I don't even make up my bed, much less my mind

Oh my dear Lord, could I have had any more template trouble yesterday? I've done it before, you know, where you make three different picture pages and archive them differently, and include links. Tag-board was backing up on me, though, so I moved it off the page so I could refresh more quickly. Somehow that ruined my left margin. I've double checked all the HTML (even with the original design) with the "older" page (because that one's how I want it) and there are no discrepancies.

This gripes my ass.

Why is it that it takes all the way until Tuesday for you to look back on the weekend and say, "What the hell did I do?"

I don't want no more of the crying game.

Why is it that though I know I have no capacity for the O N E right now I am relentlessly lambasting myself for what "goodtimes" I collect?

I've been buying the wrong luandry detergent and my boss broke-out. shit.

I went to see the middleschool orchestra perform their Christmas concert last night. V plays the violin. J and I sat and played hang-man with words like "circumcise."

V told me yesterday that I'm the coolest nanny she's ever had, because I don't curb their language as "innapropriate." Their behavior is important to me, but there is nothing that they cannot say in my presence. J knows he's not permitted to call me a bitch, but I'm determined for him to not be afraid of saying anything he thinks.

Did I tell you V asked me if I had ever been in an abusive relationship? Yeah, just like that. I asked her one more time to tell me why she asked, and she just so she would know where to get advice if she ever got into a bad situation.

My twelve-year-old girl.

How will I leave here? I mean, how will make sure the children know that I'm not leaving them? I've only been here four months and they both cling to me with more trust and love and openness -- they are locked down like a penitentiary, but for me have become very vulnerable -- I can only wonder how much closer we will be eight months from now.

All I have are words and emotions.

No particular order in which to operate with the two.

I put them out there in faith that someone will soak up remnants of meaning. I'm a truth pedler, and like a pedler I have no real concept of what value might be contained in my wares. There's no marketing, or advertising, or future planning at all. I never know where I'm going to end up, and I never even know where I started until I finish. I don't know what I'm looking for. Every three days I shift, vascillate, forget, then remember.

"I love it here."

"I want to go home."

"Why can't I find a true love?"

"Why can't I find a trophy man?"

"I could work here for five years."

"All I want is my own place."

"All I want is to be in graduate school."

"I love doing yoga."

"Yoga is boring."

"I'm hungry."

"I don't deserve to eat."

*don't take that seriously...it's a metaphor...I'm skinny, not anorexic...I'm too anemic not to eat...*

Did I tell you my brother let me sing Janis Joplin with his band with I was home Thanksgiving? "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." I'm free, then, I guess.

I've planned my "Weezer" wedding, by the way. I'll walk down the aisle to a rock-instumental of "Say It Ain't So," the recessional will be to another instrumental of "My Name is Jonas" and when I take off with the rice-throwing (in order to kill a lot of birds) the band will play -- and sing -- "Holiday." Just for kicks he'll look just like Buddy Holly and I'll be Mary Tyler Moore. We'll both be wearing Chucks. The wedding party will all wear sweaters. And self-deprivation will be the most exalted status of anyone in attendance, so no one will eat, everyone will drink cheap gin, and no one will dance until all the lights are turned off, and the only people who will get laid (besides me, the bride) will be a buch of Japanese teenagers, whores, and certifiable sociopaths.

I'm working on the plans for my Destiny's Child wedding.

Do you think of Bianca every time you see Beonce? Or Binaca Blast? Or a nice rack?

I'm going to see La Boheme next Saturday, on Broadway, and no one who I want to go with me is available. I would like to go with a fella. No boys here. I do everything with Asit, I don't want to go with him. Maybe I'll ask one of the girls to go (Liza, Jen, and Kate are their names, by the way, just so you gurls know).

Strip it all down. Take out all the fillers. Take off my make up. Turn off the lights. Turn off the noise. Rinse it in rain. What's left? One person. He could be the only man I know and I would not regret it. The thing that makes me keep thinking that is him: not other people.

It's time for me to blow.

This place is dead, anyway.