Friday, October 31, 2008


I just put YouTube to the test. I looked for a track I used to dance to as a teenager who used to sneak into dance clubs in Austin, Texas. Back when she thought this place had something to teach her. I danced my ass off in those days. I loved to show what I could do on a dance floor. I was not the pretty girl you wanted to take home with you, I was not the cute girl with the smile that stopped you on your way out the door. I was just this pudgy girl who loved music and loved to dance. I used to dance all night, without drugs, without alcohol, and people would come up to me and say, "Wow! You're a great dancer!" This was no reference to my technical prowess (I own none), this was, "You're having fun, aren't you?"

I can't remember the last time I had that kind of fun.

I really can't. Pure, unadulterated, uninhibited fun, courtesy of the drug of Life. I used to be able to do that, but now I'm just numb inside.

I found a song from that many years ago (16!) and realized, that yes, I am old. I used to be a baby, but now . . . I'm old. And that cannot be changed.

Also . . . I really need to stop reading shit about My Ex-Best Friend Who Sent Me To Jail. That's how I refer to her. I can't bring myself to utter her name. It's like a sharp metallic penny on my tongue, the taste of her name poisons. Even so, I miss her. Even after all of this stupid time, I miss her. What the fuck is wrong with me? Of course, I miss Andrew sometimes, too. I can't let go of bad things. Why is this so?

She picked my favorite color, and one of my favorite pairings with my favorite color , for her wedding. I know she didn't do it intentionally. I'm sure I hardly register as a cerebral fart on her radar (which is as it usually is with anyone I let matter to my life), but even so, I was bothered by this fact. WHAT IF SOME DUMB SHIT WANTED TO MARRY ME???? I can't even use my own fucking favorite colors any more! But that won't be a problem. What idiot would marry me? Maybe I'll pull a Ross and Rachel and get drunk with a guy friend or an ex-lover who will dumbly, drunkenly wed me! Oh wait, my ex-lovers don't talk to me.

Where's the wine?

Culture Mo-Fockas!

I love this chick . . .

because she is this chick . . .

The View from Dolores Park . . .

Okay. Yes. I want to be back in the Bay Area.

I am back in hell (Texas). Austin has nothing for me. I can't feel myself here. But here's the thing, even without Jenna (my best friend) I can feel something pulling me back to California. Will it happen? I don't know. I am also very honestly considering a move to Pittsburgh. Explanations will come in time. The only thing I really need is for wherever I end up to not be Austin, Texas. I've just been here too fucking long. It's great for Texas, but not great for me.

I sat in Dolores Park and peered over at the San Francisco skyline, Oakland (my true Bay Area home) in the distance, and asked myself, "Why are you not here, Tiffany? This is where you want to be, isn't it? Even if you didn't know Jenna, Lincoln, and her family, isn't there just something electric about this part of the country. It's teeming with possibility. There's a palpable intellectual current running through this whole region. On top of that, there are MIXED PEOPLE!!! Like you!"

I can't get stuck here. I just can't. Texas holds nothing for me. I can't live in somewhere that pretends to be a player when there is nothing holding me back from really trying to be in places where life is happening.

I didn't tell Jenna I was thinking of moving back to California. She had drunken moments when she said to me, "You should just come back. Fuck Texas, man. Just stay. What have you got to go back for?"

I wanted to, but realized that I need, well, money, before I can go back to California. But I am going to try. I have no lover, no children, no pets, no nothing. What the fuck am I waiting for? The plan is simple enough--get a job, and then get the fuck out of here. Whose life is it after all?

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

The Yay Area.

Ah, where to begin, really?

The opportunity to come back to my second home is something that I am glad I did. I am truly, truly glad. The weather? Outstanding as usual. The sights? I almost forgot how damn beautiful the Bay Area is, if you can believe it. The sounds? I smile a little when I hear BART in the night air. The friend? Jenna was absolutely amazing Saturday. She danced Juliet in her director's Romeo and Juliet, and even though she claims that she could give a shit about reviews, all of the reviews written about my friend were gushing. As is appropriate! I would provide links, but am going to take a quick shower so that I might go for a walk around Lake Merritt. The day is just too damn good to waste.

