I'm a little disturbed...

My, my, my. I don't even know where to start. I've been feeling lonely lately, in the romantic sense. Seeing as how it's been since the beginning of October, since anything, anything has happened. Oh, wait. Excuse me. There was one night, maybe in January... where a 19 year-old was hitting on me at the Blue Fugue, in CoMO, but I'm pretty sure he was shwasted, he got my number and tried to "walk" me home, but I had a bike, and that resulted in him running along side/chasing me for a while, until I pulled over and said, "Hey, seriously. Stop." after jokingly saying, "Oh no, no, no, no." And then he text messaged me about dinner, ooooooh. No. Oh yeah, and I gave him a bird peck kiss, cause he asked... sometimes I do stupid things because I don't want to hurt people's feelings, but that was dumb. Anyway, what I was getting at - the loneliness. Tonight, in my cab, on the way home from work, I was just thinking how nice it would be to go to sleep with a guy next to me, instead of cradling my teddy bear, "Pandy" (he's a panda, I was an original child), and to have someone to love and hug all the time, and do things with, like take walks and hold hands... And thinking all these thoughts made me get a frowny face, and I tried to tell myself that I'm fabulous and I'm doing all these wonderful things with my life, things that I might not've done if I had a boyfriend right now... like moving to Chicago, and being a fabulous single city girl. Whatever! I don't know where I was going with that, but it also made me think about how no guy has ever asked me out, ever! Ever! Never. Ever. And that made me sad. I've always asked guys out on dates. Always me, never them. And that fact blows my balls (if I had them, which I don't, and if I did, that would explain them not asking me out). My mom always says, "The boys are intimidated by your beauty." And I say, "Stop being a lying liar, Mom. You're just saying that because you're my mom." And she is. The only guys that hit on me are homeless men, and they just want my money; old men, and they just want my youth; or drunk men, and they don't know what's going on. If anything, the boys are intimidated by my outrageous awkwardness, or something... I don't know.

But anyway, I don't mean to be a whiny baby. I've decided to wait maybe a couple more days, weeks, months... and then, I'm going to start buying cats, and more cats, and then maybe some dogs, that way something will love me - and I'll turn into the crazy spinster lady on the block, kids running by my house, screaming. It might be fun. Wait. No, I didn't even plan on blogging tonight. Blogging. What is that? What's the point of this. It's like a journal, but it's not, because I'm saying, "Hey. Everybody come read my personal thoughts." Blogging's kinda sexy/voyeuristic in that sense. Hot!

Okay, so I come home, through the front door (as usual, duh), and as I'm passing through the living area, towards the kitchen, and further beyond, my room, my roommate, Filthy pops out of his room. Oh. Man. He's drunk, hits against the door jam, and slurs, "Hey! You wanna drink?" Which I reply, "Sure!" and then he slurs, "Yeah, let's drink!" And he stumbles into his mess of a room, and gets me a Milwaukee's Best (yum! - sarcasm). I don't enter his room, A) b/c it's filthy, and 2) because on the outside of his door, he's tacked all these awful things about himself, like, "Filthy, you're a waste of a soul" and "Life is one big circle jerk" and "Failure" and "Obsolete" and a picture of a pretty girl, and an arrow to it that says, "You'll never have this, don't even try" and all the horrible things, and I can't help but feel bad for him. What's happened to this man? He ruefully says he's celebrating. "Celebrating what, Filthy?" I say. "The fact that I haven't touched a woman in 15 months." And I thought I was lonely! And he goes on to say awful things about himself, and I contradict him, telling him he's a great guy, and smart and funny, because he is. He's a genuine person, and despite the fact that he got our heat shut off for the 5 coldest days in March, he is. I took all the notes off his door, and then he asked me not to leave, but I went to throw the paper in the trash, and then he mumbled more bad things about himself and closed his door. So, I poured myself a glass of Jerry Garcia Merlot (b/c the label is a pretty volcano watercolor) and said, "Hey, Filthy! You want some ice cream. Ice cream always makes me feel better." And that's probably another reason why I don't have a boyfriend, because occasionally, to daily, I eat my feelings. But anyway, he said no. So, I took my glass of wine, and my pint of ice cream (no. I'm not going to eat it all. I'm not high, right now) and came into blog.

We're all lonely. We're always going to be living month to month, stuck in this rat race. These are more things he said. And I said, "We're not here for a long time, Filthy. We're here for a good time." I read that somewhere. I won't take credit. But I do believe it. Life's hard. Life has always been hard. Life will always be hard. If it's not one thing, it's something else. And you've just got to try the best you can, make it what you can. And I try. I get sad and mad, but I try not to stay sad and mad because it just makes things harder. And I wish I wasn't so lonely, so sometimes when I get lonely I try to do something that will make me happy, like phone a friend, or run, or smile a lot, or sing a song, or something else that will make me feel great, like watching funny things on youtube. I'm rambling now, so this - writing is another thing that makes me happy.

I haven't written any scripts in a while. I've got some ideas floating around in my head, and I think that's okay, because I had a playwriting professor who knows Edward Albee (one of my heroes), personally, and he said that Ed said that he walks around with characters inside his head for years, sometimes, before he can write them out. He walks with them, talks with them, so he can understand them, and convey their thoughts and emotions truthfully. This is getting way off topic. That's my one big problem as a writer, I would say. That, and my grammar. Fuck grammar. I write like I talk. I do what I want. My problem, I'm tangentical. Is that a word? I want to change the world. I want to do improv. I want to act. I've always wanted to, but I'm scared. I'm afraid of rejection - but who isn't?! I wish I wasn't such a baby. Throw me a pacifier and a blanket. Wah, wah! Someday, maybe I'll get sick of wishing and starting doing. YEAH!

Alright, you keep it real, cyber abyss. And I'll keep writing to the nothingness to soothe my loneliness. And maybe I'll write Filthy a note of something my mom said my Great-grandpa Fonz ("Fonce") used to say, "From the time that you're born, 'til you ride in a hearse, there's nothing so bad, that it couldn't be worse." He fought in one (or both) World Wars (what a horrible thing, war, but that's another blog post all together), PTSD. Once at a campfire, when the fire popped, he jumped behind a log, or something, and shook like a baby. Could you imagine? How awful? Oh, I'm getting angry about... no, I won't dive in that pond tonight, but human cruelty is the thing that makes me the angriest. Life is hard, you know it, I know it. Why purposely make it worse, when you don't have to? Communication is key. Anyway. I've strayed waaaaaaaaay far away from what I meant to say, and I keep writing for no particular reason other than the fact that I impress myself with my super-fast typing ability and the sound of my fingers smoothly striking the keys. Stop! Okay, I will. Peace and love. Lateeeeer.