i spent last night with joey potter

There is something stressful about tearing through the computer/electronics/entertainment sections of Walmart exactly 4 minutes before they closed in search of an anti-spyware thing that might possibly work. My computer is so infected with spyware that I had to break down and be responsible and actually spend money on something other than jeans (working on 40 pairs that I don't wear thankyouverymuch hello disorder) in hopes that I could rid my computer of the bajillions of pop ups that my computer has recently been gang raped by. And it works, I guess, but when I log off of my user and log back on, the same fucking programs that I had just disabled and/or removed are back in full force and it's the most frustrating thing on the planet. p.s. Someone please inform IE that it is not my default browser anymore because I've tried, but it obviously missed the memo. Die IE and your spyware, too.

Anyway, as the woman repeatedly reminded me and my best friend that Walmart would be closing just as soon as we brought our final purchases up to the counter, I decided that I would go ahead and get the second season of Dawson's Creek. Don't make fun, I grew up with them and their gratuitous use of big words that no 15 year olds ever used in regular conversation and you can't just have one season of a show that you love, by the way. You have to have them all so you can waste entire days off on a dvd watching binge, laughing at yourself for loving such a bad show in the first place. Honestly, I watch these shows and I get the same feeling that I get when I catch that episode of Saved by the Bell when Jessie was so excited. I'm like, supremely overwhelmed and embarrassed, yet nostalgic at the same time. And yes, I realize that I'm gross for still having a crush on a 17 year old Joshua Jackson and that I am sososo lame for even expending this much energy ontalking about. And the show still makes me cry. I officially lose.

My period is taking over my life. I feel like a pod person, only pod people don't know that they're pod people. But I think my point has been made. Or not. The greatest thing about not having anyone read this, is that I can feel comfortable talking about my period and using words like discharge. Who am I kidding? I would feel comfortable anyway. We're all grown, right? Well, I mean, I am. So yes, my period is taking over my life and altering my personality. And not just in that pms-y way where I just want to kill my roommate for no reason because her voice is all of a sudden annoying. Not that way. But I feel hormonal and I want to cry and be domestic but my sadness is winning over my need to paint walls and clean everything in sight. I am manic. My period is making me manic. Oh my god I need a vicodin and sudden death. Good night moon.

about a boy

I miss the boy. More than I imagined possible. It doesn't even make sense in print. We were horrible for each other. We both deserve, and probably need, someone to balance our chaos. We were like Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald, a mess left out for all the world to clean up, only without the luxury of being important to anyone other than each other. When I'm feeling logical, I can tell myself that there is simply no room for another volatile, explosive drug addict in my love life. I can remind myself of the fact that I am not and never will be strong enough for both of us. I can recall the amount of times that I lay awake, tears in my eyes, wondering where he was and why he wasn't answering his phone. I remember the sound of my heart breaking each time he decided that I was nothing to him. And I know that I'm crazy to want him back.
But that's the reasonable me. And with 27 other personalities fighting for dominance, how often is she around?

More often than not, the wishy-washy, lovestruck me is around, waiting for some sort of miracle to happen. Needing him to wake up one morning sober wanting me back in his life as badly as I want him back. Because that version of me can only remember his beauty. That stomach, those eyes, those lips...that hair - his everything. Has anyone ever kissed me so completely? Has anyone loved me so hard? Never. I remember making love to him on my mother's livingroom floor, desperate for each other, but never making any noise. I remember dancing with him in the park to no music. Crying in his arms because there were no words to describe exactly how I was feeling in that particular moment. 100 reasons to love me. #14 because your eyes say more than you ever will #76 because your honesty disarms me #29 because you know how to kiss me like you mean it #1 because you're you. A girl with blood running through her veins can't dismiss that. Or maybe I'm unique. I remember experiencing highs with him like I've never experienced before. That shouldn't be a good thing, I know. Talking until 6 am. Sugar-free blueberry pancakes. The way he looked in his boxers. His jealousy that did to me what roses do to girls with sense. I'll say it, when he was good, he was my version of perfect. And when he was bad, I loved him still.

I crave this boy like tequila sours on a warm night. I miss the way that I could take him in and know that it was safe to shut out the rest of the world. I miss constantly wanting him to be inside of me. The drama that surrounded him didn't seem to matter. And who cares if he was never fully mine at any given time? I felt blessed to know him, touched by his presence, amazed by his imperfect perfection. Girls calling me in tears with demands only excited me and the state of dementia and pain that I encased myself in while he was in my life felt like home. Yes, it is completely possible to want to live and die for the same person.