The bad? I no longer have a job. My job was a joke. I lost it two days before I came out for my trip. I was fine wasting the time to save money and try and move back out of Austin, but only if there was work to do. And well, there was never any damn work to do. I begged. I am not kidding, I really did literally BEG to be given things to do. I was sent home twice after having only worked for an hour. What is that? I can't live on that kind of money and certainly can't make plans to move anywhere on that type of an income. So finally, the owner of the company sadly confided that he just didn't think he needed me on staff.

I am back at square one. Even so, I have decided that when I go back home I will probably just volunteer and do something worthwhile with my time until I either a)win the lottery, or b) find a job I actually can put my head and heart into, but either way, my life has to be lived doesn't it?

I am trying to forget about what awaits me back in Texas, if only because I realize that it's nothing to speak of. I have a few more days here in the Bay Area (will be here a week in all), and all I can say is that it's amazing how good it feels to be back. Lincoln, Jenna's handsome younger brother, and my dear friend, upon seeing me, hugged me tightly and said, "Welcome home, Tiff." It almost made me cry.

I think I'm going to walk over to Peet's and have a cup of Joe to take around the Lake with me.

Tomorrow I'm going into the City, and I'm going to sit at Dolores Park . . . and pretend that I didn't have to leave. I think I'll ride the J for a bit and just let myself roll along.

For the most part, I feel good. I feel very, very good.

Saturday, October 18, 2008


I have decided I want to move to San Francisco next year.

Back to the Bay Area.

I have decided that I am going to stop worrying about being lonely all of the time. And I'm not, not, not going to send drunk texts to TO1 . . . ummmm, yup.

I have decided . . . that I am really, really excited to see Jenna next Friday. And to be back in California.

I have many things to say, but will need to think about it all.

Wednesday, October 8, 2008


For reasons I am unable to provide, I decided to meet the last person I had sex with tonight. That would be the homosexual gentleman I mentioned in a previous post. This is a feat in and of itself in that most people, after having sexual intercourse with me, tend to avoid all contact with me. Tis true! Yet, this person asked to meet me. He even invited me to a party at his soon-to-be new home! I really do like his dog. I may go.

In a bizarre, awkward, forgettable way . . . I believe I have made a new friend. Kids, the best way to make new friends is not necessarily to get naked with them. Especially not when you are not over someone who resides as a phantom in your head and heart. TO1 . . . what am I going to do about you?

Not necessarily.

I am tired.

Sleep sounds divine.

More politics.

For the most part the people at my current place of employment continue to treat me like I’m an alien from another planet. Or maybe a pod person. It varies from day to day. There are a few exceptions. One of them is a woman whose husband occupies a figurehead position and used that light influence to secure her a position as the company’s designated filer. She loves her job, absolutely loves it. I’ve had jobs like hers before and they suck hairy donkey balls, but she’s possessive of what I refer to as the WBB (Worker Bee Brain). My mother has a WBB, lots of my friends have WBBs, and countless members of my extended family have WBBs. Alas, I have never quite managed to acquire a WBB and have long sought to be employed for the some type of intellectual or creative enterprise. Silly me! It’s never happened. It won’t ever happen. Pfft!

This woman is a sweetheart. We converse about quite a few things. The subject matter ranges from cockroaches to politics to the goings-on of her children. She wants little from life but to be secure in her person, attend her church, and be with her family. I respect her for ability to just . . . well, live. Today she asked me what I had done last night. My answer? Drank beer, ate a sandwich, and watched the Presidential debate in my pajamas. (Yes, I do practically drink every night. Problem with that?) The woman looked at me and said, “You know, I haven’t watched any of the debates and I don’t really read the paper, but I’m really undecided. There is something I don’t like about Obama, though.” I asked her what it was she didn’t like. From anyone else, anyone I hadn’t had an opportunity to engage in conversation, the following answer would have sent me into paroxysms of fear and left me incredulous. “Well,” she said. “it really bothers me that he won’t put his hand over his heart when they say the pledge . . . or sing the national anthem. You know? I mean, that’s a big part of America.”

