The 'she said...'

He is a friend to strangers, and a stranger to friends, but for a select few. And he likes it that way.

He spends most of his time inside his own head, trying to fix the world... I think he might actually do it one day.

He's smart, intellectual in a way all his own. It drives people crazy. And it draws them to him, though no one has ever been able to figure out why.

He talks to himself constantly, a new dilemma turning the gears of his mind. At any moment, he could decide he needs help with it and ask you a question you can't possibly understand.

He listens, better than most. It's part of his intrinsic desire to 'figure out' the human condition, but it's always nice to know his attention's only on you.

He has no sense of self-discipline, and it infuriates me, because things always seem to work out for him anyway.

He loves his family. He carries their every problem with him wherever he goes. It's endearing, but he wouldn't know it. It's who he is.

He's torturously charming, brilliantly quick-witted.

He dreams of an ethical world, not a perfect one. He'll learn everything he can to make it so.

He's unfailingly determined, repeatedly impulsive, and recklessly optimistic.

He has impossibly blue eyes.

And I love him.

How can I ask him to live with this forever?

The 'he said...'

She exhales smoke into the darkness and watches it take to the air, something she knows she was born to do...

Some call her cynical. She believes she's grounded.

She's fiercely loyal. To her friends, her family.

When she loves you, you'll never second guess it, never question it.

She's so talented... It amazes me. It makes me jealous. She has something wonderful to give the world and it comes so easily, so naturally to her.

She wants amazing things, and she'll get them. She deserves them. I want them for her.

She has plans. Dreams that will come true in a heartbeat simply because she wants them enough.

She's ambitious, driven... Passionate. More than I'll ever be.

She's beautiful.

And I love her.

How can I ask her to throw anything she is away for me?

Conversational post-mortem...

There are seventy two cents on my coffee table when I tell him we've made a mistake.

He knows something's wrong, has to, as he climbs the thousand stairs to my apartment. I don't ask him over 'to talk.' I've never begged for his company before. He's not an idiot.

Ok, sometime's he's an idiot.

I can see his eyes when I say the words no guy really ever wants to hear. I guess I'm somehow surprised they're still blue. These can't be the same eyes I've looked at a thousand times, laughed into and loved at one point. This is an expression I've only just recently understood, one I've mastered myself. Shock and terror, an entangled mass of worry that blinds you instantly to anything else. I keep speaking. He can't hear me.

There are words in his head, angry ones, sad ones... Questions that beg themselves into life. None of them seem to matter enough to make it out of his mouth. The air's too heavy, hanging in the small apartment, threatening to suffocate them both at any moment.

I know this man, sometimes, more than he knows himself. I know his beliefs, his plans, and his dreams, as well as I know my own. At one point in our lives, they were in sync. We wanted each other forever, loved each other because we had no concept of it. That was a long time ago...

His thoughts are echoing mine now, racing back in time to the love that was, the connection that we shattered months back. Icicles hitting the sidewalk in spring, melting away into nothing with the sun. We were fire and ice in impossible harmony, passion and temptation in a dead heat for first. When we were, we were exquisite.

That was so long ago. We aren't there now and we both know it. It's funny though, the things you forget when faced with this. I don't seem to know anything now. What I want, who I am...

...who we are.

He reaches for a cigarette and starts to pace. There's isn't a lot of room. I light my own cigarette and stare at like it's going to give me all the answers. I stay on the couch. He moves like a caged animal around the space, all sharp turns and harsh exhales. He's lost. We both are.

He turns to me after what feels like eternity, and says, eyes red and face drawn, "Ok. Let's talk about this."

I prepare myself for the longest night of my life. And as I light another cigarette and become more of an adult than I've ever been, I stare at the coins on the coffee table.

And childishly wish that any of this made sense.

Conversation pending...

Hey. We have to talk. Yeah, I know you have to work today. So do I. But that's later, isn't it? Umm... I don't think the coffee shop's the greatest idea. Can you come over? Well, it's kinda serious. After work? Sure, I guess, that'd be ok. My place then? No, no, it's not that. It's not about the restaurant. Plans haven't changed there. Yep, end of February. I know, so sad. We'll be ok. You're moving anyway, right? Yeah, July. Ok, so we'll talk later then. What's that? Yes, it's big. Will I be ok? I don't know, I really don't know. I guess...

So... I'll see you later then? Ok. Well. Bye.

Momentary lapses...

I'd like to pretend that I've never made a mistake.

That, of course, would be a big fat lie. I've certainly made my fair share. They vary in intensity, from the miniscule to the ridiculous. I don't believe in regrets, so I've gotten over them, learned from them and tried not to make them again.

