I am

going to go back to using my old journal. I'm a woman and it is my prerogative to change my mind, etc. etc.
I am really going to miss Winona.


it's 3:00 am and I love my cat

she's shifted. her eyes are closed, she's purring, her paws are hooked into the layers of fabric covering my right boob, and she's meowing regularly in her sleep. if she meows too loud she'll wake herself up and I will be entertained for at least 20 minutes.

it's 2:30 am and I hate my roommate

my roommate has decided that, instead of using his private bedroom, he'll start having noisy sex in the communal living room instead.

I don't know.

is it immature to start blasting old episodes of My Little Pony around the third "oh God oh God oh GOD"?

well, I can answer my own question. yes. yes, it is immature. but it's also pretty fun. you should try it sometime. you know, if you're ever in this situation.

I've had issues with this roommate before. this is the same guy who periodically throws booze parties for his nearest and dearest Marine buddies that usually result in long, loud, easily audible conversations about my sexuality (dyke, but only until she gets the right cock in her) and one or more of his jerkoff friends trying to force his way into my room. triggers are so much fun.

the first time it happened I told him that this is a specific trigger for me because my stepdad used to intentionally break the lock on my bedroom door, and see that it stayed broken, so that he could have access to me for creepy molestation purposes any time he wanted. Roommate expressed sympathy and said they had only been looking for the bathroom (not a believable excuse given the layout of the apartment and a few other reasons I won't go into) and it wouldn't happen again and he'd pay to have a lock installed on my door.

long story short (too late) the lock never materialized and the next time he had a buddy over, the buddy forced my door open again, in spite of the fact that I kept my laundry basket permanently pushed up against it (for a long time that was the heaviest thing in my room). only this time, I was completely naked when he opened my door. it was horrible. I couldn't move for fear of exposing more of myself to him, and he just gawped in the doorway for 10-15 seconds until he realized "huh, maybe I should close the door" and closed the door. I could hear them laughing hysterically about it outside.

the latest party, just a few days ago, resulted in no door-opening, thank god, but I did hear a long, disturbing conversation about how four guys to one girl (she was in her underpants for most of the party, which I noticed when I went out to the bathroom to brush my teeth) wasn't a good ratio and, well, they HAD one more girl but she would have to be dragged from her room and given some good hard cock to straighten her out. ha ha. little pun on the term "straight" there, did you catch that? yeah. so did I. jokers. I piled all of the disassembled Ikea shelving I own in front of my door and didn't sleep a wink, resulting in some interesting mania the following day. and I had to listen to what was essentially a gangbang five or six feet away from my bedroom door. and I had to listen to some loud roommate sex the following day and night, same distance. because apparently the privacy of a bedroom interferes with his mojo now or something.

I hate my roommate.

but I love My Little Pony. remember the Ice Cream Wars? good times!

incomplete churnage

well, it's Wednesday, my day to churn. I'm not really sure how to spin this into something modern unless I say something like, "I churned in my own anxiety and self-loathing today." or, you know, those lines. which I did. I accomplished nothing. it might as well have been any other day of the week or month or year. my shrink offered me $40 per session to do yoga. as in, he would pay me $40 to do an hour of yoga, twice a week, increasing my weekly income by $80. I told him I'd think about it. am I surrounded by some kind of impenetrable shield of immobility?

I said that in my carefree, flower-bedecked youth (which is code for my abusive, rape-tinged youth), my behavior these days would have been called lazy, ungrateful, and unacceptable and I probably would have been given beatings until I "decided" to do the things I need to do, such as: eat. bathe. clean. repeat as needed. it bothers me that my incentive back then (getting hit) is probably the only thing that would mobilize me now. I don't know if it would mobilize me to churn any butter. it might mobilize me to stab someone in the neck with a broken bottle of Mogen David, but I think at that point I'd be pretty much in the zone and I might even be energized enough to get some laundry done.

my shrink replied that depressed people develop patterns of conserving energy. which I don't fully understand because if I was conserving energy you'd think I'd, you know, have some.
performance art

O World-Famous Pinsky Salami: 16 AUGUST 2011 (archived)

...share with me a bit of your tasty wisdom. These are the trying times, the times that will determine the ultimate course of my life, give or take a few youthful side trips to Tijuana.

What if I took a bite of the World-Famous Pinsky Salami and it did to me what the mushroom did to Alice? If I tasted of it and it shot me up to 100 feet tall, then brought me back down to exactically 3 inches high?

Imagine the money I would amass through television exposure.


Things for me to do every day or close to every day:

1. Walk 1-3 miles in the evening when it's cool
2. Swim morning laps
3. Clean my room at least a little bit
4. Stretch my bowstring muscles
5. Cook one meal (at least)
6. Meet one person (at least)

I also have to sit down with D. and make plans for our Etsy empire. It will be glorious. Not quite so glorious as the inherent glory emanated by the World-Famous Pinsky Salami, but close.
  • Current Music
    The Wedding Present - "Octopussy"
  • Tags

and then... 15 APRIL 2011 (archived)

I broke it off with the addict and kicked him out. Reason: He picked a fight with our landlord, jeopardizing my living situation. No bueno. I also hate being in relationships where the other person is more into it than me, and it was rapidly moving in that direction.

I got a call from his mother today, which I missed because I was sleeping soundly in the super-comfortable bed of my lady friend. (She's not my special lady, she's my fucking lady friend. At least, I don't think she's my special lady. Not yet. Maybe in future. We shall see, chickens.) He's in rehab several states away. This arrangement suits me.

