Losing Her A-Game

Cynicism is an unpleasant way of saying the truth.

Lillian Hellman

I’m perpetually tired these days. I can’t seem to sleep properly. I’m working a lot because my funds are so low that it almost seems sinful to say no to a shift. The bumper on my car needs fixing and I haven’t had time to take it into the shop so there’s a permanent fear that I may suddenly blow-up mid-drive one day. My brothers are down and out. Last night, I ripped two out of three of the only new articles of clothing I have bought in the past year. And, to top it off, I’m pretty sure that I’ve finally pushed the only guy I have liked in a long time far, far away. Final nail in the coffin.

Phew. There – self-pity part of post over. Promise. On the upside, I had a very fun-filled week with my old friend who came to visit from London. I finally got to venture out of the city a bit – saw Salem and Marblehead, which were lovely. Being around him was nice because it was familiar. It felt homey. But then he asked me if I missed England. And I have to say the answer is an honest NO. I miss the people, but not the place. That’s what makes everything the way it is, right? The people. This past week Jonny and I could have been anywhere from Birmingham to Bangkok and we still would have had the same riot of a time.

It really made me realize, that I will probably never be happy settling in one place for too long. I just don’t think I could do it. The fact that I’ve met a lot of VERY cool people in my lifetime in a variety of places, makes me just want to carry on and meet loads more people.

This post is also shit and pointless. Pointless for anyone to read – it’s just an excuse for me to bleed onto a web page because I feel bad that I haven’t written anything on this for so long.

I’m debating whether I should learn to play the cello or the guitar. The cello would just be so f-ing cool to play, right? But the guitar would be easier to move around and is probably slightly easier to learn how to play. What the hell do I know – I’ve only played piano.

I really need to get back into something that will distract my mind away from itself. Does that even make sense? It’s probably not good for my mind grapes to keep watching re-runs of 30 Rock.

Some guy came into the bar last night and gave me his number and offered to take me out to dinner. It made me sick. It made me doubly sick that another creepy guy who keeps coming in to chat about “finance” and “wine” said I had an amazing smile. I don’t like compliments on my general appearance/personality 1)when I’m tired, 2)when I’m working and 3)when it comes from people who list suitcases and chalk as their interests.

I’m bored with guys. I really am. I feel like I’ve had my quota of crushes for 2009. Now I guess I’ll focus on the more important stuff – as soon as I figure out what it is I’ll let you know.

Turn Me Into Sea Foam

I’ve been sick. Sick as a damn dog for the past 36 hours. So sick that I haven’t been able to keep anything down and I’ve felt permanently dizzy (shit – I just started to type “pregnant” and got as far as “pre” before I realized what I was writing and quickly amended my mistake. Freudian slip. Shit.)

Well, I’m not up the duff – I’m just ill. This happens about one to three times a year where I just can’t keep anything down for a day, feel exhausted and sorry for myself and then it’s over. It used to be somewhat cathartic, if that makes any sense. Like I was finally getting rid of all the toxins/bad things I’d ingested and then I could start over. This time it did not feel cathartic – just confusing. I even fainted in the damn doctors office yesterday.

Brilliant.

Puking my brains out aside, I’m attempting to get my life on track. Having missed now two shifts at work due to my illness, I’m fearing I’ll be on the breadline any moment. Who am I kidding? I am on the breadline. There is literally nothing in my refrigerator except salsa, cottage cheese and soy milk. Oh, and apples.

Seriously, this barren apartment looks like it’s got ambitions to be a suped-up bachelor pad one day. So far, no utensils (I do now have plastic forks which I stole from Blue Shirt Cafe not long ago), no microwave, no kettle but there is a kick ass 42” flatscreen tv sitting on two paper boxes in the living room. Oh, and about 100 DVDs above it.

I really need to stop exhausting this topic of not having anything in this apartment. I mean, I do exaggerate slightly – I could buy a microwave and some cutlery – I just haven’t gotten around to it yet. It’s that or Hendricks. Last week Hendricks won. This week I think it will have to be the microwave. I miss eating baked sweet potatoes.

