Wednesday, November 29, 2006 

Living the Ikea Life

(Or... I hate my house)
I haven't gotten rid of shit with this move. And I'm not going to. EVER.
Just kidding.
None of our mother fucking shit matches together. NONE OF IT! It is fundamentally completely fucking different. He's got stupid little decorative steel globes and old Kurt Vonaican'tspell books that don't even match with my books. And all of his furniture involves granite and honey colored wood. I don't know what kind of wood it is because I don't bother learning the names of things that would make me want to puke if they were in the same house that I have my mail sent to.
And now they are. They just sit around going, Oh look at me Terra in all of my ugliness.
The worst part? They're expensive. Expensive expensive expensive.
My stuff? All looks really nice, but it's from Target... and one of those discount Vietnamese furniture stores, so really it doesn't fucking matter. And I want to get rid of most of my shit anyway.
I don't want the couch my ex picked out, the tables he was supposed to pay me back for but never did, the chair he bought me for my birthday. I don't want this shit.
But I don't want the Irishman's stuff either. And I can't exactly say, HEY, throw out that FUGLY really expensive coffee table... and pictures.... and matching couch.
And then I'm going to get rid of all of the stuff that I bought when I was 18 and moved out AND THEN, we'll have NOTHING! TA FUCKING DA!!
Can you believe that yesterday the Irishman had a problem with MY vocabulary? He was all, Sheesh, could you at least TRY to be feminine?
All because I said that if I were a guy there was no way I could get it up to fuck some stupid chick we know. Puhleez. That IS feminine talk! It was catty and backstabbing. If I got any more feminine I'd have stabbed her in the back with my high heel.


Friday, November 17, 2006 

I'm So Tired

that last night I spent thirty minutes trying to remember what day it was and then finally gave up. This morning I was sure all my clocks were wrong, by hours not minutes, and so I stared out the window trying to figure out what time it was by how bright it was.
Part of the reason the Irishman and I decided to move in now is that the new job doubles to triples my commute. We already live an hour and a half away from each other. In busy months we'll often go two weeks without seeing each other. And on top of my new job he's started a new project that has him working seven days a week.  I looked at our schedules and cried. The weekend I was in New York and my return flights got delayed, causing me to miss out on our Sunday visit and not see him until the following Saturday, I sat in the airport and cried. Er... wait, thought about crying. But instead stabbed an innocent passerby. Twice. While they were on their way to join the peace corp.
I haven't had a conversation longer than five minutes with the Irishman in a week, thanks to our new schedules, and last night I had nightmare after nightmare. I dreamt that he ran over a kid and then ran up to talk to the father about himself... after I made him get out of the car instead of just driving away. Then I dreamt that I met someone who had more time for me and so I pushed the Irishman into a pool, stuck my foot on his head to keep him underwater, and then right before I let him up for air I realized I regretted it. But I also didn't. And so, while he was still underwater, I had a discussion with my friends, do I really want this?
This morning on the way to work I looked at a little girl riding in the backseat of her mommy's car (the Irishman's been freaked out about children for some reason, and I always tell him SHEESH! WE DON'T EVEN LIVE TOGETHER. Cut it out!), and I felt this gut panic reaction.
I don't want children! Not yet! Oh I'm too young, I have my whole life ahead of me! ME ME ME!
Which is ridiculous. We're just moving in together. Oh god. Small panic attack.


