So the cool thing about stealing internet from your neighbors is that you don't have to pay for it. (Duh.) The bad thing about it is that there's no one to complain to when it cuts out and you can't write a new blog, pay your phone bill, or check your bank account. I've been living in the Dark Ages for a couple weeks now; cut off from my Netflix instant queue and my ABC.com episodes, I've been forced to turn to my Emergency Ten Movies That I Own and revisit Diane Keaton's surprisingly perky bare tits in my all-time favorite film Something's Gotta Give. No complaints, really, (I mean, you even get to see a little bit of her conservative vagina) but all week I've felt like pouring some bullshit out onto an empty computer screen. Now that I have the opportunity, however, (I'm totally lying, by the way. The internet just cut out again, but I refuse to quit typing so now I'm probably-but-maybe-hopefully-not gonna lose all these typed words anyway) I can't really think of anything to focus on.
Also I'm overdosing on estrogen right now. I am pretty sure women's periods are the WHOLE FUCKING REASON that we're all crazy. Once a month, our brains play Boggle with our emotions and we try to unscramble our nerve signals to make sense of what we're feeling. This fun process starts the week before the red tide's flood gates open and lasts for a few days after, so realistically we're looking at at least two weeks every month of absolute balls-out bananas behavior. I have discovered that during this time I am not allowed to : a.) watch that one dog shelter commercial where Sarah MacLachlan's sad-ass song is playing in the background, b.) drink tequila, or c.) ponder anything whatsoever more significant than my favorite color, because any serious-subject thinking is only bound to lead to catastrophic revelations and downward spiraling into an emo bout of depression.
Maybe my schizophrenic hormones caused it, but for some reason last week I had the sudden epiphany that I no longer want to be managing a restaurant. I tried to contain the thought for a few days, weighing the amount of estrogen attached to its origin, but the idea continued to hiss and fizzle around in my PMS-bogged brain like a Mentos mint in a two-liter bottle of Dr. Pepper. I knew it was REALLY time to accept my psyche's decision when I was sitting early one morning (way, way too early) in a meeting for the managers and kitchen staff at my cafe. As I sat there watching everyone get riled up about which shift's staff wasn't prepping enough lettuce or how the cashiers are mis-entering items in the POS system to be sent to the chefs, I felt myself developing an internalized form of Tourette's. With each spasm of my leg, a stream of frustrated words was punching its imprint into the back of my skull: (leg kick) It doesn't fucking MATTER! (knee jerk) COCK!! (elbow jab) SHIT SHIT FUCK COCKSUCKER!! (foot stomp) How much longer are we gonna talk about this SHIT?!!!! (entire body shudder) HOLY JESUS FUUUUUUUUCK!!! The creepy grin that spread over my face by the end of the meeting was the final byproduct of my conscious resolution: I am quitting life as I know it and heading to become a nomad artist in my mom's backyard in San Luis Obispo.
I know I look like a nut. I know I have been boasting about being happy here in Encinitas for the last six months. But I think I've finally realized that happiness is something that comes from within. And I've found it, guys. I'm full of sunshine and sailorman cackles and sauteed tempeh, and it feels like hallelujah. Well, it did feel like hallelujah, until my crappy hormones started dragging my high spirits through piles of stale horse shit. Seriously though, what the fuck? I'm so over my ovaries right now. Not that you wanted to know this, but what HAPPENED was that when I moved here I left my stash of birth control pills in storage (yay! too much information!), and then when I got all of my shit outta storage, I decided to follow The Rules and wait for my period to come before I started taking the pills again. ...Six months later after not having it STILL I said "fuck it" and started popping the pills like Skittles in hopes that I wouldn't be popping a baby out in another three months. And now, jolly good times, I'm having to deal with half a year's backed up hormones and the mood swings are making me seasick. If you talk to me right now, yes, I will make you wish you had bashed your head into a wall instead. Blech. I'm tired of even listening to my bitchy tone make bitchy little thought-comments in my head. Mostly, I just want to drink about five (singlewhitefemale)-sized glasses of wine, but the fact that I'm trying to ditch my vices is only making everything worse times about five thousand. Blech blech BLECH blech blech!!!
Well I suppose it's not the BEST time to advertise my colorful plans for my near future. I promise I'm really excited to tackle the thousand-and-one art projects that have been building in my mind over the last seven years. More specifically, I'm ecstatic to throw myself into the now-apparent niche I've stumbled upon of Vegan Art. I can't wait to paint milk mustaches and bloody thighs and cherubic wide-eyed baby cows. I'm sure there are buyers lining up all over the place for that shit, right?? Oh my GOD I can't wait to immerse myself in the CrazyLand of paint and glitter and fabric and Sharpies that is my mother's house, my Mel Brooks-haired head emerging from a pile of Goodwill flannel with a triumphant hot-pink-lipstick grin on my sweaty face.
Yes... if I could just get my hands on a syringe full of testosterone all would be peachy once again. Alas, I think I've got about two more days of stuffing vegan chocolate cupcakes into my mouth and glaring at nuns before I can shake the crazies and start planning my artistic exodus to SLO-town.
*Sigh* Alright life. Here I come. I'm gonna do you.