Hey, nobody's perfect right?

I had one of those moments a couple days ago where everything I knew about the past suddenly became irrationally irrelevant. So I made a mistake.

Let's review what I am supposed to know, shall we?

A. The EX and I are no longer physically intimate.
B. Revenge is not a good reason for sex.
C. Jealousy is not a good reason for sex.
D. Excessive consumption of Jameson, and you should turn off your phone.
E. The spare key to your apartment should be hidden in a different location post breakup.
F. Candles and wine are romantic.
G. It is always a good idea to double bag your groceries.

Yes, yes...but how?

Sometimes, all it takes is a breath...

...the simple space of one exhale and your life is changed forever. And you know, with absolute certainty, that nothing will ever, can ever be the same again.

This is not one of those moments.

I believe it can change things, sure, but not forever.

Maybe just for today...

Intimacy. And Ice Cream...

To speak figuratively, lonliness is a four letter word to me.

To put it literally, I fucking hate it.

Give me angst, anger, rage, pain...hell, give me the flu.

Just don't give me lonliness. It might be the one emotion I can't write, drink, or joke my way out of.

I don't believe however, like most people seem to, that the cure for lonliness is companionship. The idea is that once there's someone next to you, that lonliness is over and done with. It's not.

No matter how many nights you go to bed with someone...

You still wake up alone.

That being said, the real cure for lonliness is intimacy. Not only is there someone next to you, but there's someone that knows you. And I'm not just referring to sexual intimacy...

Sometimes, it's falling asleep next to someone, and sleeping better than you have in weeks just because they're there. It's noticing, two days after they've gone, the match left on your bathroom counter and laughing hysterically because it reminds you of something gross but it's so typically them...

And lonliness disappears with intimacy... That and some chocolate ice cream and I'm all better now.

Retribution sings "Hey Mickey..."

So, I've done some particularly crappy things in my life.

We're talking bad here, bad enough to put me on the Naughty List for, oh I don't know, eternity.

Seriously distasteful things that give Karma just cause to deliver a swift kick to my backside.

That being said, I realize I deserve what's coming to me... You know, seven years of bad luck, plague of locusts, rise of evil genius Tom Cruise to absolute power. That's how Karma works, right?

But I ask you Karma, oh controller of my current slew of predicaments, must it all take place now? Am I bound to have one bad day climbing on top of the next like sex starved geeks at a singles bar? How can I be expected to repent my previous evils if all I want to do is resent what's being done to me now?

All this job-losing, fear of homelessness, raging jealousy and stupid lying man insanity in a week...

And the worst Karmic kick of them all:

My favorite bar now has kareoke on Thursday nights.

Oh, the horror.

Oddly enough... I think I might survive this.

-L

Thinking...

I've thought.

I need to get out of here. I'm forming serious sentimental attachments to customers.

...and falling in love with bartenders.

Customers and friends...

Well, I have returned to the Frozen North.

Ater a fantastic thanksgiving weekend in Reno, I was trapped last night in the Philadelphia airport, grounded by a bad snowstorm somewhere between the east coast and home. I was put on a plane to Chicago at six a.m. today, and, after more waiting around, secured a flight to Minneapolis. I immediately drove home... I had to work at five.

Exhausted and cranky (I also quit smoking this weekend) I got to work just in time. After checking in with everyone, I checked my email. There was one from my general manager with "Chris and Mary"* in the subject line. As they are two of our favorite and most frequent regulars, I was curious to read:

Jane called today. Just to let everyone know, Chris and Mary lost their baby. The next time you see them please do not mention it. Thank you.

I was, quite simply, devastated. The uncharactaristic brevity from my GM told me she felt the same way. Chris and Mary have been trying to conceive for some time now, and were overjoyed a month ago when they found out they had... We celebrated with them, cried with them, bought gifts and talked baby showers...

As much joy as this gave all of us, this news will grieve us more.

And now I wonder... Have we crossed a line somewhere?

Should I, as their friendly neighborhood bartender, be so damned upset about this?

Have we blurred the line between customers and friends?

If we have, is it wrong to have done so?

I have thinking to do...

*Names changed because- well, just because.

And so it goes...

I'm not jealous.

That being said, I don't know what to call this emotion burning holes through my body. I don't know what to tell you is making me act this way, crawling on the floor towards him one moment and turning my back on him in the next. I don't know what triggers it, where it came from. There is no name for this new and undiscovered edge behind my eyes, the constant pound of blood in my head screaming stop, stop, stop!

