Sunday, January 31, 2010

Hedwig and the Angry Inch

is total genius. God I love that movie.

Gutter Glamour

My new shoes glitter like midnight, asphalt under a streetlamp...

Rhyme or Reason

So I tried posting earlier... I copied and pasted something right off FB, and when I looked at it I realized it picked up the sloppy FB chat html and it was all f'd up, and I tried reformatting and my connection cut out, and it frustrated the dickens out of me, and now I'm over it.

I just left a trendy diner where I went after work with one of the most beautiful men I've ever seen up close. I met him at the club (of course) a while ago, he goes there to sell pot and other stuff I don't touch, but we talked, and he's really young, like my age, and it turns out we're going to school together this semester, and his cousin lives the next town over my hometown, which is TINY and unheard of. He's given me a ride home a couple times, and tonight he came in to deal with one of his own customers, and we had a drink, and after he left I texted him and he came back and we went to the diner and ordered two Thai Chicken Salads to-go, and sat outside while all the hipsters stared. The girls at the club all stared too, earlier, and tonight there was all kinds of drama in the dressing room when we were closing up, and I just wanted to get out of there... I've kind of become friends with a lot of the regulars, the guys that come in to drink or do whatever but don't really talk to the girls much... but I like them and I'm happy when they come in, to just go and chill and chat and have a drink, so some of the girls try to get me riled up sometimes, and I just don't bite. I just won't. The last thing I want is to get involved with that. I don't understand why, but almost all of them are nice one night, and then weird and edgy, and then catty, and then cool, with no rhyme or reason.

Like Julian. His impenetrable wall. It's not coming down. It's not going anywhere. I broke down and wrote him last night... after my post. I felt like a jackass. I told Elena and she was just like, oh man. Yeah. Ugh. She made me laugh. She's going through some crap with a guy too (at least it's REAL and ACTUAL. Sigh.) and we're both laughing off the misery. But J, of course, didn't respond. I don't understand it, why he would let me flounder like he does, or condescend to me like he does, or imply and insinuate and assert and retreat. It makes no sense. Maybe it's part of therapy.

And maybe it's working. I feel different. I feel solid. I'm up and down, I'm confused, I'm lonely, but I kind of... know myself.

Emily came over today and we hung out and went for a walk and got vegan food. I haven't seen her in ages. She's beautiful.

Saturday, January 30, 2010

Callin' it a goddamn night.

I'm going to bed. I'm really tired and I feel a little sick. I went out to a metal show with a guy I like. He's from Spain and is a drummer in a metal band, has been for years. The show reminded me of my ex fiance. He chatted me online the other day. He made me laugh for hours. He's the funniest person ever. I'll always be in love with him. But it didn't work. He took me on vacation, and got down on his knee and gave me a diamond ring. My tough rock star who never did that for anyone. And I said yes. And then I moved. And then we started talking again, and he was gonna move here, and I stopped answering the phone for three days. I'm a jerk. I don't want to think about it. I'm gonna just start being honest with J. Elena would say it's stupid but it's the only way I'll ever get over him and be able to move on and that's what I need to do. I don't want the challenge, it's not a game to me anymore. I just want to be happier.

Friday, January 29, 2010

Friday Night Blight

I'm starting to hate the weekends. I never want to go anywhere. It just feels so exhausting to have to talk to people, men especially... Maybe it is my job. I just get paralyzed. And it's like... I'm not afraid to go to work, to dance on a stage. Or to go sing in front of a bunch of strangers. I'm not afraid to go see Julian. No. I look forward to these things. I'm looking forward to school. And recording again with Kosta. But it's Friday night, and these aren't options, I'm supposed to go out socially, and I can't, I'm just alone, alone, morbidly alone. You know what? No. This:


Is what I mean. HELP. HELP. HELP.

A Spade a Spade?

Um, hmm. I might write later... Yeah, I don't wanna think about it. Nothing happened today, I chatted my way out of a box. J said he thinks I might have trouble having a relationship on this depth with men without being hit on "or that dynamic... I mean this is speculative, I don't know if you have..." I said I have. I don't know what the fuck I said. Ugh. I'm going to the piano. Ugh.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

Guess Who's Still Up?

That's right, me. Me, bitches.

This is dumbfounding. I'd have to get up shortly before work to get a good [night's] sleep at this point. And I was passing out at the diner. It's the damn booze. I don't get drunk, I don't ACTUALLY ever pass out, just CNS-depressed enough so that I can't sleep when it wears off. What a bitch, that.

