¶ 23:32

I rode the T back and forth to work today. It was an interesting experience.

Lots of colourful people around. On the way to work, there was this woman that was a very beautiful black woman, but she was positively enormous. She took up two seats. She carried her weight well, but someone had to stand because of her. Lol.

On the way back, I started playing games with myself. I looked at people on the train or in the station, and likened them to similar celebrities. I saw Lionel Richie and Billy Joel on the way home. Teehee.

I'm at home, and I'm about to commence a bunch of chores, including cooking and laundry. I don't mind it because I have plenty of free time. I wish I knew mor e people here.

PFFFF. I just turned on Fox News, and Richard Simmons was reporting from New Orleans. LOL.

¶ 16:24

Well, it's been a while and I continue to break the promise I made to myself everyday. Someday I will blog regularly... someday. It's not for you, the reader... It's more for me, the writer. It offers a moment to reflect on the day: your thoughts, dreams, mistakes and happy moments. It's pleasant, and it's cheaper than a counselor.

Anyway. I have not updated the masses. I moved to Quincy. Well, Lets start at the beginning.

I moved to the cape! Yay? No, I hate the cape. You see... it's sandy. It's hot. It's muggy. There is fucking traffic everywhere you go at any time of day, and roads that aren't clogged with traffic are filled with elderly out-of-towners enjoying tag sales and driving at the speed limit. I don't like beach... never have. That's not to say that I hate it, because I don't. I would just rather go to a movie than to a beach. I burn. I'm Irish. I don't do sand. Sand gets into places more than other people do, and I don't like that.

I would have to say that besides the sunburning... I hate the sand that gets stuck to your feet, and ends up in the car. Or, just grinding against your skin as your walking to the car. This sand is mysterious and all powerful... it sucks that the ocean is on the other side of the sand pit than the parking lot. There is no way to avoid this... It's horrible. This is the one part of the beach that keeps me from going back. I don't mind sand sticking to my feet when I'm chilling on the beach. No, not at all... not a problem in the world. But, when you're ready to leave the beach, but the beach is clinging to you for dear life; like a child trying to get a parent to stick around, it's time for the beach to die.

Well, I stayed at the cape for all of two nights, before I got a call from Julie. I don't know if I've blogged about her before, but she is new landlord. I responded to a posting on Craigslist a while back, and we'd been in phone contact. I had made plans based on this contact, but then she vanished. Off of the face of the planet. Turns out, she had been in New Hampshire. Same thing...

So, anyway, that all worked out in the end, and I live in Quincy. So, that's move number two. I have all of my stuff here, and I'm still processing it.

I got rid of my car. Almost cried as I was cleaning her out. I honestly don't know if I'll ever see it again, but she's in Gram's hands now. I'll miss her. And the freedom that she represented.

The T is going by. I can hear it whenever it does. It's not as obnoxious as one would think... but it reminds me that I have to get my pass. Eighty cunting dollars a month. Robbing bastards.

Still cheaper than a car, though.

Let me explain a wee bit about the house. Well, it's a 6,000 square foot Victorian mansion, that was split into two identical sides. My side is the more modern of the two. It's got some crazy art-deco furniture things going on, and there is a huge amount of common area. I have a TV in my room, so short of cooking and laundry, I have no reason to be out in the common area... Sometimes the human contact is good.

My room is on the third floor. Well... let's go to the floor plan. The basement is common area, used for landlord's storage with a common laundry area. The first floor is all open common area, inclusive of the kitchen, living room, fireplace room, foyer, pantry, and dining nook. There is a split staircase leading to the second floor. This includes four bedrooms, and a bathroom. Adam, Rob, Kara and Darlee all live on this floor. Then, up another level are two more bedrooms and a bathroom. My room is red. Very red. I like it though.

Anywho. I did my first load of laundry. EVER. It was an adventure. Actually, it wasn't anything. It was quite possibly the most common sensical thing I've ever encountered. I'd bet my whites are finishing as I'm typing this...

Work is work. That's all I'm going to say about that. It's a way to make money. I'm not in love with it, but I don't hate it.

It's kinda boring here. I don't know anyone. I don't know where the fun is. It'll improve when I get to school. I'll get to know some people.

I'll update as the world turns.

