Doing my own deprogramming...

F*ck. It's time to re-haze.

I would have it so that what happens to an individual after death is determined by what he/she suspects, thinks, or believes will happen.

All who believe in an afterlife will get an afterlife. All who believe in Heaven and Hell will go to either location, whichever one each believes he/she deserves. Those who believe there is nothing after death will get absolutely nothing.

I'd choose to believe that there is an afterlife... and that it is a life in which I could remember my past life to some degree (even if just by way of an intuition that there was a beforelife and there will be a life after the present one)... and therefore continue to believe in an afterlife... and essentially live forever.

I feel a little bit sick right now. I feel uneasy mentally, and I have slight sinking feeling in my gut. I just got invited to church by two coworkers.

I carpooled to and from lunch. When I first walked over to the car, I noticed that the driver had a Bible on the backseat shelf, visible from the back window. He also had a cross hanging from his rearview mirror. Even though I'm not a Christian, recognition of these things and what they mean and represent usually bring me a warm feeling on the inside. I found it odd for a person if Indian origin to be Christian or Catholic. On the drive back, a Christian praise and worship CD was playing. The woman in the front seat turned around to ask me if I currently have a faith or system of beliefs. I ended up telling the two of them about my upbringing and my current stance on Christianity.

So that's how I got invited to church.

And quite frankly, I'm afraid of where all of this is going.

I'm not going to go to church. Not for awhile. I'm not ready to yet...

I agree with you about how broadly the word "bisexual" is used these days. The Merriam-Webster dictionary is a bit vague...

Main Entry: bi·sex·u·al
Pronunciation: (")bI-'sek-sh(&-)w&l, -sh&l
Function: adjective
Date: 1824
1 a : possessing characters of both sexes : HERMAPHRODITIC b : sexually oriented toward both sexes
2 : of, relating to, or involving both sexes

"Sexually oriented toward both sexes" could simply mean sexually attracted to both sexes. That could be a determining factor of the validity of some bisexual claims. I mean, a lot of women would like to present themselves as bisexual, and might even find other women entrancing and beautiful, touchable and kissable... but other women don't really make them wet their panties. I'd say you have to want more than a pleasant little make-out session if you're truly bisexual.

I don't think a desire for a long-term sort of relationship with people of either sex is necessary for someone to be considered bisexual. It isn't necessary for a person in a hetero relationship to want a long-term relationship in order to considered a sexual person. I believe I've had actual mini-crushes on a one or two women, and back then I was able to see myself wanting to be with those women in a long-term sort of relationship if they felt the same about me and it came to that. (They didn't, and it didn't.) But I have never labelled myself bisexual. I've said psuedo-bi, or that I have some tendencies...

I think the main difference between the poser and the bi-curious and the real bisexual woman is whose fantasies they are acting upon. If they are acting in a bisexual manner for their own direct pleasure, they are more of a genuine bisexual than those who are acting that way mainly for the pleasure of others or for indirect pleasure through other people's pleasure.

Yes, it would be nice if I could blame all my vices on being female.

But no, it wouldn't really be nice because being female is something I can't really change. I could get a sex change, but I'd still have a female brain and mind. I need to figure out exactly what I need to change about my personality...

I've decided to try to make some changes. It's been awhile since I've consciously made an effort...

There are those thoughts and feelings that I have in reaction to certain situations, that I imagine I have just because it's typicially female to have those kinds of thoughts and feelings... thoughts and feelings I'd probably be less likely to have if I was male. Guys have their own collection of gender-specific thoughts and feelings.

It's alright when the thoughts and feelings are neutral or positive, like the feeling I get when I see cute stuffed animals, or what I think when I'm trying to color coordinate an outfit. When they're negative, it really sucks. I mean, I know they are just silly female thoughts and feelings, so sometimes I'm able to toss them out of my mind right after I think and feel them. But it bothers me most that they pop up in the first place... and that I can hardly help them from entering. Or can I?

I was sad to hear about Mr. Roger's passing today too. If it weren't for Mr. Rogers, I wouldn't have known what a platypus is until much much later in life. He taught many of us the most fundamental fundamentals of daily life, didn't he?

My brother and I loved him, his show, his songs, and his sweaters. He was all we could watch on TV for awhile. Our parents didn't allow us to watch Sesame Street because it was "bad." I'm not sure what they were thinking... Maybe it was something as simple as Oscar the Grouch being a grouch and living in a garbage can that turned them off. And I suppose Mr. Rogers met their standards because he was also a Presbyterian minister.

