I really am excited about . . . it all.

I wish I had just called into work. I already called in once this week, but it wouldn't have hurt me to have called in again. They don't care. These people are oblivious. They have no idea how little I do. None, whatsoever. I'm not proud of it. I just wish they would give me something real to do. I am really excited about getting done with this temp assignment. Perhaps at the next one they won't even have me at a computer. I would be alright with standing all day. Or filing, copying, or something else.

I'm going to give my pizza crust to one of the squirrels in front of the Business School. It looks like an off-white slug.

It just hit me! The only thing worth doing in this life is loving people. Not romantically, not friend-like, and not even randomly; but just loving them because they're here, you're here, and we're all just . . . here. Until we're really not here. And guess what? One day, whether you're ready or nor not, you won't be here.

Tiffany, you're saying, we all know that. Yes, well sometimes a little reminder now and then is not so bad.

I thought that the sun's absence would create a tolerable atmosphere as far as my lunch hour was concerned. I was wrong. Humidity. I don't know why i'm surprised. It's the way of this Austin, Texas-world, yet somehow I continue to be shocked into submission by its presence. Its overpowering, pummeling presence. Die, humidity, die!

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I like it when couples hold hands. This is how it should be. In Mexico couples of all ages hold hands. All of them. I like this very much. It's the easiest, cleanest, adorable way to just say . . . I choose you, you choose me, we choose we. I'm waiting for the day when I see a couple skipping as they hold hands. An older couple, say in their twenties or thirties. This would be fantastic!

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I miss the ocean. I miss Zihuatanejo, Guerrero and the hospitality of Rafael. I miss the hard, high water of Puerto Escondido, Oaxaca. I miss walking out against the waves and riding them back to the beach. I miss sitting on the beach and feeling so small for so many reasons, but loving the sensation. Needing that sensation. Welcoming the reality that my life, while important and significant in its own way, is nothing in comparison to the long, haggard life of the sea and its ways. I get the same feeling from looking up at the stars at night. I gaze up, up, and up into black everything and find myself minimized in just the right way. Looking into the blue sky doesn't do this. Blue skies make me feel comfortable but don't force me to ask daunting questions about my existence or the state of my consciousness. Only the night sky and the blue of crashing, endless waves can impact me this way. Oceans are good for just thinking about nothing. You can close your eyes, lay back on your favorite beach towel, let the sun drown you, and really just be happy in a moment.

I talked to my friend Ali last night and she shared a story about bodypumping (I'm not positive about what this is) to Holla Back Girl! This was not the funny part. The funny part was that before this they were pumpin' to Born in the USA by Bruce Springsteen. Only it's really funny because she goes to this class with her Polish friend who decided to doing this kind of thing to what she considered a nationalist pop ballad was out of the question.

I find this amusing. In fact, I find it high-fuckin'-larious.

So.

That is all.

Day four.

See you tomorrow no one.

is the slowest day in the history of days that have ever been slow . . . and shit.

I have wasted more time doing nothing and thinking nothing thoughts than I have I ever would have believed was humanly possible. What the hell is that all about?

Random thoughts:

--How did people waste time at work before the invention of the InterWeb?
--How in the hell did a mosquito get into my bra? *scratches tribal titty*
--Why do I like bad hip hop songs so much?
--I should drink more water. Why don't I?
--Should I trim my hair a bit? Treeeeyaaam. *in cooter speak*
--If what I saw on Mookie's MS blog is to be believed the future of writing in our country is in big big trouble. Without a doubt.
--How am I ever going to have sex sober?
--Are Jay-Z and Beyonce still 'an item'? Gizienski doesn't know much about colored folk gossip.
--I still want cornbread somehow.
--I would like to take an afro-cuban/latin drum dance class.
--I wish I could take my umbrella and start banging on things in this cube. Just to do it.
--I have a strong desire to see The Hudsucker Proxy with Tim Robbins . . . you know, for kids.
--I still believe . . . that there may not exactly be 'love at first sight' but it sure doesn't have to be as complicated as people seem to want to make it out to be. And I'm glad (ecstatic!) that Mookie and Avi are working to prove my theory. I like being close to right every once in a while. Well, not really. But whatever.

I haven't eaten since Saturday. Or had a drink. But why am I not hungry? who knows? who cares.

can I go home yet?

