Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 17:30 Oh Twitter, its going to be a long, tense night. At least Tina brought Sour Patch Kids. #
• 17:40 Tina was talking about having pink eye on top of all her flesh diseases. #
• 17:42 Forgot to put rings on my right hand & I just KNOW tonite will be the nite I need to punch a bitch. #
• 18:44 I think tina is listening to the Spice Girls. #
• 22:32 POPPYCOCK. Poppycock on the block. I’m telling your God. #
• 22:54 Could really go for some Chuckles right now, hold the green. #
• 08:49 Never fucked up oatmeal so badly before. It should flee to the battered oatmeal shelter. #
• 08:52 Chooch is never going to learn what oatmeal is considering it tastes different every time I make it. #
• 09:22 Somehow the violation made this the best bowl of oatmeal ever. But I feel like a rapist now. #

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We didn’t have any milk in the house, and since cereal and oatmeal are the only things I can make marginally edible, Chooch got to eat popcorn for breakfast. What, it’s practically a vegetable.

(HENRY, DON’T EVER LEAVE US.)

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 15:57 Eleanore keeps giving me lifejacket safety stickers. Definitely a sign that I’m drowning.
  buy ventolin online www.mydentalplace.com/wp-includes/SimplePie/Content/Type/php/ventolin.html no prescription

  #

• 16:02 Right now, the sound of office laughter makes me want to string up dead bodies on a clothesline and stuff them like pinatas. #
• 16:10 …pinatas stuffed with grenades. #
• 19:28 Need to stop listening to Dance Gavin Dance or else it will be my funeral. #
• 23:47 Just confronted Eleanore about the scissors. That went well. (That did not go well.) #
• 10:38 Chooch and me – popcorn for breakfast. #

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For all the hype and anticipation Tina was trying to stir in me last week, she never said one word to me last night. That’s not saying she was quiet though. Her shrill voice and strangulated laughter curdled my blood for about 95% of the night. Apparently, she and Eleanore have a little club and I’m not invited. Trust me — I’d be pawing at her high-waisted jeans and crying in her salt-and-pepper mullet, begging for an invitation if I wasn’t so fearful of getting eczema flakes on my clothes.

Things included in the membership kit that I’m missing out on:

• secret emails between the two of them, which they read and immediately laugh out loud, before furiously pecking away replies laden with run-ons and emoticons
• smoke breaks centered around Eleanore’s rants of things that are stupid to her and Tina spreading whine-voiced gossip like wild fire while jutting out her pelvis and shoving her fists in her pockets like a dude
• email forward packed with girl power (Tina hates men), pictures of kitties being cute, and religious bullshit

At least I managed to scrape two good quotes from my pain and agony:

"When I have dry spots on my face, I scratch them."

"I’m just here to do my work, not be bothered by people."

Oh, STFU.

[Edit: WordPress is being a prick, so I apologize to everyone who got fifty billion email notifications for this lame ass post.]

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 15:58 Co-worker Big Bob is learning us about the different kinds of rape. Hello libido. #
• 17:21 I always feel complete when I wear my Chiodos shirt. #
• 18:12 I could probably eat a tongue as long as it was wrapped snugly in a tortilla and smothered in cheese. #

• 15:53 Physically ill after watching Atonement. #
• 20:14 At Kings. My son is fake sneezing for attention from other diners. Great. #
• 10:11 My bitch is making me pancakes and they better be good. #
• 10:45 Jonny Craig’s voice sounds like a heart breaking. And those pancakes made me sick. #

• 14:37 Just described my symptoms to Henry and he said it sounds like I’m in love but won’t admit it hahaha. #
• 14:55 Jumping jacks are my favorite things in the world, next to Mexicans. Maybe I should combine them by wearing a sombrero. #
• 17:31 Trying to persuade henry to learn how to french braid so he can make my hair look frenchy. #
• 20:54 Chooch was drawing a pic of me. When henry saw it was sloppy scribbles he said "yeah that’s mommy — a big mess." #
• 21:08 At eat n park, a table of ghost whisperers are sitting behind us. I want to slap them. #

