So, what with N leaving and my subsequent need to go to Broadways and get all emo on my friend J's long suffering shoulder and then the night before when something or other happened that has faded into the mists of time but surely did not involve putting tchtochkes into boxes, I'm way behind on the packing. And my new landlord has not called me back and I don't know when I can go get the keys to my new place which I totally want, like, right now so that tonight I can go over there and reassure myself that I do in fact have a place to live and it wasn't all some kind of weird elaborate scam. And the U-Haul people have not called me back either and the craigslist guy I emailed has also not called me about helping me move and I'm freaking out and did I mention that, naturally, o just naturally, it is of course that time of the month? My glasses are not ready yet and my Amazon order is delayed and Django already lost the new tag N & I made for him on Sunday.
So I really, like, NEEDED to have my current landlord call me around noon and tell me that he's selling the house I have lived in for the last six years, without, mind you, asking me if I wanted to buy it despite the fact that I offered to buy it a few years back. Not that I could afford it, but still. He could have asked. So he's selling the house which explains the slow parade of people who have been driving up and down the street peering at me the last few days but now, to add insult to injury, he wants to show it TONIGHT. And I tried and tried to get out of it because, jesus, my house looks like Tobacco Road only far worse right now because I'm a mess in every way and I haven't got time to pack AND clean and also I sort of gave up cleaning in February when I had my 19th nervous breakdown and then what with N living there and M being a teenage boy who prefers to live in ultimate squalor and me having decided that life is too short to clean, well. Plus the huge piles of trash everywhere since I'm sorting stuff by boxing things I want to keep and throwing things I don't want into piles. I tried and tried to say no but I failed and THEY ARE SHOWING THE DAMN HOUSE AT 7:30 TONIGHT even though, for chrissakes, the house will be all theirs a fucking week from today but no, that is not soon enough. So I ran home for one hour around noon and my friend S, (I really do have the best friends in the whole world; I am not worthy) came over and washed dishes while I frantically swept floors and threw clothes and sheets and stuff into a pile and discovered that Django, who I had locked into the house this morning since he's gotten utterly brazen about breezing through the fence and touring the neighborhood, had taken it upon himself to shred a box of records - fortunately, he had so far mostly only eaten the box and a corner of The Association, Windy, which I very likely will never listen to again anyway if I ever even have since I got it for a quarter on a street corner - so I had to clean that up too and then let him out, at which point he disappeared, which led to incoherent shrieking on my part and then when he finally came back I tied him up in the backyard and came dashing back to work, since I had to take the desk at the museum this afternoon, argh, grrrr, meaning that I won't be able to leave the museum for the rest of the day even to smoke or pee. I cannot believe this but it's happening; I'm furious, my head hurts and I think I might be losing my voice.
MOVING SUCKS. PEOPLE MOVING AWAY SUCKS. THIS WHOLE THING FUCKING SUCKS!
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Monday, April 23, 2007
project 365 #113: my soon to be ex house
I have had one of those not so good very bad awful gruesome days today. Nothing particularly extreme happened; it's just that I woke up tired as hell with a sore throat and then work was meeting meeting meeting basically all day and then I went to look at that house that I knew I couldn't afford only to discover that a) it sold for the asking price already and b) it's exactly the house I would love to live in and c) I'm going to have to leave my neighborhood and it's no good thinking that there's any way I'm going to be able to stay here and it makes me want to cry or scream or rant or throw things or possibly strap on some Doc Martens and kick me some yuppie ass. I ran into a couple of friends at the Ingles (another reason for the bad mood - the weekly gigandor Ingles trip) and that just reminded me of how much I love living here and how many friends I have here and fuck, I'm going to have to move out of my comfy west asheville enclave and go to a whole new neighborhood because. . .
Because, in a story that has been repeated many, many times in the history of the world, I'm an artist and I moved here back before West Asheville got cool and hip and yet then more people moved here and more and then more and all of a sudden there were people with more money than I'll ever have buying up everything in the neighborhood and so now I have to leave. God fucking damn it. I should probably go back to Baltimore or somewhere similarly unscenic - Detroit? South Dakota? - where noone with any money wants to live and give up on the lovely garden spots of this world.