Ironically, it was Mr. Rogers who first introduced me to make-believe. Make-believe, complete with castles and kings and princes and talking animals, later became a way to escape the "real" world in which I felt trapped and limited. In essence, I give him credit for planting the seed that was to grow into the complex, fantastical inner world I lived in throughout the latter years of my childhood.

Thank you, Mr. Rogers, for all you've taught me. Rest in peace... or in Heaven... or in Make-Believe... wherever you prefer.

For months, I sat at my computer at home on a cold, hard, plastic little stool. Those were sad days for my back, neck, and butt.

Today... A few bucks bought me a folding chair w/ padding.

A few bucks bought me much happiness.

Religion is morbid. I don't think that many people think more about death than people who've been involved with or immersed in a religion, such as Christianity, for an extended period of time.

Such people forced to always consider their souls, and the fate of their souls after death. They are focused on the afterlife. They welcome death on this Earth and meeting God and living an everlasting life in uptopia, aka Heaven. They speak of the unrepentant, who will spend an eternity in the fiery pits of Hell after death... those who never know when they are going to die and who will be unprepared to face the judgement throne, upon which God sits. And they, my mom included, zealously and desperately try to save those poor doomed souls, mine included. They repeatedly ask you to ponder, heavily, "If you died today, where would you go? Would you go to Heaven or Hell?"

I've been thinking about death for over 25 years. I probably think about it more than most of you, and have a viewpoint on it that most of you don't. But don't let that scare you.

Must always map out an escape route in advance for every scene and situation. Be prepared to self-destruct, if necessary.

There are days when I feel less alone by myself than when I'm around many people.

Sometimes I'm sick of being the only one among my friends who doesn't currently do some type of computer programming for a living and didn't go to Cornell. It seems like all of the people I interact with these days on a semi-regular basis fall into either one or both categories... CS/Engineers and/or Cornell alums. Sometimes I'm sick of not being able to talk about the things they talk about. Sometimes I feel like the f*cking black sheep who's got nothing to say.

But that's only sometimes.

Apparently, when I'm stressed, anxious, and/or upset, I gulp a lot of air. I gulp enough for my belly to inflate like a balloon. I get gas. It happens on occasions such as, losing on a night of poker. But don't let me catch you looking at my tummy to figure out if I'm bluffing!

A lot of people like to talk about the impending war. Yes, they actually like to talk about it... as if talking about it would or could change anything. As if they know what really should be done. As if they're oh-so-much-smarter than the average fool in the government who wants to put this war on the road.

These people who like to talk about the war are ordinary citizens, like you and me.... but not me. I haven't been reading about the subject on the internet or in magazines. I don't listen to what the news and shows on TV have to say about it. You can get me to talk about it. All I have to say is...

I really doubt anyone is any more enlightened after paying attention to what the media has to say about the issue. Who are you, you non-political major you, you puny little TV viewer, radio listener, internet reader, to think you know better after what you've seen and heard the totally filtered/bias/tainted information from the media? The media is totally and constantly playing you, leading you to think what they want you to think. And you eat it all up. Readily. You can't wait to have an opinion. Oh, there's so much that you don't know.

So Mr. President looks and talks like a goober. That doesn't mean all of the decisions he and his government makes are shortsighted and rushed and stupid. And since when is an obviously bad man like Saddam Hussein innocent until proven guilty? You'd rather wait to catch him red-handed? Oops, too late, you're dead...

So you were dumb enough to buy a car that drinks premium gas. Oh well. You were dumb if you didn't expect to pay a pretty penny to maintain it. My own car takes premium. But I'm not complaining about it. All of us are trying to make a living somehow. Suck it up. Stop thinking so much about yourselves once every now and then, and maybe a little bit more about the well-being of the world as a whole.

I'm supporting the powers that be on the big decisions that they make regarding the war. I'm betting they're helluva lot more informed than either you or me.

Where are all the white people in my life?

There are a few, miles away... I've got a few white penpals. Old-school handwritten letter writers. Most aren't emailers or IMers yet. When are they gonna get with the program??

Since I broke up with the white-ex mid-2000, my groups of friends have been almost 100% Asian. Not deliberately. I didn't plan it, it just happened. You know one, you end up knowing them all.