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III: Pat’s Pizzeria

Corey and I had time to kill before the show started, which was a good thing because our breakfast and lunch consisted of sharing a bag of Munchos in the car. Driving down the main drag of whatever shit hole we were in, we passed strip clubs and adult video stores, liquor stores and dance studios (the exotic kind) on every block. Every couple of intersections, I would start to pull into a parking lot, and then say, “Oh, never mind, that’s just a bait shop” or “Oops, I thought that was an IHOP, but it’s just another whore house.” Holy shit, New Jersey is made with a crust of perversion, filled with a gooey center of booze and g-strings. No wonder Christina is so sleazy — she was BORN in the center of it all.

When the going gets tough, the tough call Henry.

“We need you to find us somewhere to eat, somewhere that’s not too far from our motel, and somewhere that has grilled cheese,” I ordered, skipping the salutations.

“I AM IN PITTSBURGH,” Henry growled.

“Find your own damn restaurant, you’re capable. USE YOUR FUCKING BLACKBERRY.”

“Yeah, OK. So, we passed a sign for Camden, if that helps. Find us food establishments, thanks.”

Henry, probably realizing that I was just going to keep calling him until he fulfilled my wishes, found us some family restaurant back in Gloucester. I followed his directions part-way until I grew tired and nervous that he was leading us straight into a river or over a cliff with dynamite in our mouths, so when we came upon Pat’s Pizzeria, Corey and I both agreed that it’d do.

Despite the neon “Open” sign, Pat’s didn’t appear very inviting. There were no other cars in the lot and a large section of the entrance was cordoned off with yellow Caution tape. We were hungry and running out of time, so we dropped the spoiled siblings act and went inside. But I mean, we REALLY had our hearts set on grilled cheese, just so you know.

We must have missed Pat’s hey day by a few years. It looked like it could have been a decent establishment at some point, but then maybe the owners stopped caring because it’s probably just a drug front anyway. Who cares if the vinyl booths have switchblade slashes in  them and the floor hasn’t been mopped in weeks when you’re hustling kilos and illegal arms out the back of the storeroom.

A shifty guy named Yianni waited on us, never once making eye contact. He seemed surprised that we opted to dine in because apparently the locals eschew Pat’s disheveled dining room for their own. I ordered cheese ravioli and I won’t lie — I was excited to try the edible delights of Gloucester’s famed pizzeria (there’s an advertisement for it on the underpass leading into  town, so you know it’s good).

Somewhere in between spying a shirtless fat man sitting down with a beer in his house across the street and sending pictures of Corey looking scared and miserable to our mom, an older woman who appeared to be a few food stamps safe from vagabondism sat down behind me with a double stroller. Her frizzy red hair was streaked with gray and she was wearing a billowing man’s overcoat; her lips were unable to meet past her buck teeth. We paid no attention to her, and then halfway through our meal, she set her sights on us. She was undeterred by the fact that, moments earlier, Corey loudly postulated, “I feel like this town is swimming in AIDS” and proceeded to solicit us with small talk.

“What is tomorrow? I feel like tomorrow is something special,” she asked aloud, looking directly at our table. I turned slightly and told her it was Mother’s Day, but apparently the proper reaction would have been to box up our food and finish eating in the car, because once we took her bait, she refused to  throw us back to sea. There was a vibe about her, I can’t put my finger on it, but she seemed slightly unstable. Her eyes seemed unfocused, glazed; and I mean, I’ve been known to pick up hitchhikers without a second thought, so my feeling nervous about someone speaks volumes. Corey was unnerved by her too.

She asked Corey and I what we were getting our mothers, and I explained that we’re siblings and have the same mom, and that my present to our mom was getting Corey out of her hair for the weekend, that this was our first sibling road trip and we were there to see the Cure.

“The Cure?” she repeated, brows furrowed. “No, I ain’t heard of it.” Feigning incredulity, I told her that they weren’t a new band, they’ve been around since the late seventies.