¶ 19:43

¶ 17:07

Have you ever gone to the bathroom in a strange place? Well, not strange like in the woods, or in a milk jug, but just in someone else's house? Or, maybe even a public restroom?

Well, I have, and I need to share the experience with you. I don't know why, but I simply must.

This little escapade usually starts with the realization that after breathing and drinking that large Iced Coffee, your bladder is about to explode; sending it's contents spilling throughout your body only to leak out of your nose. That could cause a problem, and it's human nature to prevent this from happening. So, that's that: The Urge.

After noticing the urge, you locate a facility to do your business. If you at a mall, or in a store, you look for the little stick figures indicating whether people wearing dresses or not can use that restroom. Perhaps, there is just a generic sign that says 'RESTROOM' plastered above all else. I have noticed that most of these signs are blue. I know not the reasoning behind it. If you are at a friend's house, you have it the easiest... you can just ask where the bathroom is. Actually, if you're at home you have it the easiest... you know where it is. But, peeing, or - god forbid - pooping in some foreign spot is awkward. It's easy to do that in your own home. Preferable, even. So, that's that: The spot.

You make your way towards the bathroom, and most try to do this while causing the least attention to one's self because there is just something intrinsically embarrasing about using a restroom. I don't know what it is, but it can turn even the lamest situation into an awkward fest. If you have a carriage, you hunt for a part of the store where you can leave your goods and they will not be ransacked. If you're at a friend's house or a restaurant, you try to cut the conversation short.

Then. The walk. Oh, god. It can take what seems like years. There are a group of teenagers over there watching you. Waiting for you to duck around the corner so they can laugh at you. You know it, you were those teenagers once. So, sometimes you can look like your going to look at this product... over here. Perhaps, you're going to ... make a phone call. Other times, you're about to burst, and you hurdle toward the door with no shame. You run over anything in your way with no mercy.

This is how I like to roll. No mercy. Fuck you, Lady... you shoudln't have been wheeling your invalid self in front of the pee door. What kinda idiot does that? Oh, you're retarded? Well, that's too bad for you.

So, you're at the door. Now, this gets furtherly awkward. You push, when you're supposed to pull; or vice-versa. Or, the door is much heavier than you anticipated. Whatever it is, isn't what you expected, and you make an ass of yourself.

This is where it can get complicated. There could be someone coming out. They're slightly ashamed of having used a bathroom where someone else has seen them, so they're trying to run away from your judging eyes, and you're trying to get into the sacred chamber and escape from view. After you two dance the tango, and one of you folds first... you're in.

Now, there is always something to be admired in a bathroom. Everyone is different. Different colours, different layouts... whatever. But, you always have to visually survey the area, and make a POA. You notice cleanliness and smells. You stare at the small tiles on the floor, then the bigger tiles on the wall. You look around like you're admiring the lunar landscape. I don't know why... you just do. You look at the stalls, if you're a girl or just have to do the dirty business, and it's like your appraising real estate. You want the handicapped stall, but you'd feel pangs of guilt if that little old lady that you just ran over needed to use it. That would suck. But, on the other hand... space is nice. You always want to be as far away from any other restroom occupants as possible. This doesn't always work, because if you're alone, you want to be in the most isolated, which is often the middle one, and just creates a big mess for generations of future poopers. Oh, and you want a clean one. The same applies for urinals. You don't want the kiddie one, because it's stupid and you feel awkward. And, you don't want to be next to anyone because that's just weird. No one likes being approached when they're facing the wall, and no one wants to approach someone when they're facing the wall. Oh, and if you're using a friend's bathroom... you want to check it out. See what kind of drugs their crazy mom or roommate has to take. See how clean they keep things. See what kind of toothpaste they use, and shampoo... ya know, good things to know about the person.

God forbid there are no urinal dividers. Oh, and if they are three too close together, there might as well be one. It's an unwritten rule to have three feet between pee-ers whenever possible. And, the guy before you took the middle one. Well, fuck. You can't approach him, and he wanted to be in the most isolated one. Oh, fuck. You can't approach him, it's in the rules. Damnit... so you awkwardly pace around pretending to check your phone, or fixing your hair in the mirror or something... Then he leaves.

Guys will do this all with a straight face; whether they are about to burst or not. It's dignified. I just imagine girls running full steam into a stall and getting to work. No shame.

