An American Geisha

All of my baby pictures are of me showing it off like nobody's business. Seriously, if I'm not utterly nude, I'm spread eagle on the couch with undies in view. So I was the slutbaby. Ashley, as proven by this incredibly cute picture, was the cannibal.

I can only assume robyn was a republican.

Happy Birthday, Ashley, A-Bomb, Missus Ashley Ma'am. Wishing you all the kittens, cookie cutters, and anatomy projects you could ever dream of. I'm buying Daredevil today just to watch it with you in mind, and I agree, it's rare that a movie so perfectly matches an intro song with each major character.

I miss you and love you, babe.

~jady

It’s been a long time since I gave an update my actual day-to-day life right now, and as my father points out to me, I’ve been neglecting the actual reason I have a blog; namely, to keep in contact with my friends and family our of town. So, right now I’m:

In four classes at school, and hopefully will be graduating in March with all my courses completed and at least a faint idea of how to use my degree. I’m taking a renaissance class, American realism class, a class on women in the bible and on the topic of geisha in contemporary literature.
The Renaissance class is fun if only because my teacher truly loves what she’s teaching, and it shows. The class discussions are slightly stilted, if only because people don’t seem to be used to reading long bouts of poetry. This is wicked confusing, as it seems that my entire college canon has been one long-winded poet after another. Still, there’s never a bad day in class when we can discuss quite how gay Shakespeare was (126 sonnets written to a single boy? Yeah. I bet you were juuuust friends)
The Realism class is grinding my brain into butter, and I was lucky enough to talk with other students, every single one of which agrees. The reading itself is pretty interesting, and I love any excuse I get to cover Mark Twain …but our teacher asks bizarre questions. Indescribably bizarre. You really have to see it or yourself.
My women in the bible class is interesting in that I get to actually read the bible, which I’ve never bothered to do before. It’s a predictable class, as of course women were slandered and discounted in bible text, but fun nevertheless. My teacher is very, very intelligent, and we get to celebrate on Monday by not having class (I forget which holiday it is…evie? Jewish holiday? My psychologist is taking the day off too)
My geisha class, as I’m sure you can imagine, is a breeze and a joy for me. Today we’ll be watching Geisha Boy, a movies from 1958 about a Jewish boy and his geisha-like qualities. I could write on the topic all day. I have written on the topic for over two years, if you recall. Now I get a grade for it, bitches.

In other news…

I’m keeping a journal of all my expenses for the week so that Mom and I can discuss budgeting, which will most likely involve her telling me that I have 20 dollars a month to spend on ‘going out’, and will remind me once and for all why I want a job that allows H&M spending when necessary.

I fell down some cement stairs yesterday and bruised my right calf, elbow, and butt. I’ve come to realize just how much you use these three body parts, and even writing this, I’m shifting so that my bruised little rump isn’t sore all day. I need a butt cast. My butt is hurt. I have a bruise on my poor butt. ‘Butt’ becomes funnier and funnier the more often you say it.

I’m doing well, for now. Midterms are next week and every teacher’s given me no more than a 4-page paper. This sort of assignment is dangerous, because I can think of no reason NOT to slack and write them all the night before. I will try to curb that impulse. Just because it’s worked for me for the last 5 years doesn’t mean it will this time….right?

I can find a metaphor in a glass of milk.
first, the obvious
nourishment contained
milk in a container of heated, frozen sand
the sand a herald of the ocean
mother, maiden, lover, widow-maker
grains of time and salty tears
tears and milk
the constant sorrow and food
of women 
the white sands of the Atlantic shore
soft and and small and itching
the first holiday after my sister died
and the family couldn't bear to be at home
and my sister
counting down hours
regressing into a calorie-free childhood
where milk was too rich a drink and glass 
too transparent
The windows at night with an ambulance outside
drinking ensure and purging
 red lights flashing
the TV on well after midnight
becuase she couldn't sleep
and my mother, we return to the milk
fighting with her child
her eldest daughter
lasping into seizure with her hands clenched
and cold like glass, and pale, chalky
a glass of milk