Wednesday, November 15, 2006 


At The New Job
I worry that I'm not being helpful enough. I stress that I'm typing this. I feel guilty about checking my inbox, I have a coronary when I'm running a second late, I wonder if there are ways to make myself friendlier. Apparently I like my new job?
With The Irishman
I used last night to start fights. Fights. As in plural. Because I didn't get home until 8:30 and had left at 7:10 in the morning. Because I had way too much shit to do at home and no energy or time to do it. Because ever since they switched writers Gilmore Girls sucks. Because we're moving in together and I'm scared shitless. Because I know it's good to move in, but I hate change. Hate it hate it. So I called this morning to say I was sorry and was surprised to find that I meant it. Although possibly I only meant it because the new house is closer to work and my current commute is kicking my ass. An HOUR AND A FUCKING HALF.
You know it's going to be a bad day when various people in the cars surrounding you are throwing their hands up and visibly shouting.
Catch that show on HBO, BIG LOVE. Even if you have to tivo it. Even if you have to netflix it. Even if you have to buy it. The first season is out on DVD and at first you might not exactly get what I love about it, but there's an episode where one of the wives loses Mother of the Year because they find out she's a practicing polygamist and when she comes home it's the other two wives that surround her, hug her. She leans into them crying and what you get, really get, is that they're a family.
For me it does for polygamy what Ghia did for lesbianism. Shows it in a way that appears natural. Shows it complexities, challenges, downfalls and benefits. I just... love this show!
Camp is... well, campy. It's a sundance movie about kids that go to Camp Ovation. A camp for kids that want to be actors (warning gay and fag hag issues explored). All of the actors are under 18, and they are just friggin amazing. Watch it. And be forewarned, all of the singing? That's really them, no alternate singers. And the awesome song at the end? The one that's just as good as the performance in the beginning? It's sung by a girl that has trained to be an opera singer for 75% of her life. Not to be missed.


Monday, November 13, 2006 

Random Death Threat of the Day

So it turns out my ex boss is incredibly stupid, because he didn't manage to break my fingers, only bruise them. Which just goes to show, weapons without bullets and/or sharp edges are pointless.
I'd like to say he did it on accident, but he didn't exactly look apologetic. Also, I may have caught him laughing hysterically later while pantomiming slamming a car door.
So now that I'm at the new job, non-mob related, I can't look at blogger sites anymore... or I could. But then I'd be fired. And I'd hate to get fired. Because I love drinking, er, I mean not being homeless. Yeah. That's it. Nothing to do with my never ending plot to kill my liver. Anyway, I'll still be posting, but do to the changed circumstances I might be reading your sites a lot more than commenting.
Because I hate you motherfuckers. You live far away and never send me beer. Death to you all. 


Friday, November 10, 2006 

last day

fuck capitalization. not of cities... but words. off subject. today's my last day here at work, they took me out for lunch, and at the end of it my boss slammed three of my fingers in the door.


Thursday, November 09, 2006 

American Psycho*

Last night I dreamt about Kate Moss and Pete Doherty in some weird attempt to kill myself while sleeping. I dreamt that Pete dumped Kate and then Kate went around town crying but Pete wouldn't take her back because he's too cool for so god fucking help me because I think I'm going to have to stop reading because holy fucking shit what the hell? Kate Moss? Pete Doherty? WHO THE FUCK GIVES A SHIT! The only way that dream could've gotten stranger is if vonage box hit Pete in the head and my mom started screaming, VONAGE, ONE SMART CHOICE AMONG MANY STUPID ONES.


*I hate that book.



Monthly Nice Quota: Met/Exceeded/Shut the Fuck Up Already

Email to the Irishman, titled: Reminder Fairy

Don't forget to take out cash to pay your landlord.


you probably already did it and now you're throwing shit yelling, 'goddamned fucking puerto rican always telling me what to do!!!'

and that's RIGHT

You yell behind my back because if you ever do that shit to my face I'll cut you


These days my favorite moments are when I fall asleep and the Irishman's hand is resting on my hip, his other arm under my neck, wrapped up around my shoulders. I wake to go to the bathroom and I have to untangle him from me.

I have this thing about skin on skin and have frequently been told by exes that I'm the most sensual girl they've ever touched, I lean in, I lose focus, I forget to breathe. In the past I've laughed and said I'm a cat. My ex walked by while I was cleaning the kitchen floor and I arched my back into the side of his leg, meowed, purred, pretended to scratch him until he laughed so hard he turned red. I have many fond memories of my exes. Trips we took. Games we played. But the Irishman is different.

I look at him and think, we can go the distance. When he touches me I lose focus because it's his skin, his hands, his arms.

