What I'm not sure about is whether this ecstatic state of being forgiven is supposed to include a grown woman listening to the new Britney Spears album like 17 times in the past 24 hours. And having multiple phone conversations about it.

I think, and often argue, that the words love and happiness are too broad to actually represent the varied and individual experiences they imply. And that too many people fall prey to thinking they have to live up to whatever norm they perceive these words to mean, and therefore miss out on what would really enrich their own lives.

However, this weekend has convinced me to fall prey to at least one cliche. Which is that I now believe "love" to include that hardest of all feats, absolute forgiveness.

We are taught, at least us childhood christians, that to forgive someone is our duty, and to be forgiving is a grace. I'm not a forgiving person, and the majority of people I know are not forgiving. Perhaps no one really is until they experience the other side of the equation, which is to be forgiven. When you are utterly forgiven for something unforgivable, it is a mind-blowing, heart- palpitation causing, HUMBLING act. It deflates you and fills you up again with something that at the moment is unnamed, but infinitely more substantial than whatever oxygenless ether filled you before.

The true test though is whether you can apply this grace that has been set upon you to your own life.

I have had this kind of forgiveness before from family, many times over, but I've never had it from someone who was not genetically and socially obligated to give it. Not to undercut the value of my family's love, but when someone who, essentially, is a stranger to your upbringing can love you enough not only as a lover but as a human being to show this amount of compassion for your life?

I mean, the least you can do is accept it. The very least. And what the hell do you buy them for Christmas?

Today I pushed Sean into the crazy side of bad. If his name isn't in here too much more, I'd like to state for posterity that I am genuinely crazy and it isn't his fault. I mean, crazy is crazy. There's not a lot of things you can do to deal with it. You all think I'm blaming myself more than I should. I'm telling you straight up, I'm pyscho. I should never ever have a romantic relationship with another human being. Coincidentally, I read the part today where Miller realizes he is inhuman and proud of it. I don't know if I'm proud, but then again, I haven't published a novel yet. Maybe if some sort of good can come out of being inhuman, I'll appreciate it more. Otherwise, its just a waste of other people's time. You can only get away with crazy if you're also a proven genius. Or saint. And I'm definitely not a nice person, so sainthood is out.

Today I spent three hours at work reading about Superstringytheory and trying like hell to, you know, really get it.

Today I actually considered going back into to school to major in math. Cause I'm terrible at math. So shouldn't I go back to school to become decent at something important, rather than stroking my ego with the things I'm already good at? I mean, I know how to read. I know how to write well. I know how to run a board meeting. Physics is my mid life crisis frontier.

My problem with my career is that I simply am not capable of seeing school as some neccesary evil to make more money, because I can't concieve of anything in school that I'm going to learn that will make me a better employee. I already have all those skills. Most of them are simple common sense and an ability to think quickly on your feet. So why pay all that money and time to get a degree that doesn't do something to change my life? On a pyschological level.

No seriously, I'm mentally retarded at math. I'm not exagerrating. I can't do division or multiplication at all, even on paper. I have trouble adding. I can't look at them like numbers, I only see words that I don't understand. But I want to understand string theory. I mean, its actually an important thing. I feel like the sodomized sailor who wants to become a priest. I have to approach math like learning a new language.

Not being able to completely understand and instantly grasp complex physics just by reading it, like I do with everything else in my life, makes me ashamed.

And its important. Its important to know the difference between a boson and a fermion.

It drove me even more crazy when I found a website that gives you the basics of string theory, blackholes, and quantum mechanics. Then it quizzes you after each article. Of course I got perfect scores....but I still don't understand it! I am painfully aware of NOT GETTING IT. I could probably write a freshman college essay on the damn stuff, but thats NOTHING. Its what kindergartdners would understand, if we gave them a chance. They would probably get it better than me, because their mind isn't full of middle eastern politics.

Sympathy, love, regret were all on his side, until she found the pubic hair in the toilet.

Conclusions

When I said I was in love with you, I meant that I would love you even if the fourth reich descended upon us and we were forced to live in shelled out cities, eating radioactive rats and digging through the rubble to find scraps of the former civilization so we could learn from them and not make the same mistakes.

