Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume XXIII

A little known fact about me and Roman numerals. I have to look them up every time I post one of these. I'm not sure why, but my brain has never been able to remember how they work.

Anyway, I've been kinda MIA lately. Late summer lethargy, being all goofy happy about the new boy, the boredom of unemployment – all factors leading to me just not having much to say. But! It feels like fall now, and fall means back to school, and back to school means I'm all revved up to be productive and crap.

In honor of that back-to-school feeling, a poem I penned one afternoon in 1989 while not paying attention in Ms. Smith's English class. It's bad, yes. But the fact that I wrote this at 14 is just downright ridiculous. Ah, the young poet and her faux maturity.

Shadow of a Man

I have seen a shadow of a man
I've seen it many times
I have followed with such determination
begging darkness not to steal his image
and when it comes, I search for him
beneath every streetlight
in every headlight
hallucinations on my wall
When I search too long on another
sleepless night
in my dreams, he holds me
my faceless silhouette
how I love him, my shadow of a man

See how I brought it all back together at the end? I had mad skillz, yo. Here's Volume XXII.

Caffeine IS a drug

Me: Are you sure you're not too tired to drive home? I don't want you to like, fall asleep at the wheel and die or anything.

CJ: I'll be fine. I'll wake up when I get outside.

Me: Do you want some coke before you go? To wake you up?

He looks at me funny.

CJ: I don't do coke.

Me: Dude, neither do I. I'm talking about the Coca-Cola.

More excited than I ever get for the living

Warning: If you're a squeamish sort, who doesn't get all hot and bothered by blood, guts and gore the way I do, then I strongly suggest you don't click on the link I'm about to show you.

When I first heard about BODY WORLDS: The Anatomical Exhibition of Real Human Bodies, I really could barely contain myself. Actual dead bodies on display? It blew my mind. Unfortunately, for a very long time, it was only being shown on the West Coast. So I signed up for the mailing list and waited impatiently.

A few months ago, I was informed it would be coming to the Franklin Institute Science Museum in Philadelphia. And really, I can't think of anything better than spending the day in Philly looking at dead folk and then heading out to Chez Scottiana to spend a night catching up with them. Hopefully CJ (Captain Jersey -- I'm hereby shortening it) will not have to work, as he might actually be sicker than I am and is also excited.

A little bit about the exhibit:

Gunther von Hagens' BODY WORLDS: The Anatomical Exhibition of Real Human Bodies, is a first-of-its-kind exhibit in which guests learn about anatomy, physiology, and health by viewing real human bodies, preserved through an extraordinary method called "plastination."

The exhibition features more than 200 authentic human specimens, including entire bodies as well as individual organs and transparent body slices. Using the revolutionary process of plastination, the body specimens are preserved with special plastics that enable us to view the many organs and systems under our skin. The exhibit also allows for guests to understand diseases, the effects of tobacco consumption, and use of artificial supports such as knees and hips.

I cannot wait to go next month. And I'm not going to lie. Every time I go to that site and see the "Body Donation" link, I'm tempted.

An open letter to Guys With Girlfriends Who Are Trolling Online Dating Sites

Dear Guys With Girlfriends Who Are Trolling Online Dating Sites:

If I have to hear one more friend freaking out because Match or Nerve or Adult Friend Finder keeps showing up in the Internet history on the computer they share with you in the apartment you cohabitate in, I am going to blow something up. It may be you.

I just got off the phone with a hysterical friend who has just discovered her live-in boyfriend is making plans to meet up with some girl he met online for all sorts of sex. They have been together for over five years and have been discussing marriage. As you can probably tell, this is probably going to put a significant damper on those plans.

You are not being slick. You are not fooling anyone. Your girlfriends are going to find out. And then probably execute a sting operation, whereby they create a profile and email you and trap you and expose you for the lying, cheating jackasses you are. That is, provided you were actually smart enough to log off before leaving the computer. Should she find you still logged in, she will probably read every message you've ever sent to another girl and may possibly kill you.

This is a disturbing trend that I don't care for, Guys With Girlfriends Who Are Trolling Online Dating Sites. If I may note, in 100% of the cases I've witnessed thus far, y'all are never, ever going to do any better than the beautiful, smart and hilarious girlfriends you have at home.

