April...

went by without me knowing. I skipped a month of blogging. That hasn't ever happened. I feel slightly disappointed. But I slightly don't care.

!

I have three more days before my monthly blog deadline runs out. So, here it is. 

I am an official snob.

I LOOOOOOOOOOOVE Photo Booth! Yipee for Apple. 

Pshaw! I can sit for hours taking warped pictures. What innocent fun! If every child in the world had a nifty little Macbook, the world would be a better place. Now, I'm making MYSELF sick with this ridiculous talk. 

Back to reality. 

I have completely overhauled my office to cater to my creativity. It used to be pristine and rich in design. Now, it's rich in tools and lacking interior design. I LOVE it! I'm actually NOT worried about it not "flowing" with the rest of the room. Who cares!?! I'm having fun with all of the new gadgets I bought myself. 

My gazillion pounds of alginate arrived the other day. Anyone need a dental impression?

I was thinking about something last night. (Yes, I do think on occasion.)

What if I WERE to give people dental impressions for the fraction of what their dentist would, AND make it a worth-while time, too?!?!?!? I could be the "fun dentist!" Okay. Here goes. Everyone hates going to the dentist. From the first THOUGHT of having to go, from leaving the parking lot, it's a horrible experience. First, you pull up to an out-dated, '70s style building with dark brown paneling outside. Yuck. Once you actually get INTO the office, you're not anymore impressed. You pay attention to any lingering cobwebs or dirt smudged on the registration counter. Then you sit in an aqua-marine dusted chair with worn-down brown arm rests that you wonder how many dirty-fingered children had smeared with their germs. And you wait, nervously, for the heavy-set nurse to tromp out of her snacking quarters to YELL your name even though you're the only one in the waiting room. Oh God. Now it's on. 

Then come a couple of hours of gagging from the HUGE plastic-covered metal plates they attempt to shove in the back of your throat to x-ray your teeth. Ah-ha! You finally feel what deep-throating is like, and understand why most women can't do it. 

Good for you. 

After you think you've reached your limit, you're escorted to actually visit with your dentist. Your eyes are watery and your stomach queasy from the dry-heaving you've been enthusiastically participating in. Well, at least you lost several hundred calories from your diaphram and stomach heaving themselves against your chest cavity. There's a plus point.

Now, you're half-sitting, half-lying in an old-fashioned patient chair. As your eyes delicately follow the outlines of the intricate metal holding your ass two feet in the air, you wonder if it'll give, so you just don't move that much. You ponder the chair. How many people had root canals in this thing fifty years ago with no pain reliever? Better yet, how many people were tortured in it? You slide your hand along the smooth leather seat, and your sweaty fingers fight to glide along. Your palm skids abruptly from the moisture, and you smirk. 

How many people have had SEX in this chair?!??!

Great. Now you're horny. 

Not so fast. Your wantin' for lovin' is quickly interrupted by the overwhelming and sudden presence of rubbing alcohol. The party in your pants is over. 

Waaaaaaaaaaaaa!

On my lunch break, and I feel like a kid LOCKED OUT of a candy store. My Macbook Pro delivered itself ONE DAY EARLY, and it arrived this morning. I'm stuck at work today fidgeting and longing for the beautiful reunion we shall have sometime shortly after five o'clock.

Better yet, I am forced to read a book titled, "Hacking Myspace: Customizations and Mods to Make Myspace Your Space," while day-dreaming of my technical rendezvous that awaits me. Blah. This book is for slutty 15 year-olds who want to vamp up their MyWaste pages to engage sexual perpetrators.

I must come up with a name for my new Mac. I kind of feel bad for my old Toshiba. I think I was neglectful. It never got a name.

Great, now I feel guilty.

There's time to change my behavior, though. It's not like I'm throwing it away.

This is torture. Yesterday, I had to listen to an Avril Lavigne sound-alike who, honestly, inspired me to go jump off of the nearest bridge and plummet to the sound of not-her-music. Wait--I'm not sure I'd generously call it music. It was more like whining. With bad lyrics.

"Waaaa, waaaaa, I really love you. Waaaaaa, waaa, waaaaaaa, did I tell you how much I really love you? Waaaa, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa..."

Oh fuck, just shoot me in the head.

I am so impatient with bad music that I rarely have to sit and listen to it. For almost an hour, I had to hear that shit in a small, silent office. You know--absolutely no distraction noises. Just her and her guitar, and the same whiny, awful tone. Waaa, waaa, love. I've never felt so nervous and depressed at the same time in my life, which I felt was a dangerous emotional combination. I was either suicidal or homicidal. She's lucky she wasn't in the room.

I exploded at my boss after trying to deal with the noise for nearly an hour. Thank GOD he understands my distaste for bad music.

Hell.

Two posts in one day. Something's wrong.

And it is.

I was just writing (on real paper), a list of things I want to do. Here goes:

-home video
-photos
-paintings
-skit
-skan plobos
-i am going carzy.
-carzy?
-gone!

There aren't typos when you aren't typing. I'm worried about myself.

My wish at the moment?

I REALLY want a whiteboard.

Cursed.

I have to find purpose to everything, which I find is a curse.

I have so many things I'd like to do, and enjoy, but usually, I'm stopped because I can't find purpose in these things. Painting. Making music. Drawing. Making clothes. Writing. Creative things. They help me, and make me feel good, but what's the purpose? My paintings end up in my closet. So does everything else I create. I have to get over this incredibly disabling idea that my creativity serves no purpose. -That my art serves no purpose. I just don't know how.

Even this blog, which I consider a creative outlet, is purposeless.

Who's gonna see it? See anything? I have this gut-wrenching reminder that I have to do something important. How? Sometimes I feel like I'm a character in a book. Close the cover, and I'm gone. No more trace. What can I do to change that?

I wanna write songs. Who's going to hear them?

I'm stuck in this hole.

It's boredom because I can't find purpose in anything creative. That's horrifying.

I wonder what happened to me.

Row, row...

It hurts that I'm slowly being sucked away from music. It also hurts that music is slowly being sucked away as we know it. I have no idea what to do, and that makes my stomach feel like someone is wringing it like a washcloth. Think, think, think. Nothing comes up. That's scary, too.

Where the hell did I go?

Yack!

When life makes you want to vomit in its face, do this:

+

Way back in September...

Mom said something that cracked me up. I wrote it down and emailed it to myself, meaning to blog it. Now, in 2009, I finally came around to do it.

We were talking about religion, and in a dramatic way to express her dislike for all religious fanatics, she screamed, "I don't give a shit about rosh-hashana-a-shiska-bobbeesh!"