There are no words for this madness, no cure for its biting, clawing ache.

Oh, I can think of one.

You can? What?

How about, um, denial?

That's preposterous! Denial?! Well, I never- Wait, what?

Direct quote here: "I'm not jealous." Hence, DENIAL.

I have no idea what you're talking about.

Oh, please. When She comes along, gets within a hundred yards of him, you have the insane urge to claw out her eyes. And what for? She's always been nice to you. Remember that time she brought you a latte?

I remember. It was caramel. I drink vanilla lattes. And the bitch brought two percent, not skim milk...

Can it, missy. You drew a very graphic mental picture just a minute ago when they went outside to smoke together. You pushed her off the roof of the restaurant.

She fell.

Liar. You like him. You're just too afraid of being hurt to admit it. And that sinking, clawing, biting, ugly desperate feeling you described so overdramatically a few paragraphs back?

What about it?

Yeah. That's jealousy. Bigtime. Bad. Kinda makes me laugh when I think about it.

You're an asshat.

Maybe so. But you're the jealous one falling in love...

He was wearing green...

Sometimes, people walk into your life. With chicken noodle soup.

... and you didn't realize they were there, mostly because you hate chicken noodle soup and didn't ask for it.

But there they are, holding this steaming bowl of comfort and friendship because you have a cold that's making you really hard to be around. It's a simple enough gesture, offered without pretense or hope of anything in return. It means they care that you are sick and want your day to be just a little easier. That's all.

They even bring crackers. The good kind. Your favorite kind.

And you can't even bring yourself to say thank you because you're all torn up and angst-ridden over some guy who was never worth your time anyway.

...Well, that, and you hate chicken noodle soup.

So, your ex-boyfriend walks into a bar...

It's not a joke. It's not funny.

Alright, it's a little funny... ironic?

For the last few weeks, I haven't been writing. I've been doing everything but writing. I've been avoiding my blog and neglecting pen and paper. We've been cooling it for awhile so I could spend some time with the new boyfriend. And I've been happy about it. Adam's great. He's all romantic and sweet and fun and nerdy as hell and that is awesome.

...Except for the fact that he gave me writer's block, which I consider worse than an STD.

...And that three days ago, he broke up with me via text message. Ha. Even he's writing while I'm not.

Like I said, a little funny.

I hate reducing myself to "that kind of girl" when I make this reference, but once on Sex and the City, Carrie got broken up with via Post-It. I can't decide which is worse.

So I did what Carrie did. I went out with the girls.

I got dressed up. I drank some iron butterflies. I watched a good band with a cute singer play in my favorite bar. I was out to have a good time, and I very nearly succeeded.

...Until modern technology's Bill Shakespeare walked up behind me and ordered a pint of Guinness.

I walked out of the bar and home. In four inch heels. Without paying my tab.

Damn you, Adam

Blocks from where I'm supposed to be...

It doesn't matter how long it's been.

I realize my absence is unrealized to all except maybe one person, but it doesn't matter...

I haven't been writing. I haven't been doing anything. So it seems pointless to fill cybersapce with the nothing I've been living.

Oh I've had thoughts. Opinions. Ridiculous amounts of questions for the world around me that really can't be answered but probably need to be posed at least... Only thing is, I don't feel like I'm important enough to have them come from me. Or that I care enough to look for the answers...

... That's not it. I just don't feel like I'm clever enough, observant enough to ponder the questions with any sort of intelligence whatsoever.

What we have here, my friends, is a case of writer's block. Only it's worse than normal. This is no absence of inspiration, no abandonment by the ancient muses. I have sat down to write a thousand times and have only a hundred unfinished sentences to show for myself.

This writer's block is impossible to get over.

This block has a name.

Adam.

Handcuffs, please, and not in a kinky way...

Society has written rules. They are called laws. Though they can be confusing at times, they are for the most part laid out clearly... After all, they are written down.

Life has unwritten rules. Things you just don't do. These things are certainly not offenses punishable by jail time or community service, but I'm starting to believe the consequences to breaking unwritten rules are far more grave.

Last night, I broke the unwritten girl code. One of those things you just don't do. Or, one of those things you don't do until you've been slamming shots of vodka out of champagne glasses for an hour and a half every time Joey on "Friends" says "How you doin'?"

One of those things you tell yourself you didn't do and would never do to a friend of yours because girls have to stick together and they would never do it to you, so it's off limits. Period.

And I did it anyway.

Yeah, I'm that girl...

If this is torture...

It's been a month.