So in summary, Guys With Girlfriends Who Are Trolling Online Dating Sites, knock that shit off.

Love,
Jess

P.S. Ever hear of karma? Think about it.

Words on a page

I run into The Ex, who I've actually gotten sort of friendly with and minus a couple of small steps backward; it's been nice, at the gym. We chat. He hits the showers and then Gwen Stefani's voice comes over the speakers. I kinda always knew I'd end up your ex-girlfriend. I wonder if I kinda always knew. Decide I did, but that I hoped I was wrong.

I walk by the restaurant where we'd had our first date. It is now some utterly unappealing brunch spot with a stupid name. I text him to tell him. He responds that maybe our favorite dinner place will burn down next. I laugh.

If I may be totally unimaginative and cliche for a moment, all good things must come to an end. Sometimes those endings are easy and sometimes they rip your motherfucking heart out. Either way, time to start the next chapter.

Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume XXII

This week's bad poetry has a bit of twist. It's unfinished bad poetry. It's the poetry scribbled into margins on class notes, or written in the dark. The stuff that, in a fit of creative inspiration just had to come out but then, alas, the moment passed. The feeling, it could not be recreated. In my defense, I was smoking a lot of pot and listening to too much Cure. Here are some examples:

It's hard to fight a memory
A war I cannot win
I try to push it all away
But the images rush in

##

If I could, I'd climb the highest mountain
Just to hear, "I love you" echo through the sky
But far away, my words would not be heard
And your ears would remain deaf to my cry

##

There is a power –
Like music,
Heaving and falling
Through a shadow
Showing my weaknesses
In the storm

##

I sing a bitter symphony –
The sordid whisper and
The lazy scream
Music as mad as daydreams, but
Sweet
Like wax diamonds
Lying still and
Falling frantically from
My tongue

##

I've killed my Tamogatchi. Finally.

Want more? Here's Volume XXI.

The Federlines: A study in disappointment

First there was the much-hyped "Letter of Truth," which turned out to be kind of predictable and boring and not nearly as unintentionally funny as I'd hoped.

Then there was Chaotic, which turned out to be kind of predictable and boring and not nearly as unintentionally funny as I'd hoped.

Now there's the naming of the Spederspawn. Sean? I really thought they'd be a little more imaginative than that.

Which means no one won the contest. I'll be very scientifically picking the funniest responses though, and then y'all get to vote, so at least someone will win something.

Fucking Federlines.

Becoming a skinny nympho, one pill at a time

UPDATE: After two days of major freaking out about Captain Jersey, I've calmed down and he hasn't run screaming and thought it was actually kind of endearing and cute and thank y'all for your kind words.

So, here's the thing about smoking. I never thought I'd still be doing it at 30.

I wasn't one of those girls that smoked in high school, but rest assured I was a badass. I smoked pot like it was my job, but had very little interest in nicotine. In fact, there is video of me on graduation weekend grabbing Heather #1's cigarette, taking a drag, coughing my lungs out and saying, "That's disgusting! Why do you all do that?"

Cut to freshman year of college when my roommate was a big-breasted Texan who chain-smoked. Once I got hammered, she'd push cigarettes on me, presumably because I looked so funny smoking. (I still look funny smoking, incidentally.) She, on the other hand, looked so natural and sexy with a cigarette, it was like she was born smoking.

So I'd have the occasional weekend cigarette. Then the Blizzard of '93 happened. Remember the Blizzard of '93? Classes were cancelled. Everything was cancelled. We prepared by stocking up on pot, booze and yes, cigarettes. It was during the Blizzard of '93 that I became a full-fledged smoker, because there really wasn't much else to do.

A friend down the hall who would later become my roommate and I started splitting packs. They'd last about three weeks. The two weeks. Then one week. Then we started buying our own and smoking like fiends.

These days, I don't smoke like a fiend unless I'm drunk or nervous. On a sober, relatively stress-free day, I won't smoke at all. But the not finding a new job and the dating someone who's actually kind of perfect have sent me over the edge and the smoking? It is a problem.

