The drugs don't work, they just make you worse.

I'm at work. Some chick just basically threw her laptop on the counter, and then made some kind of sigh-grunt noise. You know what I say to that? Nothing, because it doesn't even fucking matter. Currently, I'm reading about existentialism. I gotta be honest, I don't really get it. I'm also reading Reading Lolita in Tehran (which so far I believe to be overrated), Possible Side Effects (if you want to feel smart because you can read a whole book in a day, read anything by Augusten Burroughs), and I just finished Anthem (which made me realize that I was correct in thinking that I have socialist tendencies, and that Ayn Rand is a fucking heartless whore). So that's it. Now I'm going to watch Goodfellas. At work. Yeah, I hate me too.

Yeah, I'm crazy, crazy like a fox.

I'm really concerned about my mental health. I just got way too (visibly and vocally) excited because I found a dollar in change at the bottom of my purse. So, basically I found enough money to buy a diet mountain dew, which is one of my addictions, and not a pretty one at that.

Honestly, I should be more worried about my funds (lack of) than my craziness (mild). My bank account's overdrawn, my car insurance just cancelled because I didn't pay it, and my car engine almost blew up yesterday. However, I don't care. I see progress. Regarding the bank account, I'm only overdrawn 4 dollars which is a massively smaller amount than usual. Also, I should be getting paid from work sometime soon, which will probably be enough to pay my car insurance (and reinstate it). And finally, I fixed my car, with a little help from the family. (You can put water in the radiator, not just in the plastic thing? I never knew that.) Anyway, so I'm poor and shit, but it's better than it could be. And diet mountain dew is delicious. That's just a goddamn fact, it's not the borderline personality disorder talking.

Oh, finally, in regards to "By the way", I got my test back. I made an A, and I don't think he curved the grades. Or maybe he just curved them for the people who sucked major ass.

Is it love or is it fancy feast?

I am obsessed with RSS feeds. I can keep up with like everything now. Seriously, I just click on the thing and the new post shows up, it's amazing. Oh my god, why didn't I know about this 'til now?

Fucking hell, I am such a nerd, I can't even get over it right now. . .

So Mary, what else happened on spring break?

Embarrassingly enough, I talked to a lot of people about myspace. One girl said to me right before I had ordered a drink, "Don't try to act like you don't drink, Mary. I've seen your pictures on myspace, you're a total booze-hound." I ate my first slice of New York pizza after a long search for Rosario's pizzeria. I drank PBR in a squalid back room bar. A Bulgarian pony-tailed man tried to guilt me into dancing. I made some crass comments to some random dudes. During a smoke break, one of the members of our party bitched out a girl who tried unsuccessfully to bum a cig. We were turned down by four cabbies whilst trying to find a taxi to Brooklyn from the Lower East Side. Folks flirted, danced, threw inhibitions to the wind, peaced out, waltzed in, drank up, and fell down. This all happened the first night.

The nights that followed consisted of karaoke, Irish bartenders, giving away extra slices of pizza, an artist who had multiple personalities when drunk, a classy encounter with some asshole boys, shots of Jameson, shots of tequila, shots of vodka (none of which were consumed by me), an impromptu rooftop wine party, a schmooze and booze Manhattan young democrats' party which was infiltrated by me and a guy who said he was an Irish-Russian-Jewish republican, a twilight zone trip to Roosevelt Island, two stirring renditions of the theme song to Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, a late-night subway trip that included a cross-eyed black guy who had seen all of America by bus and a white guy who opposed gentrification but lived in a gentrified neighborhood and a preppy Vanderbilt alum eavesdropper, a case of mistaken identity regarding a teenage suicide victim, a pratfall in Williamsburg performed by yours truly, an evening of pizza and Pride and Prejudice and good intentions to stay in, getting lost on the Upper East Side in the snow, a freezing basement show that forced me to put toilet paper in my ears featuring a guy who performed in a backlit tent, and a free beer ticket from a girl in a crazy white get-up.

