It's a new year, and the last year was just as bad as the first one. Au revoir, bitches!

I didn't really do much of anything today. I lounged around and bled painfully. M called at three in the afternoon while I was talking to Arizona and my mother came in with R.'s mom, and asked her to drive me to Walmart. I couldn't do it. She called later in the evening to cheer me up, and told me that I had a good letter, for what's it's worth.

I went out with R. to dinner. He's graying, and he smokes a pack a day, but is generally youthful. Has a bootstrap-it attitude. At least he made me feel better, instead of like a complete fucking cowpie, although he may actually think it. He thinks it's odd to not go in a straight trajectory -- he and every other person out there. It's easy for him to say I shouldn't be afraid of failure and all this other stuff, but I don't think he understands what freaking self doubts I have to tame in order to do a damn thing. Or maybe he does and he thinks I'm a joke. R. is dating an 18 year old to "have a good time" and a 27 year old at the same time. Ms. 27 insisted on monogamy, so R agreed, but is dating Ms 18 behind her back. Ms 18 knows about Ms 27, so R says. I told R to cut 27 loose, because the lying really isn't worth the bother if he just wants a "good time".

Croissant's current boyfriend is over twenty years older than she, and is being held in jail pending the trial of a man who is accused of murdering his wife five years ago. Apparently the police suspect Mr. PI of hiding the victim's car. He also lied about working for the defendant. Croissant will Stand By Her Man. Croissant is lucky she wasn't dating him then, because she would make the perfect patsy because she is so willing to trust jackasses. I'm beginning to wonder how safe it is to be her friend.

Last Friday, she filled me in. She's afraid the state police may tap her phone, and is adamant about not talking on the phone about it. She was so agitated (bills falling through) etc, that I asked her if she thought the appartment was bugged, and I half expected her to be in handcuffs when she took too long to check if her biological uncle had wired her money. She said, "We can't talk about my love life." When I suggested a restaurant, she said "I have an upset stomach, I can't eat your kind of food, Chinese Mexican, whatever..." We then went to Olive Garden, where she spent more money than me, ordered a fried seafood platter, and then spent the entire time talking about her love life. Believe me, anything I've gone through pales in comparison, because it is All. About. Her.

Clogged

I talked to Deepak. He once again urged that I go on a REAL vacation. I can't properly call my trip to Maryland and southern NY a real vacation since it was completely not of my volition. He offered up his son as an escort to California.

Today I used an ancient vaccuum and baking powder to tame the dust bunnies in my room. I also put some freaking Drano in my shower. The water is still standing there after a couple of days.

Why couldn't the freaking drain handle the hair?

I think that about sums up the state of things -- clogged. Nothing's going anywhere. I don't know if I'm going to be in law school or even in the same town within the next couple of months, and the time is fast approaching for me to act. I need to start doing things and I don't have the information to do so -- it's out of my hands.

A martini ( undrunk) A cosmopolitan, an amaretto sour and a water later.

Why am I bleeding right where my ankle is, if the shoes I'm wearing have no ankle straps?
(Hic!)

I'm a big fan of blog aggregators since I'm addicted to blogs. That way I can read one site and save time. Ha.

I recently ran across the Cotillion -- a blog aggregator of these conservachicks. It doesn't seem like too many of them think. Some people do think; even if they are completely wrong. Scalia who I generally disagree with; has well written logically flowing opinions that work if you accept his premises. For the most part, even granting them that grace still results in posts like Swiss cheese -- when they aren't fatuously congratulating themselves on their bravery or their beauty or coolness.

These blogs have well designed templates, five billion outbound links, and very little in the way of posts. And they all seem to have this weird obsession with slinky girls and martinis -- like they are all chick lit novels.

I think they really do like the fifties-- complete with the Donna Reed pearls, shoving Junior outside to play Cowboys and Flip Up Skirt Day, drinking three martinis waiting for Hubby to come home while the black maid sweeps everything up. Or they like the antebellum Southern belle or the southern debutante. Or at least they like the sugary sweet poison dart. How many boy are those chicks ugly posts can you make?

"Oh, mammy, I just can't be 20"!

I don't generally take time to greet my mother upon arriving home, nor do I spend much time doing it.