I was about to walk to the library and only had fifty minutes to get there and back. But I stopped for a second and thought to myself. I had one of two options. Option one: I could have smiled politely and said something similar to the following:

“Well, I totally understand.” (even though I don’t understand, especially when this allegation has been proven false), and walk away. Option two: Respectfully, share my position. I opted the for the latter and said something along the following lines.

“Well, I can see how that would be a valid objection, and you have to use whatever criteria you feel matter most when you decide to vote. I think the most important thing is just that you vote—period. Even if you only write yourself in, just vote! But I would say this, as much as I understand the need for people to examine symbolic action taken or not taken by a candidate, the idea of America is stronger than any symbol. At least it is for me. I’m a patriot. Very much so, but I don’t believe whether or not someone places their hand over their heart for the Pledge or Anthem is a valid measure of one’s patriotism, if only because quite a few of those same people who would judge those things don’t even know the words to the national anthem, how many justices are on the Supreme Court, or which parts of the Constitution affords them what rights. I think those things, much more than whether or not someone wears a flag pin or shits red, white, and blue, are a more important part of America . . . for now. We’re a work in progress. Democracy is an experiment. The USA is an experiment.

“Neither of these candidates is perfect. But if one of them will wrest us away from the politics of fear then I’m for it. If we’re talking about what’s American and un-American, how American is it that under the present administration’s guise it’s been perfectly possible that these books I’m taking back to the library could potentially put me on a terrorist watch list? Is that what America is supposed to be? You should vote for whoever you believe will do the best job, but be sure the logic behind your decision isn’t just something you’ve been told to believe. Just like what I’m telling you, it’s not necessarily something you should believe, just consider. Does that make sense?”

She looked at me and said, “Yeah, I can see what you mean.”

I kind of felt like an asshole after saying all of this. This is a woman with five children, she’s been married twice, and she is probably happier in her skin than I will ever be in mine. She loves her life. Who am I to pretend to tell her how to precondition her electoral participation? Well, I’m no one really, but I don’t know that my idea of America would be worth talking about if I hadn’t at least tried to point out to her that the pettiness which has so negatively impacted the process is a larger danger to the idea of America than the lack of any lapel pin or an uncovered heart.

I hope I didn’t come off like a snot-nosed, idealistic shit.

As a final note . . . I'm listening to Fresh Air as I type this and am hearing about anonymously composed fliers being circulated in primarily African American neighborhoods in Philadelphia in which the recipients are told that they should not vote. Why should they not vote? Because of the undercover police officers at the polling stations who will be present to arrest people with unpaid traffic citations, warrants, and the like.

That's right. That's the level we've been reduced to. And they call it the City of Brotherly love. If this is what happens there, imagine what types of things are going to be possible in the South.

Do not let this happen. Shame on any of you who would dare to engage in these types of tactics. For what? Are you really so afraid of those who are different from you?

Hearing this just now makes me furious. It pisses me off so much that I could cry.

The next segment is about potential voter intimidation tactics in crucial swing states. If you haven't listened to this, I suggest you go to the NPR web site and listen. Talk about this with your friends.

The last time I cried because of politics was the year 2000. I don't think I need to say too much as to why. All I will say is that the whole thing left me coated in disbelief and killed a very significant part of my idealism. I couldn't believe the system could be so fucked up. Don't allow ignorance and fear to steal another election. Let the process override all prejudice.

Here is hoping.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

It's not TV, it's YOUR F*CKING FUTURE!!!!

Lest I forget to address the issue, I hope many (or any?) of you reading this blog will watch the debate tonight. I sat for a brief moment and realized just how damn close the election is, and was a little frightened. By close I mean close in terms of the proximity of Election Day and the razor thin margin which separates the winner from the loser.