So, I digress…I’m trying to get my life back in order. I’ve paid all my bills (including the ones that the psycho-hose-beast-from-the-midwest left me to pay) and ordered a cable box (which the psycho-hose-beast-from-the-midwest took/stole) and I applied for about 14 “real” jobs today. As much as I’m loving living this life of Riley, working in bars by night and writing by day, I have to accept the fact that I need more income to supplement it. Once the fiction is paying my rent, then I’ll slip back to this.

The stupid thing is, there’s nothing bloody out there. I’ve even thrown myself up for jobs that I literally thought when reading the description, “that sounds incredibly dull”. But, fact is, I need the moulah.

Balls. If only The Paris Review would actually respond to one thing I send them, at least I’d feel a little better.

I was re-reading/editing something I wrote a few months ago recently. It takes place in Copenhagen. I’ve never been to Copenhagen. I’ve been everywhere else in Scandinavia except Denmark. Trust me to want to write a story about somewhere I’ve never been.

Anyway, I mention The Little Mermaid in it. I’ve always wanted to go there and see that statue. Isn’t it amazing? Look:

She looks so contemplative. Like she doesn’t know whether to stay there or jump into the water. Like she’s afraid she might get sunburn or turn into sea foam.

Mismatch, Mismatch

Here’s a tip for women:

If you are ever planning, or hoping to EVER sleep with someone on a particular night, or indeed ever in the future, do not, I repeat DO NOT, wear a matching bra and underwear. No matter how seductive or “put together” it makes you feel, just don’t do it. Don’t even go out and buy nice, sexy lingerie. I guarantee that the second you do, it’s a sure fire way to jinx things. If you’re wearing a black lace thong with a super lacy black push-up bra, don’t count on having sex. The gods will plan against you. If you’re wearing dirty granny pants with bunny rabbits on them and a nude bra with the underwire poking out the side, you’re probably going to get laid.

On a separate note, I’m hungry. Famished, in fact. Actually, scratch that. I really feel that words such as “famished” and “starving” should only be used by people who are seriously without food, rather than someone who is just depriving themselves because they’re Citizens jeans are too tight on them. I’m immediately ashamed of myself.

So, yeah – I’m hungry. I ate nothing but half a bowl of soup yesterday. It wasn’t intentional. Honest. Just because I couldn’t fit into any decent clothes yesterday does NOT mean I’m starving myself. I love food too much. It’s just since my crazy roommate moved out (and added insult to injury by stealing my flipping plates), I have no cutlery or kitchenware with which to cook. Thus, I haven’t been grocery shopping in over a week. Really, I should have been to Target now to pick up some of this crap. But I haven’t. Something treacherous inside of me is testing  how long one can really go without a knife and fork. Or a toaster. Or a microwave. I mean, I’ve got a computer, a TV and a bed. All is good, right?

No groceries, no food, therefore nothing to snack on. That’s the plan. That’s my “get-thin” plan of February. We’ll see how long it takes before I start gnawing at the skirting board in the kitchen. I give it until the end of the week.

Teach Me Greek

That’s it. I can well and truly say that my over-indulgence has hit its peak. It’s time for me to do my annual “clean-living” stint, and what a better time than at the start of a new age and new month?

I woke up this morning in a cold-sweat. I had a terrible nightmare last night which was basically like I was a character in a Saw film. And I hate the Saw films. With a passion. I don’t know who any of the other people were in this room with me, but we were all trapped and forced to commit terrible things against ourselves that involved knives, spikes, etc. A cackling voice came from above the stone prison commanding us to do awful things. In short, it was HORRIFIC. I woke up nearly in tears and my sheets were soaking wet.

I have nightmares about as often as I lose my temper, which isn’t very often. Probably about once a year or every two years. But just like my temper, it seems that when I have these nightmares they are so utterly disturbing that they keep me on edge for weeks.

In my groggy haze at 6.30am this morning, I called upon Freud to help me understand what the hell the dream meant. I’m still at a loss. Something about me feeling trapped and in a prison? No, I don’t think so. I feel pretty liberated these days. Something about feeling I deserve to be punished for something? Hmmm…but that’s not unusual. I’m Catholic – the guilt never leaves you. Perhaps it’s some sign that I’m over-doing it? Over-indulging, over-drinking, over-eating, over-thinking? Maybe. That feels right. But I can’t recollect the last time I saw an alcoholic forced to cut his own finger off in a dark dungeon because of his steady relationship with gin. I mean, I’m not living in the Middle East (well….hmmm…maybe I should rephrase that?).