...And in this month, a thousand thoughts have raced their way through my head, screaming, Write me, write me.

...And a thousand thoughts have remained unwritten, a thousand posts unfinished.

... A thousand words, just not enough.

I used to "write it out" when something was bothering me. Out of my melodramatic angst usually emerged something beautiful, some miraculous combination of words that could be bourne only from my many troubles.

I used to be good when I was crying, brilliant when my heart was broken.

I didn't know heartbroken.

... And now that I do, the words just won't show up.

... And I seem to hate them just as much as I hate everything else lately.

Pathetic.

Dum spiro, spero...

It hits you like a semi-truck, but in slow motion, so you know what's happening, can feel it crush you bone by bone, but can't stop it...

It burns through you like poison through your veins. It will be the end of you, but the descent is unbearably sweet, torturously beautiful...

You're drawn to the fire, then you drown in the rain you run to put it out with. Hypnotized and sleepless, you are bent to the will of it...

It is so intricate you can't even hope to disect it, so out of reach it's a dream to you...

But when it takes you over, it is stunning in its complete simplicity, devoid of human complication and capable of changing your whole life...

It can make you immortal in the space of a breath, and kill you in less time than even that.

It is the only thing I want...

...What is it?

Countdown to the morning...

When I was a kid, I had an irregular heartbeat. It used to give me trouble sleeping. The doctor suggested, if ever I found myself awake at night, that I slow my breathing, and count backwards from one hundred. By the time I got to one, everything usually slowed down, and I could sleep.

I haven't had to use that trick in a long time... It's been years, actually. But last night, He and I fell asleep watching Vanilla Sky. Together. In the same bed. At some point, He got up to turn the lights and the TV off. This woke me up. I wish it hadn't. I wish I could've stayed asleep...

Caution: The following is an extremely long and potentially boring look into my inner-monologue. You may fall asleep while reading it...

He climbs in bed next to me and my heart starts racing wildly. Great. Just great. It seems my body won't let me have a night of peace. It's almost five a.m. Sleep. I have to sleep. Let's give this a try...Here we go. .100

99. Exhale. 98...Inhale. 97... If I could just calm down long enough to breathe. 96. Exhale. 95...Inhale. 94...Maybe if I turn on my side. 93, exhale. 92. Nope. Bad idea. Too close. Too close. 91. Inhale. Mmm, he smells so good. 90. Exhale. 89...Damnit, do not put your arm around me. 88, inhale...Stop it, stop it right now. 87...Oh, God do I love those arms. I miss those arms. Exhale. Seriously, can he hear my heart pounding? 86...I think my ribcage is shaking. Seriously rattled bones here. Inhale. 85... I can't seem to breathe normally. 84. Nothing's even happening, why the hell can't I breathe? Exhale. 83- Jesus, did he just moan?! Inhale. 82... Is it hot in here? 81, exhale. Nope, not really, he's just getting closer...80. I don't know if I can take another second of this. Inhale. 79..Ok, that moan sounded like my name. Exhale. Yep, pretty sure the man just moaned my name. 78. Inhale. Ok, heart slowing a little. 77...Exhale... 76... Inhale... 75... He must be sleeping. Exhale. 74... Inhale. This is actually nice. 73. I forgot how good it feels to just be next to him. Exhale. He doesn't need to know that, of course. 72... It kills me, but this can't work, we won't work. Inhale... The sex is always good, but the mornings are too painful...71... Exhale. I shouldn't be here. 70... How many nights can we spend tangled up in each other like this before we break, before something... Inhale...69...Exhale...68...What the-Good Christ, he is definately not asleep. Inhale... 67... His breathing is jerky, shallow. His chest is shaking. 66... Exhale. His heart's going just as hard as mine was. Inhale. 65... Oh, wow. It would seem his heart's not the only thing going hard...

ExhaleInhaleExhale...64, 63, 62....Inhale.Exhale.Inhale. 61, 60, 59, 58...Exhale. Come on, breathe. 57InhaleExhale56. This is impossible. Calm down already! Inhale. Should I say something? 55... Exhale. Maybe he should say somthing. Inhale... I mean, he's the one pressed up against me. He knows, always has, just where to press. Shit. 54. 53. 52...Exhale. Oh, god. My entire body is going to go up in flames. Inhale. Exhale. Stop, I think I might explode. 51... Please, stop it. Inhale. I don't mean that. If you move away from me now I will have to kill you. Exhale. I don't think my lungs can take much more of this. 50. Why haven't I quit smoking? Inhale...Exhale, 49... I think this might be a new form of exercise: Unbearable sexual tension.

