That Thingy That Beats

I saw something kind of amazing today. As an old woman was walking out of a store, a young man in an army uniform held the door open for her. She turned to him, gently touched his arm, and said, "Thank you, young man. In more ways than one. What you do is amazing. Thank you." And he just smiled, a little bit embarrassed, and said back, "That's what I'm here for, ma'am." I don't know. I was only walking by, only saw this exchange on my way past, but... it kind of made me want to cry. I wanted to run back and hug that old lady. I wanted to thank the guy too. Those of you who know me know that this is a veeeerrrry strange reaction. I normally remain untouched by shit like that. I am a cold, heartless bitch. I like to wallow in dark, hateful feelings. When things go wrong I stew in my anger for days, rehashing everything that has ever fucked me over. I hate children, small fuzzy things, people in general, and above all else, any sort of love or compassion. Lately, though...

I rang up a little girl the other day, and I swear to christ, I called her 'sweetheart'.

Whenever I look at the puppies, I want to cry. I tell them I love them. I call myself 'mommy'. *eyetwitch*

I've had the worst luck ever the past two weeks, but it's rolling right off me like it happened to someone else.

I feel *bad* for Jamie Lynne Spears. I don't want people to make fun of her.

Everytime a little kid cries I want to make it stop- but not by smothering it with a stuffed animal like I normally would. Oh no. I want to hug him/her until the tears dry up. Gay much? I think so. And you know what else? This blog sounds like a list of symptoms...symptoms of a horrible, horrible disease.

I think I have heart. A real, human heart. And no, I don't mean someone else's heart nailed to my wall, or floating in a fishbowl on my dresser. I think that, hidden deep under bones, blood, muscle, and a whole lotta boob, is a real live heart that belongs to me and me alone.

I don't know what I did to deserve this bullshit.

My Real Name is Consuela

I have songs bubbling inside me, just out of reach. I'd like to pull them out, but I don't have enough skill yet. I don't quite have the musical genius needed to articulate what's going on in my head. Any song I wrote right now would be insufficient, weak, lame. It's kind of aggravating. It's like when you have this perfect mental image of what a drawing should look like, but you can never quite get it onto the paper without fucking it up.

Anywhoo.

School is over! Woot! Although my wintersession class begins next week, and it's not like I have any sort of break anyway, what with the crazy hours at work, and the Christmas shopping that I have yet to start. Yes, I am the queen of procrastination. How'd you know?

The puppies are starting to open their eyes. They're so fucking adorable it makes my eye twitch. They keep trying to lift themselves up with their little legs, only to fall back down. Tres cute.

Ugh. My car is in the shop right now, getting its bumper replaced, so I have to drive my mom's crappy ass tin can son of a bitch car thing. It's so old that my mom doesn't want me to drive it late at night. Why, you ask? Not because the car could die, and I could be stranded in the dark and raped. Oh no. It's because she's afraid cops will see the old piece of shit cruisin around the village and pull me over, assuming that I am an ILLEGAL IMMIGRANT. The scary thing is, she was right. On my way home from Andrew's house a cop pulled me over two blocks from my house. My brakelight was out. *eyeroll* He didn't really do anything, just told me to tell my mom to get it fixed, and wished me a happy holiday and a great night. Guess he figured there was no reason to punish me, since I had no accent and didn't smell like a taco. He was cute, too (don't get jealous, Andrew. He didn't tell me I was a hot tamale and say he was going to take me home to keep him warm, or whatever the fuck that evil bitch shrew said to you. Not that I was jealous. Puh-lease).

Speaking of Andrew...nah. Nevermind. I won't say anything. *evil smile*

okbye.

Smitten Mittens

Right now I'm listening to that xm station that plays all the super weird Christmas songs that make almost no sense at all. Two minutes ago Joe Pesci was singing about Santa being a fat fuck. Which made me think...maybe if Santa lost a few (hundred) pounds, Mrs. Claus would actually have sex with him, and there would be baby Santas running around. And then one of them could be the new Santa, and this one could fucking *die* already. I mean, how old is he? Seriously. Thanks, Joe Pesci.

Anywhoo. Today I told Dave that I was leaving KB (fucking finally). I get the feeling that he was extremely relieved. Things haven't exactly been rosy between us lately, and I'm sure he'll be glad to not have me around, sucking the fun out of life...I was going to add something dirty right there, but it's Christmas, so I'll hold back on being a bitch.