I really want to get my furniture situation together. My room looks like a hobo lives in it. Granted, a hobo with pretty sheets, but a hobo nonetheless. I need to put my god damn mother fucking cock sucking bookcase together, and I also need to get a desk. And some nails so I can hang Unicorn Clock. Unicorn Clock is the alpha and omega. Unicorn Clock is.
  • Current Music
    The Wedding Present - "Blonde"
  • Tags

as it stood: 21 MARCH 2011 (archived)

A few weeks ago I was taken in a squad car from my shrink's office to the county psych hospital, the second time in six months that I managed this (diagnosis both times: severe depression with psychotic features). It must have been a full moon because the ward was overflowing with crazies and they shooed me out after only two nights on emergency.

Six months ago, on my maiden voyage, they wanted to certify me for 14 days--and the more I objected, the longer they threatened to keep me. This time around I felt fragile and terrified and wanted to stay a little while, but the more I objected to being released the more vehement they seemed to be about pushing me out the door. Crazy!

Because I had no money and no place to live, I was taken in a cab from the hospital to a "crisis house," something I had no experience with because I come from a part of the country where the homeless and mentally ill are left to fend for themselves in the streets like feral Russian dogs. At the house, I proceeded to have an experience worthy of any stereotypical "lovable crazies" movie, except less irritating and more filled with dramz (and drug dealing).

I was almost kicked out of the house for engaging in illicit sexual activity with another resident (holy Susanna, Batman!), and the other resident, a homeless recovering coke addict, actually was kicked out. Various other dramzzz occurred before I was discharged honorably and began making my way in the world as a card-carrying feeb (receiver of disability benefits as a result of PTSD, chronic severe anxiety, and aforementioned severe depression with psychotic features).

I took in the recovering addict and am currently attempting to make this bizarre relationship work. It's not. I hate that it's not, because I know that after I kick him out he's probably going to be homeless again, he's probably going to use again, and he's probably going to get in trouble with people he owes money to from the last time he was using. But I have enough on my plate coping with my own problems without shouldering someone else's (far more complex) problems as well.

I used to be really dark and angsty and angry (old journal if you want some really erudite angsting) but with the help of an Awesome Shrink I am emerging from my den of horror like a small burrowing forest creature blinking into the morning light. Disney-style musical numbers may or may not be forthcoming. Depends on how the psychotherapy goes.

I say all this to get it out, to establish my immediate story, to explain things, but not to define this blog.

Actually, I started a blog in the first place because I love that unique slice of 1980s and '90s pop culture that colored my childhood, and I have things to contribute to its true and proper appreciation on the internet.

The one and only world-famous Pinsky salami stands as a symbol of all that was good in those days, the things we crowded around and marveled over; the things we valued and exchanged as primitive kiddie currency; which were used as our only ammunition against the grown-ups, who had all the power then; which were the origins of impromptu midnight jam sessions in the camp kitchen; which were shared and enjoyed and nourished us all.

I'm getting too deep for my own taste here. It's a damn salami, OK.

Back when I was watching Pinsky replace Michael Stein on SYS (in its original run), in the itchy suburbs of north Georgia, I had no idea I was on a trajectory that would land me--twice--in a psych ward in downtown San Diego. I had no conception of the weird and amazing people I would meet there and in places beyond. I had no idea how much suffering I could bear, nor how much strength I was capable of dredging up in a genuine crisis.

All I know was that joke about the salami was pretty damn funny. And I still think it is. And that's kind of neat.
  • Current Music
    The Wedding Present - "Suck"
  • Tags

baking (archived)

what shall I bake? I don't have any baking equipment and I never use the kitchen. perhaps I will interpret this "baking" as "going to Ralph's and buying croissants for the week." it is 2011, after all.
deep, pretentious, artsy

today #1: "rest on Saturday"

today was Shabbos. I rested, but I was bad and used my computer and my phone and didn't do havdalah. oh well--one step at a time. I managed to get a loaf of challah and a cup full of Mad Dog on the table in time for the sunset, so I'm in like Flynn this week. I'm one of those skin-of-the-teeth Jews who cares, but somehow manages to keep the queen waiting every time. I'll work on it.

S. stole a shitload of Burt's Bees for me, which was very nice of him but I'm still not sure about the whole stealing thing. I don't entirely disapprove, since he takes from places that budget for such losses and can afford the loss (as opposed to mugging widows and orphans), but in spite of his cockiness I feel he is putting himself at too great a risk each time he does it and it's not worth it just to impress me or make me like him more or, I don't even know what his real motive is. I get the feeling he wants to sleep with me but I don't think that will happen. there are moments when I feel I could fuck S. but there aren't enough of those moments to string together, you know? it doesn't make a full strand and it would never work out.

roommates kept banging in and out of the apartment and every time it would make my door shake in its frame. I had to stack my shelving against the door to keep from losing my mind with terror because the shaking sounded like someone trying to open my door. I don't have a lock on it and the roommates (Marines, was I crazy? yes) have "accidentally" walked in on me three times now, one of those times being a time when I was stark naked and I still haven't quite gotten over it. I am getting shaky just typing about it and I think I'll go and have a cigarette now.

tomorrow is Sunday: Christians like Sunday as a day of rest, but I've just had mine, so I'm going to slide the old rule down one and follow the following:

wash on Sunday,
iron on Monday,
mend on Tuesday,
churn on Wednesday,
clean on Thursday,
bake on Friday,
rest on Saturday.

it's not as sensical but oh well. I have a lot of laundry to do. I've been very depressed and unmotivated and it's stacked up like an evil Gap tower. it will get cleaned tomorrow. it will.