Friday, January 28, 2011

And in the spirit of honesty

I have to admit that after I got up from my computer last night, I made the grave tactical error of deciding to put my wet clothes into the dryer before going to see BadInfluence.

And putting my clothes in the dryer reminded me that I really ought to pack for my weekend visit with TheHippie (love!!!!), since I would be leaving straight from work the next day, so then I quickly threw some underwear and gin in a backpack.

And then, only when that was done, did I visit BadInfluence in his office (a.k.a. my den. Ok. Our den.)

And by then it was 10:30 and I worked a solid 11 hours that day so when I sat on his lap I mostly fell asleep with my head on his desk. BadInfluence told me not to worry about it.

So I put on my pjs. Since all of my clothes were in the dryer, my only options were my grandma-flannel bottoms (with pink snowflakes on them) and a lacy see-through lingerie top.

So then I went back into the "office" and told BI to look: I was a hooker up top and a grandma down below. BI was aroused and confused. He managed to stay focused on the top half, until I gleefully pointed out that my grandma-pj-pants also had a hole in the crotch.

He did not like my suggestion that this was for easy access. I was put to bed. Sleep bed, not sexy bed.

I just thought I should be honest.


Thursday, January 27, 2011

An honest note on writing and love

Here’s the thing. I know I’ve been a terrible blogger, and I probably have zero readers left, and for that I apologize (to…no one?). But it’s been hard to blog lately. Really hard, and on a few levels.

First, I don’t know what to write about. I don’t want to write about work, because I will get caught writing about work and then I will be fired from work and then I will have no work. And then I will have to find work in the service industry, except I hate doing things for others and I hate most people so really, who am I kidding? I’ll have to become a whore.

And I don’t do much other than work. For real. The other stuff mostly involves watching Grey’s Anatomy and trying to figure out if I can finance a bigger mattress, because BadInfluence is really fucking tall, and a restless sleeper, and therefore I haven’t slept in months and I figure the only solution is a sleeping arrangement whereby we don’t have to touch each other. He rejected the separate beds idea, so now we have to buy a bigger bed.

Second, I’m boring now. Sad but true, bitches. I guess you probably got that idea from reading about the mattress, but I really have become so incredibly boring. I rent a lot of movies. BadInfluence cooks for me. We buy a lot of wine. Sometimes we have the sex, but it’s mostly love-making and who wants to read about how we look into each other’s eyes and grasp hands while doing it on the couch?

No one.

Third, and perhaps worst, I think…I’ve lost it. The writing ‘it.’ The it where I can see something on the street – a funny dog in booties, a woman struggling with her bags - and imagine the words to describe it. The it where I roll a phrase around in my mouth, moulding it and smoothing out the edges with my tongue, until it’s perfect, until the words make you forget they’re words at all, but become a place, a feeling, a story.

I’ve just felt so…uninspired. At work, I’m creative in different ways – directing readers to stories, writing headlines that make people want to read something, choosing art that can tell a story on its own. But writing stories of my own? I can’t. I don’t know how anymore.

This is not meant to be despairing. Just explanatory.

And, perhaps, hopeful. Because I’ve come to the realization that this cannot continue, and I must write even if it’s terrible and no one reads it. So, by god, I will attempt to keep writing in this blarg of mine, even if it takes a panic attack, three glasses of wine and half a McCain cake to get something onto paper.

I need the practice. Probably not so much the cake.

Update: Tonight’s Grey’s Anatomy is another GODDAMN REPEAT, so I will keep going.

Update 2: Now with microwave-melted McCain cake and a third refill of red wine.

Ok, here goes.

As I said, my life is boring. And, as I do most things, I blame BadInfluence.

Why? Because contented, undramatic love makes you boring. Why did I blog so much the five years I was dating FauxHawk? Because I was, for the most part, unhappy. He treated me like ass, and therefore I was bitter and I expressed this bitterness via words.

We had sex once every two months = blog post.

He found any excuse to push me out of his life, including making me keep my toothbrush hidden in a drawer after two. years. of. dating. = blog post!

Breakups 1, 2, 3 = blog post, blog post, blog post.

My trampages, as a result of breakups = blog NOVEL.

But now? Well, fuck me, bitches, but I am happy.

Every day, happy. Happy to come home, sit in his lap and kiss his cute little face. Happy to spend an entire day walking around the city holding hands, exploring coffee shops, hunting for houseplants and trying new wines with dinner in random restaurants we find.

Happy to get sloppy-hammered off new wines, take a cab home, accidentally tip the cabbie $27, and then fuck BadInfluence on the window ledge while creepy no-pants guy in the other building probably videotapes us. Whatever.

The point is, happiness does not lend itself to good writing. Look at all the really, really great writers through time. Most of them stuck their heads in ovens or waded into deep water with rocks in their pockets. And the rest drank themselves to death.

So what’s a bitch to do?

I can’t say just yet, but I can say that all this red wine and talk of window ledges has made me loving, so I’m going to go see what BadInfluence is doing, and worry about my writing crisis tomorrow.

Aren’t you happy I’m still a whore?