CEO of the World

Leaving

2009-06-18T15:57:00.003-04:00

I think it's time to close this chapter. I'll be making a new blog soon.

If I don't know you, email me and I'll send you the link.

-L

Wilting

2009-02-23T17:00:00.003-05:00

"Just because I don't always vocalize it, doesn't mean it's not always there."

He told me this, and it was a thought that kept him smoldering like a coal inside my belly. It would fade, then he would say something like this again and it would reignite, tickling me into a giddy, giggling school-girl mess.

But then the day comes when you can feel it, like a switch has flipped off and it's not there - just a lump of coal that won't catch, a stomachache.

It's hard watching something fade, a slow burn that dims little by little and you're not really sure what you did wrong. It's a more intense version of how I'd feel whenever I got a houseplant. I would follow my grandmother's instructions to a T - water it, aerate the soil, put it on the windowsill, move it away from the windowsill, prune it - but still I'd watch helplessly as the leaves wilted and yellowed and I'd wonder what I could do to fix it, to somehow reverse whatever I had done and bring it back to life.

But once certain wheels are set it motion, there are no brakes.

So I've been left for the past two weeks watching this die. Sitting with my hands crossed, trying to be patient, trying not to drive myself crazy reassessing everything I've done to find the spot where I made the nick that became infected into a necrotizing wound.

Another little blip, a tidbit that stopped short before it even had the chance to become a story like so many notes I have written on the backs of receipts and cocktail napkins collected into piles where they'll never find homes.

I'm trying hard not to be sad, or care. "Oh, it was nothing. Just a minor flirtation, crush, thing. You know me. I'll be over it soon." But I'm only explaining it to myself because it was mine. And now it's not anymore.

Quitting

2009-01-26T10:39:00.000-05:00

I want to write something. I want to write a lot of things.

But I can't.

Most of them are too personal for me to put up here. Or, maybe "personal" is the wrong word. They would test my pride. What would be a good word to describe that? "Shameful" sounds too dramatic, but it's something along those lines. A few people still read this site and I just can't admit certain things. I can't let them know that I'm doing and thinking certain things.

It's just too sad (in a pathetic sad kind of way, which is the saddest thing, really).

I used to be a strong advocate of "out of sight, out of mind." I'd talk and talk about something that upset me and then I'd set a day and just stop. The things that made me sad were like any addiction and I'd cut myself off cold turkey and a week, a month, a year later, I was washed of it.

I try to employ this same technique now, but I can't help the conversations I have with myself in my head.

Maybe I'm just not trying hard enough.

Hello?

2009-01-12T23:55:00.003-05:00

Hello?

Anyone there?

Have I lost you all?

Does this mean that now it's okay for me to finally start writing everything that I want to write for a change?

I'm high right now. Probably not in the way I wish I was or the way you would assume I was. I went to a birthday "thing," had more fun than I thought I might, but still came home feeling...wrong. So I took a shot of NyQuil hoping sleep would swallow me faster than my thoughts would. But somehow I ended up here. I guess my thoughts won.

Am I making any sense?

Is anyone listening?

I'm going to bed.

Affair

2009-01-12T17:58:00.005-05:00

An acquaintance of mine has started an affair with a married coworker. It hasn't escalated to what would be considered an affair in the traditional sense because there has been no exchange of bodily fluids, but it seems even deeper. They talk and they connect in a way that I'm sure will hurt his wife more than if she discovered he was screwing hookers. I know this only because she writes about it on her anonymous blog, and I read these stories and I don't judge because I wonder if that is something that is foreseeable in my future.

I was propositioned once by a married man. A coworker from London, who had only been married for a little over a year when he came to New York for a business trip. We met for a drink. A drink became dinner and more drinks. Soon we were buzzed and he was stroking my arm, telling me how sexy I was. "Come back to my hotel with me, L. We'll have some fun."

I shook my head and told him that infidelity disgusts me. But it still didn't hinder him from sending me text messages throughout my train ride home asking me to reconsider.

BSquared and I have progressed to email messages via Gmail instead of instant messenger to exchange our overtly sexual talk. The messages grow more dangerous every day, but today I don't write because I'm thinking too much and feeling unhappy and jaded with all these bad dates, unwanted propositions and dangling carrots.