Maybe I'll be able to come back to Asheville one day after the developers have finally killed off this egg laying goose and the derelicts and feral street children with tattooed faces and Uzis are living in the ridgetop McMansions and the wailing of the yuppies can be heard throughout the cracked pavement that covers each and every inch of what was once a small valley in the mountains. I am living for this day, when I'll roll into town in black leather and spikes in my specially reinforced Saturn station wagon with my own feral children leaning out the window manning the grenade throwers and we'll take all the water and oil and go dance with Tina Turner. Or something like that. Clearly, though, black leather and spikes are a growth market and I'm going to go invest my money in canned food and shotguns. I think I can probably afford half a shotgun and a rather largish can of black beans.
Because, in a story that has been repeated many, many times in the history of the world, I'm an artist and I moved here back before West Asheville got cool and hip and yet then more people moved here and more and then more and all of a sudden there were people with more money than I'll ever have buying up everything in the neighborhood and so now I have to leave. God fucking damn it. I should probably go back to Baltimore or somewhere similarly unscenic - Detroit? South Dakota? - where noone with any money wants to live and give up on the lovely garden spots of this world.
Maybe I'll be able to come back to Asheville one day after the developers have finally killed off this egg laying goose and the derelicts and feral street children with tattooed faces and Uzis are living in the ridgetop McMansions and the wailing of the yuppies can be heard throughout the cracked pavement that covers each and every inch of what was once a small valley in the mountains. I am living for this day, when I'll roll into town in black leather and spikes in my specially reinforced Saturn station wagon with my own feral children leaning out the window manning the grenade throwers and we'll take all the water and oil and go dance with Tina Turner. Or something like that. Clearly, though, black leather and spikes are a growth market and I'm going to go invest my money in canned food and shotguns. I think I can probably afford half a shotgun and a rather largish can of black beans.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
My Therapist Won't Call Me Back So I'm Analyzing Myself
Do you remember the blog post a while back where I was saying that I had ended up being the kind of older woman I wanted to be? Like, all wise and shit and living in an ivy covered cottage full of happy animals? Yeah. That didn’t work out. Lately I feel like my aging process is involving all the less attractive characteristics of Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard and Baba Yaga, the Russian witch. In other words, I’m going around drunk and on pills, desperately seducing young men in a hopeless attempt to recapture my misspent youth while occasionally crouching in a corner of my chicken legged hut, gnawing on babies and turning puppydogs into poison dart frogs. It’s a career, what can I say? Besides, maybe, help. Or, fuck it, come too close and I will so totally turn you into something small and slimy.
I’ve been spending a lot of time with people in their teens and early twenties lately. Part of this involves me sitting at the computer while they shoot each other with pellet guns in the basement (don’t ask) which is all fine and stuff, but part of it also involves me remembering my own early 20s and where I was then and where I am now and stuff like that, which is uncomfortably weird. I’ve often thought that if I hadn’t had a child when I was so young (cue the Specials here) I might well be dead. I got pretty wild in my late teens and I’ve always had this schizophrenic combination of total disregard for the rules and my own safety AND near crippling anxiety, guilt, paranoia and some kind of doomed attempt to fit in. Put more simply, I have no problem really liking both NOFX and Gillian Welch. Never have had and thus, somehow, my left brain and my right brain are sort of constantly at war. Part of me wants to be all mature and sophisticated and motherly and wise and so on while the other part just wants to totally tear loose and kick ass. Is this weird? Am I crazy? Do I even care? Usually, not much.
