Diamonds Never Die

I’m just the diamond they bring out and flaunt
Not allowed to stick around, only to be bought

Something to show off and flash to the world
The envy of most of the boys and the girls

My company is inviting and my mind so clever
When you claim me, you have me, but never forever

The boys all too careless and the men all too selfish
A guy who will hold me always, has always been my wish

I’m more than a diamond they want to show off
I’m a lover, a thinker, a fighter, a wreck and the boss

They smother, or smudge me, but can’t darken my shine
Diamonds are the hardest thing around, keep that in mind

"You can’t cry on a diamond’s shoulder, and diamonds won’t keep you warm at night, but they’re sure fun when the sun shines."
-Elizabeth Taylor

Next Time

The crazy ecstasy rolls for hours,
and you gasp for air as the feelings climb.
Joy explodes like blooming flowers,
the petals fall, I wonder if there is a next time?

Your eyes are powerful; they match your stem,
direct contact is deadly, because I’ll wilt in the end.

Our bodies wrapped around like ivy,
sprouting upwards, reaching towards the sublime.
The thorn in my side falls out and disappears
when you tell me you can’t wait for next time.

The Fire Was in My Head

There was a fire inside my head
You struck a match, you struck me dead
Trying to burn me down, smoke me out
The crackling flames drowning my shouts

Now you’re just something I lost in the fire
Me head burning, I can’t walk this wire
You push and you pull, change your mind and you’re done
I can’t stick around, save my life, gotta run

There was a fire inside my head
You struck a match, you struck me dead
Trying to burn me down, smoke me out
The crackling flames drowning my shouts

Now I’m just something you set on fire
My body burning, you’ve smothered all desire
I spin and turn, watch the flames till their done
I spiral around, Phoenix rise, now I’ve won

What love we had you sizzled to ash
Now there’s no going back
It started when you turned ugly and mean
Your words pouring the gasoline

You put a fire inside my head
You struck my face, I struck you dead
Tried to burn me alive, I found my out
Push you on the fire, no one heard you shout

Now you’re just something I lost in the fire

Punk Perspective

I know I said I would continue the Zoo Series and cover the third category of men, but I would like to take a moment and confess something. I can do that, right? We’re friends, aren’t we? I can confess something to you and not regret it, right? Oh what is the difference, no one is reading these anyways. My confession is: My name is Guy Stefani, and I am a former punk. The second part of this confession is that I miss being a punk, pretty much, all the time. Honestly though, punk chose me, I never chose it. I can not tell you what first drew me to wearing black clothes. I do not remember what made me gravitate towards Marlboro Lights and leather jackets. There are pairs of black boots in the back of my closet that I do not even remember buying. Ok, well, I can kind of explain that. During my early twenties I was doing a lot of networking. By networking I mean sleeping around. Nine times out of ten, when the early light of morning started to crack through the blinds of some guy’s bedroom window, it was a race to grab some clothes off the floor and get out the door. I had a job to get to, or a class to sit through. At one point of my life about eighty percent of my wardrobe had been generously donated from the carpets of my one time partners in crime. I guess that solves where some of those boots came from, but I still can not put my finger on the exact reason I was magnetized towards the punk lifestyle. Many people would argue that I was never a proper punk, that I was merely a faux punk, trying to fake it until I make it. There is some validity to their point of view; for starters I have never done drugs, nor do I ever intend to. I have never been in a rock band, nor can I play the guitar. I have fairly common piercings on my body and, currently, only one tattoo. So, was I the poster child for sex, drugs and rock and roll? No, probably not. What earned me my platinum level punk membership card was two things really: how good I looked when smoking a cigarette, and the fact that I could wear the hell outta a pair of dark denim skinny jeans.