Maybe if we didn't work together this would all be fine. He would be another Chef. And we'd be able to carry on a "relationship" based on fondness that never grows into something bigger. But, forced to see him every day--lonelier than I can ever remember being in my entire life--I know that I'll create something in my head that isn't there. I'll become jealous. And if, or when, he does enter into a relationship with someone else, I'll know that his excuse that he can't be in a relationship right now isn't true. That it is me. And that's what scares me most.

Exist

2009-01-05T13:22:00.000-05:00

Yes, I know that last entry was all over the place. Yes, I know the little I write lately is all over the place, vague, nonsensical. It all reads like some sort of inside joke that no one is a part of except for me. Even the people who know me, those who know enough about my personal life to understand what I'm referencing, would draw conclusions that would all be wrong.

So don't bother.

But this is how it is now. This is how my life makes sense to me. This is how I experience things. How my planet operates. All in relation to these moments that exist the way I see them in my head. Sitting at my desk and jerking my head up at a coworker who taps my desk as they walk by, catching a stranger's eye on the street, standing in the cold smoking a cigarette, sipping wine on another bad date, getting another tattoo, checking my profile on some social networking site, refreshing my email waiting for a message that doesn't come, making coffee, drinking coffee, having that conversation I promise I won't have ever again.

It's a far cry from the things I used to write when I tried so hard to amuse everyone with straightforward observations, witty jokes, words. But I spend so much of my energy on a daily basis trying to amuse and I've decided that this is now a place where I can tell my version of the truth--as arcane as it may be.

So, for those who might be interested in the black and white part of me: I have a new job. I still drink a lot. I started smoking again. I am addicted to body art. I started going to the gym a lot. I stopped going to the gym a lot. I'm still an insomniac. I never have any time even though I don't know what fills all that space. I'm still sad all the time and I'm still not sure why.

Un-resolved

2009-01-03T01:53:00.008-05:00

BSquared strolls by my desk, shoots me that disgusting star athlete Midwestern smile that I find so irresistibly alluring and asks me how my new years was and I say, "Good. Yours?"

He tells me about his. His was actually good.

He sends me an instant message later: "I really don't want to be here."

"Seriously," I respond. I'm happy he's initiated contact for a change but at the same time I'm feeling tired and done with it all.

"So your new year was good?"

I groan internally, "Actually, it sucked. But no one wants to hear about that so I just say 'good' when they ask." I see no point in lying to him. I don't need to impress him.

"Are you still chaste-ing?" he jokes with me. I've told him my new policy. No more hookups. I am a nun until further notice.

I tell him I am.

"No new year make-out then?"

I want to lie now. I know he definitely indulged in a new year kiss and I don't want to give him the smug satisfaction of knowing that I had sat out the ball drop alone, sipping champagne, crossing my legs, forcing smiles and clinking my plastic glass of champagne against anyone who stretched theirs towards me, while his tongue wrestled with some herpes-infected Lower East Side whore. But I tell the truth. It would be too sad to lie. "Nah."

I'm picturing him now, lips pressed against some curly-haired brunette and I'm jealous. Like I was when he had shown a picture of his friend to a coworker who, not realizing that I was harboring a crush on him, had passed his phone along to me. "Who's that?" I had asked.

"BSquared's girlfriend," he replied, slightly sarcastic. He's fucking her for sure.

"Oh, she's cute," I said, the heat rising in my cheeks.

"Nah, she's just my friend," BSquared had said, snatching the phone from me. "She's the girl whose party I'm going to later," his eyes met mine briefly but I refused to let him see any indication of my already hatred for this nameless slut.

And now I had given him the upper hand. Again. I had never even let him kiss me. But I let him see too much of the weak side of myself. He had never touched me further than the tip of his finger brushing the inside of my thigh, whispering that it was the softest thing he had ever felt. I wouldn't let him come any closer. But I had inadvertently let my guard down and let him into something deeper.

Now we exchanged our overtly sexual banter at work. And now, ever since he had been straightforward to me and told me that he couldn't do that relationship thing again, not after his last one, the one that shook him, turned his world on its ass, we did this waltz. Sometimes daily, sometimes weekly. Sometimes I led, sometimes he led. We dipped and parried. Sometimes I misstepped, sometimes it was he.

And I welcomed his honestly. And I wished I hadn't started this new celibacy thing. Or, I wished that my mental state hadn't deteriorated so far that I couldn't do anything other than this celibacy thing. That was what I couldn't really tell anyone. Leaving that detail out, it sounded like a show of solidarity instead of an unfortunate consequence of the steady atrophy of my cranial well-being. I deleted his phone number so I wouldn't be tempted to seek solace in his warm East Village apartment one drunken lonely night.