I don't know why I want this back. Maybe I am crazy. Or maybe I'm just lonely. In either case, I feel like a huge part of my life has ceased to exist and the remaining parts don't matter without it. I just need him to come back and kiss me in that way and touch me in that place and feed whatever it is in me that makes me so insane for him. I'm a mess without him. When exactly did I lose my mind?

better question: how do i hold up my walls of resistance the next time he calls when what i really want to do is welcome him home?

i want to have joe brown's children

It's raining again. Which officially makes this The Worst Summer Ever. Mother Nature, I implore you - can we have one full week without rain? Can our beach outings go on as planned without being plagued by this neverending rain? And most importantly, can the sun come out just once? I am not usually one to complain about the schizophrenia that is New England weather, but this is ridiculous. Tom did not say it would be like this.

I've been sitting at this computer for hours, wondering what happened to my rare day off and trying to come up with something to say here. I guess now is the time to admit that I'm only posting with such frequency so that the first page of my blog doesn't look nakey and sad. And now I'm bummed that I did this instead of laundry because I'll probably have to wear bathing suit bottoms for panties until my next day off. Yes, it's that kind of laundry crisis. And by the way, I think I eat more when I don't work. I truly eat for lack of something better to do. Or maybe the Domino's commercials really work.

I wonder if other people think that our apartment looks like Crayola went ahead and threw up all over the place? The word decor had been completely lost on the people who used to live here and through lack of concern up until now, and partly in thanks to one of my roommates who seems to want to keep this place looking like an attic, I feel like I'm living in a tag sale. Anyone need a lone barstool? We have one in our living room. Thirteen coffee tables? Come on down! A bongo? Just one? Again, we have it. A couch with one leg? Awesome, we have one of those, too. Our kitchen looks like a catholic church and the bathroom looks like a parakeet. Kill me. Kill me, now. And I can't forget about my bedroom door being painted the "color" of Tang. Hot.

I need therapy and I can't even watch Laura because telemundo decides that I need to watch the olympic soccer game. Die, telemundo.

sprite commercials lose

I guess if there was ever a time to do some sort of real post/introductory type thing, now's the time.

What to say, what to say...I hate introductory type things. I get anxiety. They are pretentious - always. Self-involved, which I guess is the nature of introducing yourself. I clearly have a fear of coming off as self-involved, although I know that I am and everyone who has ever met me knows that I am. And I suppose anyone who creates a blog in the hopes of anyone giving so much as a half-shit about their daily chronicles has to be to some degree. I am so cute pretending that I use paragraphs.

Anyway. I'm me; a 22 year old waitress/barista/slacker with fading ambition trini girl who everyone mistakes for a local college student. I don't know if I look like one or act like one or whatever, but I am not one. And I will never let you forget it. Mostly because my biggest regret, next to sleeping with a beautiful man from El Salvador, is that I never finished school. I have time. I'm moving on. I am wordy and rambly which is a terrible combination for anyone with ears and to make that worse, I fancy myself a comedienne. Sometimes I love to hear myself complain and I said sometimes when I really mean all of the time. I obsess easily. I look at the keyboard when I type. If I get kissed the right way, all of my resolves crumble. I would give my right arm to find a way to sleep for longer than four hours a night that doesn't involve self-medication. Tarantula tequila is my lover. So is Beyonce, only she seems oblivious to this. In fact, if you hate her, I'll probably spend the better part of four minutes trying to convince you that her thighs = love. I'm not currently seeing anyone and that's mostly because nobody ever told me that I have a romatic expiration date of precisely two weeks. I can't seem to keep anyone interested and I never get to meet mom. When I do, they inevitably hate me and I'm not sure why that is. I am the personification of the age old archetypal girl you can't take home to mama. Hot. I know, right? I have finger toes. Kinda. But not in the unfortunate "I can peel grapes with my feet" way. I hate men in short shorts and people who wear their sunglasses at night. These people should die. I'm kind of negative but I like to think that it is endearing. For someone with awful grammar myself, I can't deal with people with bad grammar habits. Pineapple sundaes are the sex. The Smurfs are still the shit to me. How come no one ever remembers Sassette? I kiss the dogs of strangers. Creepy, I know. I love the idea of being in love but that's because I'm a sucker for romatinc comedies and the Billy Crystal speech in When Harry Met Sally makes me die everytime I see it. Hideki Matsui is like my Japanese Jesus. There is no greater book than Song of Solomon. Pablo Neruda makes me cry. But so do the evening news. I am an emotional being. I'm boring myself to death here. Good night, Moon.

valium is a girl's best friend

I just got this thing started, which means of course that this post is basically just so I can see what it looks like before I play with it and inevitably mess up the format and what not. Maybe eventually I'll have something with substance to say.