So, seeing as I was already up at the crack of dawn, I took it as a sign to go to the gym. Two and a half hours later, endorphins running high, I did my daily dosage of writing at the library. Then, I decided “Hey, it’s Friday. Buy yourself a new pair of jeans.” My closet literally frowns at me every time I open the door. It’s as if every time I look in it it’s saying, “If you put on another baggy, frilly top and stretchy pants with Uggs, no one will ever love you.”

I went to the mall, all excited at the prospect of shopping because I haven’t done it in ages.

The excitement quickly turned into frustration.

It was right in the Macy’s changing room , when I was trying on the 4th pair of size 6 jeans(which “used” to be my usual size) and I couldn’t even get it up past my ass, that I looked at my reflection and said, “Alright. This is crazy. Enough.”

I left the mall, in a huff, angry at myself for even attempting to buy new clothes when the only reason I knew I wanted new ones is because all my current ones DON’T FIT ME.

Blast.

So, instead of doing my normal retreat into myself, constantly berating myself for my unhealthy ways as of recent, I went to yoga. And I felt much better after that.

I’m going to try to not procrastinate and do things in moderation from now on. There’s no need for me to always be such an extreme person, is there? Or is extreme just more fun? I think I know what the answer is but I’m going to try and find out for myself first.

How To Preserve Oneself

I don’t get it. I really don’t. Just when I thought I’m finally coming to grips with my own mind, how it works and how and why I act in certain ways, I start behaving and thinking like a total stranger to myself.

I’m talking about romance here, folks. Why is it that some people are able to run so freely into it and jump from relationship to relationship as if they’re a pawn on a chess board, while others are more guarded and less optimistic?

I’m going to be totally honest here – most of the time, when I don’t have an interest in anyone, I wonder WHEN and IF I’ll ever find someone I like. Then, when I finally do, I spend a large amount of mental energy on convincing myself that I DON’T like this person.

Case in point: there’s this guy (we’ll call him Jasper) who I’ve been spending a lot of time with. I like him. I’m sure of it. But I can already see myself pushing this away. I don’t want to change my life. I love life at the moment. I love living how I’m living and being with the people I choose to be around. But isn’t it true that when people start getting “closer”, they have to start factoring each other into things and thus change the course of their life?

I’m probably being a bit premature here – it’s early days and 90% of the time I don’t even know what’s going on. I keep convincing myself that this person “cannot possibly be attracted to me” and “only hangs out with me because I’m a fallback, a stepping stone for greater things.” And while you’ll probably think that’s a horrible way to think, it is a weapon I commonly use to keep risky situations at bay.

I’m already pissed off at myself that I’ve spent nearly 300 words babbling about this subject already.

Change of topic – so it was my 27th birthday yesterday (which I already mentioned). It was great. Some friends took me out to a surprise birthday dinner in Back Bay (which was AMAZING – I haven’t even been out in that area yet and I’ve been in Boston for five months). Of course, two and a half Hendricks martinis later I was loving everyone and talking to strangers (must stop doing that ALL of the time – once in a while is great, not every damn night).

A friend of mine in England, who used to LOVE emailing me obscene things and random definitions of dirty sex acts (don’t ask – he just thought I had a very innocent mind and felt it was his duty to corrupt it), has a rather unhealthy obsession with the website www.urbandictionary.com. In light of my birthday yesterday, he told me to look up my first name on the site. Here’s just a few of the definitions that came up when I entered Diana:

1) A girl with big boobs and an ass, usually blonde, great in bed and although may seem stupid at times, is very intelligent, although she herself may not realize it.

2) The most gorgeous girl you have ever seen. She has big beautiful eyes and she is small but so cute that you want to pick her up. She smiles all the time and when she smiles it makes you want to smile.

3)Completely strung out on caffiene so that words are unintelligible and rodent-like, muscle spasms are frequent, and random fascinations dominate speech and action, e.g. shiny objects, scarfs, capes, and magic tricks.

