Ouch

I have a body that hurts.  Everywhere.  I woke up at 10:30 and  honestly, I just want to go back to bed.  I’ve already returned 7 telephone calls this am.  Tiiiiiiiiiired.  My whole body is bruised.  Weird parts of my arm hurt.  Like my forearm.  Am I supposed to be doing some sort of forearm exercise?  Anyway, I need to do some more moving but I just called E and she’s still sleeping.  That makes me feel better.  I’m going to prolong the process and get some resty rest.  I have some good blog stories including one involving C and her “amorous activities” as so described by crazy landlord from the planet Hell.  I also had a fight with him that began with “Look … not trying to burn bridges here but, if you think I give a rat’s ass about you or your personal problems, you’re sorely mistaken.”  Good times. 

I HATE these type of emails …

people always send this shit to me … obviously, people who don’t know me very well.  Read this crap:

 

10th grade

As I sat there in English class, I stared at the girl next to me. She was my so called “best friend”. I stared at her long, silky hair, and wished she was mine. But she didn’t notice me like that, and I knew it. After class, she walked up to me and asked me for the notes she had missed the day before and handed them to her. She said “thanks” and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I wanted to tell her, I want her to know that I don’t want to be just friends, I love her but I’m just too shy, and I don’t know why.

11th grade
The phone rang. On the other end, it was her. She was in tears, mumbling on and on about how her love had broke her heart. She asked me to come over because she didn’t want to be alone, so I did. As I sat next to her on the sofa, I stared at her soft eyes, wishing she was mine. After 2 hours, one Drew Barrymore movie, and three bags of chips, she decided to go to sleep. She looked at me, said “thanks” and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I want to tell her, I want her to know that I don’t want to be just friends, I love her but I’m just too shy, and I don’t know why.

Senior year
The day before prom she walked to my locker. My date is sick” she said; he’s not going to go well, I didn’t have a date, and in 7th grade, we made a promise that if neither of us had dates, we would go together just as “best friends”. So we did. Prom night, after everything was over, I was standing at her front door step. I stared at her as she smiled at me and stared at me with her crystal eyes. I want her to be mine, but she isn’t think of me like that, and I know it. Then she said “I had the best time, thanks!” and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I want to tell her, I want her to know that I don’t want to be just friends, I love her but I’m just too shy, and I don’t know why.

Graduation Day
A day passed, then a week, then a month. Before I could blink, it was graduation day. I watched as her perfect body floated like an angel up on stage to get her diploma. I wanted her to be mine, but she didn’t notice me like that, and I knew it. Before everyone went home, she came to me in her smock and hat, and cried as I hugged her. Then she lifted her head from my shoulder and said, “you’re my best friend, thanks” and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I want to tell her, I want her to know that I don’t want to be just friends, I love her but I’m just too shy, and I don’t know why.

A Few Years Later
Now I sit in the pews of the church. That girl is getting married now. I watched her say “I do” and drive off to her new life, married to another man. I wanted her to be mine, but she didn’t see me like that, and I knew it. But before she drove away, she came to me and said “you came!”. She said “thanks” and kissed me on the cheek. I want to tell her, I want her to know that I don’t want to be just friends, I love her but I’m just too shy, and I don’t know why.

Funeral
Years passed, I looked down at the coffin of a girl who used to be my “best friend”. At the service, they read a diary entry she had wrote in her high school years. This is what it read: I stare at him wishing he was mine, but he doesn’t notice me like that, and I know it. I want to tell him, I want him to know that I don’t want to be just friends, I love him but I’m just too shy, and I don’t know why. I wish he would tell me he loved me! `I wish I did too…` I thought to my self, and I cried.

 

What a strangely maudlin story.  WTF is the moral of this story?  Make sure to put the moves on any friends you find hot because they might die soon?  Also, I find many holes in this story:  (a) this dude sounds gay.  He didn’t even put the moves on her at prom.  And why didn’t he have his own prom date?  Sounds like loser mcloserson to me; (b) why in the hell would they read someone’s diary entry from hs about liking some other dude at the girl’s funeral???????  That makes no sense.  Isn’t she married to someone else?  Did her husband o.k. this?  Why would her family choose that entry to read?  O.K., just putting it out there, but if I suddenly drop dead, PLEASE, for the love of God, do NOT let anyone read a diary entry of mine from anytime … ever.  I actually never kept a diary.  I would start many many journals and get bored during the first entry.  I think I only like writing when I know someone else is reading it.  That’s my narcissism shining through.  Oh … and PLEASE stop sending me bullshit like this email.  Please, please, please.  I don’t find it “romantic” or “sweet” or “thought-provoking” … I find it poorly written and cloying.  It reminds me of something I would have thought was really “romantic” in like 6th or 7th grade … right when I was about hitting puberty and my hormones were running amuck.  And I had no judgment.  Around the same time I was writing fan letters to Duran Duran.  Actually … I would still do that.  So never mind on the fan letters.  Not a good example.  In any case, I doubt any of my guy friends would show up at my funeral feeling morose.  I think the sentiment might be more like “thank God that bossy bitch is dead.  I don’t have to hear any more comments questioning my sexuality.  Nor will I be forced to: help her move, go to chick movies, change her oil, or bring her food because she is too hungover to drive anywhere.”  Not that I would EVER make any of my friends do such things for me …   Hey .. 3:18 a.m. and I feel slightly tired.  I’m going to crawl into bed and try to capitalize on this feeling … g’night mates (told you I was trying to incorporate that word … )