And now I think of dinner with K a few weeks ago when he confessed that he had harbored a crush on me the entire time we were working together. How it had taken a good amount of effort on his part to resist the urge to pursue me so as not to complicate our work situation. And I'm glad because I have evolved past him. So much so that when he tells me I should come to his place for a glass of wine, I decline and trudge through the cold to the train station.

And now I think of that date I had gone on with JM who had seemed sweet. Slightly off, but who was I to judge? Who had, after failed attempts to woo me back to his apartment, kissed me on both cheeks at the entrance to the F train and told me to call him when I got home.

I texted him later, "I'm on the train now. No need to worry."

"Call me when you get home anyway."

And I did.

"What are you wearing? Are you playing with yourself?"

I sighed, told him I would call him tomorrow, rolled over, and went to bed. I deleted his number.

And now I think of P, who I barely know but feel wouldn't try to lure me to his apartment with the promise of wine or call me after a first date and try to lull me into phone sex. Maybe I am being naïve. Maybe he would. Maybe everyone would.

But I want to be naïve. As long as I don't know any better, I want to believe that there is still someone out there that I could have a little faith in.

"Any resolutions?" I ask BSquared.

"It's the year of the six-pack. I joined NYSC again," he says. "What's yours?"

Abandon all hope.

"Me too," I say. "I'll race you."

"Deal."

P

2008-11-30T19:30:00.003-05:00

I want to grab P and slap him and shake him. "Do you know how lucky you are that I want you? Do you know how many men would love to be in your shoes?"

I'm feeling childish and selfish and cruel. But mostly lonely.

His eyes were very kind. They looked honest. Not like The Mistake--his had a glint in them that, then, I naively took as charm but am mature enough now to recognize as deception.

When P looked at me, I could tell that he wanted me. Not in the animalistic way that most men do. They softened, slightly. I felt like he wanted to hug me and nothing else. I didn't fantasize him naked. I fantasized holding his hand.

I wanted to know him.

He entertained this whim for a little while, but that was all it turned out to be--a whimsy. A silly girl with a silly crush and he ultimately chose a redhead instead. I think they were friends for a long time.

Best Friend tells me, "You are way hotter than her," and I know it's meant as comfort but she might as well have told me that my nail polish is redder or my ears are more ear-like.

I tilt my head to the side, "She has a bit of a horse-face."

"She does," Best Friend nods.

But she also has him. She is probably funny and kind--not embattled, bitter, oozing resentment and ill will, manifesting depression and insecurity into disgust towards everyone else. She probably paints things that remind her of him, and the mornings when she leaves for work early she leaves him witty notes to wake up to. She's silly and positive. He misses her on the days they can't spend the night together and he devours her on the nights they can. And when he looks at her, that moment right before he brings his lips to meet her's, she is beautiful.

Ink

2008-11-18T23:04:00.002-05:00

I've started a new job. Full time now at the same company I was freelancing for and I’ve taken to working late. Partially out of my own accord, partially because there’s too much to be done, mostly because there’s nothing to go home to. I spend quiet nights sitting at my desk browsing stories, editing links, downloading pictures, uploading pictures, tagging videos…

There's an attractive guy there and in typical L fashion, I take notice almost immediately. He's not the kind of guy I would normally be attracted to. Tall, athletic, light brown hair, blue eyes--a cookie cutter all-American guy straight from the pages of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue. He looks like he would surf. He looks like he played football in high school. He probably dated a cheerleader.

But he has a tattoo, and I notice this before I even notice the person. It's a large black and grey Japanese sleeve occupying his left arm from shoulder to midway down his forearm. And he's a lawyer, which I find paradoxical. The "house lawyer" as I refer to him. He makes sure we don't offend anyone too much. He makes sure we don't break the law. I really have no idea what he does but he tells me he graduated from Brooklyn Law School when he introduces himself to me outside while we smoke a cigarette. He smokes the same kind of cigarettes as me.

His desk used to be positioned right by mine in the dark, back area of the office, right by the freight elevator, but after two years there--two weeks for me--the CEO decides he should move to the front by the other lawyer-y types. I lament this over instant messenger to KM, "They are ruining my employee morale." She laughs.