“Oh, that’s before my time. I wasn’t around all that long ago.” I was hoping she was being facetious, but something told me she was a little off-kilter. This was around the point where Corey started kicking me under the table.

“Let’s get the fuck away from the crazy broad, plz.”

She began bragging about her older kids. One daughter, who is 21, is in charge of three WaWas. THREE WAWAS, you guys. I wasn’t aware that this was a huge accomplishment, but her face fell a little when I didn’t applaud, so I hurried up and said, “Oh wow! That’s great.”

“Oh yeah, I know! And she just graduated high school last year.” She smiled and shook her head proudly. “My other daughter is nineteen. She just graduated this year. You probably know her,” she said to Corey. “Crystal?”

Corey, who refused to engage her, continued staring in the other direction, so I reminded her that we weren’t townies. Every time I caught Corey’s eye, he widened them into angry and impatient saucers, imploring me to stop talking to her.

He finally took matters into his own hands and went to the counter to get takeout boxes off of Yianni.

“Oh right!” she said, remembering. “You guys are musical. I forgot.” I don’t know what she meant by that, but Corey had returned to the table with takeout boxes, which we sloppily scraped the rest of our food in. Before I left, she pummeled me with sweet sentiments, asking God to bless me and urging me to take care of myself. “Please tell your mother I said Happy Mother’s Day!” she shouted as I shirked quickly through the door. Hey Mom, some crazy fisherwoman from New Jersey might die if you don’t have a blessed Mother’s Day.

I feel like if I had been any closer, she would have stuck me with a pin to have a drop of my blood to keep as a memento.

When we got out to the car, Corey breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief. “What the fuck was wrong with her?

She didn’t even order any food. She was just SITTING there the whole time, like she was lost.”

As we pulled back into the motel’s lot, I theorized that she was probably there to get her weekly fix. The guy who was fighting earlier with his girlfriend no longer was wearing a shirt, and was staring at us from the door of his room. As we got ready to leave for the show, we reminisced of past European vacations. “And look at us now!” I shouted cheerfully, waiting for the bathroom light to warm up.

I: Getting There

The night before we left, I had Henry look up lodging for Corey and me while I was at work, since I am helpless and had more important things to do. My only criteria was: close to venue and cheap.

He sent me info for Red Carpet Inn, which had rooms for $49+tax. It was located in New Jersey, and it was only 3.5 miles away from the Wachovia Spectrum, where the Cure was playing Saturday night.

I quickly emailed him and said I’d take it.

“You realize this place isn’t going to be nice,” Henry chided in his reply. The user ratings all said, “You get what you pay for,” and I was OK with that because the more money I saved, the more shit I could buy throughout the trip, like Slim Jims and crack.

“Don’t you dare even think about calling and complaining,” Henry said the next morning, as he armed me with directions and SoyJoy bars.

Corey arrived at my house at 10:00 and, between filling up the gas tank with liquid gold and taking out some cash for the turnpike, etc., I managed to spend $71 before we even left Brookline. 

For the 300+ miles on the Pennsylvania turnpike, Corey and I mainly reminisced about  past displays of family dysfunction, which included Corey’s favorite Father-Daughter fight in which I screamed in my step-dad’s face that I wish he’d get his head cut off by the log splitter we had in our backyard. Corey was laughing, and I was too but the whole time I was thinking, “Yeah, but this was a stepping stone in the rickety path of dropping out of high school.”

I forced Corey to listen to a special mixed CD I made just for the trip, and he sarcastically cheered every time Chiodos came on. However, he is now obsessed with Dance Gavin Dance, which is more than I could have hoped for. However, I ridiculed him every time he disagreed with my musical tastes, you know, like every other obnoxious music snob does.

My favorite moment was when Corey told me he was going through my step-dad’s cell phone and discovered naked pictures of my step-dad’s girlfriend all bent over the back of the couch. Ten minutes later and it was all, “Remember when you found naked pictures of Daddy’s girlfriend?” and then we laughed all over again.

