An apple a day...

I know it's been awhile since I've last written...

Going back to school has been a challenge. My inability to form rational thoughts when lost so deep within myself has lead me to a new low. I can't eat. I shake. I'm nervous, all of the time. The only thing I can do, and want to do, is sleep. It's my escape from me.

I don't feel I belong there anymore. There's just a cutoff point and I have reached it. My tolerance threshold, like the limbo bar, has been lowered to the point that I can't even shimmy underneath without losing my balance. I also feel I do not belong here. My thoughts and ideas are just too big for me to handle. My hates and desires and cynicisms are slowly taking into control all I have lost control of.

Nothing is good enough, though at the same time, my disappointment is nothing more than expected; I am my own worst enemy. I can think back to a time when I was in a much worse place in my life, when I was a complete mess, unsure of my own name and of the possibilities a mind like my own could bring to me. But now I still find myself in an unhappy place; a place of no contentment, fear and loneliness. My plans of pushing everyone away has succeeded, and while it's quiet and for the most part enjoyable, I am still human and long for someone to love, someone to kiss.

A friend said to me, "I think one day, it will all be better for you." I smiled, feeling slightly sorry, moreso for her than myself. I know it will not be better for me, as long as I am here. And they just don't get that.

My facade is translucent and even the blind can see right through me. My delusions of granduerism, displays of uncontrollable fabulousness and fits of laughter are the skins of my apple. My core is hidden, untouched and rotting within me.

I've always thought that its easier to hide within yourself than to show your true life. That way you can't be hated for who you really are, because no one knows. And we could go on our entire lives, longing to be understood, when in fact, we all just die unknown.

I am stuck. I have no idea what direction to turn or who to run to. I have made it so that there is no one there to watch me as I unravel, removing layer after layer of mistakes and regret, to the fine tune of insignificance. Play it again, Sam.

Blame it on the Tetons.

I'm not much in the writing mood tonight, but when I am I'll have tell you all about my adventures on my first day of school.

Like how I had to park way out of the way on a snowbank, because there wasnt anywhere else to park and then hitched back up to the school. Or how I already skipped a class. On the first day of school. And how there are three Marissa's in one of my classes, so I decided to call myself Leonardo DaVinci.

And I should mention that Brian and I have nearly all of our classes together. It's quite a relief actually. This way I actually enjoy someone's company and have someone whose okay in the fact that I hate life. Doesn't want to change me. It's comforting.

It all seems surreal, for lack of a better word. Like I'm not supposed to be there anymore. Everything's changed in the fact that nothing really has. It may be a sign that I have.

By the time I got home, I was feeling drained. Tired of everything, lonely and angry with the world. I've come to a few conclusions in regards to my moods.

A.) I don't want to be happy. Ever.

B.) I am jealous of those who are happy/ambitious/normal around me, therefore I begin to hate them.

C.) I am okay in the fact that nothing will ever be okay.

And did I mention I haven't seen or spoken to my father in a week? FYI.

 

Ooops. Looks like it let the story slip.

I'm baa--ack.

I had a lovely suprise at work tonight.

One of my coworker's sons came in to visit and supposedly pick up a tree for his mom and ended up talking with me for over an hour. Little did I know it was a ploy...and he asked me out, on the eve of my ogre-induction ceremony. How's that for a comeback?

I feel like such a ...girl.

Not Another Teen Entry

I know you all hate who I've become. And I know what you are all thinking.

Just another angry teenager.

But what will you say when I'm no longer a teenager? Will you still be able to call me rebellious? And without that, what other ways do you have to silently criticize me for who I am?

I'd say I'm sorry I'm not like the rest of you, but I am not. Being different is the easy part, putting up with il crapola is the hard part.

So I dress different and I have piercings in places you'd never even think to be pierced, my music is eclectic and I shun any idea of mainstream. I am a drop of water next to the waterfall.

My opinions don't match up with yours so you denounce my ideals. I like to consider myself open minded so I accept yours, no matter how much they conflict with everything I stand for. To each thier own.

Growing up, in likeness with time, are the two things that never stop happening. And both are equally against you. It doesn't get any easier, I hear.

I used to think family were the most important people you'd ever come into contact with. They are your blood, a big part of who you are. But no matter how well your DNA and blood types match up, it never means how well your personalities will match up. It's hard to see eye to eye when you have to look up at who is looking down at you. And when the person you look up to is looking down on you, one cannot find much resolve.

Like tonight.

Not fitting in is where I fit.

 

Guitar Mar!

You are a guitar.

You are a musical genius... congratulations. Most people think you are a little obsessed with music, but that's okay. You don't care what other people think. You are independent, and would rather have a few good (and weird) friends than a lot of not-so-good ones. You may feel that people run down your eccentricity, but that's only because they're jealous. You will most likely become very successful with your musical talent. \m/ Rock on!

Most compatible with: Drumstick.

 

I don't know if I'm a musical genius, but a genius I am. See what random object represents you.

Warning: This quiz is RANDOM.

Weekend Assignment #44

Mr. By The Way is begging to hear my funny party story. So here goes.

In honor of the Olympics being held in Athens this past summer, my friend Justin thought it would be festive to have a toga party. There were kegs and drunk people and tournaments and poorly adorned togas. It was a gold medal idea.