On St. Patrick's Day, the events included a bite at McDonalds, a quick glimpse of the parade, a German pub, a Duane Reade bathroom break, an Irish pub, a friend who asked the guys at the next table if they were leaving soon about 4 times, a shaving cream fight, Guinness, a Whole Foods bathroom break, a burger joint, a misguided subway trip, a split-up, a long walk north, a long walk east, a Mexican restaurant, a man in a puffy coat with a tight green t-shirt over it, a stolen cell phone resulting in risque text messages, a stolen beer, a free beer, a guy who was pushed over in his chair and then slapped the guy who pushed him, a NYU yuppie hangout, a tonic missing the gin, a stolen beer, a drunk girl who kept trying to steal a coat, a couple who took a limousine, a gay bar, hearing cocaine being sniffed in the next bathroom stall, having an old gay man with a caesar haircut buy me a drink, and a gypsy cab ride. That was my last night in town.

Perhaps it's needless to say, but my days were consumed with trying to recover from the previous nights.

This is what I learned in New York.

You usually don't get a glass, even if the beer costs 7 dollars.
I have an insatiable appetite for pizza.
People who don't know you that well have no problem taking a sip of your drink or a drag of your cigarette.
Walking isn't so bad after the first day.
If one subway car is noticeably emptier than the others, it's because there's a smelly homeless person on it.
It's hard to understand what people say to you on the street, but it doesn't really matter.
Bartenders are good therapists.
Loud arguments are very entertaining, but you don't want to get caught watching and laughing.
Southern belles have been known to spit on the sidewalk.
You're more likely to get a ticket for jaywalking than for littering.
If you wait long enough, someone will buy you a drink.
Snow is gross, dirty, and cold.
I can talk to anyone, anywhere.
There are plenty of people who dress just as badly as I do.
Just because it looks like vomit, doesn't mean it is.
It takes a long time to get anywhere that's not central. (Brooklyn, Upper East Side - 70s and above, Queens, Roosevelt Island)
Being rude is actually an asset.
Avoiding puddles of slush is a full-time job.
Food is cheap and good.
You can curse in front of kids without feeling bad about it.
Work hard, play hard.
Earplugs are a must-have item.
I love rooftops.
Every day can be a holiday, but real holidays are especially fun.
If someone is being an asshole, and you think it's just a northern thing, it's not, they're just an asshole.
People will lie to you to get what they want.
Most bars have a basement or a back room, or some other kind of speakeasy bullshit.
You need more than a week to learn everything.

'By the way' is a great way to start a sentence.

So, we were supposed to get our midterms back today in English class. However, the professor said that there was a big discrepancy in grades between the two sections, and he had to do some futzing with them before he handed them back. However, he did pass back our quizzes from last week. Written at the bottom of my graded quiz was this:
"By the way, you had the best midterm grade in either section-- by a landslide."

Oh my god . . . I'm the girl who fucked up the curve. I've never been that girl. I hate that girl. But I have to tell you, it feels pretty great. I'm kind of liking this whole nerd thing. It almost makes the whole college thing worth it.

My camping gear was designed by Gucci.

I was eavesdropping on a conversation in the library:
Boy- "So what are your plans for spring break?"
Girl- "I'm going backpacking with some friends."
Boy- (eyebrows raised) "Have you done that before, like, do you do stuff like that a lot?"
Girl- "Yeah, I go hiking and backpacking all the time, I do a lot of outdoorsy stuff."
Boy- "That's really cool. Where are you going?"
Girl- "I don't know, like, maybe on the Appalachian Trail, or something."
Boy- "So, what places have you been to before?"
Girl- "I don't really know, I mean they're all like trees and hiking and stuff, so I don't really remember where I've been." (laughs nervously)
Boy- "Yeah, well, trees and dirt, I guess. Right?"
Girl- "Yeah, you know."
Boy- "Well, have fun, I'll see you later."
Girl- "Okay, bye."