Anyway, the guy in front of you leaves. You can't rush in behind him immediately, because that's weird. You need to leave a gap time, generally as long as it takes for the toilet to stop flushing.

Now, keep a straight face. Guys are out in the open, where new occupants coming in can see, and your expressions are evaluated. If the guy in the stall in the corner lets loose some nastly diarrhea, then you start laughing... you look like a looney playing with himself to the newbies. But, you want to make light of the hysterical situation. It's truly awkward.

Now, it's always important to do this as fast as possible, too. The clock is ticking. You left your cart abandoned, and some asshole clerk is just about to put it away. Or, you left your girlfriend sitting at the table, waiting awkwardly alone. Or, your friend is staring blankly at the wall waiting for your return.

So, you wash your hands. This is really important. A lot of people skip this to save time, but it's recommended. Dry them thoroughly. Nothing like giving them a shake, then running into your boss and his wife and shaking wet hands. That's pleasant. You're definately going to make partner now, you dirty asshole. Or, just being seen with moist hands after coming out of the bathroom is grounds for conversation. So, you've dried you hands, and you leaving, but some asshole is coming in. This is where you get to see the other side of what you'd just experienced minutes before. But, the time is running out. Two more seconds, and the entire store thinks you were in there pooping! Oh, god. What to do?! So, you jump out of the way, and then you end up late anyway.

So, you are done, but not after being scared for life after your waste experience. Why is it so awkward? Oh, and you're on your own if there is no TP.

¶ 17:35

Okay... so there was a boy. Two actually. I don't know if I ever expected anything from either of them, but it was nice to entertain the fantasy.

Well, everyone wants to be loved. And, I believe that I'm not an exception to the rule. Some rules, I can get around, but this one is deep. I just can't. Sometimes I get lonely, and I can't imagine Boston. I'm not going to have anyone or any friends. I'm going to have nothing.

Anyway, back to the point. I kinda had feelings really strongly for one of the boys, and the other I found to be adorable. Both were people that I could have seen myself spending a lot of time with in a romantic fashion. They were both cute, and very nice.

One of them... I just can't talk to anymore. I can't. He leads me on horrifically, and it's just a disaster waiting to happen. The other, which was sort of a back up plan, has got a boyfriend. I suppose that I'm happy for him, but I'm kinda jealous in the same sense. That's not to say that I didn't want to be a good friend, or that I still don't, but even that is hampered by the presence of a boyfriend.

I don't know what I want anymore. Some days I'll tell you that I want a long term relationship with someone. Another day, I'll tell you that I'm looking for a friend with benefits. And, on a third day I'll be perfectly content being single. Grrr. I just don't know what I want to do.

..::[[]]::..

In other news... I'm moving to Boston! Woo! Exciting!

Unfortunately I'm not going to know for sure of my living situation until tomorrow. I seem to be encountering this a lot. How come no one can seem to make a decision? Grrr. Grrgrrgrr.

I'm moving to a virtual new world. I know... no one.

I start work on Monday, the 21st. At ... 7 Anti Meridian... I've not been up that early since... I don't even know. They have me shadowing a woman whose name I forget, and probably will not remember until I read it from a name badge. Oh, well. I'll just keep telling myself that it's an adventure, and I'm exciting.

I'm really looking forward to leaving. As I'm writing all this out, there are birds shrieking in my ear. I beat on the cage, yet nothing happens.

This is going to be one of those floating entries.

My eating habits have gotten quite strange. I don't really do it anymore. I'm down to one meal a day, which I know is quite unhealthy. I have my coffee, and I drink a lot of liquids, but I only really eat solid food once. Usually what is in between dinner and lunch... around 3 and 4. It's strange. Yet, this has jerked my metabolism into somewhere where I like it to be.

Meh, I'm done typing now.

¶ 21:26

I don't get it. Why are people so desperately afraid of committment - in any sort. Some people lease cars because they have the option of getting a new one in two years, instead of a conventional five year loan. Some people have relationship problems. Some people are afraid of answering yes or no questions.

It's frustrating, as I find a lot of things in life to be. I'm moving to Boston, and the landlord is complicating the process by running things through the tenants to make sure that they're okay with what's going on. Which is fine, and I'd appreciate it if I were a tenant... but it's ultimately her decision, and even she acknowledges that it's taking a long time. Why then, doesn't she make the call? Meh, I don't know.