I had just returned from my three week vacation to California, Versace skirt in tow and I thought it would look stunning under a queen-sized purple sheet. Note to self: Don't wear Versace in the presence of alcohol.

Within a half hour of getting there, I am doing tequila shots out of a dixie cup with an EMT (extreme man treat) I sloppily flirted with. I think he felt sorry for me and was equally endeared by my slurring and impressed with how much I could hold down. There must've been something he liked about me, he took me on a lovely date a few weeks later.

Anthony and Gina and I all arrived together. They wanted (or maybe I wanted to) hit up my favorite club so I could go dance sans the inhibitions I normally don't have anyway. I tell EMT and he agrees to meet us there. I get there and am dancing with Anthony to some Prince song. Somewhere in there I stop dancing and just begin to sway back and forth. I'm startled by Anthony putting his hands on my shoulder and pushing me toward EMT and he was shakin his goove thang in my direction. At least I think he was shakin' his groove thang. From what I heard expost facto, Extreme Man Treat is not so tasty on the dance floor. And after that night, I'm not sure I am. I fell. I fell on the dancefloor.

That was the indicator that it was time to leave. I made Anthony drive me back to the toga party where I proceeded to drink more in the company of my good friend Sean. The party died down and we down into the basement and ate some vegetables. With dip. I thought it'd be funny to stick my hand in the dip and wipe it ALL OVER MY VERSACE SKIRT. Aces, Marissa, Aces.

Thank God for dry cleaning.

And thank god for litter boxes. Where I proceeded to secretly throw up in in the wee hours of morning.

Real funny, I know.

 

Knack Knack

Somehow today balanced yesterday out, badness vs. goodness.

I was asked to a craft demonstration in the store today. At first, I was put off, seeing as how we usually just fill out the appropriate paperwork saying we did when we really didn't. But today I had to. My boss asked me and said I had to because the District Manager was coming in for a visit. Great.

My craft of choice? PAPER CRAFTS!

I made dozens of cards and, to everyone's suprise, they were stunning. My bosses adored me for it. "This is beautiful! You are so talented!"

ALAS! A KNACK!

I sat in front of the store for two and half hours putting together all sorts of goodies I got to pick out and use the store's money to buy! I made birthday cards, thank you cards, I Love You cards, wedding cards, baby cards...Customers would walk by and compliment me on my obvious fabulosity. At one point my boss, the one who upset me yesterday, came up to me and said "You're a natural. Craft Corner with Marissa on HGTV. It's your calling."

And when I got ready to leave, they both thanked me. It's times like these that I really like my job.

What I didn't mention, however, on the flip side, was that today was Inventory day. I arrived at 10 o'clock and the parking lot was FILLED. I thought it was going to be a repeat of Monday (coupon day, nonstop.) What I didn't realize was that all of those 50+ cars in the parking lot belonged to Inventory People. I walked in and saw hoards of people in maroon and silver jumpsuits. If I didn't know better I would've called the Nassholes at NASA to report alien invasion. These people looked like space men. All sorts of beeping and codes to translate. I felt like a fish out of water. Not to mention they DESTROYED the store. Flowers thrown about, yellow tags with meaningless numbers sticking out everywhere.

So I'm happy when I see a few handfuls of space oddities treading in their little moon boots past my craft corner and out the door. I thought it was over. I was so wrong.

Their counts were wrong. They didn't match up with ours. You know what that means, take every last employee and match them up with an "Inventory Specialist." If the man I was placed with was a "specialist" I would hate to see what an "Inventory Unspecialist's" job would entail. After taking a good look at the man I was placed with, and the others my other coworkers were placed with, I came to the conclusion that UGLY is a prerequisite for the inventory industry.

They shoved this huge list in my hand, filled with numbers upon numbers that I couldn't decipher and a truly "special" specialist. And his breath was kicking. Like a boot. I've never been so happy to hear "Marissa to your register, please, Marissa to your register."

It was music to my ears, though I think all that craft glue from my demo went to my head.

 

Thaw me a river.

I looked at my calendar as I walked out the door this morning but it gave me no warning that January 19th is actually The Day From Hell.

Right off the bat, my luck was in the toilet. I had to wake up at 8 o'clock in the a.m. Everyone who knows Marissa knows that she isn't not a morning person. In fact, morning itself puts me into mourning. It feels unnatural. I should wake up when my body and mind want to, not when an alarm clock in the form of my mother barges in and rips the sheets off my body.

So I somehow manage to get out the door in time to go to the bank (I laughed all the way there) and then to work. I had to get money to go pick up the skirt I had on hold for me in Syracuse. Mother Nature had other plans. Freakin' bitch.

I've always always always hated the fact that some outside force can screw up your plans. I like to screw up my own plans. No, scratch that. I hate plans in the first place. Plans rarely ever work out. I'm spontaneous. I do things when and if I feel like doing them. So the idea of SNOW messing up my life just sends me right on over the edge. It's like my parents couldn't handle their job of ruining my life, they had to send in a greater superpower so they wouldn't get their hands dirty. Ugh. Big UGH.

It blizzarded (haha) ALL day in Syracuse. Utica? I must ask you, what is it good for? ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. There was a total of two snowflakes and my mother cried meteorologist. "You can't go get your skirt. It's awful outside." Hang on a second, Mom, while I thaw out my frozen violin.

