headates

Today I met up with Dimples for lunch, our third lunch date. I'd called him yesterday to invite him over for a dinner party I thought we were having tomorrow night (turns out it's Sunday), and he said yes to that, and then invited me to lunch today. I can't figure this kid out at all. On the one hand, he's totally not interested...and then he wants to meet up two days in a row? I don't get him.

He's mentioned some ex-girlfriends. Now call me old-fashioned, but whatever happened to that taboo of not bringing up exes on a first (or even second, come on) date. All these young lads seem to have no qualms about that. But today was exceptionally weird. He told me he was with a girl last night, but was into her friend, and blah blah blah. He was talking to me the way he would talk to his brother. Before I knew it, we were talking about an STD scare he had recently. This kind of shit I reserve for my closest friends. I had no idea how to respond to any of this because part of me is fascinated by it, and the other wonders "Why the fuck is he telling me this? And why do I still want to sleep with him?"

I do get him in some ways. I told him straight out I knew he was trying to get over someone, and this shocked him. When he mentioned going to a hospital for some reason, I said, "You thought you had herpes, didn't you." He said a lot of things, and it was pretty easy for me to piece things together. This is one of my specialty areas, seeing what people are really trying to say. But in the end, it I came home with the worst headache I've had since I thought I had dengue. My brain was just furiously trying to process all this shit. My roommate came home and I had to rehash everything through with her--how he talked about dating girls with borderline personality disorders, this 21-year-old he's infatuated with, as well as the 36-year-old pathological liar he practically allowed to move in with him here in Buenos Aires. Oh, and a girl he met at a party who flew from Japan to stay with him...and then he decided he couldn't stand her. But she was hot.

I tried to understand what he was telling me. Like I would ask him if he really thought it was a good idea to date sociopaths. Or if he really believed good sex alone could keep him intellectually satisfied for very long. But all this shit kept coming out. Mind you, this was our third time going out, and our other two lunches consisted mostly about talking about various Spanish phrases that we found interesting. The whole thing was so weird and maddening. Massive headache.

I kind of felt like he was trying to keep us on a buddy level. But on the other hand, one of the lessons I am constantly relearning in my thirty years of existence is that men always want sex. I put all the weird, un-matched pieces together in my head--the indifference, the sex tales, the juggling of ladies, yet the insistence to hang out--and none of it makes sense until I say "Oh, he just wants to let me know he's only interested in NSA sex. Because he's fucked up in this and this and this way."

And you know what, I'm okay with that. In fact, I think I had the same conversation with Joe in New York, only I was a lot more concise about it. My exact words were probably, "Don't expect anything more from me than this. I'm totally fucked up." And with that out in the open, everything was just hunky-dory from there on out.

Of course, I also just think that is the coward's way of saying, "I am hereby relinquishing all thoughtful matters to the custody of my genitals."

What a sad state of affairs. But I can dig it down here in the dirty south.

unmarried and single

Turning thirty hasn't been such a big deal since, well, I live in obscurity, a surreal place where few people call my lifestyle into question. But there certainly have been moments where my age and lifestyle don't quite seem to match up. These moments come when I pop onto Facebook and see another photo of a chubby baby blinking back at me, when I'm shopping for a dress to wear to a wedding, or when I'm shivering alone in my twin bed, thinking that I really need to buy a light bulb. Sometimes, everyone seems to be going somewhere else. It is like when you are walking down a crowded sidewalk and you seem to be the only one walking upstream, and you look across the street and everyone seems to be walking the same way. So you run across the street to change sides, and suddenly everything is---fuck, everything is the same.

A couple of weeks ago, when I was in the Far East (as my Mom likes to call it), I was asked the following two questions in many iterations: Why aren't you married? Why don't you have kids?

Really, people? I would like to say that this was friendly family ribbing, but my family is really not that funny. I mean, what kind of answers do you expect here? These were also family members I haven't spoken to in at least five years, if not ten. How would they feel if I told them that my fiancé OD'd on Oxy, or that I was fucking STERILE? Because barring any sort of tragedy or lesser drama---I just broke up with someone, we're trying to have kids--the answer you inevitably get is quite boring. Because I certainly am not allowed to say that I'm trying to fuck at least fifty men before settling down, or that the idea of children is just that--an idea.

There was a Maureen Dowd column that ran yesterday called All the Single Ladies about the media frenzy surrounding Supreme Court nominee/single lady Ellen Kagan. And while it is a bit boring--because really, there's nothing that interesting about a woman being single OR married by itself--one commentor boiled it down quite nicely to say that this is all just the myth of the nuclear family being thrashed about in contemporary society. He or she went on to say that since more people spend more time at work than at home, perhaps it's more important to have a fulfilling job than an agreeable spouse.