4)A person who traps puppies under chair legs, breaks windows with bowling pins, gets freaky monster-rashes on her wrist, is able to tan while wearing jeans, is worshipped by bugs (but not flies), eats mashed potatoes with peanut butter, and is more awesome than you.

Currently, I think definitions 3 & 4 are probably the most accurate (although my fascination with capes is waning), but I’m going to strive to make 1 & 2 more applicable. Just don’t know what I’m going to do about the boob thing – no way am I enhancing them surgically. Maybe I can just get someone to get me pregnant. But if I do that, hmmm….I’d better stop this “self-preservation” shit or I’ll have the chest of a 12-year old boy for the rest of my life. What a pickle.

“When life hands you lemons, I say ‘fuck the lemons’ and bail.”

Paul Rudd, Forgetting Sarah Marshall

Sympathy For The Devil

“He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. Is not life a hundred times too short for us to bore ourselves?”

Friedrich Nietzsche

It’s amazing how much can happen in a week. Roommates move out unexpectedly, new friendships are made, bosses get fired, people steal from you, a chance meeting with Benicio Del Toro…it’s so funny when life does these things. Just when you think everything is upside down, it turns around again.

I was recently recounting to a friend, the amount of times I have “almost died”. There’s the time my cousin tried to drown me, the time I had an epileptic fit in a coffee shop in Amsterdam, the time I got jumped in an alley way on my way home from work…there’s obviously some reason I’m still here – I hope I can figure it out.

In the summer of 2003, a friend of mine from London came to visit me in St Louis. We decided to embark on a three-week long road trip from the midwest all the way to the west hitting Santa Fe, Vegas, Grand Canyon, San Diego, LA and San Francisco then looping down through Lake Tahoe, Reno and then onto Colorado.

Two days into the trip, I’m driving in New Mexico, with the Saturn on cruise control, just about to cross over the Arizona border, when the steering wheel suddenly locked and the car began to swerve out of control. I slammed on the breaks, causing the car to then flip a 180, on a two-lane interstate highway, with cars going 80mph. Every thing went into slow motion, the outside world became a blur and the car, which I still couldn’t get under control, was about to head under the back wheels of a semi-truck in the next lane.

In short, I was certain we were going to die. I was sure of it.

So, I impulsively just took my hands off the wheel, raised my arms in the air, looked at my friend and said, “I surrender”.

Remarkably, the truck missed our car (which seemed like it was driving itself at this point) and the shabby little black Saturn made it’s way to the other side of the road and stopped.

And so, Suzi and I lived to see another day.

It’s funny when you think of things that are sent here to test us in this life and it’s funny how sometimes when you surrender yourself to the unknown, things just have a way of working themselves out.

If you had told me, three weeks ago that a 12-year friendship I had with someone I was now living with, would have ended with her 1) stealing from me, 2)moving out and stealing from me again, 3)lumping me with double rent because her inner devil wanted time to breathe on its own and 4) her threatening me with a litigious battle – I wouldn’t have believed it.

Also, if you had told me some three weeks ago, that this was going to happen and I wasn’t going to absolutely freak out about it, I also wouldn’t have believed it.

AND, in addition, if someone had told me, even two weeks ago that through all of this I would have met a guy that I actually like and don’t want to rip-my-own-arm-off-so-I-have-something-to-throw-at-him-because-he’s-so-annoying, I still wouldn’t have believed it.

Ah, alas I guess life is constantly trying to push our boundaries of faith, eh?

It’s my birthday today. I’m 27. It really feels like I’m pushing on. 26 didn’t seem so bad. 27 is a tad too close to 30 for my liking. That said, a large portion of some of the coolest people I know are pushing 40 – so I guess it’s no biggie smalls.

So on this day, which really feels like just another snowy day in Boston, I’m trying to come up with a few reasonable goals to adhere to in my 28th year on this planet. I think these are pretty reasonable:

1)Publish some fiction. ANYTHING non-journalistic.

2)Learn to play the guitar

3)Drink less, laugh more

4)Be in control of my own emotions – do not let anyone else take that seat!

