is someone getting the best the best the best the best of you?

I was reading this Sylvia Browne book yesterday on the train and bus and I was laughing embarrassingly loudly to myself. I had to call A to make it look like someone on the phone was making me laugh because it was ridiculous. If anyone wants to borrow it, just let me know because it is incredibly amusing.

I am changing my profile picture on this blog because I know that it probably is really difficult for A to come on here and look at it. I mean, I can't believe I was being so disregardful (I don't care if that's not a word) all along. I guess it's because I felt that if I took away that kissy faced picture, I would be giving away that time period when things were simple. Things were easy and I was going to school knowing (thinking) that I would want to work at my current job after graduation making a living wage (I use that term loosely). I thought everything was going to stay the same - that I'd be spending my free time drinking $2 draft beers, talking about the world's problems and philosophy and walking my dog through the park to play in the tennis courts with other dogs. I thought I'd be able to smoke cigarettes forever without dying. I thought that I'd be standing up to my best friend's wedding. I thought that was real. It wasn’t. I thought I'd continue to get parking tickets once a week and wait by my e-mail for an update on what was in store for the future. I thought that I could continue on ordering pizzas from the Giordano's in Logan Square and pay for them with my debit card when they were delivered. I thought I would carry around my cigarette butts until the next garbage can for fear that I would get yelled at. I thought that there would be many more empty Christmases - and there were - but they weren't that bad. I thought that there'd be more meetings and margaritas. There were. And they tasted better. For real.

I have been taking a peek at my old entries in this modest space on the net that I like to call my weblog. I noticed a number of depressing things.

One is that I used to write relatively well. I used to care about not only my grammar, word usage and spelling, but also language, context, content and stories. You know those stories… the ones that brought you onto the train or bus with me. Or better yet, into my base for a few minutes. This dates back to the things I wrote before the big “DELETE” that I had. I wish I could get those entries back. I used to be able to put my feelings on “paper”. Actually, I don’t think I have lost the ability to put things on paper; I believe that I have in fact lost the ability to feel all together.

I used to be so incredibly passionate. I was looking over my Friendster profile (thanks) and I had listed a slew of things that used to interest me. I had to delete most of them because I no longer give a flying fuck. I realized recently that I no longer give a flying fuck about much.

[And no, it’s not because I started hanging out with you. I don’t know if you remember this because you were so drunk, but I was complaining about how my brain is fading and you said it’s probably because I am hanging out with you. I would argue that you’re actually bringing back the old me – the one that enjoys herself. Anyway, here’s your shout out right in the middle of my blog entry that you asked for.]

Let me begin by pointing out that I work a job that rots my brain; I have no need to be creative here. It is not necessary for me to interact in a creative and socially acceptable fashion with those around me. It is all informal hurry rush speed to get things done that have deadlines at the last minute. Before the impending doom of a deadline sets in, it is mostly sitting around and teasing each other or trying to delve into each other’s personal lives. And most of the biggest offenders are gone right now.

I am going to try to write in my not-so-beloved blog more often so that I am not married to the fruitless tens of thousands of pages of rants and raves on Chicago’s craigslist.

Maybe I will go back to school in January. Maybe I’ll work on a Master’s program for some field into which I am not sure I want to venture. That will put me well into debt. I can finally see the light with regard to my debt; it’s not looking as dim anymore. And that’s comforting. Unfortunately, my brain is dimming as my debt is shrinking.

What the hell am I afraid of? Spending my time caring about people and causes only to get screwed over in the end? What is the point of that? Isn’t life for living? I am trying to live and feel like I used to, but in my old age I have become Kautious Kristy. I am afraid of feeling, caring and getting hurt. I am afraid of saying what I feel because I fear that I will not be taken seriously. Who am I to be so self absorped, anyway? I have it pretty good.

As my lovely Allman Brothers myspace song states, I Ain’t Wastin’ Time No More. This is it. This is life. And as a wise man once said, “if you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it”.

‘Cause All You Need is a Pretty Song

It is twenty-five below zero in my office. My left eye itches – kind of like there is an eye lash in it or if I just made out with a big, fluffy cat to which I am allergic. My right eye is weepy. I keep rubbing both of them. I slept approximately 10 hours last night, but I am still sleepy. Or maybe my eyes are just tricking me into thinking that I am drowsy since they hurt so much and I don't want to keep them open.

Jen called to inform me that she in fact had not been kidnapped on the Metra SouthWest service line, but that she has the day off. Must be nice. I wish I were on vacation. Why is it that everyone is on vacation? Or planning a vacation? Why am I stuck here with my weepy eyes staring at this piece of crap computer? I swear I will reach the end of the Internet soon. What will I do then? Turn it off and read something corporeal? But what would I be doing at home? Watching Maury? Walking the dog? Eating? Napping? Well, all of that sounds ok right about now.

I know I sound like I am in a bad mood, but I’m really not. Life is pretty much all sunshine and puppy dogs for now. Thank God I don’t wear a watch; I would have already looked at it forty-seven times today. Yesterday went by so quickly.

you drive me crazy; i just can't sleep

I thought purgatory was supposed to be temperate. It burns like hell!

And You're Far Too Kind

I've been thinking a lot about the phrase "love is blind" lately.

I decided to look up the origin and of course, it came from Shakespeare:

The Merchant Of Venice

Here, catch this casket; it is worth the pains.
I am glad 'tis night, you do not look on me,
For I am much ashamed of my exchange:
But love is blind and lovers cannot see
The pretty follies that themselves commit;
For if they could, Cupid himself would blush
To see me thus transformed to a boy.