'cause it's important to say something positive...

I realize I complain a lot. Perhaps most of us do...
But I DO have a few positive things to say. (Perhaps they're not that important...)

OK. I listened to Regina Spektor for the first time this week. FABULOUS! I was honestly blown away — first time in a long long time I've been blown away by a piece (or two) of music.


Oh, and if you missed Natalie Portman on SNL. Check it out. She's just too beautiful — inside and out — for words.

carrying the weight

myanmar woman

I've been working since before I was of legal working age.

When I was only 10, my girlfriend Danielle and I went to a nearby Chinese-Cuban restaurant in Newkirk Plaza (I lived in Brooklyn then) and started bussing tables. We didn't ask for a job. We just started doing it. (They were very kind to us, humoring us and slipping us a couple bucks at the end of the day for us to load up on bubblegum.)

That's not the point.

When I was 15 I lied about my age and got a job at a local Davanni's. I spent my first real paycheck on dinner theater tickets for my mother and stepdad. They still brag about it, but damn... it felt great.

I like to spend on people. I like to spoil people. I like to give.

I'm not buying love here. It's just who I am.

It's not about money. It's about sharing with other, giving to others, and all that sappy kindergarten shit. (I went to a seriously hippyesque love-fest day care. It must have profoundly impacted me.)

I give. So what?

Is it that women are more programmed to give, in general? Do we give more? I know some do, but... I sure know plenty that don't give shit!

Here's the deal... FINALLY!

Why is it that the scales always lean so heavily to one side?

Hey, if I were being taken to Fugaise for muscles and champaigne on a regular basis, I might not mind always having to scrub the toilet. If I were carried off to island paradises and exotic adventures, I might not mind taking full responsibility for the laundry. If I had the perfect stainless steel kitchen with a large center island and a fireplace, I might not mind doing the dishes every night (or at least the nights when I'm not taken out to La Belle Vie). If I were living in the lap of luxury, I might not mind handling all the bills.

But as it stands, I always seem to do all these things, with little reward.

I am woman; hear me roar. And I will keep roaring as I hold the doors open for the men behind me and continue to wash their dirty underwear.

I work. I work hard. I play, so that others can play with me. I give every ounce of support I can, in order to help people be who they long to be. And I continue to scrub the shit from the toilet.

And to top it off, I won't even let you buy me dinner.

silenced

"I'll Be Love's Suicide" by Tiny Dancer — Flickr


I'm fine. Really. I'm fine. I just have nothing to say. Nothing to say anymore. I talk and it drops down into the void. Seems pointless.

I talk about nothing now. Nothing important. So I have nothing to write. Nothing worth recording. Nothing worth putting out there. I'm not putting out.

There's really little more loathsome than people writing about their inability to write. Well... maybe complaining about it. That's more loathsome.

I'm living. I'm doing. I'm here. That's about it. Nothing more. I'm not filled with anything. Not even rage. Oh, rage might do me well right now. Something at least.

I simply am. There is nothing exciting about that.

I don't want to go into a teenage spiral caving beneath the unbearable burden of insignificance. But...

What the fuck?

We work. We play. We eat. We work. We eat. We sleep. We wake. We live. We die. Fuck man!

Are we really supposed to watch this much tv?