - Waka Flocka Flame
6. "Fok Julle Naaiers" - Die Antwoord
7. "Alors on Dance" (PULS Remix) - Stromae
8. "She's My Man" - Scissor Sisters
9. "Turn Me On" (feat. Nicki Minaj) - David Guetta
10. "Till I Get There" - Lupe Fiasco
11. "Drunk on Love" - Rihanna
12. "Endless Slut" - Midnight*
13. "Get Some" - Lykke Li
14. "Make Me Proud" (feat. Nicki Minaj) - Drake
15. "Super Bass" - Nicki Minaj
16. "Internet Friends" (Original Mix) - Knife Party
17. "E.T." (feat. Kanye West) - Katy Perry
18. "Enter Sandman" - Herve vs. Metallica
19. "Fixin' to Thrill" - Dragonette
20. "Fight Club is Closed" (Original Mix) - Dada Life
21. "Hold it Against Me" (Jump Smokers Extended Mix) - Britney Spears
22. "Pumped Up Kicks" - Foster the People
23. "We Found Love" - Rihanna
24. "The Motto" (feat. Lil Wayne) - Drake
25. "Party Rock Anthem" - LMFAO
26. My standard "Jenifa" closing (same as the opening) 

Part 2 (played first and in its entirety)

1. My standard "Jenifa" opening courtesy of De la Soul
2. "Shame on a Nigga" - Wu-Tang Clan
3. "None of Your Business" - Salt N Pepa
4. "Teenage Dirtbag" - Wheatus
5. "Alex Chilton" - The Replacements
6. "Cherry Bomb" - The Runaways
7. "Roots Radicals" - Rancid
8. "Mathilde" - Scott Walker
9. "The Bad Touch" - Bloodhound Gang
10. "Let Me Clear My Throat" - DJ Kool
11. "Rock DJ" - Robbie Williams**
12. "Suspicious Minds" - Elvis Presley
13. "American Girl" - Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers
14. "New Radio" - Bikini Kill
15. "Hoodie" - Lady Sovereign
16. "Gimme Some Lovin'" - The Spencer Davis Group
17. "Vodka" - Korpiklaani
18. "Intergalactic" - Beastie Boys
19. "25 or 6 to 4" - Chicago
20. "Cut Your Hair" - Pavement
21. "Big Poppa" - Notorious B.I.G.
22. "More Than a Feeling" - Boston
23. "Beer Drinkers & Hell Raisers" - ZZ Top*
24. "Living After Midnight" - Judas Priest*
25. "Rip This Hell" - Midnight*
26. "Raining Blood" - Slayer*
27. "Breaking the Law" - Judas Priest*
28. "Halloween" - Misfits
29. My standard "Jenifa" closing (same as the opening) 

* Allen's additions
** Weirdest request ever from someone I don't know on Facebook