Mervis

unglued

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Thursday, January 29, 2004
 
Two things I can no longer tolerate:

Cheese of the feta or goat variety.
Used to eat it, now I want to project it out of my body if I try to eat it. So sad to give a whole category of cheese. Two, really.

Cucumbers. Green peppers.
From the 'Oh my God, I'm turning into my Father' Dep't.
What can I say? I'm like an Alcaseltzer commercial. I like green peppers, but they don't like me...

We went to see "Lost in Translation" at the Arclight and not five minutes before the end, the manager came in and told us there was a security issue and we all had to vacate. So all I know is that poor Scarlet Johannson is still hanging out in the lobby of a Tokyo hotel, looking moonie eyed at a dashing Bill Murray. What happens? Do they run off together? Does he stay for an extra day so they can fuck like rabbits? Do they have a Casablanca ending? Magnum mysterium.





Tuesday, January 20, 2004
 
From 'Valley of the Dolls'

"I'd marry anyone who'd give me a nice beaver coat, a part-time maid, and let me sleep 'til noon each day."

No fucking shit. I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.

So I asked for the raise and didn't low ball myself. He didn't balk exactly, but he made it clear that A) I deserved it. but, B) He can't afford it.
So I'm getting something and we're dicussing it after the weekend. The weekend, for which I live. So sad, it's come to this.
Goddamn. I really need to go to bed. Am I out of my bloody mind? Why am I still conscious?
Ok. Night night.

Monday, January 19, 2004
 
OK, wow. check it out.

 
Turning off the tv is the hardest thing I do every day. And I don't even have cable. I don't even have good reception.
I'm feeling sort of...not blue exactly. Taupe? Red's mad. Green's jealous. Yellow is decidedly chicken. White is, too, but in a stunned sort of way. Orange sounds sunny, and anyway it reminds me of that ridiculous business with the Alert. Black is far too morose for what I'm feeling.
That's just it. I'm not exactly feeling anything. I thought yoga would put me more in my body, to use a sort of theraputic term. But it really hasn't. I just have sore ass and arms.
Oh dear, therapy tomorrow. I missed last week and will have to pay double. I have one hell of a time getting and staying there. I feel bored. A defense, probably, but it doesn't really feel like one. More like I could be better using my time. The Red Cross. Feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, finding housing and anti-psychotics for those on the streets. But I'd end up shopping for shoes and bath products, I suspect.
It's like a fucking shvitz box in here. I can't regulate the heat very well, and I hate waking up cold in the morning. It's hardly conducive to getting up, in spite of what some people say. I don't find it invigorating, I just want to curl up for longer with the dog.
To bed! To bed! Tomorrow I ask for an 8 dollar raise. Believe me, it's still not enough. Not by a fucking long shot, and he knows it.

Friday, January 16, 2004
 
Are we posting yet?

Amen, brother.

I could go one of two ways.

Living in New York or Paris as a very highly paid call girl. A small but elegantly appointed apartment, weekly trips to the spa for maintainance. Fabulous, complicated underwear. Perilously high heels. Taxi's only. Fucking interesting and sexy men who know what they're doing. Total discretion. And of course there's the smoking and the vodka. How else does one cope, darling?

A working ranch in Montana with ranch hands. I live in the big old farm house, which I'm refurbishing. I quilt, can tomatoes, green beans, pickles, peaches and ten other things from my kitchen garden in advance of the harsh Montana winter. I have horses and dogs, and raise grass fed, organic, hormone free black angus and I sell primarily to a shochet, a kosher butcher. I also start a small yoga studio what was originally the drawing room of the big farmhouse. I occasionally take a lover, but mostly I write.





Thursday, November 21, 2002
 
Busted, I've been. Charles accidentally found this absurd blog. I would guess he's the only other person on the planet who's read it, which is fine by me. But really! And only the day before I'd thought of deleting it. I wonder if he'll come back to read more? God is a funny fucking guy, huh?
I have no idea where I'll be living next month. That's fun. Actually it will be alright. The worst case scenario is that I move in with Paul, who is a dear and who has a house with a yard that Tuffy can run around in. It wouldn't really be that bad at all. A happy Tuffy makes my heart sing. I miss him so much I can't really think about it. My heart hurts, but the pain was allayed by Charles love, passion and exemplary pussy eating skills last night. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Wednesday, November 13, 2002
 
I'm just a singer in a rock n roll band.
Not really, but today I would rather be waking up in my Hollywood Hills bedroom in an alcohol induced fog next to some hot young boy. Or girl. and then spend the next hour or two trying to piece together the random, brilliant flashes of memory from the night before. But who needs a memory when you're a fucking rock star?
Instead I woke up to the sound of a barely one year old puppy crying to go out and my roommate (who I now think of as the behemoth, but only in my head, not to her face) filling up the tub for her quotidien two hour fucking bath. So when I came back inside, having to piss like a bloody racehorse, I had to wait. Because I am too much of a chicken shit to knock on the door. And I just can't bring myself to pee in the kitchen sink. All that said, I'm in a pretty good mood this morning.
I am trying not to sabotage a budding relationship. He won't fuck me. Yet. It's fine. I know it's bcs he likes me. But is there to be no benefit from being over 30? Can I get laid, please?

Thursday, November 07, 2002
 
I did not vote. There. I've said it. For all my posturing, my lecturing about our constitutional rights and responsibilities, my watching and tearing up at episodes of West Wing, for the actual heart ache I felt at the death, and subsequent disrespect of the memory of Paul Wellstone by the DFL at his so-called memorial service... I am a fake. But they were mid-term elections. What do you want from me?