I'm totally out of touch with White America.

The air from the air conditioning system here at the office blows in such a way that it sounds like there are waves of the ocean outside the building, crashing down gently onto a softsand beach. It's rather soothing...

What about travel? Ahhhh... another old interest. Well, travel is just going to have to wait for me now. It's made me wait this long... it can wait until after I have the house, the sig-o/travelling partner, the combined income...

I have a new pursuit... the ol' "American Dream"... whatever that really is... Maybe it's whatever I make of it.

NEWSFLASH: Jennie goes conventional.

I think all I really want to do right now is earn enough money to buy a house and decorate the inside nicely so that it's comfortable enough to spend a great deal of time inside eating, sleeping, and watching TV without being bothered by religion or any dirty, stinky, inconsiderate roommates.

I want my own home.

I went home to visit my parents and brother on Sunday. I haven't been visiting as frequently since January.

Mom and I always assume the same positions to talk about the same subjects each time I visit. She takes the chair by the desk in my room, and I lie down on the futon. She doesn't always bring it up right away, but makes sure to bring it up before I leave. "At the end of the day, all that matter are your soul and your relationship with God." I love my mom... but when she starts with the God-talk, it's all over... Time for me to head back to my home away from home away from home.

She will never quit.

I tell her the truth. It pains me to say "I don't know" when she asks if I believe. I'm clouded over by heavy thoughts and doubt for hours.


Mom still makes me feel like a child. "Have you thought more about going back to school? You know, daddy and I are more than willing to help you with it this time around." Most of my cousins on my mom's side who are around my age are still in school... postponing their emergence into the real world until as late a date as possible, while dorming and dining and dressing and whatever else on their parents' fat wallets. Mom frowns and shakes her head when I tell her I'm a lot less interested in learning than I am in earning right now... that I enjoy selling things and have been thinking about opening up a shop or store. "Your daddy is a slave to his business." Another thing she always brings up...

It dawns on me every so often, though it really should be no surprise anymore, and I've said it a bunch of times before, that I am becoming my dad despite how purposefully I tried not to be when I was younger. I wonder how proud dad is of creating mini dad...

Selling things. I really like selling things.

I think my problem is that I don't know what I want to do now.

What happens after I have loved and been loved? Is it enough? I feel as if there should be more to my life. I want there to be more... more to go after, more to fight for, more to achieve.

But what do I really want to do?

So check this out.... SO uncanny. I received this email from a complete stranger today about the woman who rear-ended me:

Date: Fri, 21 Feb 2003 17:11:16 -0800 (PST)
From: [************]
Subject: Sche****de Soh***ji
To: bittersweetie58@yahoo.com

Hi,

A friend of mine sent me the link to your site that has the article about Sche****de rear ending you. Just wondering if she ever contacted you. Considering that she is the ultimate queen of mean, I thought I'd do you a favor and send you her contact info. She does indeed work for a company called Kontiki. This is her direct line: 408.730.3025. Please give her a hard time for all of us who have had to deal with her holier than thou attitude and rudeness. :-)

Good luck.

Is that great or what! Even if I already had the "queen of mean's" contact info...

If any of you encounter someone who rubs you the wrong way and runs, I recommend you mention him/her in your blog by name, if possible. You never know how many other people they've pissed off or wronged, or which of those people might just somehow find you and contact you and offer up some sympathetic words, or even help you seek revenge... er, justice.

I feel an overwhelming pressure to do something... to find something to do.

I feel so overwhelmed.

Remember when you were young and in relationships wracked by insecurity and melodramatic professions of love forever? And you and your boyfriend or girlfriend asked each other the lamest questions... questions that had no real good or right answer, but that you'd ask anyway, to test each other or to satisfy a morbid but genuine curiosity?

Questions such as... "Would you ever go out with him/her?" "If you weren't with me, would you be attracted to him/her?" "Is he/she cuter than I am?"

All those little white lies. You had to tell 'em, or all hell would break loose. "No, I could never go out with him." "He's totally not my type. He might look alright, but he's boring." "No, you're way cuter. He's got a small gut."

The lamest, most unfair question that an ex ever asked me was, "If your brother and I were both hanging on a ledge, about to plunge to our deaths, and you could save only one of us, which one of us would you save?" What the f*ck kind of question is that? I was really upset by it, especially since I couldn't answer it to his liking, and my failure to answer it caused yet another argument over something stupid... the fifth one that day.