A Short Explaination of the Publishing Company:

First of all, the foundation of my company rests on the fact that text books, instruction manuals, and all other versions of non-fiction informative books have a shelf life of around 3-5 years. We don't expect any books to sell after the 5 year mark, we don't even factor that possibility into our sales estimates. Assumedly, after 5 years, we've either published a new edition, all the people who want the book have it already, or it's no longer accurate. We actually pulp the books. This...for an english major...it hurts. But irt's the truth.

I work with manuscripts in the Science, Technical, and Medical division. Meaning that I work with authors who never ever bothered to learn how to write in school. If they're anything like my sisters, they were too busy building paper models of the tendon system in the pelvis or reading up on string theory to bother with, say, learning grammar. So, needless to say, they can't fucking write.

Which is great for me. As a freelance copy-editor, I make my money relying on the fact that I don't know what they're saying, but jesus christ, THEY have no idea how to say it. It's quite symbiotic. I get to spare the world from horrible writing, and they get to sound like they're as well-spoken as they are intelligent.

The fact is, I help people correct their words in teaching something I'll never understand. They will NEVER learn to write. I will NEVER learn mass spectrometry. (I have no clue. It's like....charts....of cells....and....ions? No bloody idea. We're taking a lot of books on the subject, though, so apparently it's important.)

I'm reminded of what my mother told me when I started freaking out about moving to NYC for an internship. She confessed that there were still times--as an accounting professor, working on the ditorial board of the top journal on the subject, creating a low-income tax clinic on a f-ing whim, and being an all-aroiund genius--That she's terrified someone will find out she has no CLUE what she's doing. Like after 20 years in the profession, SOMEONE will realize she's making it up as she goes along.

I get the same feeling when I give advice. Or talk with men I'm dating. Or get dressed in the morning. The nameless fear that someone out there will stop me and say 'Wait a sec...you have no idea how to act like a competent adult, do you?'

Nope.

Thank god I can usually fake it.

I've been sent again to clean files, which terrifies me in it's finality. If you'd like a sampling of my paranoia, simply read this aloud while clutching your neck with one hand: Shit! what if this lady who no longer works here needs a reminder of her casual emails with the author of a book that's been out of print since 1998? shit, she'll blame me.*gasp wheeze shudder*

Anyway, since I can't write long, I may as well show you, reader-san, some pictures of my summer. If you're confused about the actual sequence, look for my freckles darkening and spreading. The more there are, the later said picture was taken.

 

This is Starr, my beau, and me at the beach adjacent to Coney Island. I couldn't begin to describe how fun that weekend was, but the beach, despite being very very crowded, was superfun. I have a few pictures Starr sent me of eating my first Nathan's Hotdog, but orgasmic as the flavor was....I look like I'm eating hotdogs in the picture. So you can't see it, reader-san.

 

This is me moments after sucessfully riding the cyclone rollercoaster. Twice! and totally not dying. Damn. My tummy looks good in that pic....awesome...

 

A snapshow of Im,prodome, the weekly fridays-at-11pm show in which i regularly perform with Mike Short (that guy in the pic). We were doing a scene in a drivethru movie theater, and I was dissapointed in hi9s sexual prowress. Ah, to be a teen again...

 

Starr took me to a birthday party in Jersey, and somehow the birthday girl herself was convinced to show off her unicycle skills, then give lessons. Note how sexy and in control I look HOLDING the unicycle....

 

 

And how that facade is but a lie. It looks like I'm stepping off gracefully, but belive me, I could have DIED.

 

 

Starr, i think, took this shameless picture of my butt. I adore that guy.