Maybe I'm just being cynical, but there's no way that girl is going backpacking, and she's probably only been camping like once. And it was probably cabin camping which totally does not count. Allow me to expound on why I've made this judgement on her character. . .

I know that there are girls who are outdoorsy, and love hiking, and like sleeping in the woods, and don't mind giving up showers for a week. But these girls do not drink Starbucks, or squeeze into designer jeans, or wear lavender cable-knit cardigans, or use a pink ribbon as a headband. And they definitely don't carry a fucking pink Vera Bradley backpack as a purse. Now, if that's the backpack she's taking on spring break, I guess technically she's not lying. Maybe she's not just trying to get into the dirty frat boy's pants. I could be wrong. It's happened once.

No sleep 'til Brooklyn.

My brain is really tired but I can't nap. I've had 4 cups of coffee and one diet mountain dew since 4 this morning. I studied for 3 hours this morning for a test that was postponed. That was awesome, especially since I could have spent that time studying for the test that I actually had to take. No use crying over spilled caffeine, I suppose. Speaking of spilled caffeine, I've peed about 5 times thus far today, and I kind of have to pee right now.

We were talking the other day in class about dreams. When I was younger, I hardly ever remembered my dreams. Occasionally, I would awaken in the middle of a nightmare, but not too often. However, now I almost always remember my dreams. I'll wake up, then drift back to sleep, and the same dream starts as though I haven't woken up. Boring things happen, usually I'm just talking to someone, or watching other people talk, there's not a lot of plot. Sometimes I'm the main character in the dream, but sometimes, I'm not even aware of being present. My dreams are about people I don't know, usually. I hardly ever have friends or family involved. Actually the only time friends and family appear is in nightmares when they have died or are dying. These nightmares are just as vivid as the dreams, and I usually wake up crying. Apparently I'm afraid of other people dying, but not myself. I guess that's a good thing, I don't really know.

Last night I had a dream about vowels. I was on top of a building and instead of a sign saying Hotel DuBois or something, it had the vowels spelled out in lights. A, E, I, O, and U were really bright, but there was a Y at the end that kept flickering on and off. Obviously it's just an expression of "and sometimes y". I know it's a pretty pointless dream, but I think it's pretty neat that I can remember it.

I believe Regina Spektor's video for "On the Radio" is partially responsible for my dream.

Everyone loves me.

And that is a scientific fact.

Trip to Italy

We're walking back to our hotel from the Sistine Chapel of frescoes that I've seen on television and in books. Inside I'd wished that there were less people and more light. I remember thinking that it looked better on television. I feel blasphemous even though it was only a thought, I didn't say it aloud. The Vatican is such a strange place. Standing in the center, I feel tiny and insignificant. And hot. It's so hot this summer and I only brought one pair of shorts. Outside Vatican City there are street vendors selling t-shirts. There's also a gift shop that sells postcards of the Pope and miniature figurines of buildings. There are so many buildings, and it seems like they're all important. Farther into the heart of Rome are more street vendors, but these ones sell fake Prada handbags and fake Gucci sunglasses. In a way, I covet these more than the real thing, maybe because the real thing is so far out of reach. But also because it's a kind of joke like, I went to Italy and all I got was this fake designer purse. And then there are the shops, the shops I don't think I can afford to go into, as though they have a cover charge, as though I know what a cover charge is.

I'm thirteen years old and I'm wearing khaki shorts and a green t-shirt. My curly hair is long and blonde and fuzzy from the heat. From the street, I look into a coffee shop. It has a gleaming espresso machine and the Italians come in and drink their coffee standing at the counter. I feel like an outsider who's not dressed right. But I'm about to start high school, I'm uncomfortable in my skin at home too. Geography doesn't change things. I think about a few days before this when we ate dinner at a small restaurant outside Florence. Today, I can't even remember what we ate. It was memorable for different reasons. It was the pride of the waiter and the chef when they invited us into the kitchen. It was the ritual, the simplicity, the slow pace, like molasses that can't be rushed. In one of those tiny towns pasted into the landscape of Italy, we sat at a table outside, and we were the only customers there.