I tell her I'm going anyway. There's a reason why I have a vehicle with four wheel drive. Upstate New York is that reason. If I wanted to lead the life of a bear in th wintertime, I'd hibernate. I wanted to go get my damn skirt. It was only $12, but all in all, plus gas money it was well over $30. Whatever. I don't care. I'd like to have a moment of contentment in a green skirt. Is that too much to ask? Apparently so.

So, I'm medium annoyed. I go back to my register to help a customer. "I'm really ticked," she starts off, "I bought all of this stuff (flashes lengthy receipt) and the next day it all went on sale. I want a price adjustment." Oh yeah lady? I want a life adjustment. Get in line elsewhere.

Her little transaction made me miss my break. This is where the extra large annoyed comes in.

The phone rings. It's my dad. He proceeds to yell at me. "What? You don't believe me when I say the weather is bad and you're not going? It's just a stupid skirt. And you have the audacity to call me at work and not even ask if I'm busy and then bother me with stupid stuff like a skirt?!"

I hang up.

I call my mom.

My work friend and supervisor Tracy tells me to keep personal phone calls to a minimum because she's getting dirty looks from some of our coworkers and our boss.

Icing on the annoyed.

I hang up.

"They're pissed because I'm using the phone?" OUTRAGE. "ALL I DO ALL DAY IS TAKE THEIR FUCKING PHONE CALLS AND THEY'RE MAD AT ME?"

I am so over this shit.

I do my job so well, I go out of my way to do things for my bosses and customers, yet they only recognize when I do something wrong. Cuh-rist. They sit in thier offices and chat all day to their husbands and wives and whoever. They let the girl with cancer use the phone all she wants and I swear it's because she has cancer. Well you know what? I'm going to tell them I have SARS. That way I can use the phone all I want.

AND ANOTHER THING!

It's not my fault they scheduled me 35 hours this week and I have no time to do anything but help snotty nosed kids count out pennies for Kids Crafts everyday. Whateva Whateva, I do what I want!

This work thing is not for me. In fact, this life thing is not for me. It's such a drag. Waste all my time doing shit I don't want to. My mom told me after complaining about work and school that "that's life." No it's not life. And if I knew this was how it was going to be I would've never signed up.

And then she called me rebellious because of the nose ring.

I felt like I was just slapped in the face. Apparently I have no authenticity. I just do things to upset my parents. Now I know what they think of me. And I'm sure the outside world feels the same. Candid Camera has caught me, I'm a poser. Zing.

I went to the mall to try and cheer myself up. I should've known it wouldn't make me feel any better. I ended up spending $20 on makeup. Yeah, yeah, I know, thats not bad, but I felt like crap after. $20 seems like too much money. I'm sure the tsunami victims would like makeup. I felt so guilty after spending it, and still do, and I feel like crying. Is there something wrong with me? Is buyer's remorse only for new homeowners? WWSOD? (What would Suze Orman do?) *long drawn out sigh*

I only bought new makeup because I've recently decided that I think I'm ugly. Nothing eight pounds of makeup couldn't cure, right?

I found another cute skirt for only $5 in another store, it was short and I don't normally wear short skirts, but I thought I'd give it a try. I went and tried it on in the dressing room and decided I should save my $5 to put toward leg amputations. Forget liposuction, I have thunder thighs.

I have given in to the media. I am no longer beautiful.

I'm going to go put that frozen violin into the microwave...

 

Clean up in aisle 4!

Working in retail has led me to some interesting conclusions about the inhumane, er---human race.

One: People will do anything to save a measley ten cent piece. Michaels Arts and Crap had a brilliant idea this week. And printed it out in ad form. With a 40% off any one regular priced item coupon. Enter: Madness. As if accepting competitor coupons didn't make us look good spirited enough, we had to have our own, just to shove all scrapbookers, wedding planners, knitters and stencil people in one big old melting pot. And only schedule one cashier to run the show. Any guesses on who the lucky cashier was?

Thank you for calling Michaels of New Hartford, your one stop shop for everything craft, this is Marissa speaking, how may I help you this lovely day?

You think I'm embellishing.

I'm not.

While every other little guinea pig in a red apron pranced around the store, rushing to get inventory done, I scanned my little heart out.

Yarn and beads and pipe cleaners, oh my!

And what about those poor, tortured souls who didn't get a coupon with their paper this morning? I know! Howabout enstate this great lease program where we give the 40% off coupons to anyone who asks for one! Sounds great! That way, instead of breaking out the violin every time someone bitches and moans about having to pay the regular price of $2.00, we can bend over and take it in the you-know-what like all slaves of retail do.

Two: People are sneaky sons of bitches. Those who aren't aware of our "giving away coupons to everyone" advertisement, try to "cheat the system." And these are the same people who probably screw the entire tax season in the ass. You know who you are. Don't bump your head on the table when you're done looking for your wad of cash.

Our policy is a simple one. One coupon per one customer per day. Then you get the lady who think she's a Charlie's Angel or something. She thinks she can buy one box of wedding invitations with the 40% off coupon in one line, and then hop on over to the next and do the same thing.

For a long time, I just looked the other way when it happened. What could I do? But today was different. Today, I was fed up.