One of the most interesting things I learned about Singapore is that they have a national dating service, free, government-sponsored. They, too, believe that strong nuclear families are not only the key to happiness, but a stable society. I mean, the notion of the family unit is how so much of our society is constructed: our taxes, our rights, health insurance, even the architecture of many homes. And in China, they have similar structures in place to secure happy families--after the earthquake left many widowed, they set up a matching system to help people remarry. (Read the Brook Larmer piece from the NY Times Magazine.)

Most of my friends are unmarried and/or single, even as we slip into our dirty thirties. Like I said, I only tend to give fleeting attention to these notions, but it is strange to have passed through two continents where the creation of the nuclear family is so central and unquestionably important, and another in which it is so central yet so singularly denied.

I want to be with someone. I really do. I may want children or I may not. But what I really would like, most of all, is for people to stop asking me why I am unmarried. Because really, the answer to why I am unmarried is that I AM NOT MARRIED. And the reason to why I am single is that YOU ARE AN ASSHOLE.

Eh, maybe I am just feeling sore because of my young bedfellows. I slept with a 24-year-old the other night. We were walking through town, killing a bottle of 17-peso whiskey when he told me about this bingo parlor where the old folks go and I asked him if they gave out cool prizes. He said, "They probably give out Sensodyne toothpaste."

I use Sensodyne toothpaste. What? I have sensitive teeth.

bruising and schmoozing

I had a crappy day. I am shooting/writing up fashion week and spent all day at the expo center, shooting and interviewing but mostly just standing in fucking line because I applied for a press credential too late. Live and learn. I have decided that I never want to shoot a big, corporate fashion event ever again. It was a lot of super pretentious people parading around, and instead of doing my usual "well aren't we special," I was ingratiating myself to them and taking their photos.

I was really excited about it at first, but today was so rough. I like pretty things as much as the next girl (and then some, even) but I don't think I want to put fashion on a pedestal. Expensive clothes should be a guilty pleasure, and not really advertised, particularly if you live in a city where people regularly knock on your day and ask you if have any old clothes to give them. Maybe that is just my neighborhood.

After that long day, I ran off to meet a guy who'd offered me a ride out to a fancy suburb of Buenos Aires to see this rock show. I posted on a message board to see if anyone wanted to go, and he said he did. I called him to set up a time and it turns out he is 65 years old. Why, why, why, as a 65-year-old man, would you think it is kosher to offer to take a 29-year-old woman to a PUNK ROCK SHOW? When I explained to him I didn't think he'd enjoy it, he was like, "No, it sounds fun. I'd really like to go." I didn't know how to say I didn't think that would be cool, so I just said...well, okay. If you're down, I'm down. I'm not ageist at all. My best friend here is 62. I don't go to punk rock shows with her, but hey, everyone is different. But I was also confused by it.

I thought maybe it would be cool. I showed up half an hour late because I don't have a watch and I assumed that fashion week was running on schedule, but it most certainly wasn't. We chatted pleasantly but a few moments into my return to non-bitter humanity with pizza and beer, I decided it was too late to go (it really was), and that I just wanted to go home instead. Also, I was really not entertained by the situation. I tried to be engaged, but he was just talking at me. I have noticed that Argentine men do that. They just talk, and talk, and talk, and you just sit there and smile. They like to talk about this country and the politics and such but they also do the Indian thing of talking about things they have no clue about with the utmost authority. For example, I saw these two guys jumping extremely high and doing tricks. They were wearing those jumpy-shoe things. It was pretty cool. I said, "Look at those guys jumping over there." And he said, with the utmost authority, "Ah, yes, they have a bungee board." What he meant was, a trampoline. I said, "No, they have special devices attached to them." And he tried to fucking argue with me! He couldn't even see them. I don't have patience for people like this. Particularly when they are more than twice my age. I then hated myself for not listening to my gut, because my gut tends to be ageist and racist and classist all those stereotypes that guts have. It is a lot of effort to be open-minded.

Working makes me feel better after social mishaps like that, even though it was all fine but skeezy in other ways. When I came home, I set to work processing my shitty photos that I shot from a mile away, and as I was walking down the stairs to put some water on for tea, I fucking slipped and fell and fucked my shit up bad. I am a bumbling fool who has broken her ankle walking before, but I have never fallen down stairs. It was scary. I thought I had broken something. And you know what? All I could think was, "Great, now I have to go back to fucking Fashion Week tomorrow with two broken fingers and a goddamn broken tailbone."

Nothing is actually broken, but I do have to go back to Fashion Week tomorrow. I think this is someone's way of laughing at me. You want it bad--like, real bad? Here, have a broken leg. That's right. Bet you don't think Fashion Week is such a hardship now, do you?

new decade, new continent, same shit

It is 90 degrees and raining here in Buenos Aires and I am just lazing about my house, eating things and feeling the heat emanate from the walls.