I save silly things like the labels from water bottles, brochures I can't read, train passes, tickets for museums I won't remember visiting. My dad thinks I'll be able to read some of the Latin because I've just finished my second year. But I can't even make out the letters we find in the Colosseum, much less understand their meaning. There is a pizza place next to our hotel. The pies are oblong in shape, and they cut you a piece and wrap it up in paper. We walk through a gate. Ahead is a small courtyard, and we sit on the ground with our packages of pizza and bottles of sparkling water, and eat in silence. On the right is the elevator to the hotel, one of the old ones with the metal grate you have to close before you can go. We ride up to the hotel, and we walk past the nice man who gives us chocolate croissants and coffee in the morning.

I buy postcards of the artwork that I've seen, but I never mail them. When I get home, I put them on my wall along with the labels and the brochures and the tickets, and one day I don't remember how or why I collected these things. But I remember standing outside of the Uffizi with the river to my right. I remember the abundance of advertisements for calling cards. I remember listening to a cassette of a ridiculous Italian pop singer. I remember the man selling produce and his basket of red currants. I remember taking pictures in the underground photo booth. I remember the Chinese restaurant we never went to. I remember buying a scarf and a suede coat in the middle of July.

This is what I'm thinking about as I sit in my bedroom with the window open. New York, I'll be there in two weeks. Don't let me down.

She waits another week to fall apart.

Why should I bother with it today?
I'll get around to the mental breakdown next week.
Right now I have to study for midterms.

haiku on a snowy day

snow snakes slither

just above the interstate blacktop

missed my exit

If this is my future, just kill me now.

About 7:30 this morning, I was finishing up brushing my teeth. I turned my downcast eyes upwards towards my reflection, giving me a perfect view of the part in my hair. I see what looks like a really shiny strand of hair. Right at the root, it's just really shiny. I've seen it before, and in the past I've convinced myself that it was a lighter, blondish strand. However, today, curiosity got the better of me. I fish around for it, and easily find the shiny hair, since it stands out from the rest. I grasp the offending hair, move it around, comparing it with the surrounding hairs, put it in front of my hand to see contrast, basically examine the fuck out of it. Then I pluck it out. Oh my god. The first half inch is completely white. After a quick calculation, I determine that this is the amount of new growth I should have after my last haircoloring. So I have a gray hair. It's horrible. It's awful. It's the worst thing ever.

I spend all day freaking out. What am I going to do? What if there are more? What if I go completely gray? What if I don't and it's just this ugly mix of brown and gray? What if I'm prematurely elderly? What if I go through early menopause? What if I want to have a baby and can't because my eggs are all gone? What if I can, but can't even pick the kid up because I have a bad hip or arthritis, or another health problem that old people have? What if I get wrinkles? What if my boobs start sagging? Holy hell, what if I develop early-onset dementia, and forget all of this?

So, now, almost 12 hours later, I've inspected my hair three times since I got home. The last inspection just ended and it lasted a half-hour. I've pulled out two more hairs, but thankfully, neither of those were gray.

I've saved the offensive gray hair to inspect later, just in case my eyesight is failing me in my old age.

Penny for your thoughts.

So, last time I was in Nashville, I stopped at Target to pick up a few things. Actually just one thing, hair conditioner, which I proceeded to leave at my parents' house. But anyway, I was there with a friend and we looked around for a bit, then headed to the checkout counter.