The Irishman often tells me, spontaneously, 'You know. You're not funny. All those people that say you are are either extremely nice or extremely retarded,' cue the deadpan look, 'You're really not funny Terra.' To which I have a tendency to respond with singing loudly and widely off tune while I do an Elaine from Seinfeld inspired dance, 'WHO DO YOU LOVE?'

Do you remember this song? Who do you love? Tell me now!

After I do this he always gives me a funny look and I say, 'Come on, sing it with me!'


'You know you love me, now sing it.'

'I'm not singing that stupid song, I've never even heard of it.'


'Really Terra. You know every stupid mundane over played song and I thank God I don't know this one... it's probably by Rob Thomas.'

'I like Rob Thomas.'

'Rob Thomas is gay.'


So the other night we're lying in bed and I do it again, 'Tell me now, who do you love?' And he sings it back, adding in the rest of the chorus and the actual beginning to the song.

'I thought you didn't know that song?'

'I do know that song, I've just never heard you sing so off key and I was hoping you'd shut up.'

Dude. I totally love him, and normally I'd keep this shit to myself but I just had to write it down, provide proof, show evidence, because there are going to be days I hate his guts, days I wish him dead, and I would just like to remember when that day comes, there was a time when he was everything, and I want to do more than just remember that. I want to keep that in mind.


Wednesday, November 08, 2006 

Don't You Wanna Be My Text Buddy?

I just got a new cell phone. Words added to my cell phone's text dictionary today:



Tuesday, November 07, 2006 

TerraT: Telling You What To Do Since 1979

Snippets of Conversation

"People piss me the fuck off. Don't they get it? I don't want to hear their stupid fucking opinions, I want them to shut up and do what I say."


At the movie theater

Irishman: "Can I have a large popcorn?"

Me: "Small is fine."

Irishman: "What about chocolate malts?"

Me: "No."

Irishman: "Hotdog?"

Me: I don't even bother to respond. The look of death should be enough.

Irishman to stranger: "You're lucky, you have goobers. My girlfriend said no."

Stranger: "My girlfriend doesn't get a say."

Me: "No."


Me to Miranda: "Okay, look at this... now, please." She pulls out paperwork obediently. "I like this, you do what I tell you to do, finally!"

Miranda (laughing): "That's the thing about you, you're bossy in a polite way."

Me: "It's so my minions don't revolt."


Friday, November 03, 2006 

I Have Something To Say


I hate your kiss ass brown nosing bullshit politics. I hate your snide fucking remarks and even the way you part your fucking hair.

I fucking hate you

With something close to a passion. The kind of passion where I might pretend to like you just so I can drug you at a party and then light your clothes on fire. You whiny pretentious fucking bitch.



Oh my god you fucking dirty ass hippie. Was one bumper sticker not enough so you had to go out and buy TEN GOD DAMN FUCKING POLITICAL STATEMENTS AND TATTOO THEM TO THE ASS OF YOUR HYBRID PIECE OF SHIT???

Does ANY of that bullshit apply to all of the fucking hairspray you've put into your hair? Because I am fucking TEMPTED to make up a bunch of statistics and then yell at you about how your destroying the ozone layer. You fucking crazy ass bitch!


What the fuck is the point of buying an SUV hybrid anyway you fucktard?? You could've bought a CAR that got better gas mileage!

And by the way, I LIKE global warming. It's great. It's FANTASTIC! You see this beautiful sunny November day? These kind of days are supporting the swimsuit industry and local amusement park attractions, therefore creating JOBS!


Die hippy die


What in the fucking hell? Do I have a fucking neon sign on top of my car that says run me the fuck off the road PLEASE?

Because I will take that shit off right now.

How many stupid fucks with expired licenses have to be lined up completely fucking PARALLEL with me and then try to get in my lane?


You see me? In the white car? Flipping you off? Yeah bitch. This lane is MINE.




I Don't Want To Call You Stupid

But you just keep standing there, looking stupid, and really, you're begging me to smash you.