“Real Love Stories Never Have Endings”-Richard Bach

I just read this.  And sort of love it.  I’m def a proponent.  I don’t want to say anything else about this.  No “show and tell” tonight.  I’m excited about my new place, new roomie, the draft … new beginnings in general.  Can’t sleep.  At 3 a.m.  Trying to NOT take Ambien.  Trying to find out if I can sleep on my own.  I have a feeling I will sleep in my new place.  Not to be all new-age but way better energy.  This place has crap energy.  Always have.  Never felt like this was my home no matter what I did.  New place already feels like home.  I love being “home.”   No Ambien but … I might have to cheat and have a glass of wine.  So … here’s to “real love stories.” 

“The Key to a Good Relationship is that The Other Person Should Always Love You a Little Bit More than You Love Them”

Another nugget of advice from The Real Housewives.  Hmmmmm … I don’t know if I agree with this.  If it’s true but that sounds really depressing to me.  I’ve been in many relationships where the other person loved me more (not to sound all super narcissistic … oh, for fuck’s sake, I am super narcissistic) and it’s not that good of a time.  I think I would rather be the person who loves more.  At least you get to be “in love” which is pretty fan-fucking-tastic.  To just feel indifference is boring.  I’m not into boring.

“All You Need to Get a Man is a Good Souffle and a Blowjob”

Direct quote from the “lost footage” of “Real Housewives of NYC.”  I love this show.  Sadly, I have no idea of how to make a good souffle.  I feel that I have the resources to definitely hire a top-notch chef to do the former.  As for the latter, I don’t have to hire any personnel.  Not to be TMI but I’d give myself high marks in that department.  I’m familiar with the equipment. 

“Mango! Be a Good Girl!”

said by a large buff man across the street talking in a high-pitched, little boy voice to his tiny dog.  I am so glad to be moving out of W. Hollywood.

GREAT news on the draft …

btw, have been on the phone the past couple of hours with my dad, clients, etc.  It looks like this year’s draft will be HIGHLY productive and lucrative.  Thank God, Jesus, Allah, Buddha, Yoda, whatev.  There are a lot of great great things about being an agent.  First and foremost, the fact that I watch baseball games for a living.  But … it’s a risky business.  You’re always gambling.  Gambling that players will stay healthy, remain loyal, do well, etc.  So much of this business is about risk.  This year, it appears that risk is paying off.  I would tell you more but: (a) I’m not sure exactly who is reading this and (b) can’t give away all my secrets and negotiation tactics.  It’s cool, though.  I finally feel like personally and professionally, things are falling into place.  I feel … dare I say, Happy.  Rare condition for me but true.  As of this moment, I feel like a happy little princess. 

The New Bachelorette Pad

My lovely and delightful roomie, E, and I spent the day moving her stuff into our new place.  Yay!  It is sooooo rad.  So posh.  Beyond posh.  Like Posh Spice.  Love it.  We’re: (a) right near the beach and have central a/c unlike the current slum I reside in.  You would think that anyplace decent in SoCal would have central a/c, right?  Wrong.  Sadly, I did not find this out 5 years ago when I moved into this shithole.  I saw some sort of a/c looking thingy on the wall and just assumed.  Well … it’s for heat.  Since I’ve lived here, I’ve used the heat 3 times.  I would gladly have traded heat for a/c for the approx 50 million times I’ve needed a/c.  Lame; (b) we have a pool.  Pool is key.  I LOVE to tan all summer long.  Yes, yes … I know … bad for me, skin cancer, accelerated aging, etc., etc.  I don’t give a shit.  I am very olivey toned.  I look good ONLY when I have a tan.  Seriously.  I spend a shitload of money on Clarins self-tanner but … it’s just not the same brown color as natural sunning.  I’m sure I’ll die from cirrhosis long before skin cancer claims me; (c) I have this great curvy curvy bedroom.  It’s very cool … E was super nice and let me have it.  It’s totally appropriate for a pretty pretty fairy-tale princess like myself.  It’s already this cool taupe color that will go perfectly with the massive amount of pink shit that I have.  I will miss my self-painted pinky pink bedroom walls but … I’ll live; (d) E has a  … WINE CHILLER.  Dude.  Enough said.  I have ALWAYS wanted one.  E’s dad was helping with the move today.  I’m bringing over my 8000 sets of dishware and glassware tonight.  E’s dad:  “Do you have wine glasses?”  Me:  (look of total and absolute disgust)  “Do I have wine glasses?  Who do you think you’re dealing with?  I have red wine glasses, white wine glasses, champagne flutes, shot glasses, etc., etc.  Those are the most used dishware items in my apartment!”  Sad, but true.  I haven’t seen a pan around here since 2004 but I have every type of beverage container imaginable.  Priorities, people.  It’s all about priorities.  And of course, I have an awesome silver cocktail shaker.  I asked for it for my bday one year.  Yep.  I also have a monogrammed flask that an ex-bf gave me as a Xmas/Hannukkah gift.  It’s a treasured possession.  One never knows when one might require alcohol at the ready …