Hopes and Dreams or Whatever

Dear Diary,

Today I got my period but Mom said it’s normal for girls my age.

Then we went shopping and I got drunk off Zima at Courtney’s brother’s friend’s apartment.

…is an entry I might have written at one point in my life but certainly not now.

It’s both judgemental and slightly ignorant that the first word that comes to mind when I see a boy with an earring is "fag."  Both because that’s a stupid, hateful, insensitive word and because that boy probably is totally heterosexual and offers to buy girls drinks like vodka tonics or light beers at bars in Scottsdale all the time.  A more accurate slur might be "douche" or "putz" or something like that.  I have fallen into the stupidity of American linguistic conditioning because that friend of a friend I saw at that place near the pretzel bar had two earrings and I not only thought "fag" but I said aloud, in an uppity, bitchy kind of way "look at that guy’s earrings. fag."  

I drink PBR and watch the American Idol results show and think, "at one point my life had direction."  But then Paige gets voted off, like I had suspected, and I remember that I can always call shit on competition reality shows, and I feel better about myself.

I notice lately that some people are too good for beer in a can.  They are in their "mid 20’s" so drinking cheap beer in a bottler rather than a can is, of course, a necessity when doing things such as, say, watching the American Idol results show.

I can now prepare salsa from scratch in seven minutes flat.

I think my desk at work is always messier than the desks around me.  I don’t know if this is reality, or being paranoid about my cleanliness.  I always have gross cups of half full tea and empty water containers and half aborted fetuses laying, bloody and stretched, across my cheap, silver lap top computer.  And the day rolls on.

I have decided to purchase that bass guitar I’ve always said I would own and learn to play.  Craigslist has provided me plenty of window shopping and drooling fantasy time and I keep thinking, "fuck you logic, why can’t I play bass guitar?" despite the fact that I have no musical talent whatsoever and am kind of drunk right now, I think playing bass would provide a good subdued hobby for me on days when I don’t do things like run two miles in the morning or hike up at papago which are both things I never do.  That sentence probably made no sense but neither did that last episode of Project Runway.

Writer’s write blah blah spare me your technical form and show me some heart.  Said all of my writing instructors.  Before I simultaniously started a student writing club and slept with their sons.  Literally I was making fliers during the sex.

Sometimes before I work I spend my time roaming the aisles of the local Target looking at things I tell myself I’m going to buy but never actually do.  Like a new plate set.  A yoga ball.  A towel set for my guest bathroom.  The funky, floral shirt dress.  The cookbook by that chick from Real Housewives.  Pens.  A lunchbox.  New tubes for my bike.  I calculate the price in my head, yeah, I can afford it, and I would really like new towels for the bathroom and I’ve been meaning to get a Crock pot cookbook.  But instead I sign bar tabs that are more than I meant to spend and pay off my DUI fines.  Thus is life, Diary, thus is life.

Collaging hasn’t felt as comfortable as it used to.  Like putting on an itchy sweater that doesn’t fit around the neck like it used to it.  Maybe it stretched out or maybe you got fat.  I sit down and put stuff together and it all looks like garbage or trash or waste or some other word associated with shit you throw away.  Like hopes and dreams or whatever.