5)Do not scare new friends by running around their house with a drill like an extra from Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

Right? Really?

So I recently saw the film Revolutionary Road (the new Kate Winslet/Leonardo DiCaprio flick) and boy, WHAT a downer. I’m really on the fence with it at the moment.

But before I start, I really have to give kudos to Sam Mendes – how he was able to watch Leo “bone” his wife on a kitchen counter, I’ll never know…Talk about suffering for your art.

Ok, so on the one hand, it’s exhausting to watch two people constantly bicker and fight and moan and complain and cry and scrunch their faces up and cheat and lie to themselves and each other all while being locked in suburbia through choice but not wanting to take responsibility for their choices.

On the other hand, I get it – it’s pretty real. Granted it’s set in 1950s Connecticut (Revolutionary Road to be precise) and though I may have been brought into this world some 40 years later, it’s not hard to imagine that these issues are probably very present in modern day marriages. Only thing is, in this day and age, the couple are more likely to get a divorce quicker than you can say “I do”, rather than put up with this stifling imprisonment

Then, of course, there are the couples that do put up with it. Usually, this is when kids are involved (as in the film) and they’ll both convince each other that they’re sticking together “for the sake of their children”. Meanwhile, the kids will go through rounds of expensive therapy sessions, perhaps may even have a stint in rehab or some psychiatric ward for a bit, and mom and dad will continue to fight, before one of them ends it violently some 35 years later. Very noble indeed.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not against marriage. I think it can be one of the most beautiful things in the world if it’s done for the right reasons, mainly being love, trust, honesty and the unflinching agreement in knowing that every day isn’t going to be filled with roses and marzipan. I’m just against getting married for the sake of getting married. I’m against flippant decisions to spend the rest of your time here on this earth with someone who “is alright for now” or “financially capable”. I’m against throwing yourself into any kind of romantic relationship without being honest with yourself first and knowing who you TRULY are.

Keep in mind, when I say “against”, I am referring to myself and myself only. This is what am against for my direction in life. Everyone else can do, and will do, whatever they so please. It’s their lives after all.

I just can’t ignore the fact that so many people I have met, through many walks of life, are too quick to live by what society deems is “necessary” and “normal”. How exhausting to live your life based on other people’s standards who don’t even know you! (That’s where the exhausting part of the film comes in).

Let me give you an example: I have a friend (we’ll use that term loosely for the moment) who, like me, went to high school in the provincial, affluent city of St Louis. She, like many other girls I knew then, thought her life was mapped out for her – high school, college, marriage at 24, first child at 26, second at 28, third at 30 and so forth…

Having lived a fortunately spoiled life filled with monotone Coach bags, BMWs from Daddy, David Yurman jewelry (I only found out what that was about two months ago) weekends in Mexico, she set her sights on the East Coast and attended a private, Catholic college in search of her “perfect man”. Mr Perfect came along quickly. So did more Tiffany anniversary presents, weekends at the Cape, dining at expensive restaurants and promises of million dollar homes with white-picket fences and 2.4 children.

I’ll spare the details – as it’s not really my story to tell anyway and I’m infringing on her privacy as is – but along with all of this surface security came control. A lot of it. From both sides. Control spurned into resentment, resentment into hate and hate into a nasty break up some six years later. Now, at 26 (nearly 27) my friend considers herself a “failure” and has pushed nearly every last reserve of support away from her. Friendships have deteriorated and she sits in a job she hates.

Imagine that. Imagine if every time you broke up with someone, you deemed yourself a failure. I know some people do but to put all of that on yourself is just such a heavy load. I can’t imagine going through life and every relationship thinking, “If this doesn’t end in marriage and kids then I’m a loser and this has all been pointless.”

But then again, maybe it’s easy for me to say this. I was uprooted to the UK at the age of 16 – through no choice of my own, believe me. I hated it. Loathed it to be precise. Ironically, I ended up learning to love it and stayed for a decade before returning back to US shores. I was able to escape the bubble that I’d been brought up in for so long. I saw a new way of life, new methods of thinking, new cultures, new everything. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise.