If you watch the news or read a decent newspaper you don’t need to do too much reading or watching to see that the candidates are pulling back no punches and have decided to not just hit below the belt, but essentially kick one another in the balls. I can’t stand to hear so many distortions, half-truths, and outright irrelevant comments, especially when so many of them will actually find a willing audience which in turn will exercise its right to vote having been filled to the brim with crap-knowledge. What is even more infuriating to me are the people who will watch the debate and use random measures to declare a victor. Obama must be articulate, but not too articulate. McCain can be angry, but not too angry. Don’t use big words or you’ll be labeled an elitist! This one is my favorite. I can’t get enough of how voters are supposedly now ardently anti-intellectual and willing to embrace ignorance. Well, don’t be one of those people. Snobs, unite!

Watch. Listen. Learn. And when the time comes, vote.

I put my hand up on ya hip, when I dip, you dip, we dip!

It’s Tuesday, right? I am having a hard time getting motivated to do anything this week. I am going to blame it on Aunt Flow. Squeamish—and I might add, silly—males who stumble upon this blog may not want to read further. As I get older I am finding myself more and more frustrated by my menstrual cycle. For some ridiculous reason I always assumed that getting older would mean having more control over the consequences of my monthly spewing. I mistakenly believed that I would eventually have it all “figured out” and never need to guess about the secret things my body was telling me. Unfortunately, I have not stopped guessing since that fateful morning in the bathroom almost 20 years ago. Ultimately, being on the rag is making me feel grosser than gross, more gross than usual; because let no one lie to you, being on your period is nasty shit. I just reread the sentence before this one and am thoroughly amused with myself. I hardly ever amuse myself.

Of course I may also feel like uber-poop because I essentially spent the whole weekend wasted. I still am not up for seeing any of my friends. It’s not easy to explain. Hating this place as much as I do, and wanting to be everywhere and anywhere else each day do not make me a great conversationalist. Plus, I save more money, read more, and can watch crappy TV by myself (or sports) if I don’t see people. Even so, I like people and feel the need to sprinkle my life with them from time to time. So last Friday my friend Amber texted me and quite literally asked me if I wanted to come over and “kick it.” Amber and I haven’t known one another very long, but I dig her style. She smokes hard (not cigarettes), drinks hard (anything that’s wet), and talks hard (I get along especially well with people whose mouths are potty like mine). And on top of that, she’s also extremely intelligent and fun to talk to, so it’s an honor to call her my friend. And, as appears to be the case with most of my friends, within the first two days she said something to me about my lack of self-confidence. The following is a brief paraphrase of the conversation. Please do bear in mind that we’d been drinking lots, lots, lots, lots (tequila shots, vodka, beer, and wine were all present) and smoking *ahem* stuff, and now we were playing Scrabble (or maybe it was Yahtzee, either way I lost.) Amber proceeded to make a comment about her crazy-looking face, or something to that effect. I guffawed. Amber is GORGEOUS! I mean, S-S-S-S-S-S-S-moking HOT! She is EXACTLY the kind of mixed-girl I wish had been! Perfect skin, great figure, and the right height! I hate her . . . but in a loving way. So, as soon as she made light of her beauty I proceeded with the following: (Please keep in mind that this is a blog re-enactment.)

“Dude, what the fuck are you talking about? You’re fucking gorgeous! A sick hottie!”

Amber proceeded to lay down a Triple Word Score and said, “Why is it alright for you to say shit like that but you never let people tell you the same thing?”
Insert universal cricket sound effect here.

After giving myself a few minutes to dust off some brain cells I answered, “It’s not the same.” Which it is not. “I may be ‘cute’ and have had a singular occasion to maybe be ‘pretty’ but I have never been ‘hot’ or ‘beautiful.’” It’s true. I am not even an unconventionally attractive woman. I just look like a fucked up muppet!

Amber rolled her eyes at me. I do not like when people roll their eyes at me. It makes me feel foolish.
“It’s exactly the fucking same.”
More crickets, please.
“Well, let’s not talk about it,” I said.
“It’s kind of hard not to, you’re always saying something shitty about yourself so it brings itself up. I oughta make you take a tequila shot every time you say some fucked up shit about yourself.”
Thank goodness this did not happen. If I die as a result of my boozing I’d prefer it not happen in a friend’s living room. And, tequila shots in such a volume are sure to present an interesting set of circumstances. I hardly take tequila shots, so my having taken one was feat enough.
“What’s so wrong with you?” Amber asked.
I have had more of these types of fucking conversations than I care to recall. What’s so wrong with me? What’s WRONG with me?