It is my first "day off" in a while. After two action-packed weeks with Sexy that bled into some intense partying, I am feeling a little drained and sad. Part of it is because I am not doing a good job at keeping in touch with people so I sometimes feel lonely. The other part is that I have been wondering more and more what the hell I am doing down here, because it's definitely not working. But the biggest part I think is that in order to avoid thinking about this, I have wandered back into some choice addictions: booze, men, and cocaine, all of which are cheap, plentiful, and of decent--if not varying--quality in Buenos Aires.

I will tell you a secret. I am the worst kind of female in a lot of ways, a big romantic at heart who struggles against this perceived tendency towards sappiness through wanton hookups. But anyhow, I bring this up because I sort of thought I could detox from this hapless man-addiction I have down here, and was doing an okay job of it. But then I started down the slippery slope, and have already slept with more men this past week than I have in the past six months. It is a strange time.

I can have NSA sex sometimes, but it seems to be getting more difficult, like the strings want to attach themselves when I least expect it. Then I want to shy away from the whole scene altogether just to avoid any potential tricks my mind has in store for me. There was a moment last week when I was lying in bed with a gorgeous man, all aglow and happy, when I let my thoughts take me too far away and plunged me into deep regret. I started thinking to myself, "I couldn't marry this guy. Our first kiss was in a bathroom stall well past sunrise after doing a bunch of blow. What kind of story would that be at the wedding?" And as soon as that thought crossed my mind, I had to bolt, even though all was just fine and dandy until then.

Why can't things just be one way or the other? I'm fully aware I'm not going to meet the man of my dreams in some sleazy Buenos Aires nightclub. But I still get a perverse sense of satisfaction out of these encounters. My brain gets attached to these sorts of familiar melodramas. I'd been keeping a low profile, which is easy because I don't know anyone here. But also...not knowing anyone can get you into a lot of trouble. Because you just don't give a damn what anyone thinks.

Anyhow. I can't have the first post of 2010 be like this. So let me tell you that I had an incredible New Year's in Punta del Diablo, this small beach town on the Uruguayan coast about an hour away from the Brazilian border. We were walking down the beach under the full moon to a party when fireworks starting going off all around town: in front of us, behind us, to the sides. And everywhere there were boys. BOYS! We drank and danced and ate and kissed cute boys. That's pretty much all I want out of life, trite as it may seem. I'm not very demanding at all.

last minute freakout

I got pulled over (again) today. Welcome back to Illinois! It did not stay my day off right.

This is going to be a somewhat frenetic post. I've ingested a lot of coffee and cigarettes.

Packing tonight was a tricky maneuver. I want to bring nothing and everything. I am obsessed with my summer dresses but cannot bring them all. And, more like, I will end up going out how I went out in New York, in disgusting cutoffs and dirty tee-shirts. I almost don't want to bring them to force myself to look better. But somehow I crammed a bunch of clothes into a bag and am now contemplating this obnoxious thing of beauty, my tripod. It is a separate piece of luggage. I can't not take it and yet I can't imagine taking it. The tripod has become a metaphor for all of my problems with this endeavor at all.

Got home last night after twelve intense days in California. Top 10 Highlights: 1) Eating a burrito with the dog in Dolores Park an hour after landing at SFO, 2) crashing a City Hall function with booze and schwag and hors d'oeuvres, 3) seeing that Ex is still adorable, 4) a 24-hour date with my peripatetic life partner that included a) biscuits, gravy, waffles, and crab for breakfast, b)watching the Heimlich Maneuver performed at dinner one night, and c) Point Break Live, 7) tailgating with Raiders fans and getting drunk by noon, 8) a sleepover party with Joe, 9) spending soft time with my friends at my old apartment, and 10) the idea of family time.

Bottom 5 buzzkillers: 1) breaking my very-needed cell phone my first morning in SF, 2) a return to the serious boozing and ensuing sicking, and 3) witnessing the fallout of a long-standing friendship gone bad, 4) helping a bloodied, beaten up man to his feet just down the block from my apartment, about an hour after I passed him drinking what smelled like cologne with his buddies, and 5) pissing all over myself in a port-a-potty.

I slept a blessed eight hours last night and then set about freaking out today, starting with getting pulled over. Tomorrow I get on an airplane and fly for fourteen hours. I think what I like best about airplane rides is that the act of booking a ticket and then actually going somewhere works well with my mentality of shoot first, ask questions later. I hate obsessive anxiety, which is going to party out tonight with the three shots of espresso I had earlier this evening. I know it wasn't the wisest move, but I had a lot to do, and I was on a date with a sweet boy who I will probably marry. I will tell you all about it some time. The date had two purposes: the minor one was to take away four hours of pre-trip anxiety. But the real reason I had to go out on a date today is because one thing about me that you probably don't know is that right before I make a big move or decision, I have to fall in love, have sex, (and not necessarily with the same person), then leave. This way, when I leave I can direct all of my obsessive, cyclical thoughts to dramatic romantic fantasies rather than putting myself through the wringer of decision-making anxiety. I recommend it highly. Why second-guess yourself when you can just escape to a fantasy world where everyone is in love--it's just the timing that is off?