Telling the right hand man of my obsessive compulsive leader that I'm abandoning ship *should* have been the highlight of my day, but no. Oh no. My highlight was much much gayer.

I was at work (at a toy store- which, by the way, is a special hell for people who don't like people), and I stepped behind the counter. Andrew was ringing something up, and without looking at me, he pointed at the floor. "That's yours," he said, trying to be nonchalant (fucking dork). At his feet was a little, crumpled-up plastic bag. I picked it up, opened it, and saw a bright flash of red. GLOVES. He bought me gloves, cause apparently the 'gloves' I had before just weren't cutting it (it might have had something to do with the fact that they didn't have fingers, and spent most of their time being lost in my room). Is it weird that I'm ridiculously touched by that? Love Gloves. *giggles hysterically* Andrew bought me Love Gloves. Hmm...they're kind of mittens, though. Smitten Mittens. Good lord, I have a mental problem.

Oh wait, the song changed. Tony the Tiger is singing about the Grinch now. Why is that on the weird song channel?

Ok, I gotta get dressed. I gots a date. :)

Puppies!!

There are puppies in my house. Five squirming little fatties with gummy eyelids and squealing mandrake voices. Five fuzzy black worms. Five rolly polly little balls with curly fur and round bellies. Five little hamsters that will grow up into five hyperactive puff balls that will fly across the lawn and tumble all over each other.

I can't wait until their tiny legs are strong enough to walk on. Have you ever seen a baby poodle run around? Cutest. Thing. Ever. Of course, I still need to name them all. Four little boys and one teensy little girl who just might not make it. The third puppy who came out has spots of brown on his face. When he was born I tied his umbilical cord with a piece of cinnamon floss, and in that moment fell deeply and utterly in love with him. The tug I feel in my chest when I look at him surprises me. I'm not the type to get attached to things. Even things that I say I love...I guess I don't *really* love them after all. This is something different. This feeling kind of makes me think that maybe, just maybe, all of those 'loves' that I felt before weren't really 'loves' at all. Maybe I was forcing them because I so badly wanted something to love. I had a gaping wound in my heart that I wanted to fix more than anything, and I let myself pretend that I could do it.

This is actually the second time I've fallen in love with a dog...over the summer I met Russell Simmons. He had these two twenty-somethings with him who looked like they were related to him. I don't know- and honestly, I don't really care. Meeting stars isn't really my thing. I snapped a few pictures of him, got bored, and wandered over to the young adults with him. My boss chatted their fucking ears off, while I crouched on the ground and played with their dog. It was a sweet, tiny little pomeranian named Chance. He wore a diamond encrusted collar, but he wasn't a snob. He layed down on the concrete and let me rub his fat little belly while the people above us yammered on about HBO (The daughter of that woman who plays the therapist on the Soprano's had come over, and she was revealing secrets about where the show was going. Yawn). The thing is, for the past four years I've felt this great big hole opening up inside of me- this light devouring *thing* that's been eating away at me, leaving a yawning emptiness in its wake. My throat's been sore from all the tears I've swallowed, my eyes constantly burning. A break down has been waiting patiently on the edge of my heart, quietly putting its face between my ribs and looking out, gritting its teeth. Lonely. I've felt so goddamned *lonely*. But looking into those glossy black eyes, so round and sweet, I could feel something healing. I wanted to tuck that puppy between my lungs, use it like a band-aid over my heart. I wanted to hold it and keep it warm and tell it I loved it I loved it I loved it so fucking much. But we had to leave, had to get back to the office. My heart broke with every step I took away from that animal.

Some of the emptiness is still there. I need to fill it up before I can be truly happy. It's like happiness is a coat of paint that won't stay on me unless I'm primed for it, like it just falls into the cave of my chest to be devoured by the numbness, and will continue to do so until I fix myself, until I smooth the wound over.

But it is getting better. So much better. I feel lighter. I feel like maybe I couldn't have loved those puppies so completely if my heart hadn't already been opened up by my newest friends (and the old friend who I fucked over so badly before that it wound up fucking *my* mind sideways and upside down).

Hmm...I should go get ready for my guitar class. Don't want to be late. I missed the last class. Got in to an accident. More on that later. I guess.

I am a fucking copycat...

Ok, let's get one thing straight: I wanted to make one of these blogs as soon as Fran made one. I'm copying FRAN. NOT Andrew. Got it? Good. Just wanted that to be perfectly clear.

Other than that, I really have nothing to say right now.

Ciao.