Ah, the 25 gazillion dollar question. Oh, where to begin . . . what isn’t fucking wrong with me! Here's what's wrong with me . . . here's what I should have said: “Look, the truth is, I’m never going to like who I am. I’m not going to learn to love myself and be all new-agey and shit about who I am. I don’t like who I am. I never have. I never will. I know this. I don’t like the way I look, the way I talk, the way I smell, the way I laugh, or the way I have to justify my dislike for myself to the people in my life. Why is it such a hard thing for people to just let me. People try and scare me and tell me shit like, ‘Well, you’ll never love anyone else if you don’t learn to love yourself!’ BULLSHIT! I love people with complete body, mind, heart, and soul, and you know what it has gotten me? Jack shit. But do you know how many fucked up, obnoxious people in this world get everything they want by pissing on people’s hearts? Do you know how many of them are married, have life partners, blah, blah, blah! I’m sure they may love themselves, but they’re assholes. Just because someone doesn’t like themselves, doesn’t mean they’re not a good person, or they can’t be a good friend.”
Uncomfortable silence.

“Shit, if it’s such a big deal, I’ll marry you then.”
I laughed.

A sweet, friendly way to basically say . . . SHUT THE FUCK UP WITH YOUR NEGATIVITY!!!! I got it. I'll just never be able to really get it.

It’s true. I don’t want to be married. I don’t give a shit if I don’t ever get married. For some reason this is impossible for people to believe. I have actually met people who insist on saying shit like, “Oh you just haven’t found the right one yet,” or “Someone’s going to change your mind.” What part of “I DON’T FUCKING WANT TO GET MARRIED!” is impossible to understand? Don’t get me wrong, I do get a little sad when I realize I’m probably going to end up a buffet for the maggots without ever having experienced a real kind of loving, but so be it! We are not all put here to be someone’s parent or spouse. I know it in my heart that I’m not the marrying type. I would be the world’s shittiest wife. Without question! I can’t cook, I hate cleaning, and I am crap in bed. Well, this last part’s not true, I’m actually AMAZING in the sack. I give great head, too! But great head is nothing a newfangled machine won’t soon be able to duplicate, if not perfect. So soon I won’t even have that! Um, that was a tangent, sorry. Does this mean I am anti-marriage? Absolutely not. I think marriage is a beautiful, beautiful thing. Please read how I’ve written marriage and allow me to confirm that when I write marriage I mean marriage between two consenting adults (even those with the same genitalia). Yes, marriage is a fine thing, it’s just not for me. (*Edit* I do think that all of the readily accessible sex introduced as a possible marriage residual makes marriage enticing, but as much as I like sex, I don't like marriage enough to get married for sex.)

242/220. 224 days until I leave this place for good, 220 days until I leave this job for good. I can hardly wait.

A little over two weeks until I’m in San Francisco and Oakland and my heart gets giddy with the thought of it.

Oh, and TO1’s response to my text was simple enough. Dodger died. And he thanked me for rooting for his team. I want to see him so badly.

Work sucks.

Thursday, October 2, 2008

A Blog for an e-friend . . .

So that she knows I'm not dead. Yes, that would be you Alissa (not Alyssa). See, I'm not dead yet.

As I type this, I am getting high. And that is no joke.

I've been on a blog break. This is that obvious information for my two devoted readers. But just because I have been absent does not mean that I have not been thinking. I am always thinking. One of my former professors with whom I developed a friendship used to tell me that I had a "busy brain" that could never be satisfied by mundane entrapment and that it would be up to me to make sure I didn't waste my "beautiful, busy brain."

We don't talk anymore. Mostly because I stopped feeling worthy of her friendship.

I won't continue with the me-beating on this post. I have many more posts between now and age 35.

So, what has life given me, to give to you? Proceed.

I have begun a countdown. In 248 days I will leave this town again. But this time I hope for good. I don't yet know where I am going, I just know that where I am is not where I want to be. It's not where I'm supposed to be. This is something I feel deeply and irreversibly. In two weeks before the 248th day I will have quit my current job. What to say about this current job? Being underemployed and under-compensated (again) have been easier to endure this time around. It's easy because I know I am leaving.