I've been neglecting my blog, as I often do when life is going well and worries are few. Well...the worries are:

1. Sending Robyn her birthday present. I keep forgetting to bring it in to work, and we have a post office right down the block. I feel like a royal louse...her 18th was on the 15th, and i haven't sent it yet. jesus.

2. Renewing my lease-altered to cover us only until next june, so that Kendra and I don't have to pay for the summer after we graduate and leave to be real people.

3. The Del Close Marathon, where I felt left out and on a whim signed up to help out...from 2am-10am on saturday. My goodness, will I be a sweet angel rose bunny after that shift. Oh well. The shows are thus free for the rest of the weekend, and I needn't feel the shame of freeloading on a fest.

4. Moving into the Manhattan Inn- a hostal on 30th and 7th ave, which I chose over trying to find a sublet for a month. I've lived in hostals for weekends before a few times, but i feel two weeks of community living will be all I need to remind myself of how very much I love silence.

5. My internship. It's going well, and I'm seriously considering trying for a job after the summer's over. I graduate, if all goes as planned, at the end of March. After that...I'll need employment. And this place is unbelievably nice, although I miss copyeditting.

 

There's a cold dark claw of fear that grips my chest every time I think about the after-March possibilities. My mom's philosophy of late has been that I can always move home, work at 7-11, and do just fine in SLC. IF I wanted to. I do realize how lucky I am to have parents with the ability and kindness to support me if I needed them, and I likewise feel the responsibility to work damn hard and get a job I can keep and enjoy for at least a few years after graduation. Of course, this is all hinged on the assumption that I won't have a major breakdown and end up selling American flags on the sidewalk outside Walgreens, singing songs of the 'old country', picking fights with traffic signals, and braiding my leg-hair.

Yes. Yes I have worried about that. Becuase I have the imagination of a titan and the anxiety level of a god, reader-san.  

In any case, good things have happened too. I've been dating Starr for about a month now, and it's going remarkably well. He's sweet, and smart, and growing a very attractive beard. I'll post pictures when I'm able.

Right. This is work-time, and I'm not focusing. More later...

After my first week of publishing, my goal for this weekend was to totally and utterly anything even loosely associated with text. I should have avoided sub-text, too, but that's a different gripe. 

In any case, I met Short and Star on thursday night, two very sweet men who both vaguely know Jess. Everyone knows Jess, a little. He's the improvisational, non-creepy version of Kevin Bacon. (am now picturing  a scene: "there's no improv allowed in this town? Jump back!") I did improvdome, or something named similarly, in which we make 3-person teams the night of, then do a 10-minute set. There were 7 teams, we didn't win, but the scene was really fun. Very Showtune Saturday Night, which made me miss SLC at the same time I grew a small crush on NYC. I am such a cityslut.  

Saturday I saw Otter, whose schedule allows him minimal free time this summer. We can only really hang out on weekends, so I took the oppertunity to take him to a diner, walk around my new neighborhood, and compliment him on his tan. Otter is wicked cute, ladies and gentlemen.  Even if I only have 3-4 hours a week to confirm that fact, he is a cutie.  

I also saw the people in town for NYC Sketchfest, and got to walk around the city with Tony, my former director and thier current lighting guy. We walked all over town, stopping occasionally for me to shop in wholesale jewelry stores ($1.30 for a sweet bracelet, $7 for the cutest of all handbags? I'll take it.). We walked up 5th past a man working all day on a chalk drawing. I made him a deal: he lets me take pictures, I send him the files over email. I'll get a few more today after work. It's a pretty amazing hobby, and striking against the canvas of a bare sidewalk....
 



I also wandered into supercuts and got my hair shortened for the summer. Give me a valid reason to spend more than 20$ on a haircut, and I'll do it, but they did a good job, even though I feel bald now.



I miss my kitten and Chicago, but I could really live here. It's a nice thought, considering that if I want to do publishing, I may very well have to.

I'm writing a table of contents for a textbook right now, and the sections are eerily familiar. I think I read this book. Shit, I think I WROTE this book. 