You see some people, even lifetime smokers, still look awkward when holding a cigarette or exhaling smoke. I see them all the time on the streets and the sidewalks. They hold it with the wrong fingers or as if the cigarette is too heavy or weighing them down. Those are the ones that are faking it. If you ever see a person smoking a cigarette and the FAIL meme pops into your head, they are doing it wrong. The first faker is the person that is doing it to look cool; these are the pretty girls who want to prove they have an edge or are more intellectual than they really are. My dears, please just get a library card or start wearing a watch; but do not attempt to boost your credentials by lamely huffing a cigarette. The second type of person, who might be failing at smoking, would be the addicts. I smoked on and off for about six years, and not once did I ever crave a cigarette. They were merely a prop to me, or a tool to either attract or detract attention. I smoked to pass the time during a boring conversation or to just pass the time in general. Sitting on the front steps of one of my old apartment buildings and smoking was where I did some of my best thinking. I would watch the clouds pass in the sky and inhale and exhale until I had found a solution to my problem. The Golden Girls had cheesecake, I had Marlboros. I guess you could say it was a form of meditation. What really mattered was that I could hold and smoke a cigarette in a fashion that would have made James Dean himself envious. Knowing how to select a cigarette from a box, place it in your lips, flick the lighter and steal that first inhale to start the fire, that dear readers, is a lost art; but it was an art that I did perfectly. Smoking like a film noir detective would be the first half of my punk platinum status induction, but we all know the clothes make the man.

I very distinctly remember the first time I bought skinny jeans. They were a dark wash pair of Social Collision skinnys from Hot Topic. May that store rest in peace. I just knew they looked good on me; I had the legs for them. After a while, the one pair multiplied into several pairs ( just like rabbits ) and before I knew it I had a briar patch full of skinny jeans. The jeans, coupled with my new found love of yoga and lounges, really showed off my stems; and it seemed everyone took notice. It wasn’t long before skinnys and t-shirts became my standard, finished off with a leather jacket and boots. It was easy, I wore it well, it looked good on me and it heavily attracted the type of man I was fixated on back then. Did you already figure it out? Yes, you guessed it, my fatal attraction to peacocks was heightened by the punk perspective. The sneak attack that was part of all my doomed punk peacock relationships was that I knew I would one day out grow my boots. Eventually I would put it all away and start dressing like a grown up. The skinny jeans would be replaced by chinos, the tees covered up with button downs and the cigarettes traded for a Manhattan, or, whatever it is upstanding, Ivy League graduates drink. I figured all the punk peacocks thought that way; you can not stay young forever, right? Eventually there comes a time when you put away childish things and have to make changes. Well, my little peacocks did not share that mindset. No, my little punk peacocks wanted to stay in NeverNeverLand forever, and not have to face the real world. They were all determined to keep it that way, or die trying.

And die they did.

It is really quite easy to be punk; the whole thing is really one big distraction. If you dress like you have no future, then no one will question you when you admit to dropping out of college. If you look like you’ve beaten the hell out of countless drunks in bar fights, then no one will mess with you. If you defy your own health and light up that cigarette, then obviously you are a rebel and must be great in bed. No point in planning a future when the only thing it contains is another hangover and empty bottles. Do I miss being a punk? Absolutely. Not having to care or think or plan can make life a cake walk, right up until your boots can walk no more. I traded in my boots about a month ago, and now it is loafers and dress shirts. Every day brings a new cardigan, and I finally understand why every black belt I ever purchased could be flipped over to brown. The whole experience has been eye opening. People treat me nicer, and are more willing to speak to me. I am called “sir” instead of “move asshole”. The only thing I am struggling with is the fact that I feel like it is all a lie with me. My punk perspective had become my security blanket, my invisibility cloak, my bullet proof vest. The clothes may make the man, yes, but the man must defend his clothes. I can not defend my new Ivy League attire quite yet, but I am desperately trying to. I can suddenly see the shock and disappointment when I admit to dropping out of college. A strangers eyes use to expect that answer, but now it let’s them down. Surely a man who wears such nice cardigans and has such finely pressed pants would have graduated. Naturally he has a flourishing career. Absolutely not could he ever struggle with money. No, no, with an outfit like that, I bet he owns a boathouse. They say, you should always pull yourself up by your bootstraps; but I guess I have to figure out how to pull myself up by my loafer laces.

The Zoo Series: Lions

Hi, my name is Guy Stefani, and I hope you like reading because I like writing. I once again have a laptop of my own, so I will not be forced to try and write these on an Amazon Kindle. My plan is to have them posted on a fairly regular schedule, and I would love it if you followed along.