F*cking psycho ex-boyfriends. Godd*mn young relationships. If you started dating late, in your 20s, you should probably be thankful you missed out on all this fun...

I was watching Tech TV tonite, and they were doing a review on some Karaoke gadget thingy within someone's house... a really fobby looking Asian dude's house. He had a bunch of fobby looking friends over. One of them turns out to be a girl I knew while I was at Cal.

She was my ex's lab partner for one of his CS projects during a semester. I think most guys who knew her thought she was hot. She had really long hair, and it was dyed/highlighted kinda light. It got her a lot of attention. She also had a small mole on her face, that I refused to acknowledge as a "beauty mark." She was one of the few cute girls within the CS major, or so I was told... hard not to be noticed under those circumstances.

Well, one night, my ex was out at the lab for a longer time than usual... We lived together in a studio. He hadn't called to say he'd be working extra late on the project. My ex before him (psycho-ex) had cheated on me on a series of occasions, while he was "at lab." So late in the early morning, I was paranoid and furious, and I couldn't sleep...

This is one of a few times I did something out of irrationality that I feel bad about doing, that I still remember to this day.

I knew what kind of car she drove. It was a severely lowered black Integra. That fact in itself pissed me off, since I'd just gotten myself a black Integra. I drove out to Soda Hall and found her car and keyed it... drove back home, and went to sleep.

I've haven't done anything like that since.

Another day... bored out of my f*cking mind...

Natural interests... I have but one big one. It's MUSIC... and most things associated with it. Music has always been a central, pervasive, and indispensible part of my whole life. All I ever really want to do or be able to do is listen to music, make it, play it, sing to it, dance to it...

So what's my problem? I can listen to music when I'm not at work, when I'm in my car. I don't have much of my own collection of cds or mp3s. I'm too frugal and never really ever home to collect and listen to my own stuff. I can play one instrument well. Er, could. I stopped playing the piano, and my skills have gone out a window. I don't really feel like getting back into piano. I haven't picked up a new instrument because I'm daunted by having to start from the very beginning... All I really want to learn to play is the guitar. I don't have a guitar, and I can't get one. And I don't want to get interested in it and give up on it soon after because I can't learn as fast as I'd like to... now that I'm old, and it's hard to teach an old dog new tricks. It's too hard to create music. I feel I need more of a background to start... need to know more music history, diff genres, instruments, etc. I'm overwhelmed. I need to look for somewhere to spend for affordable, yet quality, dance lessons. I'm overwhelmed by that task too...

If I had a second natural interest, it would be transforming plain and ugly things that aren't mine or that I didn't create into better-looking, even beautiful, things. Like, decorating a friend's room or house, giving friends makeovers, editing...

All I do right now is self-deny and whine... and play poker. So yeah, hopefully, one of these days, I'll get so bored and so frustrated that I'll either kill myself by way of drugs, or finally get over the obstacles that stand in the way of me doing the things I really want to do...

Oh. I wasn't talking about sex, in case you thought...

That feeling of being caressed on the deep deep inside.... stroked and tickled in places within that can't be reached by anything else without breaking the skin or by penetration of any outward-facing orifice. Those pristine places that, once touched, will never forget... Places only shrill and resounding sounds can massage, under spEcial conditions... and not so gently. Through a sudden and frenzied envelopment of your whole. Bliss via the simultaneous rape of all of your favorite senses...

It's that feeling that I can't seem to go a day or a couple of days without recalling... especially when I'm bored.

I've even lost interest in blogging for you.

I've lost interest in many things. I have few interests right now. I have lost a lot of energy. I don't feel like doing much. I just want to save money and sleep and eat and sit and let other people and the media entertain me. This is not how I want to spend the rest of my life.

Thursdays, I work from home. I simply can't go on like this. At this point, I think two dollars for toll and gas for the 40 miles total to and from work is not too much to pay for some human interaction during the day while at the office... though that human interaction consists of just knowing there are other people in the building, not actually seeing most of them or talking to them. My job requires me to face-to-face interact with just one or two people for less than two hours no more than once a week. Maybe for 10 more bux an hour I would shut up and learn to enjoy the nothing-to-do, the silence, and the seclusion...