Round one:

"Excuse me, miss, are you all set? Would you like to come through my line. Again?"

"Well, I knowyou can only do one a day so I thought I'd just go to another..."

"No. No you can't. Try coming back tomorrow. I'll even hold these for you, if you want."

"I don't live around here."

"That's too bad. Have a good day."

Ma'am, you've been ZINGED!

Round two:

I'm ringing a woman out in my line. I notice across my register, to customer service, a non-Michaels employee stalking around behing the desk. She was poking through crumpled up ads that were lying on top of the garbage, looking for the 40% off coupons. You have to be kidding me. Not only do we have a major tightwad in the store, we have a garbage picker. Keep it on the streets, please.

"What are you doing?" I ask her.

"Looking for a coupon. Looks like you don't have any."

"Not there we don't, seeing as how customers aren't allowed back there. Could you please join the rest of your party back here in line, please? They're embarrassed that you'd stoop so low to save a dollar. Now, if you just asked for a coupon, I could've given you one."

As she trotted away from my register, I laughed as the faint smell of rubbish trailed behind her.

Cheapskates make cheap dates.

Three: Some parents like to enstill a sense of honesty and loyalty within their children. Those who shop at the crap store don't.

Round one:

A mom marched her young daughter back into the store after she caught her shopllifting and made her return it to the manager and apologize. I looked on, feeling sorry for the little girl who looked horribly upset, but even more sorry for the mom who will need to bail her daughter out of jail for shoplifting. Publicly humiliating her will not solve her kleptomania. Cutting off her hands will.

Round two:

Those same sneakies I've mentioned before also come in parent brand. The moms who send their children through with a 40% off coupon and the same item the mom mysteriously has. This is a situation in which my hands are tied and my mouth is to remained shut. There's not much I can do here, though it's insanely irritating. They watch you and laugh to themselves as they silently screw you, thinking you have no idea when in all actuality you are onto them like white on rice. Children don't buy wooden shelves and portraits by Claude Monet. The only tooliest people to buy crap like that is parents. And now they've got their kids in on it too.

If you've screwed one, you've screwed them all.

Good going asshole, you've just created a minion of yourself. Just what this world needs.

Four: The "that's not the right price" customer. Ever hear of the price is right? Good for you. Michaels hasn't. Because there, the price is always wrong.

Round one:

I scan a bag of Christmas candy. It rings up for .19 @ 90% off.

"That's supposed to be ten cents."

"Fuck you. Just take the damn thing." I throw it, causing a colorful eruption of M&Ms.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Obviously I didn't really throw it. I lied for the mere demonstration of my anger. Good visuals though, no?

So here's my long and drawn out point.

To all customers: Stop acting like cheap assholes. I can only kill you with kindness for so long before I hold my scan gun to my head.

Bobby Generic.

I stole this from Kathleen's Journal. It serves as tangible evidence that I am an insomniac procrastinator. Love it.

 

I am not: one to take things lightly.

I hurt: therefore I am.
I love: to the best of my ability.

I hate: cleaning bathrooms at work.
I fear: falling in love.
I hope: to change the world.
I hear: myself giving the inaugural address.
I crave: life.
I regret: wasting so much time.

I cry: everytime I watch Oprah.
I care: about not caring.
I always: lock my doors when I get in my car. 

I long to: create, explore and discover.
I feel alone: in the most crowded of rooms.

I listen: but hear nothing.

I hide: from myself.
I drive: like a Grandma.

I sing: better than Ashlee.

I dance: when I get drunk at my Grandma's racist country club.

I write: because it is my sacred duty to write all of this stuff down.

I breathe: to stay alive in order to make everyone else less miserable.

I play: guitar.
I miss: sunshine.
I feel: meloncholy.
I know:  all the wrong things to say.
I say: My brilliance sometimes suprises me.
I search: for that moment of lucidity.

I learn: how to feign sanity.
I succeed: whose Ceed? And why would I suc him?
I fail: at understanding the drivers of cars with "Scrapbooker on Board" magnets on the back.

I dream: of a boy I once knew.

I sleep: in the middle of the bed.
I wonder: bread, take you, Aunt Jemima...to be the most creative sentence I've ever conjured up.
I want: to be Journal Queen.
I worry: that I will be the crazy lady at the end of the street.
I have: a huge appetite.

I give: up easily.

I fight: but never win.
I wait: for opportunity to ring my doorbell.
I need: to never be bothered by the outside world.

I am: very cold.
I think: that we all have some degree of mental illness.

I cant help the fact that: I am so fabulous, I pee glitter.

I stay: on for one more ride.

And the FABULOUSH AWARD goesh to...

Tonight I gave in to all of the Hollywood Access and Insider Gods and laid my remote down to rest for three hours on the couch next to me. The Golden Globes were on.

Throughout the whole agonizing display of celeb camaraderie, or shall I say CAMERAderie, I daydreamed aloud what I would say if I were presented with the great honor of being honored in the Fabulous sector of any televised recognition ceremony.

But first things first: One must arrive at such a gala. And to arrive, one must expect an ego trip down  il carpeto di reddo. The prefix, il carpeto, originates from the Latin term CARFOOT, which we Americans interpret as walking, and the following di reddo, an adjective of Greek origin, meaning the color red. Literally speaking, it translates to Walking Red, but we celeb followers (nicknamed paparazzi) have come to familiarize it as the red carpet.