When I last posted, I was just beginning the Zoo Series; and the point of that was to show that all men can be categorized into one of four titles. Men are either: peacocks, lions, gorillas or vultures. Originally I called the last title “bird of prey”, but I figured vulture summed it up nicely. The last post I wrote was the in depth explanation of what exactly a peacock is like, and how they behave. It was written very shortly after having broken up with my last boyfriend, who was a total peacock, and it is riddled with personal history. The next “animale” I am going to tackle is the lion. Honestly, I have very little romantic history with lions; they never gave me much attention in the past. They are the most heroic, athletic and wonderful of all men roaming around this zoo I call Chicago. They are proud and sexy and born leaders with big chests and smart brains. They can be firemen or bankers or the crossfit coach you always see on the Redline that you just know would be able to make you claw up the bedsheets while he sends your body into fits of euphoric rage. Yup, you heard me. Lions are the Captain Americas’ of the animale kingdom. They are courteous and adventurous and caring. They are the grown up boy scouts who are personable and damn sexy. Lions are fit, but not gym crazy, they want a body that will serve them well on their next adventure. They go to the gym to become more agile and more powerful, not to strut around like a puffed up gorilla. Which, coincidentally, will be the next animale I will discuss; so, stay tuned my fellow reading enthusiasts.

As I said, my romantic history with lions is not that in depth. I always admired them from afar, but never had the nerve to speak to one or thought I deserved one. I do however always make friends with the straight lions; the hetero-leos love me. While I was living in Grand Rapids, I shared a house with several other guys. It was probably the greatest thing that ever happened to me. Having gone through middle school and most of high school with no real guy friends, suddenly being immersed into a house full of them was wonderful. They took care of me, and gave zero fucks about that fact that I was gay and that I was not a basketball loving Xbox junkie like they were. We all balanced each other out. They taught me what it meant to have guy friends and what it meant to be a gay that a hetero could rely on and value. I could do a whole post on how much I miss them and how much they meant to me, but, lets save that for a day when I know there is a full Kleenex box in the apartment. The point being, I was living with several lions that showed me just how wonderful a lion could be. Lions are the ones that diffuse the tense situation and somehow make sure that all parties involved end up content. Lions are the ones that take charge with quiet power and assurance, and then lead the group to higher ground. Lions are the ones that you come home to after a funeral and let you cry on their grey hoodie while they hold you and say nothing. Lions do not need to be that vocal, because when they do open their mouths, people fucking pay attention. I lived with the greatest lion of all, and I also think that explains why I don’t normally go after a lion. One of the hetero-leo’s I lived with spoiled me so much; no other lion in the entire animale kingdom could measure up to him in my eyes. Lions are the men we dream of, the men dreams are made of; they are supportive and wonderful and solid. They are captivating and glorious and draw you in with their quiet strength. I want my next man to be a lion. A real Captain America of a man, someone who I know I can stand along side of through thick and thin.

And now, my favorite part, the visual representation of the lion man. Obviously, the first choice would be Chris Evans. Not only in his role as Steve Rogers, but also, from what I read, in real life too. The last time he was on the cover of GQ, the cover story inside was just delightful and a true testament of how wonderful he is off camera. The three Chris’ that make up the “Chris Trinity” in Hollywood ( Chris Evans, Chris Hemsworth and Chris Pine) are all worthy of the crown of lion man. Maybe it has to do with the name. Siri, remind me to only date men with the name Chris. Another prime example would be Ryan Gosling. That man exudes quiet power; I don’t think I have ever seen him raise his voice or get ruffled during an interview or talk show visit. There is a model by the name of Parker Hurley, who is another perfect example of what a lion is. I follow him on InstaGram, and not only does he embody the physical aspect of a lion, but he also has the mindset of one too. I suggest following him if you do not already do so. Lions are the class president from high school that was handsome and personable, but still grounded and treated everyone with respect. A lion is the guy from your sophomore year film class that was a complete soccer stud and object of everyone’s affection, but still held the door open for you despite your poor social standing. A lion is that well dressed, strong looking father you see guiding his daughter down the street; and teaching her how to survive a crowded sidewalk. Lions are the ones that fold you into a hug and make you realize the world is not completely terrible. Lions are the sexy guy in a suit that gives his seat to the Golden Girl on the bus. Lions are the men who make friendly banter with the frazzled Starbucks barista. Lions are the men we are drawn to because they radiate confidence and security. Lions are the men that make the world a better place. There is a reason their families are called a pride, because a family lead by a lion is something to be proud of.

