When I really, really, really get into a song I play it on a loop. Over and over till the grooves and rhythms are embedded deep within my cortex, never forgotten.

I brought on my cramps and I brought on the rain and who knows what else I have brought towards me with my super negative force activated. I feel like the anti-hero today. I'm in a fucking sluuuuuuuumppppppp. Slump schlump schlumped. I can't get anything done, I'm shit shit shit at work, have zero motivation or inclination, it's an abomination.

I'm back at not knowing what the fuck to do with myself, with my life; I don't know in what direction I am going, I get frustrated with myself and hate everything that much more.

Found myself rolling a joint on my passport application. The irony was not lost on me.

I somehow became entangled with old boots the booty call. We tangled and then he fucked me over and now I am on the fence about him. I won't lie and say he didn't screw me over big time, but I balance it out thinking/hoping/believing that there was something real that I saw briefly in him.

There was a moment the other day when he was cooking in my kitchen by the light of a candle and for a brief millisecond I could truly see what we could be and it was beautiful. It was cozy, and comforting, and creative and wonderful. In a millisecond. It gave me hope and sparked that stupid, idiotic warm feeling and I didn't smush it, squeeze it, blow the damn thing out in time and now I'm fucked writing depressing entries trying to exorcise the PITY ME demons crying weepily in a corner of my (insert where you believe the soul resides here).

Been listening to depressing indie dance pop and smoking Rastafarian approved blunts. I'm a real joy to be around. I've had a couple of really depressing days, even though I've been surrounded by friends, partying my ass off. Sad partying, masked partying, pretending. I passed out on the toilet bowl after puking my very guts out at a friend's party. Was woken up to loud knocking and questioning, who is in there? hello?

Yeah, I don't have a drinking problem. It was called to my attention with a very pointedly directed-at-me statement: She doesn't know how to not party hard. I'm very good at it. Too good at it you might say. I spend a lot of money going out and getting my drunk on. I spend a lot of money on clothes, on eating out. My savings, what savings? I need to a)marry a rich stupid asshole who will drive me to popping pills b)work hard (yawn) c)make it as a creative uh, artist (i.e., one of the following: painter, actress, singer, writer, even a stupid fucking blogger) d)be a slacker forevs and not be a materialistic bitch e)seriously go off the rails and become a budhist monk.

I hate all of those options.

You don't know what you're missing

my charm and ease and ever love;

you lost, you fucked up one too many times.

I saw it coming and played the fool;

bad boys with bad habits with bad histories

a weakness of character that has not left my side.

my achille's heel is guys like you,

so I cut myself loose and float up to the sky.

Just a speck in the distance

looking over my shoulder, hoping.

And for my next trick I will attempt to roll a joint! Seriously awful at joint rolling. I seemed to have skipped that class in Stoner High. Joint Rolling 101. I had a friend who could drive his car and roll a joint, while another one took it a step further; he could drive his scooter and roll a joint. Oh hey, multitasking dangerously AND getting high. Talented friends. My ex used to roll the most perfectly made cone shaped joints. He'd roll about 10 of them and stick them in a tin can and take them to parties where he kept producing ready made joints out of thin air. It blew some friend's minds. Nowadays I usually smoke out of a bowl, but on the terrible occasion where the *ahem* quality goes down, circumstances must be worked with.

Today I choose not to torture myself by looking at my ex boyfriend's photo albums on Facebook. His happy, bucolic life with his lovely, foreign girlfriend is just too much to handle today. Too much to handle, too heavy, too emotional for me. Leave me with the raunchy texts I've been having with the Frenchman. Hot and heavy, rather base and to the point and over the internet, just how I like it. Bend me over and make me forget. Place some detailed scenario in my head and watch the cogs turn. Turn my brain on and the rest is yours.

The booty call is back on the scene. I became the nurse, the love giver, the nurturer. I liked it. I like him. I should not fall for my booty call. Not the right move, man. The thing is, his father has terminal cancer, he's going through a rough moment, I felt bad for him and the truth is, I like the guy. He might be all fucked up, he's not the most reliable person out there, but he makes me laugh and he has a certain je ne sais quoi.

I lie. I know what it is. His energy draws me to him. He's an incredibly talented musician, he's an incredibly talented artist, it's just all scattered and in some small part of my being I feel like, I can be that person who makes him into this amazing creature, this amazing being, this talent.

But who am I to be the cure? Why should I be the person that helps him. He's attracted to me because I am this warm, comforting being. He was all fucked up, bags under his eye, emaciated, a yellow pallor coating his skin when he came over on Monday. He didn't leave my side for three days. He shaved for the first time in a long time today.

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Been having completely R-rated chats with a Frenchman of unknown origin. I don't even know how it started, but please don't stop. We chat on blackberry chat, he's always demanding my attention, regardless of whether I'm driving or not. He barely respects the boundary or the cease chat I place when I'm in a meeting. I'm enjoying it all in some peculiar, odd way. It does turn me on, how could I say no? I doubt he's coming down, so what is a bit of internet flirting, teasing? he sent me a picture of his dick, how could I not enjoy that move? I sent him a couple of myself in my undies, half naked, hair disheveled. Those pictures were not intended for him, but what does he care? All he sees is an attractive woman with a huge ass. Bingo!

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Odd confession of the day: I look at people's profile pictures on Facebook and then when I feel I've had enough (usually a gut feeling or a sudden inclination) I look through my own profile pictures, in a way trying to decode myself, my intentions with certain pictures. What was I trying to say, to convey?

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I've seen my bosses penis, but the other boss has handed me toilet paper after I've been caught on the throne sans TP with my pants folded at my feet, so I guess we're all even steven karmically speaking (i.e., awkward situations).

Welcome to the club. We should stock up on tampons and kotex.

My 'reliable' and 'steadfast' booty call just canceled on me. Waaaah waaaaaah. Says I'm too active, go out too much and that he's old. He just turned 29 and has been going through some semi-serious bouts of depression. I don't want to get too involved with him because I am not in the mood to be anybody's nurse or nanny. He wants me to be that salve and I am just sick and tired of being the friggin' Lemonade Lucy, the angel that helps every broken boy/man. I can't put you together. I can't put anyone together anymore, I refuse. Me first and the Gimme Gimme's; selfish and all about myself. I refuse to blend into another relationship. I don't want to become one with somebody. I want to be perfect halves complimentary.

That might not make sense, but I just don't want to be overtaken. I want to be seen as a whole who is married, not a half of a whole.

I'm going to eat McDonald's right now and cry into my Big Mac..... I don't eat Big Macs.

I've listened to Rude Boy 537 million times by now. I dance to it in my underwear and pretend I can move like Rihanna (not happening but I forge on anyway).

She's a nasty bitch! I don't know who is nastier, Rihanna for singing it or me for relating to it.

How I adore Har Mar. I want him to grind his filthy huevos smothered in elastic gliterry spandex in my face. I want to get sweaty and nasty to his tunes while the crowd gets down. I want to dance and grind.

I think my next tattoo will be a tetris block. I'm still thinking about which block it would be. Probably the T block because it is so adaptable.