K Sublime

Expressing emotion does not make you a psycho.
I know this is a difficult concept for all you emotionally stunted types (read: males). I know these scary, scary people with feelings (read: females) can be very...scary, but here, let's have a visit with Rational Rhonda and Psycho Sara.

Rational Rhonda would say:
I like you very much.
Psycho Sara would say:
Can I sleep over? (within an hour of meeting)

Rational Rhonda:
I miss you.
Psycho Sara:
I miss you (on your voicemail, cell and house, twenty times a day).

Rational Rhonda:
You have hurt my feelings.
Psycho Sara:
I hurt, you hurt. (nailed to your apartment door)

Rational Rhonda:
You will regret letting me go.
Psycho Sara:
You will regret this, you $#@^!!!! (screamed at you tearfully in front of your job, where she meets you every day)

See? Easy cheesy.

Adrien and I will be registered at Target.
Let's talk for a minute about desire.
1)I want to be able to work out of my house so I can see the kid--while the kid is still a kid. (1a#:I want to not live in the ghetto or go hungry or bankrupt whilst this happens.)
2)I want to get married at some point before I'm dead, old, or so embittered that I don't even care. The whole finding your soulmate at 80 thing is sweet, but a huge waste of time.
3)I want to live in that neighborhood where everyone wants to live and would if they could.

Here we have three things that could occur, but probably won't. I have 'goals' or plans, but isn't it mostly about luck? Maybe not, but I bet that homeless guy on the corner didn't dream of spending his days with downcast eyes behind a cardboard sign. Alternately, Stella McCartney didn't have to chase down and beg those supermodels for her school show either.

So I say, why aim low when planning my future? This is the new plan:
I will marry Adrien Brody, who will love the kid and I so that he will want to keep us in jewels, sunny days, and ice cream from the day we meet until the day Britney Spears starts singing folk songs. We will marry secretly-like, in some field with budding dandelions. He will direct the film I write, and we will both star in it and make cruel people everywhere sorry. It will make a bazillion dollars and we will sweep the Oscars. We will be like Bennifer, but smarter and infinite, and be on the cover of every magazine and the people will love us for loving them and we will love them for loving us and....you get the point. Just about as realistic as finding a great apartment with reasonable rent, really. Much more fun to think about.

Note to male friends: Yes, I did mention marriage. To me. I imagine that causes a feeling of alarm, discomfort, and cold fear that I may be considering you for this position.
Allow me to ease your minds.
There is only one of you lot I'd even consider in that way; the rest of you can breathe a collective sigh of relief.

Nightswimming.
I realize that my entire music collection is precisely the *wrong* thing to be listening to, ever. Very easy to dote and feel googly goo and fuzzy besides. I am looking at Elvis Costello quite pointedly and I realize I must purchase sensible music, which leads to this question: Is money all there is?

I mean, really. I can think of two specific, important areas in which money would have made the difference in my life. And I don't mean the time I wanted to buy pink Uggs on ebay but they were 400 bucks (oh sweet uggieboos I want you to be mine!). Okay, that's the wrong question. Obviously there's love and fear. But do financial considerations trump both of those?

You'd think there'd be some kind of avenging angel to take care of that sort of thing, when people place finance above more ethereal fare. Perhaps with a lead pipe on loan from God. But there isn't at all. There's just a strange anticipatory silence. As if at any time Emma Thompson will come crashing through the ceiling. She doesn't, because she is probably working on her next film. She will be paid handsomely I imagine, which quite proves my point.

Nightswimming. Deserves a quiet night.

Everyday I write the book.
It is difficult to control where the mind wanders.
To say more than that would be a waste of time, and it would also keep my mind in places it has been chased from over and over again.
It is good that I will be spending more time in Manhattan.
Who knows of great non-touristy places there? A wanderlusty friend is dropping by in June (hehe, another guy LOL) and maybe I can talk everybody into going somewhere that isn't used up and overdone.
Someone give me some ideas.

She's a brick....house.
Over the course of this week, three good looking guys have asked me to meet them in NYC. Of course, they're all like my brothers and there is not a googly goo to be found. Ironic, isn't it. But they're my home slices and good people.
Hmm...my men friends don't ever hang out with me and the kid, just me. It's not like they consciously decide that, and I don't really mind (I prefer it mostly)... but...what up with that?
If y'all want to psychoanalyze, please do. But what I REALLY wanted to discuss was this--
Does anyone go out dancing anymore? I have the strongest urge to go to a club that only plays the cheesiest pop songs from the seventies and eighties. I want to do the Safety Dance. I want to do the 'same as it ever was' hand thing on my arm. I want to shake my groove thing. I want to be dancing like I've never danced befooooooore. I don't think there are clubs like that. Actually there are probably some in Manhattan. Nice place, that Manhattan.

God with a lead pipe.
I feel today that God is a wild haired Irishman who has whacked me in the knees with a lead pipe. And he kind of looks like Sean Connery in that movie with Cuba Gooding, or maybe like Sean Connery in the Rock. The point is, God looks like Sean Connery. I know Connery is Scottish. And in fact God has this really thick brogue nobody understands.
I feel today that He is waiting to whack us all. Actually, just some of us.
Not like, Paris Hilton.
And if God doesn't do the actual bashing, he's not exactly the Emergency Response Team. He just kinds of stands around waiting for you to stop bleeding because He's got other things to do.
Why does he want to whack me but not you? Am I a jerk?
In that case I certainly regret not acting like a revengeful psychotic or a cruel bitch when opportunities have begged me to.
In other words, I'm feeling great today.

What a wonderful world.
I secretly (okay, not so secretly) wish everyone liked that song.
It's such a sweet ditty full of faith in people (and the world) that I don't really have...but would like to. I mean:

"The colors of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky
Are also on the faces of people going by
I see friends shakin' hands, sayin' "How do you do?"
They're really saying "I love you""

Louis Armstrong sang that song at a time when black people were treated pretty ridiculously in this country. But boy you'd never know it. What a gorgeous magical picture that song is. Remind me to talk all about magic one day. Not like poofy poof magic or scary witchy magic but... in a way even the sense of sight is magic. Science is magic. Feelings are magic. So much of the world is intangible and....magical. Hmm. Maybe magical isn't the right word. I'll look for the right one. And I say to myself, what a wonderful world.

Oh I *am* being delinquent, aren't I?
Be back tomorrow.
Oprah's being investigated by the FCC.
Do I still live in America?