Monday, March 12, 2007

Jack Ruby

Yesterday, cleaning my room, I picked up all the old and new clothes all over my floor, quite a few obtained this weekend, either folding them and putting them away or putting them on a hanger and doing the same. During this process, as the floor started to slowly show itself with each item of clothing put away, underneath this mess appeared two pairs of gloves. While it is hardly warm yet, being early spring weather or perhaps late winter weather, somewhere between the two and still a bit chilly, the need for these gloves is over, or so I am hoping. And I am hoping that by deciding this, by deciding to pack them away in the back of my closet with other items of clothing I never wear, a fiat declared by packing away these relics of winter, that winter is over.

I am not quite sure what it is I am doing with myself these days, or I am and am not sure how this can sustain itself, what it is that lies around the curve of going out and partying every night, am not necessarily sure how April's rent is going to pay itself. Things are not dire but they do need to be resolved. I have a couple of paychecks coming later this week from those two jobs, both of which seem to be out of work for me for at least a bit of time. And so I have an interview at a temp agency tomorrow, a temp agency that was referred to me by this man I had really hot sex with off of Manhunt a week or so ago.

What I am really hoping for though is to get this editorial assistant position I interviewed for last week. They are interviewing people this week and there will be a second round of interviews soon and hopefully I will not only make it to that round, but win that round and get this job. This job would change my life in many ways and I am not sure I am ready for that, for resembling something closer to an adult, but I am really excited by certain aspects of it, namely the chance to work for a giant publishing group that owns the publisher I would really like to work for, and which would be fairly easy to do once I was employed by this group, or so I have heard.

I would have to reign in my drinking habits a lot and no longer go out every single night of the week. Last night, I played Trivial Pursuit and when asked who it was that shot Lee Harvey Oswald, a duh question that I knew the answer to behind the fog of a burnt out brain from drinking, I couldn't get it. Despite slapping my head, trying to revive all those things I have been sedating, numbing, the answer wouldn't come.

There also wouldn't be embarrassingly bad sex caused by me being really drunk and basically passing out after bringing this nice boy back to my house. Or there might be that, since that was the weekend, and it would be my weeknight partying habits that would have to be curtailed. Also this weekend, I won a pretty penis contest and some cash, ate a piece of strawberry shortcake that was the yummiest dessert I have had in recent memory, and danced to several songs, though the one that made me the most happy was Whitney Houston's "How Will I Know," a song that makes me totally lose my mind just about every time I hear it.

I haven't touched Tolstoy in so long, probably a week or so, have become too preoccupied with other things, these attempts, fun and magical, to touch other things, living people, not dead Russians, though I did touch a fat, middle-aged Russian in these attempts on a weeknight (in addition to a dear friend), but that probably meant more to me still than the several chapters of Tolstoy I would have read that night. Tolstoy, and really all these people on pages, these writers of words and lovely sentences, are able to touch something amazing in me and that ability continually confounds me, sometimes shocks me, usually thrills me, and yet there are so many other types of touching and I have become into those more so lately, love the pursuit of those, love flirting with other human beings, having their gaze and attention directed my way, wondering how I can translate that into the thing I want, or even wondering if this, the hint and the wafted potential of the thing, might be the actual desired thing.

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