When my daughter was born, I had to kind of pull my shit together and raise her. Same went when I had my son. Now, they're pretty much raised (look, I give up on M. It's not so much that he's being raised by wolves as that he, the wolf, has challenged my human parenting abilities to a duel and they have, like, totally ceded the contest. He's a changeling or something. I tried. I swear it's not entirely my fault that he's growing up to be, well, whatever new mutant species of rock star or revolutionary that he is.) and there's a big part of me that would very much like to return to the East Village in the mid 80s and do all the drugs I didn't get around to then because I was trying to be responsible and grown up. Granted, I managed to get around to quite a few. Still. There are more. I'd also like to just drink myself into oblivion on a Greek island somewhere. I'm well aware that neither of these are a) healthy choices or b) options, unless someone has invented a time machine, in which case I think I'll go hang around Alexandria in the 20s with Lawrence Durrell, bye.
Where the hell am I going with all this? I have no idea. I feel like I'm being pulled in a bunch of different directions lately and all of them are making me miserable. Sigh. Presumably, this too shall pass and I'll regain whatever slim measure of sanity and/or control I ordinarily or at least sometimes possess. Or I'll cash in my last remaining meagre retirement account and go AWOL, which option gets more attractive every day, even though it would be a pretty short and pathetic AWOLness, given the paucity of that account. Like, forget the Greek island and perhaps consider the green way in the center of I-85 near Orangeburg.
I’ve been spending a lot of time with people in their teens and early twenties lately. Part of this involves me sitting at the computer while they shoot each other with pellet guns in the basement (don’t ask) which is all fine and stuff, but part of it also involves me remembering my own early 20s and where I was then and where I am now and stuff like that, which is uncomfortably weird. I’ve often thought that if I hadn’t had a child when I was so young (cue the Specials here) I might well be dead. I got pretty wild in my late teens and I’ve always had this schizophrenic combination of total disregard for the rules and my own safety AND near crippling anxiety, guilt, paranoia and some kind of doomed attempt to fit in. Put more simply, I have no problem really liking both NOFX and Gillian Welch. Never have had and thus, somehow, my left brain and my right brain are sort of constantly at war. Part of me wants to be all mature and sophisticated and motherly and wise and so on while the other part just wants to totally tear loose and kick ass. Is this weird? Am I crazy? Do I even care? Usually, not much.
When my daughter was born, I had to kind of pull my shit together and raise her. Same went when I had my son. Now, they're pretty much raised (look, I give up on M. It's not so much that he's being raised by wolves as that he, the wolf, has challenged my human parenting abilities to a duel and they have, like, totally ceded the contest. He's a changeling or something. I tried. I swear it's not entirely my fault that he's growing up to be, well, whatever new mutant species of rock star or revolutionary that he is.) and there's a big part of me that would very much like to return to the East Village in the mid 80s and do all the drugs I didn't get around to then because I was trying to be responsible and grown up. Granted, I managed to get around to quite a few. Still. There are more. I'd also like to just drink myself into oblivion on a Greek island somewhere. I'm well aware that neither of these are a) healthy choices or b) options, unless someone has invented a time machine, in which case I think I'll go hang around Alexandria in the 20s with Lawrence Durrell, bye.
Where the hell am I going with all this? I have no idea. I feel like I'm being pulled in a bunch of different directions lately and all of them are making me miserable. Sigh. Presumably, this too shall pass and I'll regain whatever slim measure of sanity and/or control I ordinarily or at least sometimes possess. Or I'll cash in my last remaining meagre retirement account and go AWOL, which option gets more attractive every day, even though it would be a pretty short and pathetic AWOLness, given the paucity of that account. Like, forget the Greek island and perhaps consider the green way in the center of I-85 near Orangeburg.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
project 365 #53: daffodil shoots
I am having a shit night, a shit month and a shit year and I'm so angry and miserable and depressed I could scream and cry and in fact, actually, I am. And fuck the fact that everyone knows who I am and I'm supposed to be all funny and happy and shit because sorry, I'm fucking not. I'm miserable. I'm totally miserable and angry and I am posting a picture of daffodil shoots because jesus christ, I have to have something to hang onto to make myself believe that this too, jesus fuck, shall pass, and eventually perhaps I will go an entire goddamn week without another email telling me that someone I loved has died. A week. One goddamn week. Is that too much to ask? Should I be happy that we'll all be pushing up the fucking daffodils soon enough?