So, the cashier rings me up, and my total is 2.99. Weird, huh? But that's not the point. So I give him a five dollar bill, and he gives me 2.01 in change. I clearly state that I don't need the penny, but he gives it to me anyway. So, trying to be altruistic and keep the bottom of my purse clean, I leave it on the small counterspace for writing checks or whatever. I figured someone else that day would need a penny.

As my friend and I begin to make our exit, we hear a shrill voice behind us. We turn around to see the 40-something customer who was next in line running in our direction. She's yelling, "You forgot your change!" I start to explain my reasoning for leaving it there, but give up immediately. This lady is obviously not reasonable. I graciously accept the penny she's clutching, and as we walk out, I drop it onto another counter.

Am I the only person who this happens to? I seem to get accosted by strangers a lot. And do I really look so broke, that I can't afford to leave behind a penny?

You know that

your hormones are out of whack when you cry at a Christina Aguilera video.

Not to mention how fucked up it is that I watched the whole thing.
Ha. I just admitted this on the internet.

"Hi, I'm Mary, and I'm addicted to Vh1."
(in unison) "Hi Mary."

In regards to pain:

I'm wondering if it's a good idea to bear a small bit of pain every day. Or should you wait for it to build up, and deal with a great amount of pain all at once? Which hurts more? Is the pain milder when it's spread out over time? Do you suffer less if it feels like hell, but lasts only a moment?








By the way, I'm talking about tweezing my eyebrows.

Smoke-out.

Today's post is about my history of cigarette smoking. When I was about 16 years old, I smoked my first cigarette. Maybe it wasn't the true first, but it was the first time I actually inhaled. The other times I'm sure I didn't know what I was doing. It was a Camel Red Light (fancy, huh?) given to me by a friend of a friend. She asked me if I wanted one, I felt uncomfortable anyway, so of course I said yes. I got so high off that first cigarette. I believe that my whole life since that moment has been in pursuit of that feeling.

I smoked Turkish Golds for awhile after that. Today, I think those are absolutely disgusting, but at the time I LOVED them.

My senior year of high school, I tried my first menthol cigarette; I was 17. It was a Marlboro Mild, and I thought it was great. However, it didn't have enough menthol flavor for me. The next brand I began to smoke is a source of great embarrassment for me. I began smoking Newports. Not lights, and mediums hadn't come out yet, I'm talking about full-strength, ghetto-fabulous, Newports. I smoked them for a couple of months, and felt like I was dying. So I decided to change brands again. Plus I was tired of bumming to coke-heads.

So I smoked Camel Red Lights again for awhile until I found Marlboro Menthol Lights. I loved these so much. They didn't have the stigma that the Newports had, but they had the full menthol flavor. Also, they were very close to being a Marlboro Light which everyone smoked, but because they were menthol, no one bummed from me. I smoked these for almost a whole year, after I graduated high school, but suddenly, I didn't want to smoke menthol anymore.

I started with Camel Lights, and when they started to taste too heavy, I switched to Marlboro Lights which I have been smoking for about 4 years. I've been trying to quit for awhile now, and it's extremely difficult. At first, I thought that it was a habit, but now it has become a full-blown addiction. It really sucks not being able to quit, but honestly, I love smoking. I like breathing smoke; I think it's pretty fucking cool. I feel like I'm still 16 years old, and smoking will make me cool, and make me fit in. Only somehow, in the past 6 years, it's managed to do the opposite. Maybe I'll start smoking menthols again. I don't like other people anyway.

I'm a little money hungry.

I used to be very good about checking my bank accounts online every day. However, that was when I was new to the whole "paying bills" thing. Now, I know I don't have any money, and a visual reminder of that is really depressing. Today however, I was in a financially responsible mood, so I decided to see what my bills will be like next month. Since I'll be out of work, at least temporarily, this is kind of important.

So I check my insurance and student loan, and everything appears to be in order. Then I go look at my cell phone bill. I look at the bar graph that shows me how many minutes I've used this month. Shit, the whole thing was red! I have not gone over my minutes in three years. I have a ton of minutes and free nights and weekends. How the hell did this happen? I don't even like talking on the phone.