Section 1: Basic Neuropharmacology- Celexor, anyone?

 

Section 2: Mood Disorders- I just swore revenge to a copier. That's gotta apply here.

 

Section 3: Anxiety and Stress Disorders- Yeeah.

 

Section 4: Schizophrenia and Psychosis-You all read my journal, right?

 

Section 5: Substance Abuse and Addictive Disorders- I think my entire family hates benadryll now, thanks to a few months of that and ambien....

 

Section 6: Pain- Not entirely a bad thing in small doses. Yay for tattoos!

 

Section 7: Sleep and Arousal- tee hee hee

 

Section 8: Development and Developmental Disorders- This and Section 9 pretty much cover my dating life. With notable exceptions.

 

Section 9: Neurodegenerative and Seizure Disorders-Don't we all love seizures at Christmas?

 

Section 10: Neuroimmunology- Note to self: must make brain immune to crazy.

 

Section 11: Eating and Metabolic Disorders- Need I even elaborate?

My 9:30-10:30 meeting ended early, and I have no more homework to fret over (DONE with junior year, yes yes yes yes yes) and since my boss is in a meeting from 10:15-whenever, he told me to check my email and relax until her came back. Which means, in Jadyse, to google B.D. Wong, the hottest MD to ever grace SVU, and realize I've loved him for years.   




Note the resemblance?



He was the speaking voice of Shang! I thought, like a fool, that Donny Osmond was the true genius of the movie, but I was wrong. Because however hot he is when singing, his voice otherwise is still even better. And here I was, watching Law and Order with no idea that my crushes seem to be overlapping as the years go on. 

I cound discuss, you know, work or NYC or real people right now, but...damn. B.D., you have one hot cartoon torso.

Today I had my first taste of a REAL job, if one considers a publishing internship in New Jersey real. I have a desk on the 8th floor, by *blank* and *blank*. My window (read: the window five feet beyond the next cubicle) looks over sunny Hoboken, NJ, while the smelly old farts across the building have to look at the gray gloomy skyline of Manhattan. They must be wicked jealous of me.

Whenever I get a new job, or attend a camp or campus tour, I always feel a special sort of pleasure when they give me, ME, the free stuff that everyone gets. I know that every single employee from the 2nd-9th floor has a W. Publishing mug, but the important fact is that I HAVE ONE. It has a lid, and it's translucent, and I'm very busy and important and can't be bothered with using paper cups like a sucker. I also got a new email address and a company handbook. I'm quite certain you know, reader-san, the latter I will use as a coaster and possibly to make paper cranes, but very little else.

The apartment is very nice as well, and after the first month of summer in a sweaty pit of 87 degree nights, air conditioning is my newfound lover and companion. I've managed to avoid calling Kevin every single day to check on Dante, but I wish my kitten could enjoy the cooling mechanical breeze as well. I also turn in my final essay for junior year tommorow, which I plan to finish during lunch, email as a link, and send as a hard copy after work. My teacher, mother of Grendel, still insists on a hard copy. I'm writing you 15 pages on Wilde, lady. Have some mercy. All I can say is, you'd better enjoy the puns. Possible essay titles:

Wilde Accusations

Get Out of My Dreams and into my Oscar

Do You Enjoy Your Novels Hot or Wilde?

Wilde Hearts Can't Be Broken (by negative reviews from moralistic contemporaries)



Hmm. Must, for the sake of my grade, consider less homoerotic titles....







*gaps due to lack of memory or simple name recollection, which will probably be a problem when I have entire manuscripts to discuss with people who are called either 'Fred' or 'Peter'...I know there's an 'e' in the name....damn you, years of social apathy that stole my ability to meet people correctly. Damn you.

As a daughter of statistics.

I feel the need to note

How many days and hours passed

An unkind reminder that

Figures combine.