Inhale. 48, exhale... 47... Inhale... Exhale. Ok kid, we can do this... It's six a.m. Let's just calm down, and go to sleep. Inhale... 46... Oh, damn. Again with the crazy heartbeat... Exhale. 45... Inhale... Yeah, definately not going to be able to sleep. Ever again. Exhale... 44... Please, just touch me. Inhale. 43, 42, 41... Whoa. Forget I thought it. Don't touch me. I know what happens when you do. Exhale. Inhale. Easy, kid.

Just. Stay. Still. 40. Exhale... 39... Inhale... 38, 37...

FUCK! In the name of all that's good and holy if you don't make a move in the next ten seconds I am going to spontaneously combust!

Exhale. 36... I think every muscle in my body has gone permanently rigid. Inhale. 35. 34. 33... Why hasn't he done anything? 32... He must not want me anymore. Exhale. That's probably a good thing, right? 31... Inhale. 30... Less complicated that way, I guess. Exhale. Then why does it feel like my heart it breaking? 29, 28... Probably because it's exhausted. Inhale. I don't think I've been this stressed out, well, ever. Exhale. 27... 26... We'll be fine. We're supposed to be friends. Inhale... 25... This. Will. Be. Ok. Exhale...

"Lauren."

24... Inhale. That sounded less like a moan and more like a word. Exhale... 23...

"Lala. You awake?"

Inhale. Minor heart attack. Fuck, what do I do? 22...

"I can't sleep. Not like this."

Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Great. Can't breathe.

"I'm going to be honest with you. I should go sleep on the couch. But I don't want to..."

21. 20. 19...Say something, anything. Inhale. Don't go. Go. Stay. Christ. 18... 17... Exhale.

"...which means I need to. But I can't."

Inhale. 16... 15... 14. He does want me. Exhale. He shouldn't want me. 13. We agreed. Inhale... 12... We can't do this.

"I can't be here with you, like this, and not break."

Exhale. We have to do this. 11... 10... 9...

"Are you even awake? Maybe it's better then. Maybe I'm insane, but..."

Inhale. 8, 7, 6... I'm going to hate myself in the morning.

"I still want you."

Exhale... 5... 4... Who cares about morning? Inhale. Not me.

"Hell. I always want you."

Exhale... 3... 2... Now, or never. Sun's coming up. Say it, Lauren.

"Mike."

"Lauren. You're awake."

Inhale. Exhale. 1.

"Mike. Kiss me."

It attacks with such sweet grace...

It may have been three o'clock in the morning in a city that isn't always safe, but I needed to walk. And, in the shadows of a full moon and the shroud of rolling fog, something amazing happened.

My tortured artist's soul couldn't resist the imagery.

More later.

I want to tell a different story...

Boy meets Girl.

Boy and Girl date. For a year and some time.

Boy and Girl use the "I love you" words.

Boy moves two hundred miles to be close to Girl.

Boy and Girl talk about getting married.

Boy and Girl pick out names of future children.

Boy and Girl become shining examples to all their friends. Boy and Girl are proof that, while no relationship is perfect, with sacrifice and good communication and-yes-the "I love you" words, real people can make real relationships work. Real people are capable of creating their own happiness.

Boy fucks friend of Boy and Girl at Boy's birthday party last week.

...I am not a pessimist. Occasionally, I am jaded, but usually for small ammounts of time and for dramatic effect. Even in my currently single, sometimes confused state of union, I am hopeful.

Or I was.

If Boy and Girl, my 'shining example,' are as susceptible to the same harsh relationship realities that plague stars of teenage primetime soap operas, then what, I ask you, what is it that I seem stupidly determined to remain hopeful about?

I wish I didn't know anything about this. I want the story to end with "Boy and Girl live happily ever after."

Ignorance is supposedly bliss, but for me, it is apparently the source of my optimism.

The Silver Ford Taurus...

...Or, "You Can't Know Love Until it Runs Over You in a Parking Lot."

It's been an interesting week...

On Tuesday, I was hit by a car in the parking lot of Caribou Coffee while rollerblading in Canal Park.

I'm not hurt in any serious way, just a sprained wrist and some bruises and-gasp-broken rollerblades. I'll be ok.

My ex-boyfriend did the running over. This world is a strangely small.

Because it isn't right...

I want to go back to the '80's, when everyone smoked in movies because it was cool.

...And Ethan Hawke was sexy.

I don't know what's in it...

I read Gone With the Wind in the sixth grade. Immediately following, I demanded everyone call me Scarlett. They did, for a year.