---Anyway---

Back to the whole arrival pre-game, tailgate, mix 'n' mingle, hob nobbing, rubbing elbows photo op outside. I can hear it now:

"Oh! Samuel..."

And before Joan and Melissa can sputter out "L. Jackson!" through their surgically enhanced lips/vocal chords/wind pipes, they are moving the Samuel formerly known as L. Jackson toward the flashing camera abyss when they see Fabulous Nominee Marissa heading their way.

"Oh, hold on to your seats folks, here comes Marissa. She looks as stunning as ever."

"Marissa! Marissa! Over here!"

I walk over, nonchalantly.

"Darling, who are you wearing?"

I take this as a moment to show my fans not only that I'm impeccably dressed to the nines, hell the tens, even, but also that I am devastatingly witty. "What do you mean who am I wearing? Well, I'm wearing myself of course! And don't I wear well!"

"Oh, forgive me. I meant, what are you wearing?"

"A dress! My my, Joanie, I do believe all of that Botox has gone to your brain!"

I walk off, my diamonds sparkling all over me.

Joan mutters to Melissa, "She's like a human kaleidescope." 

(For those of you who don't remember, this is Joan and Melissa's encore presentation in this journal. To read the transcripts from their debut, an interview with Jesus, click here.)

After a delish din-din, I sit, fingers crossed, in the first row awaiting my nomination. Every now in then I look into the camera to see if there's any reminants of din-din in my teeth. My Fabulous win would be a joke if I spewed my sure-fire tear-jerker acceptance speech and flashed a grateful smile only to be horrified as reruns of Marissa's Malfunction are on instant replay on channels 2-210, exposing bits of seabass with lemoncrusted basil seasoning between my two front award-winning teeth.

Finally they announce me.

Sean Connery is presenting. "And thuh winner for MOSHT FABULOUSH PERSHON goesh to...MARISSHA."

My hands flutter about to appear like I am wishing away tears, when in all actuality, Roberto Benini let one rip and it stunk up my whole aisle. I make my way to the stage, being extra careful to not trip over my Salvation Army original.

And my speech, which I prepared months beforehand, goes like this:

"I could stand up here and run through a list of names that mean nothing to you, but the world to me. I could thank everyone I have encountered along the way to achieving this outstanding recognition of being, as Mr. Connery has stated, the MOSHT FABULOUSH, but again, we'd be here all night. Instead, I have decided on thanking a few people and things we all know.

For instance, I would like to thank bike racks. Without them, we'd have nowhere to park our bikes.

I would also like to thank those Peanut Butter Trees and Milk Chocolate Santas around Christmas time, for making the holiday season bearable.

I'd like to give a shoutout to my homeboy Bill Clinton, for giving me hope that not every public figure out there just wants to screw the people, just interns. And also, in truth, I'd like to thank him for being the most selfless, supportive and giving leader we've ever had represent us. It was the one time I was not ashamed of being an American.

I'd also like to thank Sarah Jessica Parker. We've never met, and probably never will, but hopefully by giving her a shoutout, she'll go out of her way to bump into me at the dessert cart later.

A shoutout to my Jew Crew! (What do you think J. Crew stands for anyway?)

But most importantly, the person who deserves all of the thanks of the world, is me. I couldn't have done it without me."

And with that, I make my way behind the curtain to an uproarious standing ovation.

You son of a beach.

This past summer I spent three weeks in California. The first three days, my mother and I spent in Carmel, a beach town known for it's gorgeous shores and golf courses. I remember feeling like I didn't belong there. I felt like I was completely taken out of my natural habitat and was just shoved onto some Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous special. It's true what they say about California, that it's the breeding ground for beautiful people.

We'd walk down from our Bed & Breakfast every afternoon, when the sun would just begin to thaw out any reminants of night's freeze on the shores. She'd sit on a blanket as I ventured to the other side of the beach to explore all of the possibilities of my mind. I felt alone, though I was accompanied by dozens of other beach-goers, many of them walking their dogs along the shore, occasionally freeing them from their leashes and allowing them to run through the frigid water. The smell in the air was crisp, though was polluted with the stench of algae, musty and thick, when in the presence of. Black flies darted all about, covering the seaweed and beached fish like bees on a honeycomb.

It was cold, even in July. I kept my sweater wrapped around my shoulders, even as I walked barefoot through the freezing water where it met the shore. I didn't allow myself to shiver; I had never felt so warm. Every now and then, a breeze would pass and tangle itself in my hair. I watched as birds galloped back and forth in the sky, as if they were playing tag. Mountains were painted in the background, every which way, and even manged to look snowcapped, though its impossibility is what made me laugh to myself.  I'd walk end from end, for hours, passing my mother occasionally to make sure she didn't fall alseep in the sun.

My last day there something came over me, literally. I was compelled to run into the freezing water, fully clad and I did. And when I hung my pants over the tub later that night to dry, what I thought was sand wasn't. It was salt.

Sometimes I can go too far.

Tell me when.

No Day But Today.

You like that? The title promises optimism and bubbles filled with sunshine. Lets see if I can come through just this once.

Tonight was a big night. And I know what you all are thinking, "What's with the title, Marissa? Finally have some sort of breakthrough in group tonight? A free bed in the local asylum?"