As I watched Revolutionary Road, I thought to myself, “Geez, if I’d stayed in the midwest, would I have turned out like this?” Would I have been sucked into the tunnel vision thinking that there is really only one way, one course of a “good life”? Would I have had the strength to try and escape it? Ten years ago, I was a pretty insecure and fragile teen, constantly searching for approval in others rather than myself. I based my life views and choices on what other people thought. Sad , I know, but very true. Would I have been subjected to a life with borders? I’m not sure on that one..

But are we just products of our environments and our upbringings? Can it really be boiled down that simply? I’m not sure if I believe that. I’d like to believe (and this is where my real romanticist comes in) that we are all, inheirently, born as individuals with individual tastes, thoughts, ideas, desires, dreams, visions, laughs, fears and hopes. It’s pretty beautiful if you recognize that.

I found this diary entry over Christmas, that I’d written when I was about 14. I was never very good at keeping diaries – there’s a lot of empty notebooks with the first few pages filled in sitting in my nightstand cupboard. That said, this entry read:

“I feel like the world is caving in sometimes. All the girls in my class care about is what color nail polish they are wearing to Andy’s party on Friday. I don’t even own any nail polish right now. Maybe I should probably go out and by some. I wish I could paint them all different colors, like a kaleidoscope. But that would probably be stupid.”

That’s not stupid. But I can think of a few things that are…

Ramble On

My whole life people have told me that I (and this is a DIRECT quote) “tell long stories”.

I always shrugged it off, thinking it amused most people. When I tell a story, I like to get in every niggly detail – the details are important. Sometimes I even go back in time before the actual story/live event I’m about to relay, and make sure I set a really good scene for the listener. It’s not that I like the sound of my own voice (honest – I’m just like most people – you know when you hear your voice on an answering machine/video and you think, “Holy shit, is that what I sound like? Ugghh.” Yeah, well I do that too.), it’s just a habit I have. When you sit down to listen to one of my tales, get your bum comfortable (bum is such a funny word – I think that’s the first time I’ve ever written it. How very English of me.)

So, I am sitting at home, writing away and taking occasional breaks to surf the web, when I started reading a few blogs from other people. Some are written by people I know, others aren’t. And one thing I noticed is that, I’d venture to say 95% of other people’s posts are about a third in length from mine. Perhaps I should start practicing the art of succinctness? Might be an avenue worth taking a look at.

On a separate note, I’ve just stumbled across a list of “The Best And Worst Jobs In The Country”. It was compiled by a guy named Les Krantz. He based the study/list on a variety of factors, including pay, stress and work conditions. Oddly, the “best” job was a mathematician.

Not really my cup of tea.

The worst job was a lumberjack.

Fine, not a route I was planning on trying out anyway.

Interestingly, for me, Bartender comes in at 163 (swiftly followed by Undertaker at 164), while Author is at 93 and Reporter is at 140.

And you know what? I can totally live with a doing a job “lower” down ladder than my previous profession while I aim for something higher.

Besides, it’s just a stupid survey. I wonder why “Person Who Assesses Worth And Rank Of Other Professions” isn’t on here?

Phuck Phones

So I’m reading this book called The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari by Robin S. Sharma- it’s one of these inspirational/personal development types of literature. My mother got it for me for Christmas, bless her. She seems to always push these positive, uplifting books that she reads onto me whenever she finishes one. I’m not sure if it’s because she thinks I really need them, or if she knows that I’m just too damn proud to so much as even set foot in the “self-help” section of Borders. It’s probably a combination of both.

And I have to admit – it’s a good read. If you can get past the whole this-is-obviously-not-a-true-story-about-a-monk-who-travels-to-India-and-is-just-a fable-for-Sharma-to-get-his-message-across malarkey. I’m only halfway through but so far, the message I’m getting loud and clear, is that in order to obtain true happiness and contentment in this chaos, one has got to learn to “master the mind”. It’s this whole notion of learning that YOU can control your mind and the thoughts that enter it but in our society, we have been trained through worry and negative thinking, to let our minds control us.

Trust me – it does make sense when you read it.