I think it's a combination of several things. Some people just want it all. By not saying one way or the other, they can keep as many options open for as long as possible. So, that's selfish. I think that fear can sometimes play a large part of it. People are afraid of rejection or affection so they turn it around to anyone they happen to be dealing with. Je ne sais pas.

In other news. I'm going to know about my living situation by Wednesday at the latest. I'm done typing.

¶ 17:30

What good is a 'remember me' feature that doens't remember me? Ya know that little box that you check, and seems to record your name and password so you don't have to keep logging in? Well, blogger has one and never seems to work with me. It's probably something to do with the cookies and this whole Service Pack II thing with which I am still unfamiliar.

Well, the boston situation as we knew it has fallen through completely and totally. It's a huge inconvenience, but I cannot be upset with someone for controlling the direction of their life. The decision was made, and it is what it is. No hard feelings.

That's the end about that. Everyone keeps asking what happened, but I don't want to talk about it. It's messy and dramatic, and most people don't know the background story. To educate someone totally on the story takes hours, and I'm not going to do it. It's not important, only the outcome and the tone are important.

I'm currently talking to a wonderful woman named Julie, and plans are in the works for me to move to a beautiful victorian mansion with a whole bunch of people. The plan sounds nice, but nothing is set in stone yet. I'd tell you more, perhaps even post pictures, but I'd prefer not to jinx it. I've had a lot of bad luck with living places lately, and I'll take any precautions I can get.

I'll repost and let you know if it works.

¶ 17:40

It is so early and already I'm so annoyed.

I hate living at my grandmother's so much, I want to rip the flesh off of my body. I hate it.

First of all, I hate waking up. It is impossible to sleep late. Firstly, she turns on her TV bright and early when she rolls out of bed at, I don't know... 7. So, It's Matlock, or Murder She Wrote or the Golden Girls serenading my trip to wakefulness.

Secondly, she refuses to turn on the Air Conditioner unless her skin is melting off her body. She has a much higher tolerance than me. So, all night long, I'm sweating and tossing and turning and miserable.

Thirdly, birds. Normally, they aren't bad. They don't make a lot of noise at night, but they howl like fucking banshees at sunrise. God FUCKING Forbid.

Fourthly, sunrise itself. Now, being an octagenarian, it's natural to replace every curtain that could possibly block any light with something sheer. So, the curtains that she has in my room, are white sheers; something like the vail you would see on a bride. Now, these fucking suck for blocking any light whatsover. I could brush their shadow off of me.

All of these get me really frustrated and bring me very close to the snapping threshold. Usually around 9, I can't find a good position, I'm hot and sweaty and annoyed at life, and then my pillows are flat. So, I fluff them, and I'm tired. Then, I put them down, and all I hear is ::::FOOFOFOOOOSOSOSO:::: EVERYTIME I MOVE MY FUCKING HEAD. OR BLINK. OR BREATHE. OR WIGGLE MY FUCKING TOE.

PP: I also hate that when tossing and turning, my clothes wrap around me like some boa constrictor, and I have to jerk them back into being comfortable...

"Why doesn't he sleep naked", you ask? Well, it's very close quarters here on the submarine, and it's hot. I don't sleep with covers, and grandma comes in perodically to put away laundry.

SO I SIT UP, WICKED PISSED. And, I start beating my pillows into submission. I start flailing my legs, but I hate and have to acknowledge that I will no longer be sleeping.

¶ 09:49

See how not much is required to turn from a child, to a snobby person, to a black person. Observe. Colour coded for clarity.

Blu57nav (9:01:12 PM): I want a kitty. =]
Davidicuss8 (9:01:20 PM): What?
Blu57nav (9:01:39 PM): It's type... you can read it. I'm not going to send it again. It's not like I said it, and you missed it.
Davidicuss8 (9:02:38 PM): My "what" was refering to the randomness of the statement.
Blu57nav (9:03:23 PM): I had assumed.
Davidicuss8 (9:03:53 PM): Then your "it's type.." statement is null.
Blu57nav (9:04:07 PM): You're null.
Davidicuss8 (9:04:20 PM): You're Grandma's null.
Davidicuss8 (9:04:27 PM): thats right..
Davidicuss8 (9:04:30 PM): you are grandma's
Blu57nav (9:04:36 PM): Don't be saying shit about my gramma!
Blu57nav (9:04:42 PM): I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU
Davidicuss8 (9:04:51 PM): snap snap "oh no you didnt"
Davidicuss8 (9:04:56 PM): di int**
Blu57nav (9:05:13 PM): Oh, nigga pleez. I di id.
Davidicuss8 (9:05:34 PM): lol.