Because I'm not. I'm angry and I hate everyone. I hate that I can't get laid and I hate that the guy I really care about is impossible and I hate that the other guy who I have kind of liked for months now shot me entirely the fuck down tonight because, you know, I'm the kind of girl who's everybody's drinking buddy and fun friend and nobody's lover. I hate that a guy who I like but not in that way asked me out tonight and I couldn't figure out a way to say no (yeah, I can be desperate and picky, fuck you, if there's no chemistry there's no chemistry) and I hate that three men who I loved in my life are gone now.
And they were smart and funny and cynical dark men, like I like, who made me into what I am, which is I hope unto some maybe existing god is a smart and tough and cynical and funny dame, because that's what they liked. And tonight when a well meaning new acquaintance, on hearing of my month of loss and fucking death everywhere, leaned over and recited unto me an extremely soppy theoretically native american poem about how I shouldn't be mourning at their graves (which I'm totally not, not to mention that according to current human practice they've all been hygienically cremated and for what it's worth, if I have a tragic accident tonight getting into bed and clonk my head one time too hard on the door or something, I do NOT want to be cremated OR embalmed, no, motherfuckers, bury my ass deep in a garden somewhere. I'd prefer a barrow and my grave goods and a slave or two around me but failing that I want to decompose and leave my bones to this good or not so goddamn good earth, okay? No burning. No wax. No fake shit. Just bury me.) But anyway. It was a soppy sentimental poem and about three lines in I could see all three of these men turning disgusted to the bar, which was lovely and comforting. Because THEY HATED THAT SHIT AND SO DO I.
I'm sorry for the rant but you know what? I really can't handle another email of death and I really can't handle another man telling me that he only wants to be friends. I'm sorry, but I can't. I'm at my limit. One more and I don't know what the hell happens, but it isnt' going to be pretty. My mother used to say that the good lord only gives you as much as you can handle. I don't believe in the good lord, but I believe in a consortium of interested nature spirits, at least I used to think I do, and, please, I'm done.
I'm done. I can't take any more. Seriously. I am so done.
Because I'm not. I'm angry and I hate everyone. I hate that I can't get laid and I hate that the guy I really care about is impossible and I hate that the other guy who I have kind of liked for months now shot me entirely the fuck down tonight because, you know, I'm the kind of girl who's everybody's drinking buddy and fun friend and nobody's lover. I hate that a guy who I like but not in that way asked me out tonight and I couldn't figure out a way to say no (yeah, I can be desperate and picky, fuck you, if there's no chemistry there's no chemistry) and I hate that three men who I loved in my life are gone now.
And they were smart and funny and cynical dark men, like I like, who made me into what I am, which is I hope unto some maybe existing god is a smart and tough and cynical and funny dame, because that's what they liked. And tonight when a well meaning new acquaintance, on hearing of my month of loss and fucking death everywhere, leaned over and recited unto me an extremely soppy theoretically native american poem about how I shouldn't be mourning at their graves (which I'm totally not, not to mention that according to current human practice they've all been hygienically cremated and for what it's worth, if I have a tragic accident tonight getting into bed and clonk my head one time too hard on the door or something, I do NOT want to be cremated OR embalmed, no, motherfuckers, bury my ass deep in a garden somewhere. I'd prefer a barrow and my grave goods and a slave or two around me but failing that I want to decompose and leave my bones to this good or not so goddamn good earth, okay? No burning. No wax. No fake shit. Just bury me.) But anyway. It was a soppy sentimental poem and about three lines in I could see all three of these men turning disgusted to the bar, which was lovely and comforting. Because THEY HATED THAT SHIT AND SO DO I.
I'm sorry for the rant but you know what? I really can't handle another email of death and I really can't handle another man telling me that he only wants to be friends. I'm sorry, but I can't. I'm at my limit. One more and I don't know what the hell happens, but it isnt' going to be pretty. My mother used to say that the good lord only gives you as much as you can handle. I don't believe in the good lord, but I believe in a consortium of interested nature spirits, at least I used to think I do, and, please, I'm done.
I'm done. I can't take any more. Seriously. I am so done.
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