I don't expect anything. I don't want anything. It's just a welcome distraction from the routine: Coffee at ten AM, cigarette break at eleven. Lunch at twelve-thirty, meeting at four. He has a pretty little Chinese girlfriend, another lawyer, very skinny, and they live together (I think) in their cozy apartment in yuppified Brooklyn with a fireplace, exposed brick, flat-screen TV, suede sofa. Maybe they have a dog with an ironic name like Bob. He leaves the office every day at six and they probably order in because they're both too tired to cook, watch some football (if it's Monday) and fuck before they go to bed. I wonder if he's ever pictured me while he's fucking her, and I'm sure he has. Not in a creepy way, but even the good guys, the ones who are in love, need to let their minds wander when they're screwing the same girl every night.

He usually leaves through the back elevator. I decide this is an excuse to pass by me on his way out and not because that exit is closer to his train station. I declare this in my head. Tonight, he passes by my little cave of a desk, leaving late himself, finding me nowhere closer to heading home: "Working late again?"

I sigh and tell him there's so much to do. No time to do it. Busy week, busy week. As he turns to leave, he stops himself: "What's that tattoo on your arm?"

I show him the ambigram I have etched into my left forearm, "Want/Need" and we launch into a discussion about tattoos. He divulges the locations of the rest of his ink that I'll never see--back, thigh. I tell him I wanted to go get a new tattoo today but I’m stuck at work. He tells me he's dying for another. He tells me about the regrettable tattoo he got when he was drunk on his birthday. Waking up and wondering what he was thinking, and I laugh and tell him that it's a story to tell. Like stupid scars, they still leave good stories. And he mulls this over before he nods in agreement.

There's something about other people who get tattoos that draws me to them. They'll understand something about me no one who doesn't believe in body art ever will. There's the moment you have that perfect idea. I imagine it’s like falling in love with someone--“You just know,” as so many have chosen to describe it to me. Weeks of anticipation, imagining how it will look. People who get tattoos share a strange, but socially acceptable form of, masochism. The slight insanity of willingly inflicting pain on yourself to scar yourself for life. Understanding the commitment you're making.

And it applies to everything in our lives. The sting of easing yourself into a new experience and letting it leave its inevitable mark on your personality, your memories, your neuroses. But more importantly, understanding that getting rid of it--trying to leave that potential mistake behind, righting a regret--takes so much more dedication and pain. Ten sessions of a laser burning searing heat out of your scarred, blistering skin. And even then, they always leave a trace.

-L

Avoiding Work

2008-06-23T03:14:00.007-04:00

Avoiding work, writing scenes. A beginning that will most likely have no end. Much like all the other pieces of fiction I write. Don't judge too harshly.

---------

I was fourteen when I met him--a skeletal rendition of a woman I had the possibility to become--naïve and never kissed. My jeans were baggy on my nonexistent hips and the fabric was ample enough to obscure my platform shoes. I wore a too big collared polo shirt that I had stolen from my older brother and silver rings on almost all my fingers.

It was the summer before my sophomore year of high school and most days were spent at my mother's Laundromat in the West Village doling change, cleaning lint filters, handing out dryer sheets and single serving packets of powdered soap. He walked in with a guitar case slung over one shoulder, a bulging bag of dirty clothes over the other. Hair hung in loose unwashed curls over his sad eyes and around his thin, white neck. He wore a simple white t-shirt and faded black jeans fitted tight to his narrow calves and he cleared his throat before he handed me three dollar bills and asked for quarters.

His soft voice had a buttery quality to it and I knew that when he sang, it was the kind of sound that weighed people down, made them slouch in their seats and close their eyes.

I avoided his eyes as I carefully counted out the coins but looked at him eagerly when I placed them into his hands. He hadn't looked at me at all up to this moment but when he finally did, he gave a few seconds of pause to take in my face before mumbling a soft "thank you," and walking away.

I pretended to read a book as I watched him load clothes into two separate machines taking care to sort colors and check pockets for loose change. When he was done he took note of the time and walked out into the steamy late June evening returning forty minutes later so I could watch him load them into a dryer and back again in an hour so I could watch him fold.

My mother wondered why I wanted to come to the store more days after that. I told her I was saving to buy a computer.

Two and a half weeks pass before my anonymous white boy--ten years my senior--reappears and this time my mother is with me behind the counter where I am writing in a marble notebook. My eyes shoot towards the door as they have grown accustomed to every time I hear the vacuum kiss of it swinging open and when I see him, I immediately look down, feeling my face fill with blood.

---------------

I find it so strange that I'm fine with posting aspects about my life but I feel wholly uncomfortable showing people my fiction.