I just remembered that today. And, now that I think about it, Scarlett O'hara was a spoiled-ahem-bitch who couldn't accomplish anything honestly or by herself. She was manipulative, reckless, and selfish.

All in all, not a very good rolemodel for an eleven year old.

These days, I answer to a nickname I did not give myself. It isn't my favorite, and was awarded to me by an ex boyfriend a few months ago. It stuck, and now it seems that most people I care about know me by that name... Everytime I hear it, it reminds me of him.

It's annoying.

Question is: How do I make it go away?

I never forget a face, except for maybe my own...

Jealousy is hilarious! An all around class-clown type. Good to have at bonfires where everyone is drunk and no one makes any sense at all...

In most of my short stories lately, I've been exploring personification as literary concept. I've written entire pieces where the main character is an abstraction given human qualities. Reason, Passion, Rage... All have become characters in my arsenal.

For a short story, this works fine. Short pieces are esentially character-driven, and it isn't necessary to beef them up with 'history.' Life experiences, childhood environments, etc.. I don't think there's quite enough meat, however, for anything longer than a short story. I guess I just don't know how I would give an abstraction such as Jealousy a background solid enough to create something with any length.

This makes me sort of creatively depressed. I'm having fun playing with these 'characters.' I'd like to give them a story of substance to show my appreciation, but I don't think I can manage it...

I'm only human...

I'm sipping coffee at a quarter to two
awake and contemplating and my mind's
running to you.
It's no wonder I'm a one woman man,
she keeps my heart in a jar on her nightstand

Lately, I've looked into the mirror and seen a face he created.

It isn't mine. My trademark stare, my flirtatious eyelashes and ironic sideways smile are gone, replaced by a shadow-eyed and solemn-faced girl that I don't recognize. She isn't pretty. I don't like her, and I blame him for her existence.

So I've been on a mission. One that will erase this girl from my mirror in a wash of lipstick and good shoes and perfume that conjures images of dark corners and cool sheets.

... Mission accomplished. Well, mission begun at least.

If I had to say why, it was the way his eyes closed when he played the bass...

I should have known that it would get me into just the right kind of trouble, that dreamy, half-awake look of complacent ecstasy that took over his face as his long-fingered hands coaxed melodies from the strings.

I couldn't stop watching. Not the band, just him. And he knew it.

He sent over a drink and dedicated a song to 'the girl who's taste in music seems to be as good as her taste in whiskey.' And I was lost, in a good way. In a way I haven't been in a long time.

Like I said, the right kind of trouble.

I'm sorry, FUCK!

Last night my purse was stolen from the bar. The bar I work in. The bar where everyone knows who I am, and I know everyone... I can't believe this. I can't fucking believe this.

My purse had my phone, car and house keys, and wallet. My wallet had all my tips from the week... about two hundred dollars, my credit card, check card, ID... Everything.

...And when I called my parents crying this morning about how upset and scared I was, my dad calmly asked if I had enough to pay my cell phone bill.


I can't believe this. Any of it.

Julio, baby...

It's showtime, baby.

Well, not for me. Not yet. My showtime, the true test to see if there is a drop of creative blood left in my body, comes later tonight. Tonight, as I sit with a bottle of Jameson at my left and a pack of Camel Lights at my right, I am put through the artistic ringer... Tonight, as I sit trying to write a ten minute show by eight a.m. tomorrow with suggestions pulled out of hats, put there by sadistic audience members that really love to watch writers squirm.

They don't really, but I will curse them in such a way in the small hours of this morning, when I'm not even close to finished and everything I have is shit. We shall see, my friends, we shall soon see...

A good friend said last night that 'good sketch writing' means that every line, every last word adds something to the plot, furthers the character, and is funny. That's a lot of pressure, per word. I'm not positve my rusty artist bones are going to be able to withstand the assault.

...And I have yet to mention that I probably won't even start writing until two this morning, because it is the last show of my friend's band, so I have to drag my exhausted self out to a bar.

...And try and get two of my friends laid, one of whom has no place to stay because I didn't call two days ago to confirm the hotel reservations I made for him?

Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. It's going to be an interesting evening.

Fate's bad joke, Romance's punchline...

When I say 'finished with,' I mean 'sleep with when drinking until further notice.'

It isn't so much a problem as it is a minor inconvenience. It's not a conflict, more an issue. As in, I take issue with the fact that he's so good in bed I can't seem to kick him out of it. (Last night, we dutifully christened every room of my new apartment- and there wasn't even a bed yet.)