Timing: It is everything that matters, completely out of our control, and, in the end, completely inconsequential. It's the perfect abstract concept to take the blame for everything.

See you in South America.

why

...have I been getting requests for platonic friendships on OkCupid?

Is this a Chicago thing?

wired

After living without a television for ten out of the last eleven years, I am suddenly spending a lot of time with a giant one that could crush us all. I stayed away from it for the first week or so, mostly because I didn't know what to do with it. Honestly, I didn't know that the cable box had to be turned on separately. And then I didn't know how to change channels. Then once I got that all figured out, I didn't know what to watch. So I just gave up.

Then one evening my friend Ash told me he was going to teach me how to watch television. He showed me the joys of his Tivo, and forced me to watch one episode of 30 Rock and one episode of the new 90210. I didn't really understand the humor behind 30 Rock, and 90210...well, everyone knows how to watch that. It has gotten much more risque since the Brenda/n Walsh days of my youth.

Although I wasn't too impressed with this foray back into television, I did like the "I'm-doing-something-but-not-really" feeling I got from it. So I started to watch things. Any movie set in New York (about 80 percent of all movies). Cartoons. The Office. When I found myself watching an America's Next Top Model marathon, though, I knew something had to change. So I shut off the television and promptly burned myself by placing two fingers, deliberately, on the coffee burner. I was seeing if it was on.

I really feel much more stupid when I'm at home. Part of it is because my mother doesn't allow me to cook, which means the huge segment of my brain devoted to gathering, preparing, and consuming food has gotten soft. The other part is that my father doesn't allow me to take care of things, like replacing my cell phone which broke last week. Another part is because of increased access to television. And still another part, I really think, is because survival in the suburbs is so much less involved than survival in the city. I no longer plot the seventeen different routes I can take to get somewhere and still pass by the bodega that sells the cheapest cigarettes, miss the hill that gets slick in the rain, get on the A train before it stops running express, and be above ground for the most likely part of the day that my latest crush could call me for drinks. No. Survival is now so bloody likely that I have to drink four cups of coffee a day to keep from falling asleep because so many circuits in my head have stopped blinking.

Until then, I have online dating to distract me. But even that is reaching its limits.

fumb as duck

I took a leave of absence from Soberland, as Detox Doc likes to call it, and tried to go to a place called Moderationland. At first it worked, and then it didn't really work, and then I did some things that were not part of the plan, including cocaine and fucking a friend...something I have managed to not do up until now. Not god-awful or anything, but things continued to go a little haywire and my body just felt on a wreckage course. Still, I would have probably tried to continue my stay in Moderationland only I ended up on this funny date last night...

I haven't been on OkCupid in forever, and then I got a random message from a young guy that really said nothing. But, unlike the last OKC experience, we actually planned a date by the third email. We all know how unpicky I am, but I thought maybe I should actually try and glean some information about him before I met up with him, so I looked at his profile and saw that he didn't smoke, didn't drink, and didn't do drugs--which is pretty odd for a 25-year-old guy who lives in New York City, don'cha think. That's when a light went off in my head and I realized the last time I'd updated my profile, I was deep in the heart of Soberland. I hastily sent him a message, explaining the situation. And the next day, he replied quite charmingly that he had recently gotten out of rehab, and that he'd still be down to hang out, provided we didn't go to a bar.

I can now say that I've been invited, on a first date, to attend, as a second date, an NA meeting. And I can also now say that I've been extremely shamed into hearing the own denial in my voice, when I heard myself saying why I never stuck with the groups, and why I didn't like Soberland, and why I thought I could conquer Moderationland. I sat with this young guy who had just returned from a 60-mile bike ride and was just oozing goodwill and gaining strength with the knowledge of his own limitations while I am still pointlessly pushing on mine, seeing that they are still there, and telling myself I can overcome them by...overcoming them.

I think it was the first time I didn't finish a hamburger.

So, yeah. Moderation...not working. Not really. I can feel it, not working. I don't know why I thought I could moderate drinking, when I can't do it with anything else in my life. And, as a result of this very nice boy being very nice, I wouldn't let him touch me. I also don't know why I went out with him when I'm planning to leave the city in less than two months. I have shit to do, and I am behind schedule.