So I'm going to go on Wellbutrin. Which apparently, when it isn't giving you seizures and hallucinations, will make you super skinny and super horny. Not that I want to be super skinny, mind you. I'm worried about what will happen to the ass. And super horny? Probably also not a great thing at this stage in the game. But the not smoking? Hopefully will make it all worth it. Now I just have to pick my quit date and get my prescription filled.

Rock Star: INXS

J.D. Fucking Fortune is apparently right for our band INXS. And I hate him. Blech. I wanted Marty Casey, both to front the band and father my albino lovebabies.

She may look hot when she's dancing and taking off her clothes on stage and stuff, but back home, The Roommate's just your average everyday alien

Before the bad poetry, there was bad porn

I became a pervert a very young age, thanks to VC Andrews and my mother's Harlequin Romance Novel collection. By the time I entered adolescence, I had a flair for writing porn.

I didn't write it for money, mind you. Or fame. At first, I did it for fun. I had my little stash of porn carefully hidden away in my room, and I often pondered what deviant activities I could get my characters involved in next.

The one day, I started showing some of my porn to my girlfriends. And they went crazy for it. At first, they just wanted to read everything I'd written. My porn stash slowly dwindled as my friends borrowed stuff and "forgot" to return it. When all the porn was gone, they started to ask me when the next installment would be coming in. Repeatedly.

So I wrote more. And more. And then someone had an idea. How about I wrote customized porn? Like, I could write a story for Michelle about Michelle and that dirtbag she liked from the roller rink! That was some serious next-level porn, that was.

Then one day, my porn empire crumbled. Heather #1's mother found one of my dirty stories about Heather and some other dirtbag from the roller rink. And she thought it was non-fiction. And we were 13, so you can imagine how upsetting this was for her. And how embarrassing it was to have to explain that I'd been writing customized porn for all of the girls.

My mom was called, I was grounded and my career as a pornographer was over. Of course, now I'm dating someone who writes porn so I can live vicariously through him. It's too bad I don't have any of it still – "Bad Porn I Wrote as a Teenager" has a nice ring to it, don't you think?

Living with a burlesque dancer can be funny

Like on wig cleaning day:

On drunk dialing

Sunday morning:

Captain Jersey: Don't forget to drunk dial me tonight.

Me: We have way too much wine and we're down one guest this week. Consider yourself warned.

Monday morning:

Me: In case you were wondering, I do remember leaving you that drunk message last night.

CJ: Your message was more like "tipsy telephoning" than "drunk dialing."

Me: Sorry. I'll try to get more hammered before calling next time.

Bent over

You know what's really awesome? Paying about $1000 for COBRA and then finding out that you're still not insured because your former employer never sent the paperwork in to your HMO!

Seriously, y'all already fired me. Could you please stop fucking me up the ass now? Thanks.

Did you know?

Miss Tanya: Did you know a glass of champagne and the average ejaculation have the same amount of calories?

Me: I did not, but I'll certainly keep it in mind.

Miss Tanya: Well, now that you're dating someone.

Miss Tanya: I was just looking up cals for champagne and found that li'l tidbit.

Me: I'm not much of a swallower.

Miss Tanya: Me neither. I'd rather drink champagne.

Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume XXI

Ah yes, that first trip back home after going away to college as a freshman. How much one grows in a few short months. I was so over my old life. I was a new person. I was reborn. I though Virginia Woolf and I were kindred sprirts. Blech. Note the interesting line break and punctuation choices.

This room has shrunk, it's now too small for me.
Pieces of my life hang grimly on the walls I
painted much too bright when I was just a girl.
And my mother said I'd grow to hate the color.
Grown I have, and the walls now blind my eyes.
This used to be comfort, my haven from the
insanity that was a mere two rooms away.
This room is much too small for a queen-sized bed
And the pile of clothes that have become my ineffectual rug.
And all the trivial things that are too precious
to throw away or might be of some use someday.
The telephone has been ripped out, the TV is slowly
rotting in a basement far away, but it's still my room.
We all need our own room, and maybe, Virginia, you
could have found some inspiration here. Perhaps you
were a better woman than the one I have become.
The air is thick with smoke and memories, the
clutter and the blinding walls are maddening, the
silence is deafening and the ghosts come out from beneath
my bed to play. This room is not my comfort anymore.
This room has shrunk, it's much too small for me.