Instead I just remember

A late night in the spring

When I warmed smooth lotion in each palm

And across the rough terrain

Of vertebrate and sinew, veiled

By skin of willow bark

Powder pale and fleshless,

Yet despite her will craved

The moisture, food and touch.

If only I had, now I think,

Hugged and shared warmth, and

Torn down each reflective pane

Pulled away the cutting threads

Of that disease and calmed

Her shivering sparrow, clip-winged heart

That rattled naked in her ribcage.

Maybe nothing so epic. If only the hug.

Now it is a matter

Of suns moons, ticking clocks,

Points, arches, vectors, meds.

Some days with full sensation

Many without.

As a sister of mathematics

I know, in theory,

Figures combine.

This week is one of the few 5-day spans in which I totally excuse myself from crying, bitching, and eating marshmallow fluff, since I have three large thing-stuffs to do for three classes. Boo. I took time while my Modern Indian History teacher explained the non-violence of Gandhi to write out my schedule for the week, to sate my fear of forgetting an assignment, and to remind myself that I can pace this out. It's actually fantastic in structure, i have an exam wednesday, a presentation thursday, and an essay due friday, and today and tommorow to study and curse the scholastic gods. I was fairly petrified that my Scary Teacher would spit on my Wilde presentation plans, and instead, I just got this in email:

"An excellent start on this, Jessica, some obscurities in your annotations and minor errors in your citations aside. You have chosen a terrific text for this assignment, you have mustered a fabulous set of sources, and you’re beginning to hit on some very interesting possibilities for further research. Nicely done. I look forward to hearing more!"



Please understand, this woman is terrifying. I'm afraid even to insert puns in my essay titles with her; not because she wouldn't enjoy them, but because she'd still sass me for being unprofessional even if she did. *shudder*



It is a cold woman who remains unswayed by puns.



Now, let's all pretend that I am totally calm and will not complain all week, and further imagine that this won't annoy you to the bitter edge, reader-san.

I hate my brain chemistry. I hate that my awesome summer-to-be and skills in school and work are not quite comforting. I hate that the times i want to see my lovely SLC friends, they're jetting off to cities and naval ships; despite the lack of companionship such travel entails, I'm damn proud. You people are amazing. 

I'm also increasingly fed up with how exhausted I am by simple interactions. My word, i may have ruffled feathers, and good lord, I'm flattered you've even taken the time to be personally offended, but a person who is absent in mind and matter when i feel this BAD is a person I don't care if I offend. In other words, y'all don' knooow ME, biotch. 

On the nerd front, I'm writing a short essay for my Senior Capstone Seminar on the strange phenomenon of evil/magical books in movies, including Evil Dead, Hocus Pocus, The Ninth Gate, Pagemaster, The Mummy and The Neverending Story, and anything else I can think of. I explained my topic to my teacher (My final essay is on The Picture of Dorian Gray, so I want to prep with a study of just how influential the physical embodiment of a literary work can be, in the mind of an audience), and she made a yummy sound. I coaxed that terrifying woman into a YUMMY sound. Ha. 



Ah, and if anyone feels as poorly as I do, I must remind you, Nolite te bastardes carborundorum. Sure, you're a baby factory, but there's always a hot carwashing Nick to sweeten the deal.

Man, I hate this.

More than once, it's come to my attention that my sassing/joking about one thing or another has set rumors afire that I am a mean, nasty bitch. I suppose it stems from the same mannerisms that make people think, upon first impression, that i hate them, and take months to convince otherwise.

The fact is that I have little to no social intelligence, especially when I'm in a bad state of mind (FUCK you, serotonin), and unless you know me well, I promise that once or twice you will think my gentle chucking about the chin is a quick jab at your neck, metephorically.

I got an email today reminding me, no matter how much smoother and more sensitive I've attempted to be, i can still convince people, with a few stupid and inept words, that they would probably hate me in real life, as indeed I must surely hate them and their kin. So I'm pretty mortified and self-loathing.

status quo.