Wednesday, November 01, 2006 

Alica, I Forget the Day You Died

I forget the day, the date, and if I get blurry enough, even the month fades into obscurity. Every November I begin the process of shutting down, the emails get hard, the telephone, the face to face. I am one of those, that under pressure, ceases to function.

This year it started early. September. I see them in the grocery store, women with your color of hair, porcelain skin. I see women who bear the most tracest of similarities with you, and paint them into someone they are not. I pretend that I've run into you while running errands. You're buying groceries, pumping gas, mailing packages for your mother. We hug, we embrace, and you are not dead, not buried, you are here. In September I pulled over to the side of the road, held my face in my hands and thought, 'Too soon. Too soon.' But the month did not worry me so much as the realization that maybe I don't miss you.

Maybe I just like missing you.

Maybe I like the beauty and futility that makes up the elements of sadness. Maybe I am nothing more than a drama queen.

So I sat up straighter in that car, wiped my face, squared my shoulders, and drove off. Determined not to make a mockery of the person you were, the life you led. This is what I remember of you, independent of your death.

You took pictures with a scared look on your face, like a deer caught in head lights. Your hair always had a wild look about it, as if you had been caught turning your head quickly. Your smile seemed nervous, your eyes scared, but you were a pretty child. Even beautiful. There are photos that show that, and yet somehow I own none of them, and so I strive to keep that memory, imprint it in my brain.

You had a baby voice, and I hate baby voices. Hate the women that posess them. The funny thing is that they are hardly ever delicate women. You were delicate, sometimes. Always either super skinny or sitting comfortably on the first step of fatness. I was super jealous when you were skinny, with your flawless skin, beautiful auburn hair, big eyes. I would watch men flock to you and pray that you would get fat again. When you were heavy you wore too much eyeliner and picked at your skin. Insecurities seeping to the outside. Baby voice aside, your laugh stays with me. It was a startled laugh, as if not even you had expected it.

But where, oh where, did you get that voice I detested so much?? I can still hear you saying, "fudge packer" in it, followed up by that signature laugh. You didn't have that voice when you were small.

Small small small. You were the youngest of the cousins I played with growing up. Younger than me by four years I can still recall the last time Phillip and I bathed with you. You tried to touch his penis and then pooped in the tub. We were screaming so loud the grownups thought someone had drowned. And that was the end of us bathing with you.

I lost you when I went to High School. You appear on the fringes of my memory, stealing my too big clothes and favorite nail polish. You took my barbies out of storage, broke them, and then denied it. You told me boy crazy stories. I shrugged you off and the sleep overs stopped.

I lost you in College.

You turned 18 and reappeared. Did I go to your birthday party? Your graduation? God. I can't remember. I've always been bad with shit like that. I remember Nicolas Cage was playing in a movie in your livingroom. There was soda, and your mother stood in front of a stainless steel refridgerator, showing off her oversized home and all of it's automated lights. We smiled, pretended you liked your step-father and vica versa.

I found you. For a week I stayed with you while your grandparents were gone. We went to the movies, you told me about boys, I hugged you in a parking lot, and at the end, the very end, you pissed me off. You were so damn competitive with me and it ate at me. The barbs. The asides.

Alica, you had a capacity for forgiveness and acceptance that I have never possessed. You laughed about things that I have raged against. You committed petty crimes with a smile, things that I have always been too rigid and unforgiving to stoop to. More than your beauty, I was jealous of that. Your ability to make mistakes, acknowledge them, regret them, and move on, while I kept a list of all your transgressions.

In so many ways, for so many years, I lost who you were, and now I don't know what I miss. Is it that baby girl with the curling brown ringlets? The girl who walked on top of our grandmother's fence with me, confiding she had stolen a kiss from a fellow kindergartener? The 18 year old I danced with at a club to celebrate officially being legal?

I know I lost you, I just always thought I'd find you once more. Your brother graduated High School this year and when I drove up, parked, it suddenly occurred to me that I was looking for you still. Maybe we all are.