Want more? Here's Volume XX.

The Dave, he is hot



Last night, I hung out with one of my musician friends. At one point, I shared with him a text I'd gotten from Miss Tanya, who was watching Rock Star: INXS.

Text from Miss Tanya:

Navarro is hot

Musician Friend: Navarro is NOT hot.

Me: Oh my God. He's SO hot.

So disturbed was Musician Friend by this information that we had to discuss it all night, if by discuss you mean he had to rant while I laughed hysterically at him and periodically tried to explain that I really don't care if he's a talented musician, and I don't care if he sleeps in a coffin and I don't care about his skank wife. He's just hot. End of story.

Like really, Dave Navarro could be that Hot Bartender. Or that Hot Guy Who Works at the Coffee Shop. Or that Hot Tattoo Artist Guy. The fact that he's a musician is secondary.

At one point, Musician Friend stopped one of those guys carrying a big sign advertising spiritual healing to discuss the Dave Navarro situation. Hilarity ensued, and the best part? I noticed Cute Guy Who Lives in My Building standing off to one side, observing the madness with his adorable head cocked to one side and a puzzled expression on his precious little face. I caught his eye and laughed. He shook his shaggy blond head, gave me a "you're a nut" look and went on his merry way.

But back to the Dave. In the words of one Curly McDimple:

I like beaver and even I think Dave Navarro is hot.

Never underestimate the power of the Dave.

I see crazy people

I have more interactions with crazy people than the average person. Some recent examples:

- A month or two ago, I was walking to meet the rape crisis girls at The Bar inhabited by Hot Bouncer. As I made my way up 2nd Avenue, I noticed a raving lunatic weaving all over the sidewalk yelling and screaming unintelligibly. I made my way to the other side of the sidewalk and tried to quietly pass him. Suddenly, he's stepping on my foot and he's all up in my face and he looks like he's about to hit me. I froze. People all around me on the sidewalk froze. Luckily, he saw something else that made him angrier and quickly lost interest in me.

- Last week I had a pizza craving, and when I have a pizza craving, I hit the Two Boots on Avenue A. The nice man wrapped up my slice to go and as I made my way home, a man tried to swipe the bag. My reaction? What the fuck? He didn't look homeless, and when I glared at him and pulled my bag in closer to my chest, I realized he wasn't homeless. He was just crazy. He started swearing at me at top volume and I changed directions and hightailed it down 3rd St. toward home.

- The other day, I walked by the Crazy Man on the Stoop. I never say hello first, because the Crazy Man on the Stoop is mighty unpredictable. He held up his hand and said, "Look!" I noticed his shiny new gold watch. "New watch?" I asked. He nodded excitedly. "I dig it," I said. He grinned from ear to ear.

Add in the toothless old man who tells me I'm pretty every day in a way that suggests he doesn't recall ever seeing me before, the wackjob who once followed me for six blocks ordering me to suck his cock and all the lunatics I've dated, and you might say I'm a magnet for crazies. I'm not sure what it is about me. I mean, I look normal. As much as I hate to admit it, I pretty much am normal. It makes me paranoid. Like, there's something just a little bit off about me that they can pick up on or something. Like, I could maybe be one of them one day, and they can see it. It makes me nervous, frankly.

Something that would totally depress me if I hadn't just met a really great guy, and thereby only depresses me a little

Having to ask The Boyfriend of the Roommate to help me with my air conditioning unit, which was wrongly installed more than two years ago by my then live-in boyfriend and was in dire need of fixing because it was dangerously close to becoming a portal into my bedroom for pigeons. The reason it has taken me more than two years to rectify the problem? I haven't had a boy around long enough to put him to work on household tasks in that entire time.