I find it interesting that with my range of friends, from 21-38, nearly half are going out of town for the summer. It's a strange statistic only possible when the people you know are ivy league/professional improvisors, and deeply unsettling for a taurus like myself. If I had my own way, I'd work for the same internship, same company, but somehow stay in Chicago where my cat and apartment live.
In any case, I've been busy enough on some days and depressive enough on others that it's rather difficult to keep one's blog up to date. I apologize, reader-san, that you didn't get to hear about PIF and CIF, nor the joys of dating a man whom you will not see for months on end. Whenever you miss my writing, simply take normal, day-to-day frustrations, compare them to a literary masterpiece, pun gratuitously, and you've kept my spirit alive.

In any case, I have a week ahead in which I'll write an annotated bibliography for the terrifying teacher who you'd think I would love for her sharp wit, but actually hate for being the one professor ever who had convinced me I'm fated to fail every assignment, I have lunch with a sailor, an appointment with Dr.G, and hopefully, sweet lord help me, a cheerful series of days that will surpass in power the force of my retarded serotonin levels.

Everything's going well, by the way, although I'm not at my best. Pun for me.

Blame the wind or tides, moon or stars, but somehow people always schedule important, time-consuming events at the exact same time. Thus a two-week sprint to Everything:

1. Setting the date when I fly to NYC for my summer internship (with Wiley publishing, acquisitions, presentations, and reviews of book proposals and manuscripts. It’s a paid internship, I get to live in NYC, and it’s publishing. Awesome, except for the whole sub-letting and finding a summer home for my kitten)

2. Fly out to the Phoenix Improv Fest to perform with the Hook, my group from SLC, and hopefully spend crazy amounts of time with SLCillians

3. Midterms- Essay on Wordsworth, American Politics midterm, paper for Senior Capstone Seminar, India History Midterm. Bah.

4. Graduation transcripts, so I figure out how many classes I must take to leap from college into the delicious job market

5. There’s a fellow I’ve been on several dates with. That was terrible grammar, but I refuse to say more for fear of teasing. He’s cute! Cute, people. This is a big step for me; usually I go for the crazy CRAZY crazy ones over the attractive ones.

6. Chicago Improv Festival, in which I’m in charge of hospitality in the Mainstage greenroom. Hospitality within reason, mind you. Unless Greg Giraldo shows up, in which case my sweet Utahan modesty will go flying out the window (accompanied by my shirt).

7. Copy-editing another chapter, and hoping my check for the last two comes in the mail before my birthday

8. My birthday. Only 4 more years and I can rent a car!

9. Jess flying in for CIF and staying on the futon. Hopefully he likes tivo and dance parties, because Kendra and I are obsessed with both. And flashing one another. That’s something only house guests and long-term boyfriends get to enjoy.

10. Finishing lists of things to do.

Right. Off to test the limits of calming power in my SSRI.

Spring Break has come and gone, reminding me once again that catholic schools have no sense of when everyone else is on break. Still, since i had friends and family visit on their break, and visited them on mine, i can't complain. What I CAN complain about is getting sick the very first day of a new semester, and wishing with all my might that this cold either grows to a point where i can validly miss class, or shrinks away into a lovely warm Chicago April. Right now I'm just sitting and blowing my nose every 30 seconds...I always make the best first impressions when I'm red-nosed and coughing phlegm, reader-san.

So, in short, I went to SLC to visit family and improv from wednesday-sunday. Joe Bill and Mark Sutton of chicago were there too, so I had the pleasure of helping Mark find his luggage, ushering two delightful nights of Bassprov, and reminding myself that no matter how often they talk about babies, I needn't have one before law school. Did you know, by the way, that babies are boring? They are. It's true. It's like going to a petrified wood museum: you think it'll be fun and interesting and maybe even mysterious, but you end up wondering why people would make such a fuss out of a ruined tree. The tree, in this metaphor, being lovely lovely freedom and un-stretched bellies.

