I was relaying details of my most recent romantic faceplant to my youngest brother two nights ago, grimacing at the horror of how badly I’d managed to mangle everything. We were swapping stories, comparing both his and my recent relationship entanglements as well as those of our other brother, who was not present at the time.
At one point, he looked at me with a shake of his shaggy 16-year-old head and said:
"You know? I just keep thinking that if any of us could really get our shit together? I mean, you know… quit fucking everything up all the time? We’d all be the most amazing… mates! For other people! I mean… we have so much to offer! Everything we’ve been through? We’re all such sensitive people, you know? We just… get in our own way because we’re so fucked up. It sucks.”
It was one of the greatest moments I’ve had in a long time.
You spend hours prepping for situations in which you’ll be evaluated. Be it an interview, a test, an audition, or even a first date, you go in there and you give it your all! Then it’s over, thank God. Please resist the urge to pick apart every moment looking for minute missteps and imagining what the other party could glean from your answers. It’s in the past, what’s done is done. You did great! Even if you accidentally lit your hair on fire and misspelled your own name, you still deserve a treat. Get yourself an ice cream cone and a hand job.
You did it. You acknowledged the elephant in the room. You said what needed to be said and frankly, I’m proud of you! Now what? Well, I suppose we find a way to deal with the elephant. What were the reactions or non-reactions when you spoke the truth? Is this (A) something worth fighting for or did you (B) just want to clear the air? If the answer is A, awesome- keep fighting, I’m behind you 100%. If it’s B, then your work is done and now you can think about something else, like how unbelievably brave you are.
Today remind yourself: I speak the truth.
Bravery and stupidity are a hair’s width apart sometimes.
So are truth and alcohol, emotional logic and rational thought.
Rather than divulge mundane details about why I’m guzzling a bottle of wine at present, I hereby post a quote to summarize the overall sentiment of the day:
Latrelle: BECAUSE I THINK MY HEAD IS GONNA EXPLODE ANY MINUTE IF ANY MORE SHIT HITS THE FAN TODAY!
Ty: Did you just say ‘shit?’
Latrelle: I did. I did! And I said ‘damn’ today too. And ‘hell.’ And ‘bitch.’ And ‘dookie.’ And you know what, I feel like sayin’ more. Damn! Hell! Bitch! Shit! Dookie! DAMN! HELL! BITCH! SHIT! TITTYYYYYYYY!!!!
I want a red dress. I want it flimsy and cheap, I want it too tight, I want to wear it until someone tears it off me. I want it sleeveless and backless, this dress, so no one has to guess what’s underneath. I want to walk down the street past Thirfty’s and the hardware store with all those keys glittering in the window, past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old donuts in their cafe, past the Guerra brothers slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly, hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders. I want to walk like I’m the only woman on earth and I can have my pick. I want that red dress bad. I want it to confirm your worst fears about me, to show you how little I care about you or anything except what I want. When I find it, I’ll pull that garment from it’s hanger like I’m choosing a body to carry me into this world, through the birth-cries and the love-cries too, and I’ll wear it like bones, like skin, it’ll be the goddamned dress they bury me in.
There is something about a Martini, A tingle remarkably pleasant; a yellow, a mellow Martini; I wish I had one at present. There is something about a Martini, Ere the dining and dancing begin, And to tell you the truth, It is not the vermouth - I think that perhaps it’s the gin.
“we forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget. we forget the loves and the betrayals alike, forget what we whispered and what we screamed, forgot who we were.”—joan didion (via paperbackgirl) (via finallyseeing) (via rgeissler)
Je deteste le matin. If you’re blue this morning, if you’re feeling guilty, remorseful, or full of self-loathing, my best advice is don’t do anything drastic while bummed. Don’t chop your hair off or text old lovers; definitely don’t ingest any depressant (I’m lookin at you, booze). Please, try to stop beating yourself up. When the worst of the funk passes, then you can make carefully weighed decisions regarding actions, attitudes, friends, dates, beverages, drugs, places, behaviors, or whatever has you down. Talk to someone who has your best interest at heart; wake them up if you have to. Know that you can change your behavior, change your thinking, and ultimately change your life. Make a sensible change because there is no reason to be unhappy for a minute longer.
Today remind yourself: If it feels bad, stop doing it.
And what’s even more impossible to grasp… this is only the first… of all of it. So many more emails to come over the next several decades - health, birth, death, remission, stage-this-and-that, progress, battle, hospital, accident, tragedy, miracle.
I think what I really learned from years of being slutty is that kissing is the best part.
Unless you’re getting into a relationship, there’s this inevitable sadness to all sexual encounters — even good sexual encounters, even the best sex — because it means the end of it all. The end of the flirtation, the moment of promise, the anticipation, and — in some cases, at least — the end of your acquaintance with that person. Suddenly this person, so full of promise, is just another name on your list of people you’ve fucked; another entry to the database of places you’ve been.
Kissing, on the other hand, extends the moment of anticipation, heightens the desire, keeps you wondering and guessing what, exactly, that moment of climax would be like. Kissing is the question, and fucking is the answer — and the answer is never as good as you hoped.
What I’m really trying to say, I guess, is that I long ago lost the desire to fuck every hot stranger who passes by, but I still really want to make out with people.
Have just spent over 3 hours in front of this screen meticulously perusing rental sites, classifieds, and listing agencies.
I move in October.
My eyes are crossed.
I have a headache.
All I want is something in my current neighborhood, exceptionally charming, spacious, with a wealth of closet space, elegant, well-lit, and super-cheap. Strangely enough, it’s not such an easy find. Who knew.
I forgot to eat and am now faced with the dilemna of whether it’s worth it at this point (11:45 pm?) or if I should just go to bed.
I’m hungry anyway.
Work was absolutely wild today.
I’m stressed about finding a new place/moving.
I’m trying to talk myself out of a useless panic.
I’m still riding on my thrift-shopping treasure-finding glory from yesterday. For the record, it IS possible to find Versace in Indianapolis. For two dollars. Booyah.
I own a lot of shit, it turns out. And I don’t know what to do with it re: moving. Any advice on how to fit 4 couches into a one-bedroom place are certainly welcome. No really. I’m listening.
My bro and I are currently in a mini-battle over who has to download from itunes (read: pay for) this week’s episode of Mad Men, which we both missed. Yes, we’re fighting over a $1.99 media download. It’s shamefully representative of all that is our family dynamic. I love it.
Sidenote: same brother is currently holding my kitchenaid mixer hostage. And my game of Clue. There will be blood… in the drawing room… with the candlestick. Mark my words.