It actually couldn’t be better timing for me to be reading something like this, considering I just spent an entire two weeks sitting on my ass in Brigg, juggling the first Christmas with the parents being divorced and having to deal with (shock, horror!) going to two different houses on the holiday (including the one where my dad and his new girlfriend have shacked up). Plus, there’s the fact that it couldn’t have been a more unproductive holiday – all I did was eat fish ‘n chips, Indian takeaway, mounds (seriously) of Cadbury’s whilst sitting on the living room couch watching crap British television and constantly procrastinating on writing. Why is it whenever I’m surrounded by family members, my energy is zapped and I can’t seem to bring myself to write?

Then, of course there’s the money situation. Not that I haven’t been poor before – I’ve scraped the barrel a few times back in my college days. The problem really is, I’m NOT in college anymore. I’m 26 (27 this month – blast time!). I keep telling myself (with the help of Mr Robin S. Sharma) that age has nothing to do with anything. But the “broke bartender in Boston” alliteration keeps creeping back into my head.

So, with all of this on the road behind me, yes – I welcomed a tale about a top-end litigator who was able to strip himself bare of all of his material things and all of the elements that made his life familiar in favor of a soul-enhancing trip to India. I’ve always been a big fan of that country and considering I was there this time last year, hey – bring on the mystic prescription, Sharma. I’ll take a bit of some kind of literary medicine right now.

Halfway through, I’m finding myself implementing little slivers of the book into daily life. I’m trying to cultivate my mind and “protect it” – keep it free of ANY negative feelings whatsoever. Apparently, you can’t afford to even have ONE negative thought in your mind – it’s like a virus. We’re supposed pretend we’re serious horticulturalists and treat our minds like a beautiful garden, fending off any weeds.

I’d say I’m not doing too badly. Thinking positively? Yes. Blocking out bad feelings from all people (including family members)? Yes. The fact that I’m broke as a joke and certain people who owe me very large sums of money don’t want to pay up? Doesn’t bother me one bit. Honestly.

But today was certainly a trial.

You see, I’ve never been very good at keeping a phone for a set period of time. We never seem to have good relationships – they always leave me. They must think that I don’t treat them right. Perhaps they get jealous or resentful that I never use them enough. Or maybe they’re angry at the fact that I never notice the fancy technology that they’re wearing (camera? Never use. internet? Occasionally. MP3 player? No way – already got an iPod thank you very much). Or perhaps it’s just the plain, simple fact that they tire of my late night shenanigans that they run out the first chance they get (I’m starting to think it’s no coincidence they usually get lost when booze or boys are involved).

But despite my inability to maintain a cellular relationship, I’ve never really had much trouble finding a new one.

Until today.

So, for all of you folks out there who have just suffered a tragic break-up with a snazzy iPhone, here’s a step-by-step account of how to move on and re-enter the mobile world with confidence:

Step One: Go into AT&T store. Spend at least one hour with extremely dimwitted associate who will make you feel more worthless than you have ever allowed yourself to feel for losing your phone (one must truly hit rock bottom before you can get over this mess).

Step Two: Allow said dimwitted associate to try and convince you to purchase a new iPhone at a non-discounted price – it’s “only $500″. Remember, AT&T does not insure ANY iPhone relationship. If it’s gone, it’s gone.

Step Three: Rebuild your self-esteem by telling dimwitted associate that you don’t want to get back together with the iPhone. There’s a reason these things end. Respect yourself enough to treat this as if it’s really over. You need to move on.

Step Four: Wait another 35 minutes (on top of the hour you have already spent in the store) for dimwitted associate to try and even locate your name on the system. Obviously, if your relationship started out-of-state, this is going to be harder than it should be.

Step Five: Recognize first wave of clarity. This dimwitted associate is obviously not taking your feelings/situation seriously – NOT a good shoulder to cry on. Leave store immediately in search of new, helpful mentor to guide you through the process.

Step Six: Drive 20 minutes to different AT&T store. Find more helpful associate who tells you to get back out there. You listen and buy new phone.

Step Seven: With new phone in sight, wait patiently while associate proceeds to talk for 45 minutes about his recent trip to Aruba. Remember to be polite – you may have accidentally caused this tirade after mentioning the UK and how the phone system is better there. This may spurn a racial attack on all things non-New England, and thus formulating into a detailed account of his North American travels.