Stay tuned for more; next week I’ll give you a guided tour of the obnoxious, boisterous buffoon of the animale kingdom, the gorilla. Happy reading to you all.

The Zoo Series: Peacocks

Peacocks are apparently my favorite kind of man, or at least the kind of man I am most drawn to. I was looking back at previous posts and it is very obvious that I have been repeating history, I keep going after peacocks. You think by now I would have caught on or realized how dangerous and tragic they are; what's that saying about hitting your head with a hammer?
I'm not exactly sure what draws me to them, but I really can't control myself, they're just so sparkly and inviting to me. A guy classified as a peacock is lithe, exotic, fashionable, and artistic. They're usually skinny, like skin stretched and pulled taught over carved muscle skinny. They smoke. They stay quiet. They don't tell you what they really want. And they drink. A lot. All my peacocks were heavy drinkers, those peacocks love their sauce. They wear a lot of black, and their style is underground metro as opposed to Paris runway. Skinny jeans, skinny ties, skinny cigarettes, skinny shirts and fat boots. They're like artwork, because they're so beautiful and so sad looking all at the same time. The most important part of a peacock, is their ink. Peacocks have lots and lots of ink, that is their version of colorful plumage. The body of a peacock, the bird version, is a deep turquoise( which is pretty )but the real wonder is when they present and spread their tail feathers. The body of a peacock, the guy version, is the equivalent of the tail feathers. All the black clothes hide the colorful sketches and markings that race all over their white skin. If you're having a hard time imagining what I'm talking about I can provide you with visual examples, just Google any of these men: Josh Beech, A.J. English, Jared Leto, Adrian Brody, Tyson Ritter, and any guy in any Lana Del Ray music video. Another distinguishing feature of a peacock is their eye color, always so bright and brilliant with a touch or sadness. Crystal blue orbs with a fleck of depression. Or emerald green diamonds with a spark of sorrow. It's what gives them away, and what makes them unattainable. A peacock is a beautiful, alluring and delicate creature; but they want nothing to do with cages or companions. My Roman was a peacock, but he didn't want to be contained. New York was peacock, he also wanted to fly free. I've had and loved dozens of peacocks in my life, and it always ends painfully; so why do I keep chasing them?
They don't mean to be assholes, they're just fatally flawed, exquisitely handsome, feathered creatures. They're not mean on purpose, they just get caught up in the beauty they create, and then they end up breaking your heart and destroying your soul. New York was nothing but wonderful to me, and he was upfront about everything, I knew what I was getting into; but how the fuck do you resist a masterpiece? My Roman hurt me so deeply I am still bleeding on the inside, but it wasn't intentional, it was a side effect of his own pain. It's kind of like Icarus, when you fly too close to the sun you get burned. When I get too close to a peacock I get burned and they fly away. Peacocks are too perfect for their own good, they destroy everyone around them while they secretly try to destroy themselves. They're not bad boys; they're actually wonderful, but they don't know what to do with their wonder.

So, I keep hitting my head with a hammer so when I do stop it'll feel so fucking good. Maybe sometime soon I'll feel good again, and I can finally put down the hammer. If and when I do, it'll mean no more drunk kisses goodnight. No more special moments forgotten when the stars fade. No more dangerous evenings. No more second hand exhales. No more nicotine kisses. No more fall down Saturday nights. No more vodka bruises. No more Jack Daniels sex. No more puffed petals. No more broken feathers. No more peacocks. No more accidental tears.


"Go kiss the liqueur off his laugh" -Natalia Kills

This City is a Zoo

So, once again I am single in the city; how did this happen? Check previous post. Now that my sentence in suburbia has come to an end, I am once again navigating the metropolitan wildlife, just trying to stay alive. As daunting and surprising as all this has been for me, I have found benefits of being single in the city. So! Much! People! Watching! I think I've discussed my primal love of people watching before, so you know how seriously I take it. It's like a sport for me. Chicago is a wonderful place to observe the animal known as 'human'. My plan for the month of July is to break down and classify the four types of male humans, explaining in depth what traits and personalities and physical characteristics they have. The four types are as follows: Peacocks, Lions, Gorillas and Birds of Prey. Any man can be placed in either of these categories. You might not believe me now, but by the end of July you'll totally get it. I promise.