¶ 21:09

So sick.

Never been this sick before.

I'm pretty much bed-ridden.

I feel like I'm dying.

¶ 15:24

I simply don't know what to do. My feelings are a huge mess; a tangled web of hate, love, passion, longing, desire, and hurt. How can I love he who hurt me so? How can two perfectly healthy human beings experience the same feelings for eachother, yet do not act? How does one rationalize such behaviour? These are some of the many questions that I've been asking myself. I like him, and he likes me... I know this because we've talked about it. I know not why I still feel this way, much less if I should, but the bottom line is that I do. And, if the past is any indication of future performance, I probably will for a long time.


I could have seen us spending the rest of our lives together. I suppose that most would dismiss this as being a childish love; fueled by passion with utter disregard for logic and practicality... However, I could assure you that it wasn't. It was to be grand, fantasically grand. I can't tell you exactly how it would have happened, the rest of our lives, but I could tell you that we'd be happy. I talk of riches and power all the time as being what I want, my single objection from this life but it isn't all. Like every human being that has ever, does, or will ever walk this earth, I seek only happiness. This virtue... well, not really a virtue, more of a motivated feeling. Whatever it be, it's inspired lovers for hundreds of years - Even mentioned in the founded documents of several civilizations. I know that I just want to be happy, and I know that you just want to be happy. It's all anyone really wants.


Back to the issue at hand... For whatever reason, he makes me happy. I certainly wish I could stop my heart. Not in the emo sense, of course, but rather cease my feelings as I know them, and restart them fresh. From a completely new perspective. When my left brain takes over and gives my right hand an intangible back hand, I realize that it should never be. It could... with a lot of work, and commitment. But, who the hell am I to expect or even request that from him? Nay, who am I to expect and request that from myself. I think I owe myself a great deal more.


He's hurt me in the past, and could probably do so again. More than likely, if the probability suites. I'm moving, and the last thing I need is anyone to distract me as he does. Or, even, to tether me to the place that I hate so much.


I look forward to leaving, and as I was just telling Sam, burying a great deal of my past here. I hope to never return, but I know that simply will not happen. I'll be back, someday. Perhaps for a holiday, perhaps to divide and claim assets after burying a loved one, but whatever the reason it remains: I'll be back. Part of me wants to abandon everyone, and everything. Flee the country, take what will fit on a carryon bag, and board a flight for some corner of the globe that no one's even heard of. Ironically, this is the scared side of me talking, not the brave. The scared side is also that one that's keeping me from leaving. I think that everyone fears the unknown, and when they tell you that they do not... they are lying.


If I have to market myself to him as badly as I do, it simply shouldn't be. Too much work, and when it fails, as it ultimately will... probability-wise, I'm going to be devasted. I'll blame him, but it's devastation that I'll build for myself. I'll see it coming, too. That's the worst part. I'll see it in front of me, like I'm driving into a brick wall, yet I won't stop myself. I wish I knew why.


He says that he's attracted to me. Why do I believe him? Clearly, the feelings aren't mutual... at least the degree. If they were, why would we not be wed? Here and now? The answer, here I go answering my own questions, is that he's not nearly as in love with me as I with him. It's unfortunate, I suppose. I think it's even more unfortunate that I've had the time and the foresight to think about all of this. That fact alone should somehow dissuade me from even entertaining such thoughts and fantasies.


In a way, I guess this is the vengeful side of me talking now, I only wish that he realize what he is giving up. I suppose that this is also the cocky side of me. I'm not going to get on a soap box and say that I'm the best lover in the world, because I'm not. I'm not going to say that I've got the biggest anything, because I don't. Nor, am I to claim that I love him the most, because I do not. His love for himself is the force that guides him, and he gets whatever he sets his heart upon. Once upon a time, it was me. Today, it's a BMW, tomorrow.. I don't know, perhaps a breed of cattle. To the best of my knowledge, I am nothing in the scheme of life, so I guess that's exactly what he is losing: Nothing.