I’m not used to being the responsible one in these trips. My role is usually to wedge my fat ass in the passenger seat, armed with my vacation journal, beverage and snacks, switching up the music like it’s my destiny. Also, flirting with truckers and being  Annoying: Road Trip Edition. But this time, I had to pay attention to shit, like how the car was doing on gas, if all the tires were intact, all while keeping a general sense of where the fuck we were. Oh, the pressure. Corey was in charge of the directions, but every time I would ask him where we were, he’d stare ambivalently at the map and kind of shrug. So then I would call Henry and ask, “Hey, how much farther do we have?” and he’d get all mad because I wouldn’t be able to tell him where we were since I can’t read a map and then he’d have to go and turn the computer on (he was letting it rest while I was away) and by that time I’d be all, “Oooh we’re going through a tunnel! Bubbye!”

Directions-wise, it was smooth sailing until we made it to the Philly exits and had to get off the turnpike. Corey would play with my emotions by saying things like, “We need this next exit, No wait, next one. No wait this one!!” leaving me mere seconds to swerve onto the ramp. I screamed the whole way across the Ben Franklin bridge and somehow managed to take the wrong exit, which dumped us blindly into some small town called Gloucester.

We stopped at Coastal to get gas and when I started to get out of the car, an elderly employee came over and started pumping it for me. I learned later that night that it’s like, some weird law that all New Jersey gas stations are full service, and you would think that with me being such a fucking princess, I’d have really embraced this small display of pampering, but instead I panicked because I didn’t  know the protocol — was I supposed to tip him? Cheer him on? Wait silently in the car and pretend it’s not making me feel like an entitled White Person to have a Mexican work for me? I kept asking Corey but he was all, “I don’t know, this is weird and I think he hates us and I want to go” so we sped away when he was through.

I had to call Henry once again so he could get us to our motel (at this point, I didn’t even know the name of it) and our conversation went something like this:

Henry: What are you near?

Me: A black lady in really high boots.

Henry, sighing angrily: What are you near?

Me: A chocolate covered pretzel store.

 While Henry was busy trying to find out where we were, I pulled over and Corey ran into the chocolate-covered pretzel place to ask a local for help. Henry kept asking me for street names, and I would answer him with very important information, like:

“Ew that guy just looked at me!” and “I hope Corey buys some delicious confections while he’s in there. The sign says they’re the best.”

Corey returned with directions at the same time Henry found us on a map. To keep Henry’s ego from deflating, I chose his directions and proceeded to doubt him the entire time, saying that I should have listened to the pretzel lady’s directions instead, which caused him to yell back and say things like, “I AM NOT THERE. I AM IN PITTSBURGH. I CANNOT SEE WHAT YOU ARE SEEING.” Then he was all, “Fuck you, find it yourself,” and hung up on me.

Both sets of directions ended up being right. The pretzel lady said we’d know we were there when we saw the Pennant night club and Weber’s burger stand, and by golly she was right.

II : Red (from blood stains) Carpet Inn

“It looks like a concentration camp,” Corey groaned as we pulled into the Red Carpet Inn. It was the kind of place that people retreated to after their slum lords evicted them; the kind of place where people crept off to have lunch break affairs; the kind of place that had mattresses broken enough for people to appropriately OD on. Corey and I just may have been the only legitimate travelers staying there.

If you can, try to remember back to the last time you emptied fifty-eight ash trays in the center of your living room and then steeped it with Pine-Sol and the musty stench of your Aunt Mary’s baby doll collection. Yeah, you remember? Well, that’s what it smelled like it in the closet-sized check-in office.

We  had to wait for a man in front of us to check in, which provided us with the idle time necessary for a complete giggle breakdown. It started with Corey, who had to bring a fist to his mouth to stifle the laughter. The old woman on the other side of the bullet-proof windows shot us dirty scowls and I tried to bury myself in a Chinese take-out menu that I lifted from the counter. Corey tried to hide his laughter by turning to look out the window, nearly knocking over the “Free Use for Guests” 1980’s-model microwave off it’s shaky stand.