I am returning to Soberland. Not because it was such a great place to be, but because I am now too tall for Moderationland. Every time I stand up I hit my head in there.

oversaturation

The lawyer I slept with was quoted in TIME magazine this week, a big 'ol pull quote that I probably wouldn't have noticed otherwise but it was gigantic and in one of those sound-byte pages made for people with short attention spans. It made me laugh out loud when I read it today. This is the second time in two weeks that I've read quotes of past lovers in the mass media.

It made me feel like a loser.

ditched.

I was really excited all week for my craigslist date today with a guy who responded to a post I put up Monday night. I told him that he sounded just like me, but with balls--both literally and metaphysically. He'd moved here from San Francisco to attend grad school, but disliking it, had dropped out. He'd recently given up The Drugs and The Booze and found himself enjoying a "less exciting" life, but felt more happy, productive, and optimistic, and was trying to make it as an artist. He sent me a photo and I thought he was cute, and we made plans to meet up today to enjoy the warm weather and to drop in at my friend's art show in Brooklyn. It was all really easy, and I had a really good feeling about it.

He was running late, but called to tell me so. We met up and chatted for a little bit; it was easy conversation, and I felt comfortable. He was covered with tattoos, which surprised me. I think we talked for about a half hour before walking to the show, which was more like an expose for these very out-of-place luxury lofts in Prospect Heights. I could tell he wasn't into it, but it's not like we were going to stay there forever. He wasn't making an attempt to even feign interest; I think he was too cool for that. Okay. I just wanted to say hello, and then we could go wherever.

The show was at a set of four buildings within a few blocks of each other, and we walked to the second building, met my friends at the top floor, and he said he was going to get a drink on the bottom floor, and I went out to the balcony to chat with my buddies for a bit. I'd had enough of the place already too, so I decided to make an exit as well, and texted him to meet me outside. I went out to have a cigarette and waited, and then called, but he didn't pick up. Hm. This made me uncomfortable. I waited another fifteen or twenty minutes just to make sure I wasn't being paranoid and crazy, to give him the benefit of the doubt, because I didn't think he was an asshole. Would he really just...leave?

I tapped out a stupid message, something like, "Wow, nice to meet you too," but that was just gutless. It was neither here nor there. I wanted to say, "You're really not as cute as your photo either," or "Jesus, at least say you've got diarrhea or something." But I also didn't want to send four text messages. I could only send one.

It was hot and I was thirsty. So I went and got myself a juice, and then sat down to drink it, wondering how I could possibly come out of this situation feeling okay--because really, I was not feeling okay. I have never been walked out on before. What a shitty fucking thing to do to someone for no good reason at all. I was really, fucking angry, and I wanted to be really, fucking mean. But at the same time, I really wanted to be wrong.

So I called him and, going straight to voicemail, was forced to leave a message that went something like this. "So...unless I'm mistaken...it looks like you just...took off...which is really, really, really not cool."

I felt kind of good about this message, because it said all that I wanted it to say: not cool, man. I do not approve. But part of me really wanted to be mean, because my feelings were hurt. I don't know why I couldn't be mean. I really wanted to be. I think the situation warranted it. What he did was mean. I didn't deserve to be treated that way, and I cannot comprehend what a person can be thinking when they do something like that. The situation was so innocuous. It wasn't even five in the afternoon, and we were both sober.

Recently I was talking to My Friend about online dating and how one can just be a complete asshole, because you have no connection to this person. By contrast, if you were set up with your co-worker's sister, or a friend of a friend, or something, you would have to maintain some level of etiquette because of group norms and accountability. I love My Friend and all, but he lacks a certain kind of humanity that some men lack. I would never treat a complete stranger badly, even if I know I'll never see them again. It has nothing to do with it coming back to haunt me, it's because it's a fucking human being, and treating each other badly puts poison into the collective consciousness. Why do we need to do that? How gutless and gross and pointless. To his point, though, particularly in the circles we run in these days, what's the guarantee that you'll never see this person again? That person you treat like shit may end up being your landlord, your creditor, your boss one day. How would that be, then?

I really hope that one day I run into him. One day I'll cover an art opening where he'll be this big success (who knows?) and I'll be there interviewing people or something and I hope our interaction will go something like this:

SB Hi! I hear Untitled #7 just sold for $3 million! That's amazing!
craigslist date who ditched me Thanks.
SB Your work has come a long way. Tell me, though, with your newfound fame and fortune, are you still a spineless asshole?
CLDWDM Huh?
SB You know, do you still just wince out of situations you find uncomfortable?
CLDWDM What...? What the fuck are you talking about?
SB I don't know, let's say you went on a date with a girl and wasn't into it, how would you handle it? Would you make a polite exit like a man, or, like a spineless asshole, just take off, leaving her to wonder what the hell happened for about 30 minutes?
CLDWDM Ah, shit...
SB Still single?
CLDWDM Yeah...
SB Well, let me give you another pointer. Try to keep the mentions of the ex-girlfriend(s) to fewer than fifteen, if you can, at least during the first hour of the date. But congratulations on all of your success otherwise.
CLDWDM ...Seriously? I thought you looked familiar.
SB Yeah, small world. Look for the interview in ArtForum, buddy.

serious end to a not serious relationship

February is officially the month of lost lovers. Or something, I don't know. As if the sudden, dramatic appearance of My New Best Friend wasn't enough, or the funny text message I got from John at the drunken hour, I also got a letter from Love Affair this week, and word on the street is that Tyler is in town.