No, not love, sweet love . . . but Sex, fucking sex! And love.

Seriously.

There's a couple I always see sitting in front of the UT Tower having lunch together. When I pass them they are always smiling. It makes me smile to see them smile. They pack lunch and share. I've watched them from a distance. Their conversation is always a gentle affair; no bombastic gestures or loud laughter. Simple, solid, and persistent. Sometimes they hold hands. It's the company they keep that matters most and it's visible in their interaction. It appears they are good friends as well as comfortable lovers. I like this. I like this very much. I aspire to it myself one day. Or not. I'm aware (as I've made it plain) that the key is for me to make myself my own friend and then I'll be good for someone else's lunch. In our beginning, Andrew and I used to share lunch and have very engaging conversations about the most useless things. But I would not have had it any other way. Toward the end, the bitter, crippling end, I could hardly get him to look me in the eye and the silence was a palpable blockade between us. He always thought I believed him not to be smart or quick enough. Looking back it makes me feel so small and sad that he honestly believed I would judge him on the basis of his education or lack thereof.

I have said it before but shall say it once more . . . I wish I could get back that part of my heart which he so eagerly took from me. Andrew continues to be my deepest emotional wound and he hasn't a clue. Not one clue. It's not unfair, not his fault, it's just the way things go. Let go. I tell myself as soon as a thought of him comes to my mind; but it ain't that easy. So I've definitely not been willing to deal with what it's meant to hurt still, three years later. Bottoms up! The result? I go back to Ms. Knapp, "But one of the sick things about being drunk and confused all the time is that a good thing can be staring you in the face and you really can't see it. So many other things cloud the picture." Yeah, this happened with Morgan (a lover), and now it's happened with (Mookie) a dear fucking friend.

I still have my Andrew thoughts only this time I'm not reaching for a bottle. I'm reaching for my pen, my paper, and maybe my walking shoes to try and get some air and clear my head just that much more.

I think, after I get out of this hell-fucking-hole, I shall turn in my movies and I shall go watch a movie. Surely there can't be a ton of mo-fockas at a movie theatre on a Tuesday. Surely.

At least no one reads this thing. I can post my normal useless bullshit here. The compulsion for online journaling is addictive. But it's definitely easier to do without an audience. And well, I'm eager to see if I can't get away from my former InterWeb haunt. It happens.

Love/Hate List for 25 July 2006.

Love
--Jamba Juice Smoothies. I wish I had the nerve to try one other than the Protein Berry Pizazz, but that seems to be the only smoothie I can really relate to. I've tried an orange creme one once and it didn't do too much for me. Plus, I just love strawberries and bananners together. I can't say why.
--Fat little girls in spaghetti strap dresses. I never wore spaghetti straps as a child (and sure as hell will never wear them now), but I find something completely, cutely endearing about little girls who are plumply popping out of these dresses. I can relate.
--Coffee. Since I have stopped drinking I have been rediscovering the fine benefits of caffeine. Yum, yum, and more yum. Coffee. Black. Not the way I like my men, but I'll take it.

Hate
--How slowly the days pass.
--Feeling fine one minute and wanting to collapse into a puddle of tears and snot the next.
--Wanting a drink. Very, very badly.
--Missing people. Fine, missing Mookie.
--Wondering how in the hell I'm going to be able to go out without wanting to drown myself in alcohol.
--That I saw a moving box during lunch with this on the side: The Better Moving Boxx. Why the fuck do you need two Xs?
--Seeing people wear their sunglasses inside of dark buildings (like the Texas Union). Put them on your head or something you creep.

This is all for this hour's uselessness.

There are more black people on The University of Texas campus than I have ever seen in the history of Black people existing. I don't know what to attribute it to, but I like it.

I went walking the other night because I was restless and thinking too much, as is my nature. I decided it would be a great idea to walk into an area of brush and bushes and sit on a log and just meditate on the current fucked up state of my affairs and how I am going to have to work like a feign to fix any and all of it. Or at least make change. Who knew that mosquitoes would be so willing to gorge on my flesh at 10PM. I have enough mosquito bites on my arms, legs, and back to create a ridiculous connect-the-dot T-Rex.

Fuck you mosky-toes.