I'm tired of wearing the same few things day after day after day. I'm tired of scrimping and holding off on nice new clothes because I'm poor. I go to the mall, and there is so much to wear... that I can't buy. It's so de-womanizing...

In legends, myths, fables, tales of old, the price of true love was often terribly high... one's entire kingdom, infamy, torture and bloodshed... life itself. Guys would die both willingly and unwillingly while madly pursuing fair maidens. Star-crossed lovers, hopelessly in-love, would perish tragically, professing undying love for each other.

What were they thinking??

Well, that was before widespread sex before marriage, designer drugs, TV/TiVo, video games, the internet, clubbing, and all the wonderful things that keep us occupied, entertained, and obssessed these days.

True love was way overrated.

Perhaps it still is... since the illusion of the experience is nearly enough, and is available at a considerable discount. Of what value is true love to someone who can't tell a diamond from cubic zirconia, leather from pleather, Prada from Prado, a Van Gogh from a fake...?

I simply don't have money. So I'll settle for faux fur, imitation lobster, and knock-offs... for now...

Screw the reset button... where's the off switch??

I might try to walk away. That is what I do sometimes.

Would you let me leave so easily?

OK. Contract until May or not, I must find a better paying job. ASAP. No more fucking around. Mo' money is what I need to put my efforts into going after now. I have enough happiness. I have enough comfort. I'm working on the bod. I still need much more money. Come on, Jennie... Chop chop! Put your back into it!!

I feel sorry for you guys who have hard-to-please girlfriends or wives. Oh, maybe that's all of you guys with girlfriends or wives...

You poor fellows. Valentine's Day must be stressing you out.

If I was a guy, I don't know what I'd do. Would I go the played-out route -- the red roses, the chocolates, the candlelit dinner for two at a fancy French restaurant, the jewelry from Tiffany's -- if I knew that's what she wants, despite how unoriginal and how temporary, fattening, preposterously expensive, and impractical it is?

What if I'm not the cheesy romantic type and/or have my own ideas for a meaningful night? Do I risk doing what I want to do for her, or should the threat of her dissatisfaction and disappointment reduce me to doing the cheesy romantic tango?

What if my woman's the type that demands to be pleasantly surprised each year? How would I know what she really wants if she doesn't explicitly tell me? It'd suck if I wasn't a above-average-creative guy, but my woman always expected me to be originally romantic and sentimental. Ugh. The burden of thinking of something novel and sappy every birthday, every Christmas, every anniversary... She can be bought every other day of the year, why not on these too??

Why couldn't she just ask for porn or for an MP3 player? Why wouldn't she be happy with gift certificate to spend at Best Buy, or Barnes & Noble, or A|X, or Copeland's Sports, or Sephora, or Williams-Sonoma?

See, you wish you had me.

Just fuck me nicely this Friday and I'll be happy.

When the subject of trimming and shaving down there came up over the weekend, I realized that neither my friend (a guy) or I knew what the majority does before we decided to start trimming and shaving (t&s) awhile back. We still don't know.

I've always assumed that most women t&s... because I do. And they're all shorn in porn. But maybe my assumption that most of the things that I do, most other people probably also do, is wrong in this case. I didn't think most men would t&s, especially not ones of the virginal variety. Have I not been exposed to enough, or not read up on the right discussion boards or the right magazines?

So I polled some of my friends.

Of the 12 guys I asked, 7 do trim reguarly (but don't usually shave)... once a month, on average. Of the 7, 6 started trimming only after they had sex for the first time. The main reason the trimmers trim is for aesthetics. And all of the rimmers wear boxers or boxer-briefs, and stay away from the tighty-whities. When asked, more guys seem to prefer shorn w/ a small patch... vs. timmed only, completely shorn, or au naturale. I have a feeling that among my guy friends who I didn't ask, there are more guys who don't t&s than do.

I asked 3 of my girl friends... the only 3 that I felt comfortable asking. One of those three waxes the area completely bare. WOW.

All of the people I polled are between 23 and 28 years old. They were all on IM when I asked. Only one of the them is non-Asian. (The 13th guy declined to answer.) The poll didn't provide me with that much info about majority behavior, but I did learn a few fun facts about the people I know.

And now I wanna bite the bullet and go get myself a Brazilian wax. I've been inspired. And dared.

After some deliberation, I have decided that it is much better to be happy now, as I am now, and as the person I am now... than to try to live up to my supposed potential, and maybe be just as happy.