Ok, that was harsh. Babies are cute and make your boobs grow. That's something, I suppose. Meh...

Ok, I do love babies. My own future babies, who will never cry nor fret, choosing instead to fingerpaint elaborate equations for cold fusion, pre-program mommie's tivo, and nap peacefully.

In short, thank heavens for family, SLC, new tattoos, Robyn, the men of Bassprov, the Original Pancake House, and getting to see those people I missed more than I even realized. If only this cold would fade away, I could start obsessing over my birthday. Don't worry, reader-san, I'll give you plenty of time to buy and send presents.

So. I've been busy.

Right now I'd like nothing more to write something un-essay and un-blog and most certainly un-email-about-internships-so-I-don't-ruin-my-life-by-not-accomplishing-something-great-and-impressive-this-summer-as-apparently-that's-the-standard.
In short, a book, novel, short story, script, novella, poem or any other format in which words become ideas. This lack of creativity was interesting for a while, very Victorian and tragic in its origin, but I'm quite done with the catatonic stage of mourning. Thanks. I'd like the bike-lock off my brain, now.

Even without powers of prose, I've had a good two weeks...my sister and parents came into town for the best familial weekend trip in recorded history, followed by Nathalie and Jenn, (Jenn for a day, and Nathalie's still here, singing the Decemberists in a bath towel. She's single, lads.) I even had breakfast with my godfather, who is my mother's older brother, a great guy, and still the best part of being catholic.

My show at 2nd City had a lovely closing night, and my 303 show at Comedysportz had a fairly good one-day run on the mainstage. My mind is swimming with finals next week, NyQuil, editing, a south african doctor, shakespeare, mexicans....now that I've gotten to the point where I'm shout-typing words....

I remain busy. Send pancakes.

In recent years, the Nerd has gained respect and kudos from society. Blame Steve Colbert, blame reality TV, hell, blame Peter Jackson. The fact is, a specific sort of nerd is celebrated now, and knowing many of the qualifying nerds in question, this popularity has gone straight to their head.

I'm aware that I've talked about my depression more than any mortal would care to read, and I'm aware that acknowledging this annoyance does not exempt me from my guilt. Let me point out, however, that those days and conversations when I'm not seething with self-hatred are few and precious. So, since I've gotten past thinking I manage grace in relationships, and could care less what these people think, (Of course I care. You and I both know that, reader-san), I'm getting this off my chest:

It is incredibly hard for me to get out of bed in the morning, and even more so to drag my pathetic, self-hating body out to visit people in the evening. Believe me, I think I'm needy and sad and neurotic too, we agree on that, thanks. Nevertheless, there is nothing more insulting than making all this effort, only to find myself in a painful conversation with YOU, sir. I like you, I really do, I think you're very funny and very clever, and although you have hobbies or idiosyncrasies that others may find strange, i accept them. I'm genuinely interested, actually, even if you don't believe that.
What i find truly off-putting is that, while I like your set of interests and not-entirely-normal personality, one slip of my tongue and you give me that face. That 'oh my god, she's crazy in a boring but unsettling way' face. I'm sure you've seen the face before...I'm guessing it flashed across your girlfriend's parents faces for at least a moment, when you met them(if you met them at all). And if somehow you've maintained a soft spot in that desert of time-hardened persona, I'm sure seeing that 'face' sucked. I bet you hated it. So strap on a pair and accept the fact that manners still exist, even if you are old as sin.


I couldn't decide who needed this letter more, since I've had about 5 'face' situations this week.(on the up-side, this is quite the endurance test for the SSRI) Just rest assured, even if I act chirpy and sweet, you're probably aware that you're acting like an ass...and the only reason I look up at your face is to avoid staring at those pesky un-broken veins on my wrists. Like I said, you're a wonderful guy, when you relax and act nice. otherwise, you make heterosexuality a chore.