After receiving no pleasantries from the clerk, not even a nicotine-ravaged “Welcome to New Jersey,” we had our key handed to us and  found that our room was the last one in the row, and luckily for us the door wasn’t visible from the lot. A small vestibule with a flickering overhead light had to be entered to find our door. It was the perfect setting for a late night mugging, stabbing, gang rape, tranny hooker wardrobe change.

 Once inside, I was relieved to find that the room itself wasn’t too bad. It seemed to be clean, as promised by the hand-written note left on the desk, declaring that some broad named Lillian cleaned it with her own bare hands. There were some stains on the towels and sheets, along with the standard array of cigarette burns dotting the shower curtain.

 The lone window in the room gave us a view of the lustrous grounds behind the motel. I looked out and, oh good, saw two shacks — just perfect for stowing murder victims, a troupe of Romanian sex slaves, and bricks of cocaine. Personally, I liked to hope that the Holy Grail was in there somewhere, shoved in the anus of a drug mule.

 The bathroom light seemed a little short-winded, so I walked back to the front desk to request a new bulb. On my way there, one of the residents — a young guy in a brown t-shirt — emerged and sat in front of the door, lighting up a cigarette and staring me down. Probably he was trying to gauge if I was a potential client, maybe trying to size me up for my preference — coke, pot, meth, grande-cocked Mexicans. Hopefully he was checking out my boobs, too.

Back in  the office, I had to ring the bell multiple times, praying that I wasn’t interrupting some underground cock fight or sex party, before the no-nonsense old desk clerk came out of the back room. When I told her the bathroom light wasn’t working very well, she impatiently shook her head and said, “No, it works. You gotta leave it on for about five minutes, let it warm up.” I started to thank her, but she had already turned her back on me.

“I don’t think that old lady in the office likes me,” I whined to Corey, chaining the door shut behind me.

“Well no shit. We were practically laughing in her face when you were checking in.”

A few minutes later, a domestic dispute broke out in the parking lot.

“What do you want from me?”

“Love and understanding.”

“Well…I can give you more blow jobs?”

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 10:52 Really bad idea #35965236: somersaults on hardwood floor. #
• 16:15 Tina just said she’ll be back on my shift starting Monday. I told her I’d bring the balloons. #
• 19:02 I love it when Eleanore reads me the local news headlines. She should be syndicated. #
• 20:29 i like good mexicans. #
• 21:08 Break between songs was just long enough to hear Eleanore talking with food in her mouth. Congrats to me. #
• 22:44 I hope this doesn’t end badly. #
• 10:40 Its been a long time since I laughed til I threw up. Please hurry, Memorial Day weekend. #
• 11:59 Clearly my heart needs to undergo heart-hardening procedures if I’m crying at Land Before Time 3. #

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Uploaded all the photos, and hopefully I’ll get my head in check to finally write about my Philly trip tonight.

I feel so tired every time I think about it though. Owellz0rz.

When Henry and I arrived at Club Zoo last night, one of the doormen cracked a big smile and called out, “Hey! How ya doin’, buddy?” in Henry’s face. Henry has no friends, so of course I was a little suspicious. And amazed. I whispered, “How do you know him?” After puffing out his chest a little and grunting, Henry informed me that they became fast friends at the Chiodos show, when he was outside pouting because there was too much gutteral screaming emanating from within. I wonder what they talked about that night? Bandannas? Judas Priest? Sixteen-year-old girls in tight jeans?

The crowd at this show was a little older than what we’re used to, with only a handful of scene kids scattered in the mix. I pointed this out to Henry, hoping he would feel less sore-thumbish, but he countered with the fact that he still had a good twenty years on the majority of the fans. And he was right. And I laughed.

Henry and I hung out upstairs for awhile, pretending to like each other. Then I got upset because he wouldn’t look at me when I was talking to him. Because I’m ugly, that’s why!

Before long, the opening band, the post-hardcore Pelican, took the stage. I was curious to see them live after hearing some of their stuff over the years, and made sure to remind Henry that they don’t sing, so that I wouldn’t have to field his predictable questions once they started. For the next thirty minutes, the venue was blanketed with the intense droning that could easily be mistaken for murder’s soundtrack, or Armageddon’s dinner bell. It was loud, dramatic, powerful and I loved it. It made me feel a lot of hatred in my heart though. Henry complained at one point that they sounded like a slowed-down Black Sabbath, that he felt like he was on downers, that it all sounded the same.