There's no guarantee that I'd be happier if I forgo what I have now that makes me happy for the pursuit of supposed greater character development, as a completely independent and unattached, perhaps also lonely, individual.

Only if/when I start to feel truly unhappy will I force myself off my couch of comfort, warmth, and laziness, in front of the TV, close to the those right there beside me who I care a lot about... and who care right back at me.

Me. The person I am now. Not "lesser" me. Not the me I could become. Just this me.

HAPPY me.

Last night, my face started itching again... and a few small red bumps appeared in the same areas that my poison oak rashes used to be, where a couple of scars still remain. Felt like I was getting the rash all over again... why/how??

I was itchy all day today, wondering what's going on. I thought I'd already fought and won this battle, for the most part...

Tonight, by sheer chance, while playing Trivial Pursuit, I came across a question asking what otherwise edible fruit's skin contains urushiol, the oil found in poison oak that causes rashes.

The answer is mango.

Damnit. I love mangoes. And I just bought one from Safeway last night, which explains why my face is rashing out to a small degree again. Luckily, I didn't eat it yet. I remember that when I was younger, in junior high, I think I broke out in a rash after eating a mango. My mom and I couldn't figure out why, and I avoided mangoes for a couples years after that. I started eating them again later on... and seemed to be fine with them. Until now.

Coming across that question in TP was such a coincidence... maybe what they call providence? What if I had eaten the mango?!

I don't think I'm getting much, anymore, out of sharing a house with four other people.

Over the weekend, I watched an episode of MTV's "True Life: I Have a Phobia." One of the guys on the show supposedly had a fear of approaching and talking to women in person. I don't think what he had could really be called a phobia. He just seemed to be fearful of rejection by women and avoidant of awkward moments with them. The guy went to a psychologist or psychiatrist (what's the difference between the two?) for help, but even afterwards, he continued to have the problem.

I feel as if I, too, have difficulties with talking to women, though not to the same degree as the poor guy in the show. It's easier to talk to them when they approach me first, but that doesn't happen regularly. Even when a conversation starts up, it's hard work to carry it on past a couple of words... There just never seems to be enough interest on at least one side to continue on, or they don't seem to have much to say that is of interest to me.

Sometimes I feel so secondary with them... as if they'd settle for talking to me just until they spot a guy to talk to.

It's not easy to be completely myself around women. I feel as if I've gotta tread lightly with them, pick my words carefully, be ultra-sensitive... Like the guy on the show, I fear that they will judge me too quickly, maybe even before I say anything. So most of the time I just avoid them. I'd rather not talk to them than try to and feel uncomfortable. I hate the awkward silences.

I'm not sure if it's worth the effort to try to change, to learn how to interact with women more comfortably and successfully in person. I mean, what am I missing, if anything?

The apple on my desk is starting to shrivel. It's been sitting there for over a month. I like apples. I always buy them. Fuji apples or green apples. I buy them, but I don't eat them. I intend to eat them. But they get old too soon, and I throw them away. Then I go to the store and buy some more.

You (not all of you out there, just you in particular) really don't know me. You definitely don't know me as well as you think you know me.

But thank you for your comments.

Why do you say the things you say? Maybe you think it's your right or your duty. Maybe you really care. Why? Maybe you want me to become more like you. Maybe you're trying to help me. Maybe you are jealous. Of me? Of him? Maybe you hate me. Why? Maybe you liked me. Maybe you still do...

Don't you wish you could just fuck me and get it over with? (What? You think I flatter myself? I see no harm in that.)

I realized the other day that only one out of seven of my official ex-boyfriends, the very first one, had more relationship experience than I had at the time we went out. I feel as if, since the first guy, I've just been a de-flowering machine, a show-him-the-ropes act...

Maybe that's why I've never been swept off my feet.

But I don't know what I'm missing, so I don't really care...

...or do I?

Sometimes I wish I had a more "normal" job. I'm tired if feeling guilty for getting paid as much as I'm paid for doing as little as I do. I do hardly anything. I wait for the work to peeter in, and it does so at a handicapped snail's pace... whether I'm in the office or "working" from home. If I'm lucky, I'll have 2 or 3 hours of work to do in a day. I'm bored out of my mind...

You guys out there wanna get yourselves an authentic, all-natural, homegrown California girl. Born and bred.