I meant that I would love you even if we were traveling down the Congo on a raft and you sold me to some natives for food, and then sat there masturbating while they boiled me in a huge kettle. (Though I always thought cannibals preferred ovens.)

I meant that if you became the richest man in the world, I would gladly live with you and your trophy wife, wearing her cast away Armani and having clandestine meetings with you in the servants quarters where we'd fuck on a straw cot and you'd leave me a few pounds before rushing off to your meeting with the guv'nor.

I meant that stranded on an ice floe? If you killed a seal I would skin it and not say a single word about how gross it was. I would write you a love letter in seal blood in the snow.

If we were hiking and got stuck somewhere in the woods over night, I would piss in a circle around us so the wolves wouldn't attack us, and you could use Anna Karenina to build a fire.

If we lived in a log cabin where you chopped wood and I made pie and we had only one candle I would write in the daytime so you could use it at night to pick splinters out of your hands.

If we worked at an animal testing facility and the monkeys got loose and started attacking us, I would lead them down a hallway so you could sneak out.

If we met a couple at a bar who asked us to swing with them, and the girl was really hot but the guy was only so-so? I would fuck him just so you could stick your dick in the really hot girls mouth. I'd do it even if you didn't let me watch.

And if we never actually quit smoking, and you need a lung, I'll gladly give you....well I'll go kill some emo kid for you so you can have his.

NANOWRIMO

Feels like it should be capitalized every time......

So...I told a friend I would do it this year with her. And I will. Because it will give me something to do besides watching 30 Rock and drinking.

Actually, I consider both of those elements to be essential to the creative process. One is inspirational, the other is a veritable fount of thievery. Guess which is which?

On the website, they suggest that you tell everyone about participating in this (this BTW being writing a 175 page novel all during the month of November), so that if you start to feel yourself falter, you will be too embarrassed to quit. Like with losing weight, smoking, or breaking up with your boyfriend.

Cause that has worked SO WELL for me in the past.

What I'd like to know is what kind of support are my friends going to give me now that I'm part of a shtick, that they wouldn't give me for the past 25 years I've been trying to write? No seriously, what's up guys? You all went from being crazy insane dirty psycho druggie glamour hogs to being married and living in Akron with cats. That's not helping me out here. Unless we're all looking forward to some serious self-destruction on Bridget's part, you're gonna have to step it up a notch on the dramatic Parisian bum scale. And I know how much you love me and would hate to see me lose my job :) So hurry up. November is almost here.

The worst part of this whole thing is that the inspirational write-ins for Cleveland? Are being held at the Panera bread right around the corner from my house. Seriously? Really really great 4 cheese souffles. Sean really likes the spinach and bacon ones...I don't know about their coffee though...fuck you, ever appealing and simultaneously revolting Panera bread.

A really quick actual life update: I came home to a case of beer sitting on the floor, with two xbox games on top, and a large amount of poo in the toilet. There is no pistachio frozen custard left, and I'm so bored I just bit off my fingernail and spit it on the floor. If I watch that fish video one more time I'll start to bleed from my nose.

I really hated this song until I saw the video. Damn you singing fish that I simply can't resist....

This is once again Sean's fucking fault. Sean AND Marty.

Found this on John Hodgman's page...Thank you John for filling my brain with delicious addictive sugar water.

One thing I will never be able to fully forgive Sean for is the existence of an unmarked burned Paul McCartney SOLO work CD in my car. It got me tonight when I reached into my pile of unmarked very cool surprise CDs. It got me good and hard. Like a bullet to my sinuses.

I suppose this could be solved if I got a sharpie....or threw the devil thing out.

Sometimes, when you come back from a trip, vacation, or just something really stressful, you have this elated high for days afterwards. You feel like a new person, you feel motivated, you like yourself, you feel like you can accomplish that rare feat of being interesting to talk to...

But what provides an even stranger, more tripped out sensation is the day you realize that the high is over and you are deflating back down to the world you inhabited before said event. Which most of the time was heartbreaking and boring, like the grinding of continents against each other. As you sink into this sensation, everything that causes these feelings becomes stark clear in relief against the silk drapes of your recent memories. You really, really hate your job. The same tv shows are on every night. You can't talk to your boyfriend. You're allergic to your own cat, that you've had for 7 years.