But Henry is also a thousand years old and really lame.

We went down to the floor after their set to prepare for Circa Survive. “When they come on, can we at least go a little closer?” I begged Henry, who doesn’t like bumping bodies with people half his age. (Though that’s how Chooch was made, oh!)

“You’re going to throw me right into the middle of that crowd, aren’t you?” he grumbled, but obligingly followed me a little closer to the stage.

My view was gloriously unobstructed until halfway through the first Circa Survive song. First, a midget meandered over and stopped a few feet in front of me. Then, his tall female friend with a mushroom-shaped head of blond curls planted herself right in front of me. She looked old from the back, like she was his mother. I kept calling her Penelope Ann Miller, even after she turned around and I learned she was really just a teenager. Some other guy who was with them took her place obscuring my line of sight with his ultra-thick neck and proceeded to drink his water like it was a can of beer. I hated him, too. Times like this call for a sickle.

I was able to see enough to know that Anthony Green was definitely fucked up and I desperately wanted whatever it was he was on. It was like he was possessed up there, he was arching his back, undulating, and throwing up his arms; it was almost like watching someone have sex with air. It’s like his body is going to blow up with emotion. I don’t know how you could stand there and witness that, and still walk away not liking Circa Survive. It just scares me, because every time I’ve seen them, Anthony has seemed so wasted and unpredictable (not always in a good way); the first time I saw them, he spent the majority of the time singing from a supine position on the stage. I just worry that something terrible will inevitably happen. (I’m looking at you too, Jonny Craig.)

My throat closed up as soon as those first words left his mouth, my eyes burned with tears, and I thought I was going to die. I guess this is how fanatical God people feel when they’re doing that gospel shit.

They  mostly did material from their latest album, but when they treated us with songs from Juturna, everyone went crazy. They played two of my favorites, “Great Golden Baby” and “In Fear and Faith,” and my heart felt so battered. I used to hole up in the cemetery and listen to that song over and over back in 2005.

I’m sure Henry enjoyed standing behind me through their set. He still doesn’t like them, but at least he doesn’t hate them anymore. (He doesn’t like Anthony’s voice, at all, and he’s not alone. People either love it or hate it. Personally, it’s like a drug to me.)

When they left the stage, I momentarily yearned to kill myself, and then we hung out by the merch table and made fun of people. I caught Henry texting his work boyfriend, Dave, and I was all, “Ooooooh, Henry’s work boyfriend, Dave!” and it made him angry. I kept trying to see what he was texting, but he shrugged me off and took a few steps away. I’m sure whatever it was, it was spelled wrong.

I think Henry was hoping we could bail after Circa Survive, but I was really anticipating Thrice, too. I’ve liked them for a really long time and have managed to miss them every time they come through Pittsburgh. My kid is essentially named after their drummer, for Christ’s sake. I didn’t think Henry would mind Thrice too much, because their new material is on the mellow side, and even their old stuff is less screamo, more rock.

They started off quietly, softly; I’m sure Henry was thinking, “This isn’t too bad. It’s ok,” but then it was like BAM! Bright orange lights flashed on and the band just fucking exploded. It was INCREDIBLE. Their guitarist, Teppei, is one of the most talented and distinctive guitarists ever. They kept a good balance between new and old, mellow and heavy, but the highlights for me was definitely when they pummeled through material from their album The Artist In the Ambulance. That album helped me block out a lot of idiocy when I was working at Weiss Meats.

Toward the end of their set, a young boy ran up to me and very excitedly whispered in my face. He had his hood up over his head and I’m pretty sure he was high. It really freaked me out because:

• I don’t like it when strangers talk to me
• What if he had a bomb in his backpack?
• I felt like he was going to stab me
• Or OD at my feet
• I’m pretty sure he was like, 12

Evidently, what he was saying was, “I’m hiding!” because before he had the chance to repeat it a third time, security swooped in and chased him out the door. I have no idea what he did, but I’m glad he didn’t get the chance to involve me further.