Remember, I work for a company that makes t-shirts. They make t-shirts and embroider things. That's what they do. Even so, these people behave as though the heavens themselves will spiral into the Earth's core if something goes "wrong." Would you like an example? I ran out of work to do. I ran out of work because everything they give me is nothing. But I accept the tasks to pass the time. That is it. I thought I'd found something to do. A stack of work orders needed replenishing and I needed something to do. So, I thought I might try and restock these work orders. And what happens? One of the salespeople who probably wouldn't piss on me if I were on fire walked by me and said, "No, no, you are NOT supposed to be touching those. Nobody touches those but ME! I've been here six years and someone always touches this and messes it up. There's a sign RIGHT THERE!" Remember, I am wearing some really fucked up broken glasses, and well the sign is the size of a postage stamp.

Ummm . . . right. So I attempted to explain. "Oh, I'm sorry I just didn't want to be idle."

I later learned that this all-important task was off-limits to me because there are numbers that must be put into spreadsheets to ensure that the work orders are received in time!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SPREADSHEETS!!!!!!!!!

Okay. Fine. So just say that. She probably could say it if she ever said more than two words to me. She came in afterward and wanted me to know she wasn't "gettin' on me" but that the work order process was her "kick."

If they only knew. If they only knew I was counting the days.

Where To go?

The only thing that keeps me waking up is knowing that eventually I'll be gone again. If it were any other time I'd be even more depressed than my usual depressive self and wondering if I should go with pills or try the steak knife. Instead, I am considering the following (pardon me, I know I am being repetitive):

*Southeast Asia for a month and then with the leftover savings a move on to a mundane life in (Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, Detroit, Cleveland, Bozeman, or some other similar sized story with cheap rent).

*Skip Southeast Asia for now and moving to a possibly more exciting life in (Chicago, Brooklyn, San Francisco, Boston, or some other similar city with not-so cheap rent). Just so you know, San Francisco is at the TOP of this list. I wouldn't just live in the Bay Area this time, I'd take on The City.

*Southeast Asia for a more than just a month with a return to a place I don't like so that I can make more money yet again to leave (yet again).

These are my options. I wake up with them on my mind.

Who To Love?

Last night, sober, I sent TO1 a text message. I am watching his favorite baseball team when I do it. He had a blue Beta called Dodger. The poor fish had been alive for over four years. A beta.

The first night after TO1 and I were together he introduced me to Dodger. I looked into the murky bowl and said, "You should change his water!" When I came back over later that night the water had been changed.

The text read: "Tell Dodger's "Dad" that someone he once knew in the span of a life flash said, 'Go Dodgers.'"

I fly back to California on the 24th. I want to see him. But I know he doesn't want to see me. If life were like the movies I could walk up to his doorstep, hug him, say I'm sorry, and at least get a friend. Where I'd lost a lover, I would have found a way to salvage a friend.


Today I learned that the local, overpriced organic store across the street from my job is now allowing mix and match 6packs. This new policy has been the only thing I have been genuinely excited about in a long, long time. Seriously.

So I excitedly bought myself a mix-match of IPAs from Oregon, California, and Colorado, and took the long-ass bus ride home (remember I live in a crap town with crap public transportation) to watch the Veep debates. My honest assessment? Palin held her own. I was hoping to watch her get reamed, absolutely positively humiliated even; but no, she is a quick study. And that, more than I care to admit, frightens me. It really, really frightens me.

If you have friends who are not registered to vote, encourage them to register. I hope you won't tell them who to vote for, but at least ask that they get their asses out to choose. Oh, but do your part to inform them. Please, for the love of any type of justice, don't let them fly blind.

Alright. That's me right now. More later I guess.

Alissa (not Alyssa) . . . I'm so glad to have your blogs to read again. I'm going to design a type of paper for resumes and it's going to be called CCE . . . for Cock and Balls Elegance.

Goodnight Blogosphere, I'm going to smoke more weed and sleep.