If traveling has the same effect as cocaine, then the regular work day is a solid dose of opium. And the slow ones do in fact kill you faster than the speedy ones.

Moment of Zen /:

Sean figured out while watching the Colbert report tonight that if every state in the union has the same filing fees as South Carolina to register in the GOP presidential primary, it would require 1.25 million dollars to run in all fifty states.

Its become increasingly transparent that they intend on choosing the next democratic canindate based on who raises the most money, since every campaign article is now about who's ahead in the fundraising race.

C'mon guys, I'm the least disaffected of them all, and you're really starting to turn me off.....Fie on you, Fie!

So I would like to ask everyone to donate all their monies to me, so I can be president please. I will be a good president, and Al Gore will be my secretary of state.

Things I sometimes miss about Livejournal when I'm really bored and have already read every Agatha Christie book in the house seven times, but cannot stomach anymore Henry Miller because of the blueberry pancakes I ate for breakfast this morning...

QUIZ

1. I've come to realize that: I really truly absolutely without question do not believe in a "higher power". And my life does not suffer in any way shape or form from a lack of that belief. In fact, my life is absolutely better, more amazing, and more interesting for it. I appreciate the existence of things like whale sharks, underground lakes, and giant amazon ant swarms as random acts of coincidence, which inspires more awe and joy in me than religion, wealth,or sex has ever done.

2. I've come to realize that, I talk :
as if I really don't care if you're listening to me or not, because you should be.

3. I've come to realize that, I love : like a wicked witch.


4. I've come to realize that, I have:
GOT to get an ipod eventually.

5. I've come to realize that, I lost : a lot of favorite articles of clothing, hats and purses over the years that I will never be able to replace because no one makes them anymore....people don't make the same things forever...


6. I've come to realize that, I hate it when :
I spend a whole weekend without seeing something new.

8. I've come to realize that, marriage is :
really really weird....

9. I've come to realize that, somewhere, someone is:
thinking that god will punish them for something. Like, actually punish them.

10. I've come to realize that, I'll always be :
A little bit bored, a little bit lonely.

11. I've come to realize that, I have a crush on :
Lindsay Lohan. And Crispix cereal.

12. I've come to realize that, The last time I cried was :
Okay, these are starting to seem less like realizations and more like lyrics to a Fallout Boy song. The last time I cried was yesterday when Sean finally called me after not picking up his phone all day cause he was sleeping, and I had pictured him trying to fix his flat tire and the truck falling on him and crushing him all day. Cause I'm nutso.

13. I've come to realize that, My cell phone's:
making me infertile. In more than just a physical way.

14. I've come to realize that, When I wake up in the morning:
my bed sucks so fucking badly. Its seriously the worst bed in the whole world. Bad Bed! Bad Bed! I might as well try to sleep on the floor. Also, I realize every morning that I should stop leaving my underwear on the bathroom floor. But I never do. Mornings = shame.

15. I've come to realize that, Before I go to sleep at night I:
need to get drunk in order to pass out on that fucking bed and get any rest at all. Mother fucker!

16. I've come to realize that, Right now I am thinking about:
Oh, now we're doing up to the minute realizations huh? Right now I am thinking about how overused the word "realization" is in our vernacular.

17. I've come to realize that, Babies are:
very susceptible to death.

18. I've come to realize that, I get on myspace:
To support the suppression of the Chinese people.

19. I've come to realize that, Today I:
want to get every article of trash, including my cat, out of the house.

20. I've come to realize that, Tonight I will: have to do laundry because I really think I've ferreted out any last hiding pieces of underwear there were left to find...


21. I've come to realize that, Tomorrow I will:
Go to work. Again. and Again. and Again.

22. I've come to realize that, I really want to:
spend my life flying around the world with no visible purpose.

I don't know how to give enough credit for this story not being mine and being published in a book, and the link is on McSweeneys, and this is seriously one of the best short stories I've read in a long time.....Dave Eggers, this is AWESOME. I wish YOU were my best friend. I just had to record it here for posterity, but I'll go out and buy your book too,http://store.mcsweeneys.net/index.cfm/fuseaction/catalog.detail/object_id/2c1bfd66-f2a2-4c3f-9ca0-688a10f2c1fc/OneHundredandbrFortyFiveStoriesbrinaSmallBox.cfm I promise. Unless they're all just online :)



The Anger of the Horses.