No. No. And No.

I ventured out tonight. BY MYSELF. The ultimate single girl move. Go me. And loos like I survived. Maybe a little too well. Maybe I liked it a little too much and will never ride on the relationship bandwagon again.

As the title reveals, I went to go see RENT tonight. It was here in town and I could absoultely not pass up one ticket to go see my favorite show. Ever. Period. That's it. I'm going. I went.

Going into the theater, I ran into two of the most loveliest people in the world. One was my old psychology teacher from high school, who I insanely adore. And by insanely I mean, think about everyday, leave anonymous notes in his classroom with my phone number and planned rendevous at the local grocery stores. I felt like crying. And whats even weirder than the course of events to lead me to him tonight, is that I was just talking about him today. Maybe I should wish for a million dollars, too. And then I'll be standing behind a big wad of cash while awaiting my ticket to be stubbed.

And person number two, Ryan, a good friend of mine from school. Seeing him makes me feel temporarily okay. We met one of my first days at college. He was walking by me, as I sat indian style, no no, 'scuse me, Native American style on the floor and I just muttered to this complete stranger, "I am cycnical." Thus a beautiful friendship based on cynicism, witty retorts and nice hugs. We talked for a half an hour or so, when he confessed that he always thought I was..."pretty."

Now wait a minute here.

Pretty? It's been quite a while, folks, since I have been called "pretty."

How am I suppose to react to that? I blushed a little bit, I'm sure, and thanked him.

He also called me "expanded." I knew he wasn't trying to imply that I was fat or something, though I did have to ask for a little more detail on how exactly I am "expanded."

"You think. I like that."

He's got me there. Call the doctor, we have a thinker on our hands. Too many thinkers and we may have some sort of anarchist revolt on American soil. Watch out, that can never be good.

By the time I got into myseat, my spirit was higher than it had been in a long time. And then it happened. The usual forces ate beans for breakfast and took a shit right there in the theater. I looked over to my right and who do you think I was sitting next to?

A CHILD.

Mom must've missed the memo that RENT can also be called GAYS WITH AIDS. Hope she brought her pencil and notebook for a quick lesson or two.

Though I thought she handled it very well. The sobbing softened to rolling tears by the middle of intermission, though commenced right on curtain call at the beginning of Act Two.

By Act Two, I myself was still in a good mood, very in awe, to say the least, of the performance and the bulk of the emotion I felt while experiencing it. But then it started to sink in. The horror of it all. This is life. Everywhere around me is life. I floated, for a minute or two, I think, out of my own body, and rose up to the top of the theater and looked down. All I saw were heads. And a few red and purple gawdy hats of the Red Hat Society ladies. And I couldn't even find my own. I was insignificant. Like my life. Insignificant.

Then the tears came. I had to ask the little girl next to me for a Kleenex out of her Hello Kitty purse.

I stayed in my seat until it was nearly empty after the show ended. I couldn't go out into the crowd. I needed to collect myself. And a few minutes later, I waslked outside and met my friend outside. (My very first work friend! <3!) We went out for coffee and spent the night in the parking lot near the RV we insisted the RENTERS were staying on. We rolled down the window and played La Vie Boheme, screaming at the top of our lungs.

To hand-crafted beers made in local breweries
To yoga, to yogurt, to rice and beans and cheese
To leather, to dildos, to curry vindaloo
To huevos rancheros and Maya Angelou

Emotion, devotion, to causing a commotion
Creation, vacation

Mucho masturbation

Compassion, to fashion, to passion when it's new

To Sontag

To Sondheim

To anything taboo

Ginsberg, Dylan, Cunningham and Cage

Lenny Bruce

Langston Hughes

To the stage

To Uta

To Buddha

Pablo Neruda, too

Why Dorothy and Toto went over the rainbow
To blow off Auntie Em

La vie Boheme

Bisexuals, trisexuals, homo sapiens,
Carcinogens, hallucinogens, men, Pee Wee Herman
German wine, turpentine, Gertrude Stein
Antonioni, Bertolucci, Kurosawa
Carmina Burana

To apathy, to entropy, to empathy, ecstasy
Vaclav Havel -- The Sex Pistols, 8BC,
To no shame -- never playing the Fame Game

To marijuana

To sodomy,
It's between God and me
To S and M

La vie Boheme

Choke on that Big Mac.

I am rapidly realizing that my spot in this human race will more than likely soon be up for grabs.

I am having a hard time coming to terms with the many aspects of reality. While we Americans spend countless hours in front of the TV, Big Mac in hand, contributing to the outrageous ratings of reality TV shows and celebrity exploitation, somewhere else in the world, if you can ever imagine another place other than the good ol' USA, there are millions of homeless and starving people.

And while we spend our hard earned money from that job we all hate, to buy ungodly expensive luxury vehicles, mansions and flat screen TVs to watch overpaid athletes run around with a ball and stick, those people are still starving.

And while we sit here, in front of our internet, pouting over dial-up, there's a child pouting to his or her mother about being hungry.

Whats all the stuff around you really mean? And how much happiness do you really put into all of those material possessions? Do you know what the $40,000 car you drive around could do for 10,000 people? Stop being an American. The outside world's impression of us is not far off. We are money-grubbing, selfish, fat and over-materialistic people. We have demonstrated that we ALL support our President by reelecting him. We have demonstrated that we ALL don't want a change to come. We have demonstrated that the idea of happiness can be bought and sold.