An open letter to the Reopen 9/11 (conspiracy freaks) people

Dear Reopen 9/11 (conspiracy freaks) people:

Hi! What's up? So, as I'm sure y'all know, yesterday was 9/11. Now, like most New Yorkers, I have a 9/11 story. It involves being late for work and having no time to turn on the news and hauling ass across town and being half asleep and thinking there were so many people milling about because it was the day of the democratic primary and how I was thinking I wanted to vote but didn't have time and reminding myself to do it on the way home and finally realizing what was going on somewhere in Soho and standing on the corner of 6th and Spring and watching the second tower fall and it felt like a Jerry Bruckheimer film only it was real.

I didn't lose anyone on 9/11, but I did lose that sense of invincibility I was walking around with.

Now, Reopen 9/11 (conspiracy freaks) people. The last thing I want to see on 9/11 is your stupid fucking ads spouting off your theories about what caused those buildings to fall. People died, assholes. Exploiting that to try to convince people of your crackpot ideas that the terrorist attacks were an inside job makes me want to kick you. Hard. In the shins.

Blah blah freedom of speech and all that. How about a little sensitivity? I mean, I know you're insane and all, but still. And what was with all of the ads on Lifetime? Do you think women are more gullible or something?

In summary, fuck off.

Love,
Jess

P.S. Michael Moore? If I didn't have such a bone to pick with these nutjobs, I might have some energy left to make some comments about your letter yesterday, but I don't.

The waiting game

Jean: So have you slept with Jersey guy yet?

Me: No.

Jean: Wow, you must really like him.

Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume XX

That's right, kiddies. It's the return of the bad poetry.

This one is really, really embarrassing. I hope you appreciate my humbling myself for you. You know, all three of you who dig the bad poetry.

There was a time in the young cavefish's life where she was very upset about the injustices of the world. She wanted to change it. How, you ask? By writing really bad poetry about things she knew absolutely nothing about from her cushy little suburban life. It's worth mentioning that I wrote this while carrying around a can of Aqua Net on my person AT ALL TIMES.

Before Our Eyes

Before our eyes, Mother Earth is crying
her tears are acid rain
everything she's given us is dying.

Man has walked into her virgin forests
and raped them of all life.

Before our eyes, humanity's declining
money is now God
we watch the knots of brotherhood unwinding.

Man has taken all our children's dreams
and given them a life of nightmares.

Beyond our vision, God is watching all
Seeing his perfection lose its beauty
Seeing his creation slowly fall.

Here's Volume XIX.

An apparently much-needed update

Last night, I attended Miss Tanya's Hurricane Relief Event. A good time was had by all, for a good cause. There was a raffle. I won a Starbucks gift card and an A&W T-shirt. I also got to catch up with some old coworkers, you know, the ones from the place that recently fired my ass, and it was brought to my attention several times that this here blog has been short on details lately. And well, I suppose it has. So, an update on what everyone wanted to know about last night:

The job situation: There have been interviews. I turned down an offer to be an editor for a magazine's website because the money was crap. The newsmagazine I interviewed with way back when emailed to say they want me, but there's a hiring freeze and they'll contact me when there isn't and hopefully (for them), I'll still be available. I've had five interviews at the supercool megacorporation that everyone either works at or wants to, including me. I'll stalk them later this afternoon. There have been two interviews for another job I'd like for different reasons. They too will be subjected to my late afternoon stalking. The resumes are still going out. Oh, and nytimes.com? Yes, I will still keep sending you resumes for every position you list until you call me, in case y'all were wondering. The more you ignore me, the closer I get, bitches.

The boy situation: Moving along slowly but nicely with Captain Jersey, which is good because I'm trying to work on that whole impulsive thing. Three dates so far, more to come. There were comments about my "glowing" while I talked about him or some shit last night. I might invite him to go see Red Eye with myself, Curly and Sheila next week, if I don't chicken out on the whole him-meeting-my-friends thing. Linus, incidentally, decided to go off and see the movie, a motherfucking horror movie, without me. Ahem. Anyway, because I'm crazy and I checked, it's important to note that CJ hasn't logged onto the online personals since he met me there. This, I like.

So there you go. And why am I up so early, you ask? I seem to be waking up every morning around five. It's awesome.