BY DAVE EGGERS

Last week we let all the horses go. It seemed the right thing to do. We tore down the fences, burned the bridles and the saddles, and told the horses they were free. At first they hesitated. "Go, go," we said. "Go." And so they went, up over the hill, across the plain and into the mountains. Two days later they returned. "We're bored," they said. So we sat with the horses for a while, trying to think of something for them to do. Before we could think of anything, the horses had an idea of their own. "Let's kill all the rabbits!" they said, their black eyes alight. "Let's kill all those goddamned rabbits!" they added. The horses became more and more inflamed as they talked about the details of the plan. "We'll run and find them, help flush them out," they said, "and then you can shoot them since you have the guns." They were pacing and snorting, shaking their manes and tails, ready to get started. It turns out the horses had hated the rabbits for a long, long time.

Despite being absolutely stellar at work today, running meetings and doing sit-withs and being an overall perfect corporate smiley face, I still feel very very lost there. Also, my eyes are taking turns being allergic to various substances and swelling up individually. I have a scarf around my one eye right now. I am a polka dotted pirate.

So champagne is officially my drink of choice, cheap or not. I think it was waiting there for me this whole time, but I avoided it out of a preconceived notion that bubbly should be withheld for toasts and new years and romantic celebrations. Turns out, champagne is also the perfect accompaniment to gross feelings of inadequacy and lost glamour of youth.

I suppose when I turn forty I'll have to find something else, but champagne has shown up just in time to usher in my thirties.

So here's a list of things I can count on for at least the next ten years...

1. Champagne. Unless there is a worldwide drought that kills all the grapes everywhere ever. Which could still happen.

2. Al Gore not being president.

3. My eyelashes.....I think. I suppose there could be a fire.

4. Being kissed. By somebody. Somewhere. At some point.

5. Knowing how to make pie.

6. Being able to read....I think. Oh my god, I could go blind.........

7. My hair remaining basically the same color.

8. There still being no god. But still lots of people who believe there is. And them getting in my way.

9. Money still being important.

10. Me still not caring that money is important, but having to work anyway.

11. Rocco De Spirito still being dreadfully hot.

Three bottles of champagne later, with a fur hat and a belt around my neck....I concede defeat.

I swear to god I just saw an ad for Speriva, which treats COPD. Wanna know what that is? Its chronic bronchitis and empheseyma. You know what the commercial states that it treats? The effects of smoking.

BECAUSE WE REALLY NEEDED A NAME FOR THAT.

I wonder what they'll call it when they find out how to treat the cancer along with it?
CCOPD?

I also have been screwed over 500 dollars for being smart by the company I work for. So I've drank a lot of champagne so far, and I swear to god, I'm gonna drink a lot more.

Funny enough, Designing Women is in the background right now, and as I'm watching it, the blonde one just made up a disease too called OOPD.

CRAZY.

MySpace is not George Martin

If you have a Myspace account, which you probably do even if you don't know it yet, then you have been on the receiving end of numerous requests from bands to "friend" them. Technically it should be "befriend", but whatever.

Myspace is a great place to look up a band you've heard of and want to check out. Myspace is a terrible place to look up porn, because then your inbox is full of girls named Debbie who are in your extended network and really like sparkly things.

If you are in a local band and you're gonna try and woo me, here are three things not to do....

1. Don't mention anywhere in your profile that you don't know quite how to describe your sound. For instance.."I don't know how to describe the sound. Kinda like Scratch Acid-fucked up classic rock with a heavy garage rock twist. We have some slow songs some fast, and even one with poetry. "

Really, even one with poetry? Please explain to me the difference between poetry and lyrics? Is it the sincerity level? Do you scream one and whisper the other? Or is it the only song you have that has any hint of rhythm or flow?

I'll tell you what you sound like. Styx.

2. Please do not post concert pictures of yourself. I am less inclined to go to your show when I already know what you look like. Without knowing, I can motivate myself with visions of tight t-shirts over lithe college bodies, and maybe a super cute not gay drummer. If you show me pictures, then I already know that I'm looking at tight t-shirts over beer paunch and a drummer I'll probably wish was gay.