Step Eight: Spend a further 50 minutes on the phone in the store to AT&T customer service (associate may not offer to do this step for you – perhaps this can help you regain your independence?). Customer service representative will be new and unable to do any simple task without putting you on hold for an extended period of time while consulting with manager.

Step Nine: With new, installed phone in tow, make quick escape out of store before any damage is done to the relationship with your new phone.

Really, it’s that simple – I promise.

I wonder if Mr Sharma has ever been into an AT&T store. Perhaps I should email him and ask? If he’s with Verizon, I’m really going to kick myself.

Keep Calm And Carry On

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.”

-Charles Dickens, A Tale Of Two Cities

My what a difference 9 months can make. No, I haven’t had a baby (I do believe coitus is required for that sort of thing anyway). I’m actually talking about a different kind of birth, a “rebirth” if you will. Rewind to March 27, 2008, the date of my first and last entry to this blog, and you can see how bright-eyed I was about moving and escaping from London. (John Carpenter, eat your heart out). That enthusiasm for change is still there, but the emotional bonds I felt so deeply have flipped a 180 – the friendship tether with (who I now merely refer to as my “roommate”) XXX has almost snapped.

If I had visited the world’s most prominent psychic back in March, and she had told me, as she gazed deeply into her crystal ball, that XXX and I could never live together because we’re too different and it would put a strain on the relationship, I would have told her to shove her ball up a very specific orifice in her body and walked out without paying. That notion seemed too ridiculous. I’ve heard of how some people can be the best of friends and “just can’t live together” – I’ve even been through it myself. But this? This sounded too far-fetched. There was NOTHING, simply nothing that could possibly destroy this friendship with a friend I have known for nearly 15 years, who has been loyal and supportive throughout.

WRONG.

Moving in with someone you know that well can be bad news. I’ve just lived through it and I’ve seen XXX’s darker side, her selfish side, her very “un”supportive side, her narcissitic side, her inability to let anyone into her immediate day-to-day life unless that person has potential to be her mate for life.

XXX’s daily motto: If you don’t have the sperm to provide me with a potential future family of my OWN, then I don’t really give a shit about you. I’ll pretend I do, but really I don’t. And when I get home from church everyday, I’ll pray before I go to sleep that God will send me a husband. Being a good person on the outside doesn’t really matter so long as I receive the sacrament, right?

I wish someone would tell her that’s wrong.

Now, I’ll spare the exhausting details (and will also save myself and this blog from anymore of this negative energy that is spilling from my fingertips as I think of this entire situation) just trust me when I say, my friend has not made this move easy for me. I didn’t move here with anyone. I moved here MYSELF.

And as I sat alone in my room in Somerville most days in October (I moved to the city in September) searching for jobs on the internet, fearful of the still very unknown city that lay on my doorstep, I hoped and hoped that XXX would show me around a little bit, perhaps introduce me to a few of her friends. I was in dire need of human interaction.

Fruitless hoping it proved to be.

I was lonely, missing London (which I NEVER thought I would say) but my heart and my gut kept telling me to stick it out, ride the frothy wave and persist forward. Keep calm and carry on, I kept telling myself. While this was no world war, it was indeed a war of some kind.

But life sure does have its funny way of making everything seem topsy-turvey, when in fact all it’s doing is  just rebalancing itself  out for you.

This entire isolation caused me to throw myself wholeheartedly into new environments, new situations with new and exciting people.

And I lucked out. Two jobs in two very different bars later, I’ve met a special handful of people that just simply RULE. They do stuff – they’re creative and inspiring. They dance without caring who is looking at them. They play piano and sing in front of strange crowds. They laugh. They don’t take themselves too seriously – but the important stuff they DO take seriously. They’re easy to talk to, easy to be around – a pleasure to be around. While it seems I’ve only known them six weeks or so, I feel like it’s been longer! Funny that, eh? Awesome.

So, finally, three months in and three thousand Hendricks martinis later (and three minor car incidents later), all is good here in Beantown. I feel like I’ve really settled here in my own right. I really did this on my own and anyone who even dares suggest that I had the support of a longtime high-school friend can really go and fuck themselves. This is me here. And it feels good.

That Charles Dickens was one smart English lad.