My Roman Was Defeated

My Roman was a warrior of feral tactics and vicious attitude. He was the one to rule them all. He tamed me, loved me and stripped me of what I knew. His ambition was boundless, he knew of no limits. He and I

ruled over an empire of our own design. No outside enemy could have defeated us, which is why it is so troubling to know we broke ourselves. Our insides made us weak. I clung to him while the fortress burned down around us. He sat and drank while the flames devoured our love. Our Roman Empire crumbled because of doubt and drink. My Roman was defeated by his own cup and my insecurities. The enemy on the inside greatly outweighs the enemy on the outside.

Go Hide, Me. Go, Hide Me.

Silence me with your tongue.
Blot me out with your body.
Blur the outline of my being with your hoodie and your denim.
Capture me into your existence.

I will go willingly, into you.
Your smell kills of my doubts.
Your hands know how to make me cry, and how to make me cum.
I shackle my heart to yours.

I like you because you understand me,
but I love you because you make me invisible.
No one can hurt me if all they see is you lying on the couch.
I won't hear anything but your heart if I'm hidden underneath.

When you stretch yourself over me, I'm just your extra rib.
I can be completely unseen if I stand close enough to you.
If I kiss you long enough, you will just absorb me.
Take me from what I have created, and put me into you.


"If I raise my voice will someone get hurt
And if I can't feel then I won't get touched" -Garbage

On A Dirt Road

I've had this recurring notion, about myself and my behavior, that is unsettling and makes me furrow my brow. I'll be going about my business, whether at work or at the house or where ever, and then this tiny little question pops into my head: Do we become the people we date? It's not many words, but it contains many levels and a lot of weight. It's a heavy question. Probably about three clicks. The answer can go several ways. If you date someone who's nice and pleasant and charming, then those qualities rub off on to you. Even after you dump them, or they dump you, what they passed onto you is still there. Like behavioral herpes. Or personality chlamydia. After you get over hating them for breaking up with you, you still act like them in certain situations. Or say words that they use to say. Or even alter your clothes or shopping habits, maybe even the kinds of foods you eat; long after they are gone, the habits are still there. And it's not just little things, like cuffing up the sleeves on your t shirts, it could be big things. It could be things about politics or love or death or life or mindset or motive. Big things like DNR papers, the right to smoke up, the importance of tattoos, or the reasons for falling in love. People you date can change a lot more about you then how often you wear a hoodie, if you allow them they can change everything. And take everything. I was never a big candle person, I thought they were silly and useless, but then after dating a few candle lovers I find myself with seven half burnt candles. Now this is a minor example, candles are frivolous and usually not that expensive, but still, when did I become a candle person? When did I become a cat person? When did I become a smoker? When did I become so uptight? When did I become thirty years old? When did I become so hard and cold? When did I become an angry person? When did I become the kind of person who cheats? When did I become the kind of person who has an affair? When did this happen? When I was little, when I was younger, I never thought I would behave the way I do. The way I did. The way I have. The men I've dated. The men I've loved. The men who hurt me. They have all added and taken from me. The people you date, or love, they can mold and shape you. It's not clean cut, it's not black and white, it is not simple. You may leave their bed, but the tears their pillow hide come with you. You can have them stop the car, but their anger races after you. You can get up of their couch, but the cushion stays indented. You can avoid their favorite bar, but the building stays standing. You might not pet their cat anymore, but the fur stays on your clothes. You can put out the cigarette, but the flame burns on. You can kiss them goodbye, but their taste lingers. You can walk away, but you don't get to leave.