Regardless, I hate thinking about it. Yet, I feel as though I'm cheating myself if I don't. I feel like, maybe there is something that I'm not considering... some foreign variable, that when paired with current circumstances will, with a flash, render the desired results... my desired results, and gratify me instantly. I've probably done it hundreds of times, and no variable has presented itself. I expect it to come to me, out of the blue, shrowded in some white light, perhaps under the guise of a dream, but the left side of my brain knows it will not come. It is what it is, and will be what it will be.


I'd love to have the answers. Hell, even the questions. Sometimes I think that I'm crazy. I don't want to be crazy. Sometimes I think that I am unloved. I don't want to be unloved. Sometimes I think that I'm unhappy. I don't want to be unhappy. Sometimes I think I'll never have him again. I want to hold him so badly.

¶ 22:55

Yesterday was an annoying, yet fruitful day. Let me first explain my intense distaste for the man with whom we must deal for our apartment.

His name is Greg. He's the type of man that when you scan a party scene or even the subway, you don't notice at all. If you do notice him, you laugh at him. He keeps it in check, but if he didn't, he'd develop white pools of saliva around the corner of his mouth as he talks. He is the epitome of unprofessional, as all he does is play with his tie... He's like a four year old at a wedding. When he sits down, the back of his shirt comes untucked, and he never ever fixes it. He's short, he's fat, and we're stuck with him.

We've been having trouble with him a lot lately. On Tuesday or Wednesday of last week, I faxed an application over the Harbor Point Apartments. I never heard from them, so on Friday, I called to see if there was anything left to do, if it was recieved, if anything was missing, etc. So, called and left a message with the secretary, as Greg had just stepped out.

Monday, as I'm in the shower, my phone rings. It turns out that he was missing the first page of the application, which wasn't included in the packet that I'd recieved.. so, it wasn't anyone's fault. Aunty Chrissy was the cosigner for that application, but she's out of the country until the 8th and hates me for some reason. I asked if I could switch cosigners, and he said that it was fine.

So, we pile in the car and drive to Boston. We meander through the city, and finally get to the housing complex. We park, and then we go inside. We ask to see Greg, and the secretary goes into his office. He comes out, as if he'd just woken up and fallen out of his chair with a packet of papers in his hand. He gives them to me, and tries to explain what is missing in the old application. Honestly, at this point, I couldn't have given a shit.

Now, we're off to the cape. Several attempts to call Grandma before have failed. We finally connect, and I ask if she'd cosign. She said that she would, but not before grilling us with questions. So, we drive down to her work. She calls us into her bosses office, and she has us sit down. She looks over the application, and asks us a what seemed like a million questions. Then, she does the most miraculous thing. She summons all the powers of the corporation, and completes the packet... even the notorization.

By this time, it's 5pm, and good ol' HP closes at 6. So, I call Greg. I tell him that we're going to be skidding in sideways at 6pm. He said to me, and I quote "Oh, well if there is no one here, you can just drop it in the slot and we'll deal with it tomorrow." I wanted to reach through the phone, and rip out his testicles through his anus. Although we've told him that we live a long way away, and that he knows all of our current addresses, we can drive right on back tomorrow.

So, we stop and get something to eat, because he was probably planning to sneak out of there at five of anyways. And, there was an accident on route three, so we wouldn't have made it. We eventually drop it in the slot.

The next day... yesterday... I call for him at 10:32, two minutes after they open. I was informed that Greg wasn't coming in until 11. I left my name and my phone number for him to call me. In typical Greg fashion, he didn't. I called back at 11:13, and was told that he was just stepping out the show an apartment. She asked if it could wait, and I told her that it was kind of important. She took down my name and number again, and said that he'd call me back in a couple of minutes.

So, we all pile in the car again and we drive all the way down there. We pull into Harbor Point, and get out of the car. Greg and Googly-eyed man were just stepping out to get some lunch. Well, It just so happens that he sees me, and runs back inside. We go into the office, and the secretary, who knows me by now, asks if we're looking for Greg. Indeed, we were looking for Greg, and she brings us into his office. He said that he was sorry for not getting back to me sooner, but it's been really busy. [Which I doubt.]




Pause. I'm really hungry... I'll finish this later.

¶ 10:31