Just because you have a girlfriend who thinks you're hot, don't let that get in the way of your music.

3. Don't post your music.
Seriously, haven't you spent a lifetime going to shows? Don't you realize that most local bands only get people into their shows by not letting them know at all what to expect? I can't tell you how many times I've paid the cover charge with no idea who I was going to see.

Also, do you really expect to hold up next to all those other bands I can see on MySpace. I mean, I can go to Os Mutantes, Lupe Fiasco, Built To Spill, Boston....and then you.

Posting your music is just a bad idea period. I would suggest instead substituting some funny youtube videos. People will think you have quirky personalities. Cause face it, most of those people telling you how good you are... are your friends. And they were your friends before you started this crappy band. I'm not saying your personality will win them all over, but its certainly a better chance than your shitty badly recorded 13 minute long serenade to Bad Brains.

My Unitarian Jihad Name is: Sister Trident of Undeclared Debate. What's yours?

There is something about weddings that make everything catastrophically sexual afterwards. And its not loneliness or some sort of girly wedding jealousy. Its more like...near death experience.

Atlanta

There are two things that seem to be important to remember about Atlanta. 1, people drive like assholes. 2, when you get back home, you too will drive like an asshole.

The wedding was very pretty and emotional and all. Both of them will be very happy. They were already happy to begin with.

Everything else was lots of fun. The aquarium kicked your aquarium's butt. Whale sharks are a physical reaction. I fell in love with Tennessee, specifically the height of Tennessee. I learned that when you are waiting in the Intercontinental's very pretentious, "filled to the brim with suits and orchids" lobby, everyone who walks in to talk to the concierge will have a drink in their hand, and sometimes dogs. I met an English bulldog with flowers in his collar.

The highlight will not be televised. Suffice it to say, if I was famous, you could make a lot of money off of it.

What I find personally offensive is that even though most of the 5 star hotels in Atlanta are all nonsmoking now, the travel sites don't allow you to search for hotels by a preference for SMOKING ROOMS. So because I'm not famous, I can't get fucked up and blow a bunch of money in your hotel, Mr Rotating Restaurant in the Sky? Fuck That Shit.

I am over you Jack Kerouac. You know where the Subterraneans is sitting right now? On the back of my toilet, because its only worth picking up and reading random pieces of it. Reading the whole thing through has the intellectual value of watching a marathon of Project Runway.

At least I'm not the person who watches Heroes and then runs to post about how she's figured out who the mystery killer is already, and has to be the first person to hit the boards with it. Even though I have. And technically, it was suggested to me when I revealed my theory last night. And Sean wants me to write it down in an envelope and seal it up and then we can read it later to find out if I'm right.

They should give out Emmys for this.

If I was really rich I would give out a "Best Person In The World" award every year. And I would make people send in video archives of their everyday lives, and then stay with them and interview them and all their friends, and this would be my entire life all year long, finding the winner of this prize.

I dreamed last night about two couples staying at a historic house in Key Largo, where one of the girl's ex boyfriends died violently, and now that couple is being haunted with ghastliness until they discover that the haunted item is a box full of old coins, and they throw the coins out and he goes away. It was the closest thing I've had to a nightmare in a long time, cause it was pretty spooky, although nobody was injured or hurt. I always dream in third person, I never dream of myself. In fact, I always masturbate in third person too, though I never dream about sex ever. Why is my subconscious incapable of including me in its thoughts? I suppose its a gift, my dreams probably wouldn't be as entertaining and then I would be obsessed with interpreting things and god knows I did enough of that stupid new age shit in high school. See, Kerouac makes you write sentences with too many "ands" in them, the shithead.

I woke up and I was very glad that Sean was sleeping next to me, so that's why even though sometimes its hard to believe you're with this person, I know we're doing the right thing. Also because we are smarter than anyone else in the world with the exception of genetic relatives.

The stupidity and neurotic antics of every person around me is overwhelming. And really, I don't think I'm such hot shit. I usually walk around feeling quite stupid. But god, really, people are fucking awful morons.

However, being smarter than everyone else doesn't make you money. They all make much more money than me. And are happier too. I'm starting to understand how overrated happiness is though. Its not like happiness is the same as being interested. Being interested is so much more important.