The show ended shortly after that potentially dangerous episode. We walked past Henry’s doorman friend on the way out, and he was all, “Hey! Have a good night, buddy!” and Henry smiled all big and goofily and stammered, “You too.” I allowed us to get a few feet out of earshot before I started teasing him.

“Stop it! This is why I don’t have friends, because you get so annoying.”

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 09:22 Successfully outlasted Chooch in a mega amped psycho-circus dance party jamboree. He looks stoned right now; I’m still dancing. #
• 09:24 And I won’t stop til I break something. (Hopefully not my neck.) You can’t listen to Dance Gavin Dance and NOT dance. #
• 09:48 Found a mix cd I made a few yrs ago, aptly titled: Henry Double Fists Himself While Watching Mr. Rogers. #
• 10:42 Forgot to lock my desk at work. I hope no one steals my rufies and the cigar box of fingers. And my rosary. God, not my rosary! #
• 11:10 Was asked what besides exercise I’m doing to lose weight. Cocaine, laxatives & long nites at the brothel, obv. #
• 17:35 Chooch is dragging pretzels thru ketchup. Making mama proud, that boy. #
• 20:36 Just walked by anthony green. So precious. #
• 20:41 Just got a splinter in my boob. #
• 20:47 Pelican is on and Henry said he feels like he’s on downers. This is murder music. #
• 20:47 Like, I can picture myself running around with a blood-soaked ice pick, flesh hanging off the tip. #
• 20:49 Henry won’t applaud. #
• 20:53 Countdown to meltdown. #
• 20:55 Henry won’t stand with me. I smell a horse headed pillow in his future. #
• 21:04 Its like watching Jesus on stage every time, if Jesus were wont to get high and sing to a crowd of studded belts and hoodies. #
• 21:05 Now would be a good time for a cigarette and a good cold-cocking. #
• 21:07 Me: must be nice to get to have a Circa tshirt. Henry: Christina will buy you one. #
• 21:20 Choochs namesake just took the stage. #
• 21:41 Drowning in a digital sea. #
• 21:42 ….With Ken and Barbie. #
• 22:19 Henrys illustrating how annoying I am by doing to me the things I do to him. #

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Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 13:10 Im devoting all my spare* time to spearhead the "whatevelyn" movement. fuck world peace, this cause is where its at. (*which means: none) #
• 13:14 Don’t like it? Whatevelyn! #
• 14:44 Henry just asked me why I have that "I’m gonna do something" look on my face. "Or have you already?" he added. #
• 17:37 I hated jellies when I was a kid and was the only girl in my class who didn’t have a pair. Now I’m 28 and wearing pink ones. #
• 17:53 I’ve had a temp tattoo on my hand for almost a week now and it won’t come off, but now it just looks like DIRT. #
• 18:25 putting together a band where the only instrumentation is the sound of me dancing in wooden shoes. The Clodhoppers, I guess. #
• 19:53 "please come closer, because my heart doesn’t touch yours anymore." DIES. #
• 20:36 oh look, it’s scissor o’clock. #
• 20:45 i will never again be able to cut a piece of paper without shuddering, wincing, and punching myself in the crotch. FUCK YOU, ELEANORE. #
• 23:25 PLEASE ACT SURPRISED. She’s baking. She’s baking. (She’s not baking.) #
• 23:27 making sense is so 1995. i’m going to start making scents instead. #

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While I genuinely enjoy a wide variety of music, there are four bands that go above and beyond and make me feel like the beating of my heart has come to a grinding halt, rust and sparks flying all up in my grill. Those bands are the Cure (but if you didn’t know that, you don’t know me at all), the now-defunct Cold (I experienced quite a few emotional breakdowns at their shows, much to Henry’s horror), Chiodos (sometimes I feel like I’m going to puke up a potion of fluttering hearts, vitriol, and a street fighting match when I listen to them), and Circa Survive (helped me evade mental institution during the summer of 2005).