I've barely gotten the hang of being a jobless broke student and now I need to scrounge up at least two hundred and fifteen dollars by the 23rd of next month. I hate being poor. When I was younger and adults asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I replied, "independently wealthy." Honestly all I've ever wanted is to be free from worry about money. I guess I don't really need to be rich, I just need enough. I would do nice things for people and stuff. I'd be like Angelina Jolie only without the weird ex-boyfriends and giant lips.

I am so not checking any of my bills or bank accounts any time soon. You think if I close my eyes, it will all go away?

Fun times on the farm.

When I was thirteen or fourteen, my mother took me to visit my grandparents in east Tennessee. My grandfather had injured his leg doing something or other on the farm, and was on crutches. So we were there to help clean and cook, and try to get things around the house in order. My grandmother had always been a packrat, so we knew that we were in for tossing a lot of things out. We started in the kitchen. My mom stood on one side of a trash bag, and I stood on the other. We literally opened each kitchen drawer and threw away all the contents. We were moving along quite nicely when we opened the next to last drawer. From the inside of the drawer, out pops the head of a possum. If you have never seen a possum, let me try to explain. They are about the size of a yorkshire terrier, and look like giant rats. They have beady eyes, and a hairless, pink, long tail. They are the most disgustingly frightening creatures I have ever seen.


So there I stood, too scared to speak or move, when my mother began to scream bloody murder. I suppose all her maternal instincts flew out the window, because she ran to the other end of the house, leaving me trapped in the kitchen with the possum. I hear her announce to my grandparents in a high-pitched ragged voice that, "There - is - a - possum - in - that - drawer!" By this time I have jumped up onto the kitchen table, struggling with all my might to get out of the room with the repulsive possum. My grandfather hobbled into the kitchen on his crutches. He lifted one crutch in the air and hit the possum on the head with it. The possum was stunned, and my grandfather used this opportunity to lift it by its tail and throw it out the back door. My fear subsided, nausea took its place, and I ran to the bathroom to retch.

About two months later, my mother and I headed back to my grandparents' house. We decided not to bother cleaning for them. The thought of it still haunted me. We sat around the living room watching a baseball game, when my grandfather spoke up. "You know your possum came back. Yeah, I found it on top of the refrigerator eating the hot dog buns, so I got my air rifle and shot it." Years later, when both my grandparents had passed away, I could still see blood spatter on the ceiling in the kitchen.

I do not have the deepest southern accent, and I don't walk around barefoot, or wear overalls on a regular basis, and I have never been cow tipping. However, I have deep roots in the hills of east Tennessee. And I'm not afraid to admit that I am indeed, just a little white trash.

The real deal.

I don't need an audience, I'm here to make myself laugh.
I like fun people.
I like getting out of control.
I hate getting hit on by guys I'm not interested in.
I like receiving presents.
I love baseball and beer.
I smile very little.
I laugh a lot.
I don't spend enough time with my family.
I love the sound of laughter.
I'm honest.
I'm bitchy.
I'm rude.
I have a foul mouth.
I like a boy who knows how to make out properly.
I like singing in my car.
I like it when people make me things.
I like lakes.
I like the ocean.
I am composed mostly of water.
I don't care enough to style my hair.
I miss my childhood.
I hate packing.
I hate explaining things.
I hate explaining about my family.
Humor is really a shield to keep me from getting hurt.
I like to be the center of attention.
I hate to be the center of attention.
I love a lot of people.
I can't fucking stand a lot of people.
I need to wander.
I like my full name.
I like speaking French to myself.
I hate tilapia.
I wish I wasn't so old.
I need to read again.
I think my brain is shrinking.
I'm going to teach myself statistics.
I like this skirt I'm wearing.
I can't grow my nails to save my life.
I like sauces.
I'm kind of fun and stuff.