-L

Weekend

2008-06-16T02:44:00.004-04:00

I had a weekend.

Friday was W's birthday celebration at Zombie Hut in Carroll Gardens where their signature drink, the Frozen Zombie, comes in a slushy swirl of deceptively innocent pink. The first sip is pure Bacardi 151, the second is a sweet concoction that slides coolly down your throat until you're crawling home on your hands and knees speaking in tongues. I opted to stick with my usual vodka sodas and, at a wallet-friendly five bucks a pop, the $40 I had vowed to limit myself to for the evening went a very long way. Home at 4 AM, drunk, unable to resist the lure of food, I engorged myself in chorizo and bread and Parmesan cheese and watched bad television before falling into a fitful sleep.

But I was still up bright and early at 8:30 to trek to Long Island for a winery tour. One toasted bagel with tofu cream cheese, three vineyards, half of a fried softshell crab sandwich, one scoop of cappuccino heath bar ice cream, a stroll around the Strawberry Festival and my hangover was completely cured. Wine wasn't exactly the hair of the dog that bit me, but it was his cousin and did just fine.

I'm not much for whites but in the stifling heat and humidity, I developed a newfound appreciation for a cold glass of Sauvignon Blanc outdoors. Delicious. I had considered wineries in the past, but after spending the final hours of sunlight lounging on huge cushioned lawn chairs in front of rows of vines with a glass of blush, it's now my life goal to own a vineyard in Italy or France. And after fiddling with my friend's dSLR, I'm dying for an Olympus E-420.

A long day that should have ended at ten when I was lying on my couch feeling bloated and fuzzy ended up powering on until 4 AM. Bowling and many pitchers of watered-down Coors Light later, I was home, drunk, again. But still ready for the Mets game the next afternoon. Eldest Bro and I decided to stay for the entire doubleheader, too tempted by the lure of a free game and the fantastic seats in the Loge boxes behind home plate that we had upgraded ourselves to. A huge dinner at a Korean restaurant with the family for Father's Day and a few shots of vile soju and...

...now it's 3 AM. I have deadlines tomorrow that I most definitely will not hit. I have lost sleep that I should make up for. I have a headache and a stomachache and a neckache. But I'm feeling content and pensive so I decided to spit some brain spew.

-L

Just

2008-06-13T02:29:00.004-04:00

After over a month of running around, sporadic emails, missed opportunities and scheduling conflicts, the Architect and I finally got together for our first date tonight. While there's no grand story here, all I can say is that it was lovely. Just that--lovely. He's the kind of guy that I should like and, for a change, I actually do like him. But he's flaky. We'll see where this goes.

I also got together with K today for the lunch we were supposed to have two months ago. I was more nervous to see him after three weeks without than to meet the Architect, but it was nice. We've achieved a level of comfort with one another where he tells me about certain aspects of his personal life and I've discovered that he is a) arrogant beyond all human comprehension, b) a manwhore that could rival Gene Simmons in manwhoreness, and c) a spoiled, old money rich kid who somehow has a Centurion Card. I probably shouldn't have said anything when I saw it peeking out of his wallet, but having never seen the almost mythical Black Card in person, I could help but blurt out, "You have a Black Card? How is that possible?" But to be fair, I know him well enough now not to be surprised that he places it rather strategically in the front slot. Predictably, he just shot me a self-satisfied smirk in response.

My spring fling, the Guitarist, left for Europe on Tuesday and I was a little blue. But he deserves a story all his own and I'll save it for another day.

When it rains, it pours.

-L

The only question worth asking and the one you never want to ask...

2008-06-06T05:36:00.000-04:00

Why, why, why, why?

-L

Love

2008-06-04T17:01:00.008-04:00

I fall in love all the time. I fall in love with everything I see--people, places, songs, artists, images, words.

I fall in love with the view from the top of the Basilica di San Pietro melding ancient ruins and modern architecture into one breath. Guidebooks warning me not to fall into the canals of Venice and bored, thin boys with dirty hair and fedoras lazing around London's Brick Lane. I fall in love with Beth Gibbons's voice moving seamlessly between harsh and nasal to soft cooing. Thom Yorke's falsetto screeching emotions that I wish I had felt first. Jeff Buckley all bleeding hearts and self-pity, crooning songs about regrets that cling tight to his skin no matter how hard he scrubs. I fall in love with anonymous phrases on a page painting landscapes of experiences I haven't yet had. Photographs of strangers engaged in joy bursting candy colors of hugs and smiles, lips puckered into air kisses, fluorescent drinks in hand. I fall in love with people I meet once and dream into monoliths of perfection sliding coolly in and out of rooms, scenes, situations.