I bristle at this admission like I am above it. In truth, none of us are. I am lead to believe, if my experiences and those of my close friends are any indication, that all of us with a serious former relationship have serious problems with the 'former' part.

I'm not sure if it's because of the sex stuff...or the love stuff.

It might be because loving a person, actually loving them, takes a certain ammount of self-saacrifice. Parts of who we are eventually go from sacrificed to lost. Maybe, in this post-breakup togetherness, we simply seek to find the parts of ourselves we've sacrificed to be with them. Almost like giving back the movies he left at your place. Or trying to get back your hairdryer.... Don't ask.

Could be the sex thing... When you've been with someone for any ammount of time, the sexual chemistry is either there or it isn't. If it is, you can imagine the unwillingness to let it slip away. Great sex, like good help and acceptable Chinese food, is hard to find. So when you have it, and you want it, you probably won't let it go without a fight. And some rug burns...

...until something better comes along. This is unfair. Completely true, but unfair.

If you've played the game of love and lost, is it breaking the rules to jump back onto the field for sex?

Heart in a jar...

Tonight, you arrested my mind.
Then you came to my defense
with a knife in the shape your mouth,
in the form of your body,
with the wrath of a god.
So you stood by me, and
I'll stand by my belief.

What you say tonight ends this fiasco forever.

It doesn't matter the words you use- I am past caring what they are. I am determined to hear only silence, only finality in whatever it is you decide to say. This conversation is overdue enough... I don't care about the words. You will never hear me say that again.

What happens tonight ends this, or I walk away from you. In the next minutes, the next hours, you break my heart one last time and then it is over. Done, or your life's going to be my hell.

I would wish you luck, but you don't deserve it.

If you go, go quietly...

Yesterday, I drove my brother and his new wife to the airport in Minneapolis so they could catch a plane- To Anchorage, Alaska, where they will be spending the next three years. My newly acquried sister-in-law is in the air force and is stationed there for the rest of her enlistment term.

I cried. My mom cried. My brother cried... Ok, we all cried. A lot.

I realized on the drive home, with my mother sobbing in the passenger seat, that some of my tears weren't the sad goodbye kind. I will miss my brother, of course, but, the more I think about it, I cried for something else too.

I'm jealous.

Dan and Desiree are starting a new life in someplace different. Somewhere away from home, forced to support themselves, thrown everyday into something new and exciting and terrifying, expected to lean on each other to form a solid marriage that will last. And here I remain, the days running together in an uncreative line, the same scenery and same drama and same...well, everyting.

My brother is going places. I'm going crazy.

Altered states...

..and it kind of hurts when the
kind of words you write
kind of turn themselves into knives, and don't
mind my nerve, you can call it fiction, but I
like being submerged
in your contradictions.

I'm beginning to think I've found my calling. That thing I'm supposed to be doing with my life, the undeniable pull towards a pursuit so utterly noble that all around me cannot help but admire my complete sense of purpose...

I belive there's a yeah, right in there somewhere. Or perhaps a gee, Lauren what is it you are supposed to do with your life? What has called you so greatly to action?

It would seem, my friends, that I have been called to the humble existence of the village idiot. This is the only possible assumption, especially if my behavior continues as it has with no end in sight and seemingly no way to control it...

Idiot. Inappropriate. Ridiculous.

And the beat changes, goes on...

For the moments leading up to this one, I blame you.

For this moment, I blame me.

It's a beautiful morning. Well, it would be, if it were November. As it is May, I'm going to call it pretty...

The sun is rising in all those hazy colors over a lake covered in fog and it is so damned cliche, so fucking romantic I could claw out my own eyes for having witnessed such a spectacular tragedy. The morning that follows this ridiculous parody of a Shakespearean sunrise can shove it. And the day that grows from this morning, well, might as well never happen.

I didn't plan on ending up here. I never do with you. But I had something to say and you needed to hear it... It wasn't going to be nice, but I'd had just enough Jameson and just about enough of this soap opera you and I call a friendship to be a little mean.

The drive to your house seems scant seconds, not nearly long enough to calm myself, so when I pull into your driveway, I am seething. I am ready to yell and rant and rage until you and I have made sense of all of this. I am going to pace and smoke and-

Do...nothing...at all. You aren't home. Where the hell are you? I need to get rid of this ridiculousness in my brain...somehow. Like I said, for this moment, I blame you.

I decide to drive. An early morning trip up the shore seems like a good idea. There's a backup pack of cigarettes in the glovebox and I can turn on some Jason Mraz and- Fuck. Not Jason Mraz, does he have to make me think about you? I hate that we have the same taste in music. And now that I think about it, Gavin DeGraw, John Mayer, Johnny Cash, The White Stripes, and Matchbox 20 are all out of the question... Damn.