Tomorrow Joe is leaving, and what feels like The World's Longest Goodbye to the Relationship That Never Was can finally end. I feel like I have been holding my breath forever. I don't know how to say goodbye. I hate goodbyes. I tried to say goodbye to Joe so many times, and it never worked out. I think all the lost lovers cropping up is just evidence of how bad I am at ending things. I always leave the door wide open for reunions.

I am really going to miss Joe. I can't help but hate myself for it. This whole time I've been so blase about him because I've always known it wasn't going to last, but for what? I am hurt in the end anyway. I might as well have had a balls-in relationship...I was going to say...that might actually have meant something...but it did mean something in the end.

I still haven't decided whether to see him tonight or not, because true to the very end, I cannot make it appear as if I give a fuck. Also, I am so stressed I feel like I might implode. The first draft of my thesis is due in 11 days, the day before I leave for the desert, and all I want to do is...I'm not even going to say it.

Sobriety is a bitch.

I should see him. I should call Love Affair and ask him, how did we do this before? How did we live out our doomed relationship to the end? I don't remember. I was a different person then. I think men are better at it than women. And I think men are like, "Mmm, sex. Good."

I wonder when I'll have sex like this again.

...and unhealthy obsessions

Yesterday I spent a significant amount of time ducking people in uniforms, jumping fences, and getting snagged on razor wire for some photos and adrenaline. It started last week and has just escalated where all I look forward to is being places where I shouldn't be, all alone. I don't know how I went from shooting pictures of trees and rocks to shooting abandoned construction sites, but...there it is.

Oh wait, yes, I do know: Roosevelt Island.


















I allowed Joe to come over so I could say goodbye to him (in theory) but instead he spent the night and went with me to Roosevelt Island at 5 a.m. the next day. On the southern end of the island there is an abandoned hospital that takes some...maneuvering...to get to. Let's just say that you have to be somewhat desperate to get there, and I had to return Saturday morning to get the photos I needed without being arrested. This is the view of the south-facing facade. It's like a magical fairy tale, with the Queensboro bridge in the background, and this grassy expanse of uninhabited island, all alone, but sandwiched between the UN and Long Island City. The sensation of that, the serenity and beauty and history and triumph of not dying and being caught...yes, I acknowledge that it's completely juvenile and it's something I did back in San Francisco when I was craving attention from boys and all souped up on drugs and booze, and it's something I am doing now when I am completely by myself and sober. But I told you!!!! I can get addicted to just about anything. Fucken try me.

Yesterday after doing sunrise and sunset shoots, I got a surprise meetup call from My New Best Friend, the guy I was desperately in love with back in San Franny, only he had a girlfriend, so I tried to just be friends with him...right. I haven't seen him or spoken to him since leaving SF, though I have gotten some random texts and emails from him. It was crazy to see him. What was even crazier was how amazingly attracted I still was to him. I think it was because of some comment he made about something dark I had once said to him that he still remembered. That always gets to me, when men think that my dark side is somehow attractive and/or tolerable. I began to overheat immediately so I continued my sneaking around trend and led us to smoke a cigarette in the bowels of the club and I thought I was going to lose my mind so I did the thing where I just talked really fast and hoped that I didn't accidentally have sex with him. It was lovely yet horrible. What was even worse was that as soon as I realized how badly I wanted him, I decided to leave and then he asked me very nicely if I wanted to hang out later this week because he's in town until Sunday, which is, incidentally, the day that Joe leaves for San Diego.

I longed for his cocktail more than anything else.

yes we are having fun yet.

I didn't watch the Super Bowl tonight, did you?

I don't have much to say tonight except that I felt like calling someone only I didn't because I figured everyone would be at a Super Bowl party. Even my mom was at a Super Bowl party. I was supposed to go to one, then I backed out at the last minute because I felt cranky and remembered I had all this shit to do that I had been putting off all weekend. Also the SB party I was supposed to go to was being hosted by someone I kind of have a crush on, and I think it was going to make my head explode.

This week was a Joe extravaganza. I saw him every day and spent 6 of the last 8 nights with him. I was actually going home to hang out with myself on Friday night when I went down the wrong subway platform and ran into him around midnight. Holy fucking shit, right? Of course I listened to "fate" rather than my extreme exhaustion. I trust things like that more than my inner monologue. That shit is boring.