Sure, I've taken some jokes. Stolen some stories. Gained some comedic timing. Garnered some wisdom and patience. Permanently borrowed a pair of jeans. Found an affection for candles. Learned how to steal a dvd, how to french exhale, and how to drink wine. But there is so much that I never wanted to learn, never wanted to take with me. There is a lot I never wanted to know. I never wanted to do. And now that I fear I am becoming the men I use to date, all the ones who hurt and broke me, does that mean I'm just going to hurt and break my future romances? Does behaving like them mean I'll reach the same outcomes? How dangerous is following in their footsteps? We don't get to chose the dirt we step on, but we do get to decide how we walk. And right now, I'm standing on a dirt road wearing my hoodie and holding a candle, all alone. Damn the men I've loved and the ones I dated. How dare they make themselves appealing to me. How dare they teach me to walk, then walk away. Fuck this dirt road.



“I've been making a list of the things they don't teach you at school. They don't teach you how to love somebody. They don't teach you how to be famous. They don't teach you how to be rich or how to be poor. They don't teach you how to walk away from someone you don't love any longer. They don't teach you how to know what's going on in someone else's mind. They don't teach you what to say to someone who's dying. They don't teach you anything worth knowing.” -Neil Gaiman

50% Off Heartache

I've had a lot of sorta big things that I've been trying to take care of this past week, and only one percent had gotten taken care of. My "to-do" list is on the rise, but my concentration is on the decline. The percentage of my brain that has been spent thinking about this whole New York situation is high, and it makes me very unproductive. But now that it's been a while since I've seen him, productivity is on the rise. I was down in Chicago these past two days, and it was necessary. Had a fun night out and then spent the following days with my parents. It was an early Mother's Day celebration. It was a lovely time. I enjoyed myself. And now I'm back up here and in the middle of doing some housework, and liking the fact that I'm getting stuff done. I'm planning all the appointments and errand running that needs to get done this coming week, I'm clipping coupons and shopping for the best deal. Making sure my dollar works for me, because I work for it. Found a great deal on getting new glasses and an eye exam. Clipped a coupon for getting my car worked on. Hunted down the best deals for groceries. I was never a coupon kind of guy before, but now I'm a compulsive clipper, of coupons. I wish I could get one for the coming heartache that I'm going to purchase when I inevitably tell New York that I can't see him anymore, in a friendly or romantic way. No ways, no ways can lead to New York. I can't be the "other man" for him, I won't be his bogo deal. You can't buy one and get me for free. I may clip coupons these days, but I won't cut out my morals or standards. Plus there is a brand new guy who is delicate and quiet and careful. When I'm around him I feel like a bull in a china shop, and I don't want to break him, because relationships are the one thing where "you break it, you buy it" doesn't apply. I don't want him to know about all my emotionally bad, romantically expensive purchases of the past. I want him to know me as a bargain hunter, someone who thinks before he purchases. Someone who isn't an impulse buyer. I don't have the purse strings or the heart strings to have relational shopping sprees. I want to start making investment purchases. Like what I'm doing for my bedroom; I'm redecorating it, but I'm filling it up with things that will last for a very long time. Things that I can take with me to my next place, and maybe even into my own house one day. One day far, far, far, far, far away. Like, post student loans far away. Very far away. Whatever. I'll be clipping coupons for many decades to come. That's for sure. Just like me walking away from New York is a for sure, or at least it should be a for sure. He's an impulse purchase I keep making over and over again, like shopping at Armani. The stuff there is really nice and super sexy, but it only lasts one season. This new guy, and what my trend should be for the future, is more like a wardrobe staple. Something that can last, something that you can wear for seasons and years to come. Something timeless. Maybe even something you got for half price on the clearance rack from Macy's. A smart purchase. That's what my life should be full of these days, smart purchases. Good deals and great bargains.