This is my modern romance. This is how I fall.

I know it's never real. It's a flighty thing that tumbles off the rooftops of buildings in cities I've once loved, and forgotten the instant my plane touched ground on where I needed to be now. The music grows tedious and tired, faceless words get a face that doesn't live up to the fantasy I've intricately formulated in my mind. Photographs fade into painful reminders of happier times that left to take residence in someone else's life.

But every now and then a memory returns and, for a moment, I feel that fondness again. I place my hand across my chest and I close my eyes and think of how much I loved. I love, love, love--all the time. An adoration so deep it bends me in half; makes me want to peel the skin off my bones and see how something so consuming could live inside me. Directed towards everything but holding onto nothing like the wind blowing in and licking my cheeks briefly before going away. And no matter how hard I cling, it slips through my fingertips like grain.

-L

Saturday

2008-05-06T01:11:00.003-04:00

I met J on Saturday night at Astoria Beer Garden. Despite getting introduced the moment I arrive, we don’t actually speak until four beers, two hours and a venue switch. We’re at a dive in Astoria where M knows the bartender and he lets Cat get behind the bar to pull pints and mix Jack and Cokes. I watch J play darts. I tell him I want to be on his team next but someone else has already claimed their place in the coming round and we’re banished to the bar where I drink too many Blue Moons.

He’s an architect and he shows me the little notebook he carries around in his pocket. I hold this thin stack of sheets, tattered and precious, with two hands the way I would a jewelry box. “I don’t know many other people who carry around notebooks.” I haven’t brought mine today. My purse is too small.

“You have architect handwriting,” I observe, turning the delicate pages etched with dotted lines, diagrams, notes written in perfectly symmetrical stick figure characters. I know this because C has the same handwriting, a gift from his architect father. He laughs and I notice the dimple in his right cheek, how narrow his forehead is, his small eyes, the way he purses his lips and I announce, “You are absolutely adorable,” like I’ve just remembered something that I was supposed to do yesterday.

How does it come up? I don’t remember but he tells me we should go to San Francisco together and I tell him to book a flight. We can walk up giant hills and eat good food, stand on The Gayest Corner in the World, which is what it’s really called.

He tells me he wants to kiss me but I decline even though my judgment is layered under too much beer—I’ve lost count by now. But in the empty back room before Cat tells me we’re leaving, I ask him for a little peck. He presses his lips lightly against mine a little longer than I expect him to and I feel a twitch in my gut. I close my eyes and let out an exaggerated sigh before I chuckle and turn for the door.

-L

Oops...

2008-03-18T03:40:00.004-04:00

I instilled in myself a sense of false security by typing up some preliminary notes for the article I have due tomorrow so I could enjoy tonight's Vines concert/St. Patrick's Day with a clear conscience. But the hangover is settling in and I only have 900 out of 1800 words written.

Pain pain pain.

I should have just finished it all last night like I had planned, but I can't seem to get things done unless the pressure is bearing down on me. I'm a masochist. What can I say?

-L

L's Greatest Hits

2008-03-15T14:50:00.002-04:00

Got a voicemail from my editor yesterday:

Hi, it's K from ABC. I had a few things I wanted to discuss with you. Give me a call when you get the chance.

Something clicks in my head and I listen to it again, more carefully this time.

Yes, I have been pronouncing his name wrong for the past three months.

-L

Consumerism

2008-03-13T16:18:00.004-04:00

My job is turning me into a consumerist whore.

Most people would agree that if they had the means to acquire whatever they want whenever they want it, they'd exercise that liberty with reckless abandon. I know I would. There are a lot of things that I see and wish I could have but I'm usually very good about not spending. Certain, or almost all, really, purchases just can't be reconciled when you're a "starving artist." So I see, I pine, I walk away.

But when you're sitting on your ass writing product features and reviews all fucking day, it starts to get to you. A part of me needs to convince myself that something is worth it so I can write about why it's worth it for other people, and now, I'm sure that I'll drop dead on the spot if I don't own a Patek Philippe watch or a Canon Rebel digital SLR. I'm quite certain that the Playstation 3 will soon add "cures cancer" to its product specs and a pair of Air Jordans will enable me to take flight while upping my "street cred."

