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.