$chool is crraaaazzzy busy but I'm in Joe-land. He's now officially homeless and I'm about to do something crazy, namely give him keys to my apartment. Idon'tknowIdon'tknowIdon'tknow! It makes me want to scream. I don't know what the fuck I'm thinking. I guess I'm thinking that school is crazy and yet there's this guy who is completely removed from school and who I can talk to about other things and writing and fall completely in love with and then in a few weeks he will be gone so I might as well lose my fucking mind.

I think it makes sense.

I am so far into sobriety that it's ridiculous. I am almost three months sober. I feel like I will never drink again. I bought wine for a baby shower the other day. Carrying the bottle of wine in my hand gave me a rush. I got real excited. There was a game played where people had to drink shots of vodka out of baby bottles. This was after I had to play a game where I changed a diaper on a toy bear. I did very badly because I was wondering how I was going to get out of this. I almost told them I was pregnant so I didn't have to play. I was wondering how I was going to get out of this.

Later on in the night I went back to a party at the McKibben lofts with Joe. It was the party where we first met, probably nine months to the day. Only now I'm sober and he's leaving and I could have had his baby by now.

Life is funny like that.

New Crush(ed)

FUCK THIS DAY. 

Hardly slept last night, cried to my detox counselor, totally stressed because of school and sobriety and the crushing crushing abyss of sobriety is TWEAKING me out lately. 

Yesterday New Crush made my day by coming to the weekly lecture and sitting next to me, and I got to steal glances at him for an hour and a half, and then we had a nice smoke break together. Then not five minutes ago I ran into him outside and we talked about hanging out in suburban Chicago--where his folks live, be still my heart!--over the winter vacation, and then he dropped the g-bomb:

Girlfriend.

That horrible noise in my head: is that my teeth grinding, my soul crumbling, my heart breaking, or some wrenching combination of all three, made all the more poignant and unbearable by FUCKING SOBRIETY?!!!!

Focus, focus, focus, on unsurmountable amount of work I have to accomplish, and the light feeling that I had up until five minutes ago, before the explosion of the g-bomb. Let's harken back to December 31, 2006, close encounters with spastic crush-turned-My New Best Friend, when I decided to embark upon 2007: Love without Fear or Expectation, and recapture that kind of gusto, that is more about FUCK THE ALTERNATIVE than embracing reality.

Thank you. 

serious sobriety

I'm on Dry Day 3, only this time I'm being sponsored by Ativan and I'm not feeling as panicky as I was on that horrible week in Sober September.

Doctor $400 (how much she charges for an hour) says that maybe the low-grade fever (101) I was running last night was a result of withdrawal. So now I'm on Ativan, which is a benzodiazepine drug, meaning it's like a muscle relaxer/anti-anxiety medication. I'm feeling quite a bit funny, which is better than FREAKING OUT by a long shot. Last week Doctor 4 said to me that maybe I should think about going sober as an adventure, to not be afraid. He said, "Can you think about it the same way you thought about going to Charleston? Like, 'I'm going to Sober-land!'" It made me laugh so hard. But now I'm enlisting the help of DJE to turn "Funkytown" into "Soberland" so I can listen to it in the mornings. Rad!

Ysterday I was shocked to get a voicemail from John, whom I spurned pretty hard several weeks ago. To try and excise all men from my life, I wrote both John and Joe a message and posted it on Missed Connections.

My MC to Joe and John

I usually think that my intense conversations with people are enough, but then they call me later, so hopefully this will be okay.

But you know me, I go crazy without boy drama in my life, so I've decided to have a long-distance email love affair with ACLU, who emailed me this week. It was such a charming email, and I wonder how I am going to respond to it. I think it'll be fun.

I'm not sure about sober-land, but Ativan-land is so far, so good.

dispatch from chucktown

So much has been going on that I don't know where to start, so let's just say that I'm in Charleston, South Carolina, and that I kind of never want to come back to New York. Cigarettes are cheap, booze is cheap, I'm not wearing a jacket, and all the boys have that sexy, slow, southern air about them. Well, not all of them.

This is my first time truly traveling alone and I love it. I made the mistake of sleeping with my host here the first night (okay and the next day too), and he has been clingy and I've had to be alternatively diplomatic, aloof and selfish in order to get away from him to do what I intended to do here in town: see fucking everything. I also just had to get out of The NY for a minute and away from all the talk about boys and school and therapists who think I need more therapy and more drugs. In this latter respect it's been very successful and I feel good. I think that you can only really know who you are when you remove yourself from any defining context--the place you live, the people you love, the things you do. When all of those things fall away, who are you? It's too easy to define yourself by these things, and these are things that may say things about you, they're just hints at the real thing.

