In the past 6 hours, I have...

-Filmed a 3 minute student movie
-Cried for no less than an hour about being dumped
-Put up a Christmas tree with full 'Martha Stewart Living' worthy decoration in under 20 minutes
-Wrote a paper on white privilege
- Somehow managed not to write in said paper "Yes, yes... I'm now so very aware of white privilege, how real it is, how powerful and completely unearned it is... and it's awesome!"

What? I'm wayyyy more lazy than I am socially conscious.

And, that is what I did in the past 6 hours. In the next 6 hours, I intend to dream about nothing, and wake feeling refreshed and ready to try to take over the world-one trivial task after another- all over again tomorrow.

Did I Mention?

I totttally got the best Christmas present ever, Elvis Costello tickets. From someone secret, which is even more awesome than knowing me so well to begin with. I'm sure I'll be back to my angst in no time, but at this particular moment, I'm going to go dance around to Every Day I Write The Book in my pajamas a little more.

Not at all about men...

Some days I suddenly remember I have a Twitter and it works from my phone, and post like 47 things in .11 seconds. Then next day I feel a little shaky, my head hurts and it's all kind of a fog. I find myself making a mental note that I'm a small girl-- I really shouldn't mix medias.

Oh Gross, here it comes... Fucking Men Part III

I was fine. I was good. I didn't eat any ice cream last night or this morning, I didn't peek out the window every time I heard a car door close hoping he was coming to say it isn't over, that an impostor has been posting as him online and he really couldn't get to me because he was tied up in a basement. I have spent the past 3 days fine, happy, good.

I got a tattoo and talked about the holy trinity of female conversation (Makeup, Men and Motherhood) half of Friday. I ate fried dough and talked to a dear friend who gets me and laughed at the kinds of things normal people don't find funny. I didn't even blog for the love of fuck... I was healed.

And until half an hour ago, I was fine. Then suddenly the sick feeling started, and out it came-- gallons of snot and tears and miserable sobbing. 20 straight fucking minutes of body shuddering can't breathe face drenching blubbering.

This had better have been the fucking end of it: My blog is getting way boring.

Fucking Men: Part II

This. Fucking. Sucks.

I've used the $50 mud mask, I've thrown out all the pictures and notes and little trinkets from the past 6 months (except the Hold Steady shirt and poster: Ironically, if we hadn't been dating I would have been at that show). I've called the best friend, I've cried, I've deleted Buffy from my Instant View, I've updated my Netflix. I'm out of best friends to call, I'm out of tears, I'm out of things to symbolically destroy, and I'm out of energy.

And, I'm out of fucking ice cream.

But, I'm still in hurt--this fucking sucks.

Fucking Men.

Can you break up with someone you're not 'really' dating? And didn't he pretty much break up with you by facebook 'poking' you once over the course of the last week (with no form of chat cuddling after, mind you) as the only form of communication, even while you couldn't peek your internet social site wall because of the overflow of movie ratings and comments to shared friends that he did have time for (and once you have to block someone's posts because they're so frequent, aren't they lying to say they don't have a second?) And isn't it weird when people keep telling you how he's doing despite your not asking because you're too hurt to even care, even though he 'hasn't had a second' and has totally just shamed you for being like 'what the hell', making you feel like an asshole about the fact he hasn't realized that everyone already knows-- that he hasn't bothered... fuck men. Fuck men, fuck men, fuck men.

OK, Snuggie. OK, Ben, Jerry. OK, mascara oozing down my cheeks already... it's just us tonight, let's get down to business.

Grrr... Fucking men.

Not that I could stop anyone from reading my blog...

... not that at all. Nor am I trying to. No, ex boyfriend Tom Lopez of Granger Indiana, I don't care if you read my blog 27 times a day, I don't care if you need a box of tissue and some hand cream to read my blog, that's your own fucking business. However: Since you're already reading...

I absolutely 100 percent promise that if you ever ever ever ever ever email me again for any reason whatsoever, including but not limited to sending me Youtube videos and saying you enjoyed my last blog at 2 in the morning, I will have something totally awesome to blog about-- where we met, how we met, why we broke up, and every creepy dysfunctional insane thing you do. We could talk about the cookies. We could talk about the vacuum. We could talk about Trios. The fireplace video. The coming to my house all out of it on both this and that, and probably some that. We could talk about it all in humiliating detail. For days, weeks, probably months even! And so there's no confusion, that red link there would totally link to your facebook, whatever job sites you have, classmates.com, and multiple pictures of you to be 100% sure that anyone, everyone, can know exactly for certain who you are.

So step away from the keyboard, Tipsy McEmailson. Step away from communicating with me at all. You perhaps forgot how pissed I am, but certainly you could not have forgotten how tacky I am... I will soooo do that shit.

Things I Can't Believe They Gave Me

1) A baby.

Seriously. I have answered the question "Does Daddy call you babymommy too?" I wear stilettos and mini-dresses kite flying, when she asked for pink hair when she was 4 I said "that's awesome" before the question was entirely out of her mouth. I ignore cussing if it's in the right context, in private, and in a reasonable voice level. I let her wear the next day's clothing for pajamas because we both enjoy the extra 15 minutes of sleep it affords. We fight over the last Twinkie-- and sometimes I totally win. No one is as shocked as me that I got away with it... the cosmos somehow totally screwed up and gave me a baby.

2) An Apartment.

Clearly, however, not a vacuum, dish soap, Pine Sol, a shoe tree, or any real motivation to use such things if I actually do have them. You may think 'Mold on your dirty dishes' or 'odd smells' would be some sort of 'motivation'. You may indeed... but you would be wrong.

Caring about those things would require some degree of 'Dignity'. What? I just said I wear mini-dresses to go kite flying: Don't act all surprised.

3) The Right to an Education.

I dropped out of interior design school a semester shy of having my license because I went and got myself in a family way. Somehow the universe saw fit however to let me go back to school 6 years later to get what I have always really wanted, a degree in Psychology. And it's true I have not yet gotten myself pregnant by a drunk ND English major (Oh, how I love the English majors...) in the midst of a drinking game called 2 shot Saturday. It's true I have not yet told a professor that I'm actually thinking so far outside of the box that I'm thinking outside of his box, and that's why he doesn't understand me, and that I don't care to write it out in small words right now because PMS reduces my tolerances for salary-earning ignorance.

This doesn't mean, however, that I don't bring Twizzlers to Film Class, leave my MP3 player on for one of my lecture classes on a frighteningly regular basis, start working on 7 page papers the night before they are due as a rule, or blog when I 'm supposed to be doing a 7 page paper the night before it is due.

4) A Computer.

I don't know how they gave someone so irresponsible, impulsive and scatterbrained something like a computer or the Internet. What I do know is that Sephora and Ulta are sooooo glad they did.

I know there are more, these are just the ones that at current... as I place an Ulta order while blogging instead of writing my paper, perched on my counter-top next to a 2 day old half eaten pop-tart and 3 lipstick lids but no lipstick, eating the last of my daughters Halloween candy and wondering just how I can cover my tracks before morning.

When you keep a blog and no one really reads it too regularly, and then someone makes known that no, THEY will be reading it...

... you suddenly feel the need to add an entry to make it worthwhile.

And by 'you', I mean 'me'.

Ahhhh, that feels better. Hello, April. Welcome to my neurotic.