"Shopping for labels, shopping for love." -Fergie

Coffee, Tea, Me...Catastrophe

I'm fairly certain that the people of South America could turn a profit on my urine. It is so overly saturated with caffeine, be it from coffee or tea, that the bathroom smells like Starbucks before I flush. I am beginning to think I'm unbalanced. Or highly dosed. Sometimes I stay in bed for eight hours and get no rest, other times I pass out in my car for an hour and come to ready for a marathon. I feel like I keep the schedule of a high powered lawyer, or a cop, or a stripper. But since I don't have a star trek phone glued to my ear, or get to carry a gun, or sequined bikini, no one gets how tiring it can be and out of whack I am. I keep catching flak for staying in bed all day, but it's not like I sleep for the whole time. It's hard to sleep during the day, and not just because of the noise level. Which is a big factor. But it's also the fact that it's hard to reprogram your bodies natural sleep order, especially when I've been following that for twenty some years. So now I'm sorta dependent on drinks and pills. Nothing alcoholic and nothing illegal. I promise. If I did either one of those, that'd really push me over the edge. You know what keeps happening to me, people keep "shushing" me. Which is bullshit. I keep getting poked in the ribs, metaphorically, by the guys and I keep biting back, metaphorically(for now at least), but then someone steps in and tries to diffuse me. Either a girlfriend, or another housemate or the pup. That keeps pissing me off even more. Sooner or later the people around me are going to learn that if I am truly angry, it gets loud. It get's loud and I prove my points. And I make people listen. It's not about always being right, but I never really make a fuss, so when I do I know I'm right. Plus it's about making people know where I'm coming from. I repeat myself far too often. No one hears it when I speak. Which, in some way, is my fault. I blend easily. I tend to wash dishes when trying to make a point. Or clean a table when stating my case. Or I just say the whole thing in my head and offer to make a pot of coffee. So, I'm guessing, people remember the action I'm doing instead of what I'm saying. Now I'm at the point in my life where, when I speak, I want attentive ears. I want focus. I want a Batman voice instead of a Robin whisper. But since everyone already perceives me as a dish washing whisper, I'm going to have to make some changes. I'm trying to not lean towards physical violence, but that keeps coming to the front of my mind. The top of the list. The control of my knuckles. Honestly, I don't have time to keep finding ways to quietly deal with my frustrations. I should be spending time on other things. Like doing my taxes. Studying my PT workbook. Working out to build muscle, and not just doing wild cardio routines to drain the bad juju out of me. Or writing. I would love to be in a mood to write. Besides writing on here. This is only pseudo writing. And mostly I use this as a vehicle to drive away my frustrations. Crashing them into the five people who read this damn thing. You know, once upon a time this was a lot more Carrie Bradshaw and a lot less Terry Bradshaw. Back in the day it was romance, and wit and cleverness. Now it's just a play by play of daily badness and stats of my complaints. I use to write everyday. Novels. Plays. TV pilots. Short stories. Songs. The closest thing I do nowadays is making a song up in my head about how men should be more like my teddy bear. Yes, I have resorted to sleeping with a teddy bear again. I'm not that proud. But it helps me get to the REM cycle. And he's wearing a bow tie so you know he's cute and classy. And loves to cuddle, and listens to me when I talk. Are you seeing why the song was created now? And the fact that I'm one tea cozy away from being a crazy cat lady. Honestly, the day I start wearing turtlenecks I expect someone to do me the favor and shoot me. It is kinda bitchin song though. I might put it up if I ever get around to finishing it. You see, it's tricky when I write songs, because I have no musical talent. So I kinda just make up different words to my favorite pop songs. I'm strange. But I kind of have to do whatever keeps me from making or starting a catastrophe. For example, tonight there is like one or two or several parties where my friends and housemates are going tonight. But I don't feel like going out at all. Nor do I have money. Nor do I have energy. Nor would it be a wise choice, my Sunday night to Tuesday morning routine is deadly. Literally. You can read about it, just scroll down. Go ahead, I'll wait.

I know right! Friggin crazy. I have to do better this week, but I still haven't managed to get the textbook. Nor came up with a way of paying for it. And rent is due. Ouch, I feel a stomache coming on. How come it says I spelled stomache wrong? Oh, it didn't again. What the hell? Has my education skills declined so greatly that I can't spell at a fifth grade level? Oh dear. I need to work out. Then I need to do something smart. I'm not reading the news though. Last time I did that I found out a killer whale killed it's trainer...for the THIRD time. Are you kidding me?! That bitch should have been ground into whale bits after it killed the first one. Seriously! That's the world for you, killer killer whales. Can't even take a vacation to Sea World no more. It's all just catastrophe. Everywhere.

"I have measured out my life with coffee spoons." -T.S. Eliot

"I can't sit around having coffee. I have all these appointments, and a lot of my friends sit around having coffee talking about the jobs they didn't get." -Eva Marie Saint