And why doesn't anybody else see that as wrong and inhumane?

There are people, just like us, who can't afford a place to live or food to eat. You know the old saying, "you don't know a person until you've walked a mile in their shoes" ? Howabout you take off your shoes, walk a mile in search of food, and when you've found none, give up hope that you'll ever eat again. And why? Because everyone is too selfish and greedy to feed you. They are too stuck on watching the hour special on why Brad and Jennifer broke up. You know, that whole priorities thing.

And as I sit here, hypocritical and enjoying my Big Mac, I think to myself that there is no price that could ever be paid worth living in a world like this.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

I involved myself in some thought provoking conversation today.

What started off as my usual spew about what college to go to, why someone would hire me...blah blah blah, ended up as a conversation about life. Life.

She brought up interesting ideas about ordinary run-ins. "What do you want to do with your life?" A question I've heard one million too many times. Our answer? We want to live. As if to say, we do not want to be one with our career path. Your job is not the sole definition of YOU. What you do, is what you do, who you are is not your job. And damn them for trying to define your existence in such solitary words as lawyer or salesperson or yeti.

I'm determined that I may never get a job that coincides with the degree I have under my belt. If I became an English major, I'd be destined to be a teacher. What more can you do with that? If I became a Journalism major, my future would be bleak as I would be writing obituaries for locals. Howabout a Creative Writing major? Sounds good, right? Too bad it's only offered in one college, one that I would never go to anyway. And what to do with that? Be paid to write? Sounds great, idealistically speaking, anyway. I would love to get paid to write journal entries. But then arises the universal question that plagues children who always want to know, "Why?" Children aren't the only ones always begging to know why, adults who find time between busy work schedules and defining their existence by it may find themselves asking "Why?" What is all of this for?

What are we working for? Money? And that's a good enough reason? It has to be. We have made it the only reason to work, without it, you can't survive. I wouldn't feel right working nine to five everyday because I have to in order to survive. My existence would be wasted. I would feel I have gotten more out of my own life if I were able to live it on my own terms.

I want to do something I love to do, when I want to do it. And apparently, that's too much to ask. But why does it have to be? Because someone said so? Who is this someone, anyway? Who, aside from myself, is in charge of my life? The people I admire most are not the ones in the workforce, though I give them outstanding credit for dealing with it all and getting paid to do something they hate, but the ones who do nothing. And are okay with that. The ones who don't go to school and the ones who don't have a job, simply because they don't want to. Some call it lazy, but I call it admirable. They're doing what they love. Nothing.

I can go to school for what I love, writing, and crack under the pressure of being insecure, not good enough, not smart enough, not confident of my writing abilities whatsoever and...never pick up a pen again. Or I can go, have all the aforementioned happen and not get a job that I enjoy. Simply because of an illusional "edge" companies are looking for that I may not encompass. It's their fictitous way of saying "You're not good enough." I write when I feel like writing. It's what I love doing. Whether or not I am good at it is not a factor when I'm doing it for myself. If it's for a company, it's another story. I'm no longer doing it for me. My "life" (in terms of career) is no longer my own. So maybe writing is not my calling.

So I'll think about psychology. It's interesting for a "science" based on no tangible evidence. I could go on forever reading about the mind, the psyche and the whole human condition, but there's that question again, "Why?" What purpose can come from studying someone else analysis and opinion of what makes us us. You know what makes us us? Us. We are each unique, therefore it is completely nonsensical and inappropriate to study humanity. There are no conclusions you can draw from one person to the next. End of story. Seems there is no place for me in the psychological world either.

Sociology. I believe this is my intended minor. It's interesting, again, but what is the point of it? It's grouped psychology. Find one erratic trait common between 20 or more persons and you have sociology. It turns into bulk psychology. Though, going with sociology to another end of the spectrum brings us into history. Learning and understanding what it's like to live horticultural society. But again, why? If you want to know what it's like, become horticultural. Move somewhere horticultural. Don't rely on biased books to paint the picture for you. It's one thing reading someone else's account of it, and another to live it yourself.

Most jobs are pointless. To me, a job shouldn't be a "job" at all. In fact, the word job itself has negative connotations. Why would someone want something negative that they have to do everyday? Because we have to? No, no, that's wrong. Can't they see that? Over half of our lives are wasted earning money. And what is money other than some pissing contest between Presidents? It's an aesthetic, tangible reassurance of social status. It's like designer labels on jeans.

I feel this too is one of those social phenomena we hear about. Questions with no answers. The proverbial vicious cycle. I am so over it.

I can't help but wonder what all of this is for. What happens to those with similar thoughts of mine? Are all of the "social misfits" exiled to an existence of hermitry? It seems that way. We are the lost socks of laundry. No one really knows where we all go.

Maybe soon I'll find out.

Spiraling.

Recently I've been shopping around for the one thing you can't seem to find in a mall. A college.

I've talked to advisors, friends, teachers, family but to no avail. I'm not one footstep closer to a "promising future" that I had hoped to be by this time.

And I'm beginning to notice the lovely facade of becoming a Creative Writing major is melting away, revealing the ugly truth that I would not survive on my third world writing skills alone.