She's crafty

Last night, instead of watching five episodes of Law & Order back to back, I made this:





I'm thinking of hacking up a pair of jeans I hate and making about a million of them. But I'm not so great with following through, so we'll see.

Not awesome vs. Awesome

Not awesome: Drunk dialing a guy you just started dating.

Awesome: Drunk dialing a guy you just started dating and his describing you the next day as both "amusing" and "adorable."

A letter of apology to my neighbors

Dear neighbors:

For those of you who are actually home right now, let me offer an apology. No one deserves to hear me belt out Mr. Brightside at the top of my lungs eight times in a row. I wish I could tell you I won't do it again, but that's a promise I can't keep. I will promise you this, though. Once I get a job, I'm signing up for voice lessons, so at least I won't make your ears bleed.

Love,
Jess

P.S. I neverrrrr... I neverrrrrrr... I NEVERRRRRRRRR!

A conversation with Captain Jersey

We're driving through Jersey for a long time, and he still hasn't told me where we're going.

Me: You live in Jersey City, right?

CJ: Yes.

Me: Did we pass it?

CJ: Oh yeah, a long time ago.

Me: So, uh, where are we going exactly?

CJ: Menlo Park.

Me: Is that far?

CJ: Not too far.

Pause.

Me: Are you taking me somewhere to kill me?

Turns out that instead of chopping me into little pieces, he was taking me out for a cheesetastic mall trip (literally and figuratively). Dinner at The Cheesecake Factory followed by The 40 Year-Old Virgin. If you haven't seen that movie yet, then I suggest you go. Immediately.

My favorite headline today

Ray Nagin for President, Anderson Cooper for Secretary of Take No Shit

An open letter to Western Union

Dear Western Union:

Hey there! What's up? So here's the thing. I've been glued to CNN all morning and they just did a little wrap up of corporate contributions to the survivors of Hurricane Katrina.

Did you know that Wall-Mart is giving 15 million? And not only is Papa John's delivering a buttload, and I mean a BUTTLOAD, of pizzas to the Astrodome, they've offered a significant amount of jobs just to evacuees. Unilever and Pepsico also coughed up the big bucks and are sending products to help.

Now we come to you, Western Union. Some people who are stranded might need friends and family members elsewhere to wire them money. Good for you for acknowledging that! And let me just say, Western Union, offering people sending emergency funds to friends and family who have no money, no jobs and no more homes a whopping 50 PERCENT OFF for wire transfers, well, it's clear y'all's hearts are just not in the right place. How about, oh, I don't know, 100 PERCENT OFF? Assholes.

I'm hoping you see the CNN coverage (because they too were not happy with you), feel like dicks and reconsider. And for your sake, I hope you have a decent PR department.

Love,
Jess

P.S. People still wire money? Really?

On a serious note

I lifted this straight from Miss Tanya's site. I'll be there. Go, if you can.

Miss Tanya's Hurricane Relief Event

If you've watched TV or looked at a newspaper over the past few days, I don't need to tell you how bad this is. It's really, really bad. I keep thinking back to how the whole country rallied around NYC during 9/11, and now it's time to return the favor. A mere $10 gets you a drink and automatic entry into a raffle for gift cards, clothing, CDs, books, and a host of other prizes

We’ll also be passing the hat for additional donations, so drink up and loosen your purse strings. All proceeds will go to the American Red Cross and AmeriCares specifically for Hurricane Katrina relief.

Bring some friends, make it a post-work hang, or just throw your money in the kitty and leave. Look, you’re going to drink anyway…might as well put that $10 to good use as well.

When: Thursday, September 8, 6-8 p.m.

Where: Stitch Bar - 247 West 37th St. between 7th and 8th Ave.

Unemployed fashion report

Clearly, I need to find a job before it gets worse.

Current outfit:
Black underpants with white trim that say HOLLYWOOD on them. With stars.
Wife beater.
Fake Pearls. Pink ones.

Serenade

Zach: I might have a date tomorrow.

Me: I'm so jealous right now.

Zach: Well, you should be.

Zach: We were meant to be...you and me.

Zach: That's a rap I wrote for you.

Me: It's hot.

Me: You'll have to perform it for me next time I don't see you.