All four of these bands, I’ve met. I’ve had the opportunity to tell each oh them how much they mean to me, how many ways they’ve changed me and saved me, but it’s four bands that make me freeze, that make me stutter, that make me run away in tears (it’s true, and it’s embarrassing). I managed once to write a five-page letter to Cold, thanking them for helping me through a death and even though I had spoken to them several times before, Henry had to pass it on to the drummer because I ran away and hid. How do you thank someone, total strangers,  for saving you? It’s hard and no matter how many times you rehearse it in your hand, it still comes out sounding stupid and trite. "Oh hay, you guys are good. Sign my CD?"

I saw Chiodos two weeks ago. I saw the Cure on Saturday. I’m going to see Circa Survive tonight.

The only other time this has ever happened was in 2004 when I saw Cold and the Cure within two days of each other and I flipped my shit, seriously collapsed in a heap of emotional baggage and mental frustration.

I’m nervous. Scared. Anxious. Because Anthony Green’s voice sounds like a whale, a high-pitched sonic torrent of opposing emotions, of suicide dreams, anger and love, and the last two times I was within twenty feet of this caterwaul, it scissor-kicked my heart and bear-hugged my synapses and I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t move and I cried and cried and then I felt emotionally spent for days.

The past few months I’ve been an emotional wreck — not always in a bad way, but emotional still the same. Sometimes, all I felt like I ever really had were these bands and their aural therapy, because when you reach out to music, it reaches back; it’s more dependable than people. So seeing three of them so close together is a big deal for me. I think the universe is trying to kill me.

I’m not sure my heart can take it.

The verdict is in and Tina is officially crossing back over to the night shift. Every muscle in my body is petrified from nerves, horror, anger and disgust.

Before she left today, she cheerfully exclaimed, "Soon I’ll be saying hi to you instead of good night!" and as she turned the corner, I tersely whispered "Yay" and then searched my desk for a noose.

And she has new facial scabs that she’ll be bringing with her. You know what else she’ll be bringing?

1. An argumentative hunger.
2. A desire to talk to me about sex.
3. Bull-headed opinions.
4. Constant reminder that she was in the Service.
5. A high-pitched voice full of whine and entitlement.
6. A phlegm-y laugh full of perversion and sleaze.
7. Camel toe.

Can’t wait.

Bob thinks this is funny. Apparently he derives pleasure from my pain, so I guess I have more frienemies here than I thought!

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 13:05 I think some ppl only understand the meaning of NO when its followed by a knife in the gut. #
• 15:20 I just know when I’m stuck behind an I<3Bingo sticker, I’m going to be late for work. #
• 17:54 Seasonal lesbianism in the hizzouse. #
• 19:32 my stomach is still exacting revenge after yesterday’s cereal mishap. #
• 20:40 this makes me die inside: "were my arms too short to ransom you from broken skin and black and blue." #
• 21:39 I don’t get enough naked chicks sending me friend requests on MySpace. WHAT’S UP, HOES?? #
• 22:52 waiting for the death blow. #
• 23:01 i could have a sword lodged in my sternum and my fave security guard could still make me smile just by giving me a thumbs up. OKMAYBENOT. #

• 08:00 Apparently saying "whatevelyn" is even more annoying than its abbreviated sister "Whatev." Glad I inducted it into my lexicon. #

And then these ones didn’t post yesterday because LoudTwitter thinks I’m a whore:

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 09:46 Ordering cereal with a chronic sniffler behind me. Gross. 
• 09:50 I’m eating cocoa puffs, lucky charms, malt balls and choco syrup. Best cereal ever.
• 09:58 All cereal should have malt balls in it. And I don’t even LIKE malt balls!!! 
• 09:59 And a goth girl named Simone works here AND the Cure is playing. Cereality pwns.
• 11:32 Sick
• 08:01 Just got my son stuck in a shirt. It was scary because I thought he was going to kill me.
• 08:02  I gave him cold pizza for breakfast in an attempt to make amends

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