Me:(coming in)
Mother: Come here. Where have you been.
Me: (holds up graduation pamphlet.* Starts to leave)
Mother: Wait a minute. You shouldn't wear such a tight top.
Oh my god.
Me: Well hello to you too. (walks away)
Mother. Look at yourself in the mirror and see if you like it. (Looks at newspaper.)
Me: (Goes to sink. Spits.)


I had an argument with her yesterday. She pleaded with me to lose some weight because therefore I would have a smaller waist and would look better. Not so. I had the same damn waist-hip ratio twenty-five pounds ago, and I'll be damned if I'll knock myself out trying to get her 20-in. waist when she got married. It certainly isn't motivational for me; it's depressing.


I was this close to telling her to fuck off. Others may think she was only being kind with only the sincerest interest in my potentialities. Not so. I could for example, tell her that she's wrinkly and flabby, and then protest that I only mean to encourage her to use sunscreen and do bicep curls, but how convincing is that? Granted, I might not be at the perfect BMI, but I certainly shouldn't have to put up with such fucking rudeness.

*Thankfully it was a friend's graduation.

Malaria makes you skinny

I accomplished nothing today.

I went to Macy's in the mall and discovered that I am officially a 34D. This means I have officially left the land of halfway pretty lingerie and now must acquire scaffolding to support my enormous breasts. Moreover, they do not have the foundation garment I require in my color and size -- although I may be a 34C still, if I rationalize that it will stretch over time from constant uses. Most "flesh colored" bras do not in the least look like my flesh, unless one is throughly blind.

My bottom half has exploded! Months of living on horrible food trying to study for my finals coupled with no exercise and being under ridiculous amounts of stress has definitely made me huge. I've gained maybe 6 lb but 6 inches on my waist. It doesn't matter that I lived at home; I spent most of the day at school, and nobody packs both lunch and dinner. This is proof that God and genetics hate me. Short stature, shapeless eyebrows, shapeless body. I never wore skirts or dresses if I could possibly help it. Shopping for a prom dress, and the precious virginal white dress for graduation was a nightmare. Even in high school my body was in three different sizes. If a dress fit my boobs, it did not fit my waist. If it fit my waist and hips, I'd be too busty to pull the dratted thing over my chest. I ended up with some horrid thing which made me look boxy and fat. I look back on old pictures and want to scream. Twenty pounds ago and I still am in a dress that makes me look like a rectangle! And I looked fatter than all of the other women in my high school class.

There was maybe one brief shining moment when I was thin and pretty -- second semester freshman year. I was in love, eating horrible cafeteria food in small portions, and walking for three hours a day with my posse of friends in addition to going back and forth to classes. I'd forget to eat for long stretches, and then gorge on a small amount of food. Unfortunately no pictures exist of this period -- and my ex probably burned all the ones he has of me. I have a picture of my frowning face, a blown-up black and white photo taken for an art project. My mother hates that one and probably got rid of it. My mother thought I was too thin and made me eat dressing... on salad. Creamy full fat dressing. I was not consciously trying to lose weight.

The one time I succeeded in losing weight I was on a combination of an SSRI and an anti histamine -- which was sort of like mild speed. My father had me discontinue taking it because it made me too bouncy.

Now supposedly, I need to lose lots of weight so I can be marriagable. There's a convention and weddings coming up in which she will introduce me to loads of bored stockbrokers and med students. They all love hearing themselves talk, and most certainly do not acknowledge the existence of anyone over a size 2 who doesn't fawn over them. A woman or girl who I will name Human Stick Bug is the ultimate prize. She is premed. Human Stick Bug has that perfect waist-hip ratio, which I will never achieve except through speed, dieting, and much liposuction. She shops in the children's department, and has exquisite visible spinal bones. She never eats much, yet manages to polish off three Cosmopolitans that clubbers throw at her. And then she complains she is so..... hunnnnnngry.

In my imagination this is how the mating dance between Human Stick Bug (HSG) and MD goes.

MD: ...So I was sitting in Bello's having lunch, when I saw this old guy waving his hands in panic silently. Nobody knew what to do, but someone said asked "Is there a doctor in the house?" So I...
HSG:... performed a tracheoectomy?
MD: ... performed the Heimlich maneuver.
HSG: (at the same time) .. .Tracheoectomys are so... sexxxy....

See what I'm up against?