AIR RAID.

I feel the hair on the back of my neck exploding in split ends as soon as I see my mother reach for the handle on the refrigerator door.

And as she cheerily announces through her teeny, slightly-clenched, WASP'y teeth "It looks like someone threw up in here," my vertebrae curl together, pulling me in towards myself like an armadillo in a loosing battle.

Why do I care? At this point in my life I know my apartments will never be clean enough, ever. They've seen them all (except that China Town place with the crumbling tile and glue traps THANK GOD), I know the drill. After every apartment inspection I always have code violations. During the last visit, I had postponed the meet-and-greet with Clinton Hill. I knew it had to happen this trip. Resistance was futile, I just wanted to be ready, you know? I wanted to be the Department of Domestic Preparedness Affairs, armed with one god-damned acceptable apartment!!

As I sat there waiting for the door buzzer to ring, impressed with my anticipatory cheese, hummus, and crudites plate, NPR a-blazin', feeling as ready and properly contained as a tin full of tea biscuits - I noticed the 4 inch bike grease smudge on the wall. That will get a shout out, of this you can be sure, Ms. NPR and Cracker Tray. Before I could get to the paper towels, of course the buzzer went "ZAAANNNG."

"What happened there?"

I don't' know mom. Perhaps a bacteria-ridden Mongoloid threw up on the wall before he made it to the fridge since clearly I was too busy smoking opium with Madame Tang or whatever you suppose I do which causes me to be imprudent about my wall scrubbing duties. I can see her little brain ticking away, evaluating, logging, reorganizing, assessing the condition of this place I work very hard to live in. She settles in, imperfections duly noted but "its not that bad."

Well thanks.

Why on earth do I care this much? I'm the 26 year old adult child of a clean freak! Big deal! Some people got hit or fed meth in their Cheerios! I have perspective! I understand "Theory of Mind"! MY thoughts are different from OTHER PEOPLE'S thoughts! So how could I really be so fragile? So easily rattled by every silly little thing, my silly little mother says? I should be able to knowingly chuckle "Oh mom" without hearing the air raid sirens go off in my ego, my mature intelligence necessitates it!

DUCK AND COVER.

I was already 2.5 glasses of wine in anyway (so much for containment), why not make it four shall we?

And the soft focus moroseness sets in. There I am.

Ready to face the rest of my evening with my parents. Dinner discussion ranges from why I "look so unhealthy" (Grazie, Don Lipitor) to how Dad keeps getting "blown off" by other family members, and of course the ever popular "why don't I teach?"

Because I do not like kids and it interests me not at all. That's why I don't teach. I don't like children. Not small children, not middle schoolers, not high school kids. The thought of being the sweater-dress wearing, chain-smoking drama teacher for a bunch of school children makes me feel like somehow kicking my own ass. Really, it makes me want to get into a fist fight with myself.

I DO NT WANT TO.

AT ALL. NOR HAVE I EVER EXPRESSED ANY INTEREST IN DOING IT EVER IN MY WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE.

PLEASE STOP SUGGESTING IT EVERY TIME I SEE YOU I CANT THINK OF ANYTHING I WOULD LIKE TO DO LESS.

I also have fond memories from years 85 to 95 of how much mother dear JUST LOVED teaching kindergartners and used to fairly frequently come home from work crying throughout my youth so YEA, TEACHING, SEEMS TO SUCK.

Oh man. I'm exhausted. I'm exhausting myself.

Upon returning home, I looked at the remnants of my attempt at hors d'oeuvres on what passes for a kitchen table, and right there, right in the eye line of the bowl of mini carrots, leaning jauntily on the windowsill:

"The Smart Girl's Guide to Porn"

ITS PAIGE'S, REALLY! NO, Really it really is Paige's, I'm like, I don't know, porn? Just not really that into it really. NO REALLY.

I mean...I'm reading it but it's my roommates!! REALLY.

At least nobody said anything.

Mental Fitness.

So during the time I was away, not writing this blog, I happened to discover that


I've got brain problems.

And when my room mate (who is like my wife at this point) upon returning home finds me, yet again, by myself during daylight hours making a sizable dent in a bottle of gin and chain-smoking on the couch, joylessly watching Tyra Show reruns (such woe!!) while feeling really really bad for myself - suggested what my mom has been saying for years

"you should go to therapy."

(Its harder to be all like "OH WHATEVER MOM" when your friends say it...)

I decided, yea, maybe I should. And I mean, unlike sopping up whiskey with your cerebellum, its not going to kill me. Furthermore since I am one of the lucky few who actually have health insurance, I can get my brain worked on, like, for free!

No wait, wait..

I can work on my own brain.

Right?

I shouldn't be so flip about it...I just find something about the whole idea of therapy fucking annoying. Well its not so mysterious. What I find annoying is that NYC offers up a myriad of ways for its inhabitants to display shockingly unpleasant levels self-involvement. So you strive to avoid being completely overtaken by your own ego (or risk becoming a frightening species of gorgon only found in New York), and then the first thing that comes to mind as a sure-fire panacea when you start seeing red doors and wanting to paint them black, is spending your money to essentially force someone to listen to you talk about yourself.

It just annoys me. About me. And I'm going to talk further about it, on this blog, which I write, about me.

Perhaps I am loosing this battle.

So battle lost, I have started "seeing someone."

Everyone says it's important to have "reasonable expectations". I guess that means, for example if I were a lunatic who was seeing gigantic hob goblins with fangs on fire everywhere, I shouldn't hope to eradicate the hob goblins entirely, but perhaps turn them into more petite, benign goblins. Fiery goblins you can live with. Goblins not on fire.

But I'm having a hard time continuing this venture. I don't think I'm really all that interested in not being upset. And some part of me thinks the whole thing is a big snake oil wholesale operation. I don't know...I'm just trying not become Artax in the Swamps of Sadness...you know what I mean.

there is some shit in my room

Last night was fun.

I started "packing. " It's going really well. I found my portfolio of drawings had some how been placed on the floor in the basement and now they are all water damaged and wrecked.

bye artwork.

(actually, full disclosure i stupidly sold this one for 25 bucks to some girl, she said she was going to frame it...i hope its still alive somewhere.)

I guess now I have to make more.

I'm just sad... I wanted to have those drawing to show my kids that will never exist

in case of their possible existence

Anyway that was fun, so I bought an overpriced bottle of vodka and watched "Make me a super Model" for a while and then after I was a little stumbly I decided it would be a good idea to start packing my books and cds.

It was the best idea ever.

I broke off all my finger nails and found all my old sketch books and photos and scripts which instantly make me start crying even when I'm sober as they represent the time in my life when I wasn't a professional squanderer of potential.

I love making myself cry over the "bigness" of my problems.

THEY ARE THE BIGGEST PROBLEMS EVER. FUCK YOU!!!

*door slam*

Three cheers for weeping profusely. I am convinced that's why dudes die so much earlier; a lack of hissy fits will kill you.