I've been easing myself in. Last week, I ordered a hooded Zoo York sweatshirt while hunting for hoodies. "They're versatile," the voice in my head chimed, "and it's on sale!" What...the...fuck? I don't even wear hoodies...but I guess I'll start now?

This week it was Crest Advanced Whitestrips while researching grooming products. "All that coffee is taking its toll," I rationalized, "and look, it's almost 50% off on Amazon!" This one was something I actually needed, I guess. But I'm sure there are other things I need a lot more, like say, money?

I've been kind of good so far. No obscene purchases but that new Canon PowerShot is looking pretty sweet.

I'm doing iPod accessories next week and I'm afraid. I've been itching for a good pair of over ear headphones...

-L

Pierced

2008-03-13T03:57:00.002-04:00

Every now and then, when I get bored with the state of my life, I get something pierced.

C was getting out of work early, so she called and asked me if I wanted to go talk to my tattoo artist about the ink I’m getting next month, and I said,

“Sure. Sounds good.”

I called before I left, “Hey, uh, I have an appointment with S next month and, uh, I was wondering if she was gonna be around today to talk about the design I want and if, like, she wouldn’t be too busy.”

“Oh, well, she’s always busy when she’s here, but come by. She can talk to you while she’s working.”

“Okay, cool.”

I had had a pretty bad experience with a guy at another tattoo place that almost put me off the idea completely but I did some research and found a place that came highly recommended. After browsing their artists’ portfolios, I found S—exactly what I was looking for. And as an added bonus, she was a woman—I had always wanted my first one done by a chick! Her wait was four months though, but I figured four months was nothing when it came down to something that was going to last for the rest of my life. And I dropped my $80 deposit and sealed myself in.

So I went in today for a preliminary chat. I waved around designs while she worked on a guy’s sleeve and I kept it short because I wouldn’t want my artist distracted while she was carving a permanent stain into my skin.

“So?” C says.

“Oh my God, I love her already.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, she was so cool. And she has blue hair!”

But itching for something to change right now, I got my tragus pierced on a whim. The guy had a Mets cap on. It was meant to be and after signing a contract and swearing that I am over 18, I’m lying there on something that looks like a massage table while he snaps latex gloves on and tells me what he’s going to do.

“It’s going to be two parts. First I’m going to to…which isn’t that bad, but then…that part usually hurts more…then…”

It hurt more than the other piercings I’ve gotten but there’s something about pain. It feels liberating, almost.

“How was that?” he asks me, a huge needle stuck into the side of my face.

“It was…nice, actually.”

-L

Free...lance

2008-03-11T23:46:00.003-04:00

Blogging is dead. Long live.......living.

That's what I've been doing lately. Sort of. I've mostly been tricking people into paying me to write, which seems nice. I wake up when I want, sleep when I want and fill the time in between researching, writing and drinking copious amounts of coffee (on the weekends, alcohol). But now I know why writers are all insane. Disconnecting yourself from society for such extended periods of time gets a little...disorienting. I'm beginning to miss waking up every morning, commuting into the city and doing a job where only 45% of my brain needs to be present. I'm a lot more productive now, but not seeing the sun for days on end, communicating with people solely through the phone and email makes it feel like I do nothing. I jump at any and every opportunity to move and be amongst the living.

I think there's a sense of false security that comes with imposed routine. Steady paycheck, health, dental, 401k, lunch at one o'clock, answer the phone, make phone calls, expensive sandwiches, overweight boss, blah-fucking-blah. I'm making more money now than I was at my last job (that's not really saying much though because I was getting slave wages), but then I was getting the same amount at the same time. Now it's two articles one week, five another, more money, less money, no insurance, what if one of my editors decides that I suck? I'm treading water.

I'm also pretty tapped out.

Now, I have a deadline tomorrow, so if you'll excuse me...

-L

Deadline

2008-02-22T03:15:00.002-05:00

I have an article deadline tomorrow and I had hoped to be done with it by 4AM, but I look at how much I have left to write and it's becoming clear that 6AM is probably a less ambitious goal. If I hadn't spent an hour surfing the web and dicking around, I would probably be in better shape but still, as I dig into each segment, I keep finding more to research, less words left to use. I'm determined to finish before I sleep though. I've found lately that if I don't, I end up lying awake until the sun comes up obsessing. Am I choosing the right products to feature? Is the research I gathered accurate? What am I going to write about that item? Will I get the images from PR in time?