Cali girls are the best. Not just in the West. Why settle for an East Coast chick, or a mid-West hick, or anything else outside of the USofA? No matter where you're from, no matter how you were raised, what you really want is right here in the Golden State!

Cream of the Crop. Pick of the Patch. Best of the Season. And Sun-ripened!

Come and get 'em, boys!

I drink because I won't do drugs.

I'm kidding. I drink because I like the way alcohol makes me feel physically. I also like the way it disengages my mind so that I'm not stuck in my inner world of constant wonder... which I don't mind as much when I'm alone, but do mind when I'm around a lot of people, and I want to interact with them.

I've watched the first two seasons of Smallville. I think it's a good feel-good show. Tonight's episode contained what seemed to me a hidden-but-not-so-subtle anti-drug message. I didn't mind that...

But I do mind and resent the fact that I constantly fight this inner battle. Some people have never done drugs, and have absolutely no desire to. Others have done them, but shrug off the experience and don't care to do them again. They don't seem to be plagued the way I feel I am. Why can't I shake off this bane? I almost feel like a struggling, recovering addict, though I don't even have an addiction.

Sometimes I resent that life is the way it is... that it gets really good, but will never get as good naturally as it can get for a few moments while on drugs... and that I can't ever seem to forget...

For as much as I don't do drugs, I sure do think about them a lot.

I can't seem to help it.

It's always a topic of interest and shows up everywhere in movies, in TV specials, in the fabric of certain types of music, among the people I know and meet. At the mention of drugs, my ears perk up, my eyes light up. I like to hear about addiction and reasons for it, about successfully recovering addicts, about destroyed lives, about the highs and the horrible side effects, about the people who've died, about those who will never, ever be able to quit... I'm fascinated and repulsed at the same time.

Drugs are not just for losers, or the unhappy, the ignorant, or the down-n-out. No matter how wonderful life is for me, I believe there still exists a greater amount of pleasure and joy, available only through some drugs.

But there's a lot I wouldn't do, and my reasons are my own.

For as much as I think about drugs, I've been quite successful in not turning into a junkie.

I did nothing yesterday. There's nothing to do at my place. I was actually there, at the address that I and my four roommates use, for more than a couple of hours straight. And I wasn't working from home.

The TV isn't mine. Nothing in the kitchen is mine. The distance between me and my roommies is growing again.

Sometimes I feel as if I have no real home.

I live out of an overnight bag.

My fantasy NBA team has been sucking terribly lately. I check the stats and set my line-up first thing in the morning, every morning. And my days start off crappy 'cuz I've sunk to 8th place... with not much hope of doing much better between now and the end of the season. Why do I care so much about winning and beating in this league? I really shouldn't. It's so silly. Oh well... You know I won't give up until it's all over! :)

This bio clock thing is such a bitch. It's been bringing down my spirits for days... I try not to let it, but it won't quit buggin'.

I'm guessing that I picked an non-ideal time to become single. I should've tried to live a phat maxed-out single life when I was when I was younger, thinner, cuter. It was too hard, then, to get out of the cycle of breaking up and getting right back into another relationship... there were always guys waiting on the porch. It was hard to not let in the love and the lovin'. I mean, who would say no to those things?

I'd forgotten what it's like to worry the way I worry now... to feel single desperation. I haven't felt these feelings in about 10 years... 10 years in "taken" status feels like a lifetime.

It's like... going from the swimming pool to the hot tub, and trying to get back into the swimming pool. I've dipped one little toe into the swimming pool...

I want back into the hot tub.

Since the end of July, I've tried single-and-looking for a whopping total of about 1 hour. It wasn't fun. Oh, maybe slightly amusing. I looked through the personals on craigslist.org for a couple of minutes yesterday (never done that before), but I couldn't help imagining that all these poor but hopeful souls are glaringly undesirable in some big way or another. Or maybe they're all just like me. But they're out there. I'm overwhelmed and intimidated. I don't know where or how to begin. I don't even want to go there, if I can help it...

So I've practically skipped the looking part and gone straight into single-but-dating. I'm sitting with my legs dangling in the hot tub. Half-in-half-out. My upperbody is starting to shiver. I want to get my whole body back into the tub. I really do... before I get sick and die. I'm scared, but not as scared of getting into the big, cold pool.

Pull me in. Pull me in with you.