And what portfolio would I have to give? This website address? Why don't I send out a recall on all the love letters I've written over the years. Marissa at her finest.

------------Journal Entry Preempted-----------------------

Maybe I'll finish later.

 

Angry Young Girl

You're an Angst writer!

 

Right on!

What kind of writer are you?

Happiness or Crappiness? I will decide for you.

Today I got to wondering what happiness is, aside from a feeling tossed around so freely nowadays, I'm beginning to think this is the "norm."* (more on that later.)

To me, happiness is an illusion. Like religion. Some made up entity to comfort those who are slightly weary of their emotional whereabouts. Something to search and strive for in the future, like they taught us all of our lives, we must always have a goal.

And what if you don't want or don't have a goal? What then. Could you say you're content? You could, but you'd be lying. It's hard to be "content"* in a world that puts so much pressure on the shoulders of "the new thing" and "progress."* Always moving. Ferris Bueller once said, and pardon the literary cliche', "...If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you might miss it." That's true. What happened to "in the moment"? Throughout school, there has been so much emphasis on the future. But what about the present? Isn't that more important? Because soon, the future will be the present, yet you will be too busy striving for things ahead, you'll miss it and it will become the past. It will become another red X'd out day in your pocket planner. Oh, I'm sorry. I don't think we use pocket planners anymore; they've become palm pilots. (Didn't know you could fit a whole airplane in your hand.)

But back to that happiness nonsense.

Happiness is just controlled depression. A moment of lucidity within the "black hole"* that you feel in the pit of your entire being. Happiness is not an outward expression. If someone is smiling or is "glowing" (for some radioactive reason) that is not happiness. In comparison to religion and it's basis of some greater force that you cannot see, you cannot see happiness. It's a fictitional safe haven to strive for when you're feeling crappy. It's a "coping mechanism."* And we all know, that coping mechanisms are used to shelter us from the storm, so to speak. When things get bad, instead of "dealing"* with them, we now have to shun the fact that anything is wrong and "cope"* with it. And by coping I mean pretend like nothing has happened. Pretend  your son isn't gay and doesn't dress like a woman. Pretend Aunt Edna didn't kick the bucket, she just moved to Florida.

We don't need coping mechanisms. Coping mechanisms are for the socially weak and therefore, upon elimination, we'd have nothing more than warriors and barbarians in society. Hard people. People who weren't afraid. People who wouldn't think twice about cannibalism. My kind of people.

When you are in kindergarten, you learn antonyms. Words that are opposite of one another. Black and white (though I'm sure that's become quite the controversy), smile and frown, happiness and sadness. So if there is no validity in the definition of happiness, should we disregard sadness as well? Absolutely. What is sadness without happiness? Nothing.

Then we come to the norms.* One of my favorite coined terms of a "founding father"* of psychology. If a person is outside of the clearly defined, rigid structure of a norm, he or she is considered to be "abnormal."* And by abnormal, those founding fathers mean, screwed up. Some would consider me screwed up, in the fact that I am not part of social norm. I am not normal. And you know why? Because normal is boring. Normal is plain white sheets to match the plain white walls in the masked asylum of your personality. If you are depressed, by the means of any thick textbook, you are abnormal. But in my terms, if you are depressed and have trouble discovering your self-worth and your place on earth, I'm sorry to inform you that you're terribly human.

* Editors Note: Notice all the quotations and asterisks. It really brings out the sarcasm, I think, in the debauchery of the "science"* of psychology.

Take it with me.

Sometimes words are not enough.

Resolve.

I am waiting.

And that's all I've been doing my whole life.

Waiting.

What is it that I am waiting for?

The list could go on, but ultimately I know what I'm looking for.

Me.

 

Fatty McGee

I made a huge mess in my room. And, in uncanny Marissa fashion, I've failed to finish what I've begun. Go me.

As you can see, my hours are all messed up. The insomnia is back full force. And my little fit the other day hasn't helped. Now not only can I not sleep, it seems its the only thing I want to do. I can barely stand up at times. Which makes it a little difficult at work. Especially since I'm working 30 hours this week.

One of the last biggest mistakes of the past year was when I stopped going to the gym. I've never had trouble with my weight before and I can tell this is going to be a battle I may never win again. I found myself eating an aneroxic lunch today; fruit and water, though I thought I'd add a little of the good stuff...a baguette. It didn't do much good. I ended up going home and eating scalloped potatoes, ham and pineapples, peas, shrimp cocktail and 4, count 'em 4, rolls. Looks like I'm gon' have 4 rolls. Well, I guess now I'll have a reason to be depressed. And soda. I can't live without the stuff. It's too good. (And I can tell you, thats probably half the reason I'm up right now.)

I started packing some of the stuff that was taking up too much room in my room but it still does no good. I know it's there still. Binding me with its materialistic chains. Stuff. Too much stuff. Freaks me out a little.

Maybe I'll have to make a trip to the gym. I know I probably have a week or so left on that membership. $100 seems like a small price to pay to battle the bulge. Though I don't know when I'll find the time between school and work. At least that way I can do my favorite thing, eat, and still fit into my Versace skirt.

But until then, it's looking like I'm hiding behind a red Michaels apron with cheesecake breath.