I am perpetually listening to the Javier Mendoza Band while I’m on my computer. I downloaded several songs from their Tinta y Papel CD - yes, off Napster. Well! I gave Javi the money for the CD, and he was supposed to leave it at the loft, but he and the boys ran up to Chicago to play some gigs and he forgot. So… this is merely a temporary fix.

It’s just weird to listen to the CD of someone you’ve hung out with. Weird.

I’ve been trying to think of something witty and humourous to say about chardonnay. So far, nothing. It’s good, though. Never lets you down.

Damn, this CD makes me wish I knew Spanish.

I’m tired of picking at scabs. It seems every guy I’ve ever known decided to make last week Michelle-scab-picking week. That was fun to see. Oh well, like Dad says, get a thicker skin Michelle!

I’m looking forward to a day off. I’m dreaming about it. Maybe I’ll sleep in… see a movie… read a book… take a nap… go to MP’s… who knows. It’s so far away right now that it’s just a foggy dream.

Funny near-death story that nearly got lost during the emotional trauma of the weekend that seems to continue ad infinitem. I can’t believe I did this:

Around 8pm on Friday night I left the loft, ostensibly for a beverage run, since Max and I were both low on caffeine and knew it was going to be a long night. (It’s hard to study the stock market whilst nodding off.) So, I left the loft and travelled to Grand Centre to see if I could find my dad. He’s a policeman and runs that area. So…

In the heart of the city (albeit near St. Louis University) I pull up to a red light and I see man wearing a dark jacket, light blue shirt, funny-but-warm hat, and what looks like a radio on his shoulder. Hmm… I roll my passenger-side window down and call into the rain, “Excuse me! Are you a police officer?” As the words left my mouth, I saw my mistake.

He looks me squarely in the face and says, “Lady, I hate cops!”

Oh, rats! Wrong thing to say to me. Tired, hungry, frustrated, stressed out, strung out, and now completely pissed off me.

My response? Ahh, so knee-jerk. “Fuck you!”

His response? “You little mother-fucking piece of white trash!”

I rolled the window up to the rest of the insults.

So, I’m looking straight ahead at the light, willing it to change. I am in the left-most lane, which is a left-turn-or-straight lane. I happen (by the grace of God) to glance to my right, where I see the gentleman digging through the trash can while casting glances over at my car every five seconds.

Didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out that I was really glad he didn’t have any large rocks or beer bottles handy. I tore into the intersection like greased lightning and made a right turn from the left-turn lane. What the hell, I figured, I’d rather look like a fool and get a ticket (no one was near the intersection) than die. Or, worse, have to pay for vandalism to my car.

*sigh*

One day my mouth will be the death of me. Truly.

Why is it that alcohol doesn’t blur everything as well as it should? Just a thought. Maybe I’m just not drinking enough.

“And I know it aches

How your heart it breaks

You can only take so much

Walk on

Walk on…”

Perhaps I should call Max. Perhaps not. Perhaps if he wanted to talk to me he would have called today. Perhaps I just don’t know what the hell to say. It would seem we are at an impasse.

Fuck this.

“You always were the one to show me how

Back then I couldn’t do the things that I can do now

This thing is slowly taking me apart

Grey would be the color if I had a heart

I just want something I can never have

In this place it seems like such a shame

Though it all looks different now, I know it’s still the same

Everywhere I look you’re all I see

Just a fading fucking reminder of who I used to be…”

Have you ever been called a “curveball”? Such as in the following context, four days after you meet someone… “I thought I had it all mapped out,” he says, “I knew what I wanted, I thought I knew, all the plans were made, everything was in place… And then I met you, and you were the curveball I didn’t expect…”

Still trying for the fuzziness,

michelle