As I search through the cd's I haven't discarded, I catch a glimpse of my gas gauge. The orange needle is mocking me, dancing perilously close to 'E.' With gas prices as they are, a drive is the wrong idea, but it would seem I have nowhere to go. Even my precious Caribou Coffee still sleeps, oblivious that it is abandoning me in my hour of need. Oh well, I guess I'll always have you, pack of Camel Lights.

I pull a cigarette from its box, and I manage a sort of bittersweet smile as I savor that first inhale. I watch the smoke curl and writhe around the inside of the car and it is just as trapped as I am, the lost wanderer of the air on a too-cold morning in May, grasping for a place to be and finding no such hold. It is as if nothing-

Fuck this. I cannot sit in your driveway waxing poetic about cigarette smoke all damn day. I have to get out of here.

Where to? Where to chain smoke with a pen in one hand and coffee in the other?

Where does a heartsick pile of twenty-something woman go to escape the sunrise and its relentless consequences?

To keep you in my life, will I always run from the mornings?

All's fair...

Today, a friend of mine mentioned the saying, "Anything worth fighting for is worth fighting dirty for."

I've decided to start fighting dirty.

Let the games begin.

You have no idea what you are in for, kid.

Stranded at a 24 Hour Diner...

You see I always wanted to kiss you and I,
always wanted to run from you because
I always wanted to miss you and I,
I always wanted to come for you...

I've been stood up. By my own sanity.

Sure, we've been on the rocks lately. We've had some troubles. There was that mess with the tequila shots and my roommate's boyfriend's car, and that time we skipped work to drive to Baudette because we couldn't sleep and I wanted to see Willy the Walleye. And there is of course, the never-ending, consistently ridiculous battle we're having over my intensely screwed up love life that usually ends in consuming mass quantities of Jameson.

...But, we were going to give it a try. Take some time, give each other the necessary space, retreat to our separate corners and try not to come out swinging.

The plan: Monday night movie fest while packing to leave my beautiful house. I was going to bring the popcorn and grass, and dear old Sanity was supposed to bring the rational thought and logical decision making. Only, Sanity decided not to show.

Apparently, there was something better going on.

So there I was, all alone and without Sanity, when who should decide to call me for a drink but the Prince of Lies himself. Naturally, I got all dolled up and went walking into the bar he commanded my presence in. Being sans Sanity, I had no choice in the matter.

Three beers and four torturously intimate cigarette breaks later, we are back at my house. There is some small talk and a half-hearted attempt at watching a movie before Prince and I are naked, I am vulnerable, and we are complicating our nonexistent relationship- Again.

We manage to stop, however, before 'everything but' turns into 'all the way.' This is not because he miraculously develops self-control or because Sanity showed up late with an apology and a pizza. It's because I seem to have forgotten which box I packed the condoms in. If Sanity isn't going to help me, Dumb Luck seems to be my new best friend.

Things...cease, and it seems impossible for me to lay next to him for another second. I reach for enough clothes to cover and enough cash to get some breakfast, tiptoe up the stairs, drop my keys on the tile floor twice, and head out the door.

I chain-smoke as I drive, cursing every CD in my car for reminding me we have the same taste in music. There is no destination, I only hope to remain gone from the house long enough for him to wake up and get the hell out. I silently beg this one small favor of him, please don't make me come home to you, because it feels too good to let the day begin with you next to me.

I end up, two hours later, at a Perkins Restaurant in Wisconsin. (God love the cheeseheads for not passing a smoking ban.) It is there I sit, cursing Sanity for leaving me high and dry and starting this whole messy business over again.

I'm in the market for a replacement. How about Reason? Passion? Rage? I hear Rage is a hoot at parties...What do you think?

Your trampoline has got holes in it...

Let me fall into your lap
and just lay here for awhile
satisfied by your seduction
like a handshake would do the job.
Never know how long I have waited,
anticipated,
your smile
to be pressed against mine.

I feel it is only fitting, as I begin my new life full of decisions and free of the ridiculous, that I find a place to store the things running through my head. Far from the eyes of those who are offended by the thoughts I have and away from those who care too much to understand, I seek a haven for the words I love so much.

This is why I am here. This is why I sit staring at a computer screen when I generally prefer a pen and paper. There is something to be said about the existence of something, how it is entirely questionable when you are the only one who can see it. So I will type these things into existence, if only to convince myself they are there.