Of course I lost my phone Friday night, as I'm wont to do about every three months now. When I realized it was gone I was pretty excited because it meant I could wander about town without relation to anything, and it would be difficult for my host to catch up with me. He [oh Love Affair just IMd me. My heart always freaks out when he does that] got arrested Friday night and was in a bad mood. I felt sorry for him.

I was so liberated to be without phone, without contacts, and without a plan that I went a good two hours without food or coffee or nicotine. I think that being alone is good for me.

Oh god, Love Affair, why do you torture me? All right, now I'm totally distracted and can't concentrate on what I was thinking, where I was going with this. I guess this proves my point completely. I need to move to the woods.

abuse of all things

I have spent the week largely hungover. I don't know how it happens; it just does. Friday night I canceled all my plans and nursed myself with pot and the excellent film Manhattan. It's kind of nice to be a pothead because halfway into the movie I realized I'd seen it before, so it was vaguely familiar, but still awesome. I get to rediscover the things I like, all the time.

I have decided to stop dating everyone simultaneously. Friday was a healing day. I woke up because John was biting me and I had a headache. He was whining that he hadn't seen me in so long, even though I'd seen him last week. When I left he said in a snarky way, "So, I'll probably see you in what, three weeks?" I said, "If you're lucky." As soon as I got out of his apartment, I knew I'd never go out with him again. I went to lunch with my friend and tried to text break up with a boy I've only gone out with once but somehow he's convinced he's in love with me. I was hoping to just let it slide away, but his text messages were getting increasingly impatient, so I told him to leave me alone. This put me in a bad mood regarding all things male-related, so I canceled my date with Joe for that night. Then his messages got really dramatic and desperate, culminating in a four-page text sent at 6 a.m. that read:

Hi its me again. Yes i know, i am bothering you again. Sorry for that, i cannot seem to get you out of my mind. For the first time in my life, i want something so bad. Dont mean to scare or put any pressure on u. I know u have so much on u right now with school and everything. All i am asking is that u give me the chance to get to know u better. It dont have to be right now when ever things slow down with school. Like u a whole lot for that short time i know u. Just want that opportunity. Its up to u anything u decide i will respect it. So text me your thoughts, want to know what you think.

I'm not kidding! I thought I'd made it clear by saying I was too busy, which everyone knows is clearly just a gentle no, because no matter how busy a person is, if they really like you, they will make time for you. I was actually awake at 6 a.m., having gone to sleep at 9:30 Friday night, and I answered him immediately: This is ridiclous. Please stop sending me messages.

It made me hate everything, myself the most. I feel like every girl in my life this week has said the same thing that I've been saying to myself all my life: how can this person possibly like me?

I titled this post "abuse of all things" because I was going to detail this week's adventures in booze, but now I don't feel like it. It's the same story, over and over again, of ritual self-abuse that is slowly killing me but I honestly don't know any other way. And it can actually be quite entertaining in the meanwhile.

"C'est l'histoire d'un mec qui tombe d'un immeuble de cinquante étages au fur et à mesure de sa chute il se répète sans cesse pour se rassurer: jusqu'ici tout va bien, jusqu'ici tout va bien, jusqu'ici tout va bien... mais l'important, c'est pas la chute, c'est l'atterrissage." (La Haine)

"It's the story of a guy who falls from the fiftieth story of a building and while he's falling, he says to himself over and over again to reassure himself: so far so good, so far so good, so far so good...but what's important isn't the fall...it's the landing."

Boy 3 Says Hello

So, yesterday's interview with my hero, Mark Gorton, went terribly. It was one of those things where I over-prepared and then I failed to cover the basic rules of good interviewing skills. It was pretty fucken embarrassing. That said, he did grant me a full hour of his time, and I did get to check out the sweet Tribeca split-level that his hedge fund occupies, filled with plants, fuschia pillows, and statues of Buddha. But when I left, I felt like an asshole, and wandered around Tribeca for a while, smoking cigarettes and feeling like a failure.

Oh well.

Then today, I get this email from Boy 3, the guy I saw for one hot minute in October. The email was two lines long..."Saw you yesterday...in my office...with my boss..."

How fucken weird! Of course Boy works for Mark Gorton. I'd like to say "Suddenly, it all made sense to me," but everything made even less sense. It really tripped me out to get that communique. It was the second time I'd heard about Boy in the past two weeks, because he'd run into a friend from school, and she actually recognized him from a party we went to at her place. It made me want to re-think life and fate, which I don't particularly believe in. But I'm willing to rethink these things.

I asked him why he didn't say hello. He wrote back:

i wish i had said hello, too.  instead i left the
office at four fifteen to avoid a potentially awkward encounter.
that's how much of an adult i am.

Oh Boy...