Yesterday I stayed up until 4:30AM finishing another article. I sent it to my editor with a cute little note about how my last article was sent a few hours later than I had promised, so I was sending this one was a few hours early. I still spent the rest of the night obsessing. Did I miss any typos? Did I Google all the names? Is he going to think I picked stupid things to write about? Did I repeat certain words too many times? I didn't fall asleep until after listening to my father's alarm go off, him brushing his teeth and shaving and leaving for work. When I woke up, there was an email from my editor saying that I had forgotten to attach the file. All attempts at cuteness never go unpunished. Then I didn't even re-read it before I sent it off again. I only obsess when it's inconvenient for me.

Lately, I get really uncomfortable when divulge something remotely personal (even if it isn't all that personal) and I don't get the response I'm expecting. I think that freelancing has put me in a position of constant judgment and I spend the whole day beating myself up that when everyday life "judges" me, it stings a little more. This happens mostly when I try to be creative. I don't have much issue with writing these op-ed type pieces up here or regurgitating information for articles, but it's very rare that I let someone see any of the scenes I jot in my notepads or the stories I start and never finish on my laptop. Sometimes I'll give someone a peek though and then I immediately wish I could take it back.

I think I have some form of obsessive-compulsive disorder.

-L

Spring

2008-02-21T16:07:00.003-05:00

Spring training officially begins for the Mets today, and how appropriate that the new Sports Illustrated arrives in the mail today too featuring a beaming Johan Santana sporting his new Mets uniform. Even though it's still fucking freezing in New York I'm already feeling the warm buzz of spring.

T-minus 39 days until Opening Day.

-L

Her Kind

2008-02-07T17:01:00.000-05:00

I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.

-Anne Sexton

In a college poetry class, one of our assignments was to memorize a poem and "perform" it in front of the class. I chose this one. When my professor asked me why I picked it, I said, "Because she's empowered by her insanity." In the end though, I guess it didn't work out too well for her because she killed herself, or maybe, as the second to last line indicates, that's why she killed herself.

I'm not all that into poetry anymore, but this has been my favorite poem ever since I first read and reread and reread it. I think it embodies everything about how I view myself. Just completely crazy and uncomfortable and not giving a shit and caring too much and hating it and loving it and wanting to be everywhere and curled up in a ball in the middle of nowhere all at once.

If I could live inside my head, I'd create a very nice world for myself.

-L

Gummy Bear

2008-02-05T11:08:00.000-05:00

I look through my notepad and find the lone sentence: "I ate a giant gummy bear."

I haven't jotted down any context and I can't remember what it means or why I felt compelled to write it. What's more, it's written in the pad I carry around on job interviews, so there is no drug- or alcohol-fueled excuse for it. No night of barhopping in the East Village that resulted in a curious discussion about gummy bears, worms, cola bottles or other gelatinous, slightly translucent chewy sweets. Which mindless and ultimately failed attempt at full-time employment inspired me to write something so surreal?

I have never consumed a gummy bear of inordinate size, but now I'm convinced that doing so will unlock the door to a secret fifth dimension where you walk around holding hands with giant candy bears.

-L

Good weekend for New Yawk

2008-02-04T17:17:00.000-05:00

"So what's your prediction?" the Eldest Bro asked me yesterday afternoon as I boiled water for dumplings.

"27-24, Giants," I said flatly.

"Really?"

"Oh, wait. No, it won't go that high. 17-14, Giants."

And what do you know? I don't attest to being some sort of hardcore Giants fan. Football is a sport I've only recently begun to understand/enjoy, and I grew up preferring the Jets. But gotdamn. It was cool seeing them beat the Cowboys. It was surprising seeing them beat the Packers (especially with that crazy field goal). But last night was just fucking shocking. That was a pretty surreal/slow/interesting/weird/awesome/confusing/OHMYGOD HE CAUGHT IT! game (that I should have put money on), and it was worth it just to see the up-their-own-ass Patriots lose, give Boston fans (most of whom have become unbearably smug) one less thing to brag about and just be really fucking surprised. And if the death blow was delivered by New York, all the better.

But all the Super Bowl craziness cast a shadow on news that made me just as happy to be a New York sports fan. Six years of Johan Santana makes me feel a little better that they traded Lastings Milledge for Q-Tips and coconut jellybeans, and I think the Mets need to atone for last season and give Shea a proper send off in the World Series.

Oh, and the Rangers won something this weekend too.

-L