I just had an hour-and-a-half long sexual fantasy about Julian. I am, okay, pretty SF at this point. If he touched me to any degree I would probably have an orgasm. OMG, sigh.

I laughed really hard twice yesterday.

1. At the show, there was a singer/guitar-player D00D who just, sucked like Electrolux up in there. I did NOT laugh while he was playing! Though I did hiccup once when he did something musically silly but it came off like an amused, laugh-with... But for the rest of his performance I think I was just staring ahead of me and tearing a beer label to shreds in my lap thinking about losing my gear. The emcee made eye contact with me at one point and I noticed I was visibly unhappy and quickly recomposed. But after the D00D was done he was like, talking to him from the stage, like, "That's original material, Travis? That's cool, man," and I was just like uh-oh giggles might be nigh... but they weren't, but then after Travis D. ooD walks out, the emcee goes, "I think it was great how he was just like I wrote a song, driving down the road, and it was long, and I'm just playin' it," but I mean, it was like really to the tune, and phrasing, of TD's, and I had a major onslaught, and no one else really seemed to even think it was supposed to be funny but the emcee had that evil little faint non-smile some comedians get when they're telling a hilarious, slightly mean joke. Ah, these things translate so badly...

2. At the club tonight, okay, this will translate badly too, because it's another impersonation. God, what translates to writing worse than an impersonation? Nothing, I think! I think this is as bad as a choice as I could have made! But maybe you can imagine... So, it's this girl Asia who's hilarious when she's drunk, if a little mean-hilarious, and is REALLY pretty, like a DOLL-cute, she's black with freckles, which is my FAVORITE, and huge Bambi eyes and round, perfect everything, and long straight black hair, which of course is fake as a $3 bill , but eveything else is real. Anyway, she's like implausibly cute, and she starts going off about Karolina, like "She come up to these men, like, You don't have money? Like, real concerned-like, like, Where's my money? Just like, confused..." And she was doing the Russian accent, and it was so dead on, I was dying, and she kept doing it, elaborating like, "But no, no, she be really curious, like," and she walked up to me again with Karolina's curious look, "You don't have money? And the man said, he don't have money, she be like," and she walks up to me again, this time like cocking her head even more confused, "Where is my money?" And she just KEPT doing it, and it just got funnier everytime, till I'm like laying back on the seats kicking my feet up and down like, "No!!!! Don't do it!!!" And Asia's like, "She be doin' it all night long." And Karolina walks in like "What you bitches are talking about?" and Asia's like, "You, bitch, talkin' bout "Where's my money all night long." And Karolina's like, "Well, tell me, why are you are here, you don't have money?" She's pretty f'in funny too. All the girls are, really, and Asia goes, "All night long." :::giggle:::

Three Martini-Lunch

I really should NAE be blogging. I should close my eyes, like they were on their own an hour ago, and f#$*ing go to sleep for once. But. In brief. (My idea of brief.)

Slept about four hours. Had to call in a radio show in the morning ("morning") to yap about myself since they were playing my stuff.

Ran six miles, to the hooker store, to buy my new shoes (CHOICE) and some outfits for work.

Took the bus back. Had a show at a hipster club, thought I had to be there at quarter to eight, in fact had to be there a half hour before that, thought they had a piano, in fact I had to bring my KK, don't have a case... Had to leave the second I got home, unshowered (two days, after a six mile run) or dressed or made-up, unpracticed, unprepared to drag KK and its accoutrements ANYWHERE... I had, for some reason, kept the cardboard Yamaha box he came in, so I stuff him and his stand in there, and the sustain pedal and a/c cables, and dumped my new shoes and clothes in to my huge stripper sack, and lugged the lot of it downstairs toward my car. The thing is like a 2x4 and everything probably weighed 100 pounds together, and a dude stopped up near me and offered me a ride to my car, thank god, he was a keyboardist too... So I got to my car, sped like a maniac to the Strip, couldn't find a spot to save my life, ran in, the weight of the world under my arm and probably my eyes, and- BLOODY HELL. My adapter and pedal were no.where. NO.WHERE.
I even drove back and looked between my front door and where the guy stopped, not there, I only pray it fell out of the cardboard contraption in his car... If not it means they were picked up off the ground within like a half an hour... which seems unlikely... and if anyone is like, This girl is STUPID, letting strange men pick her up, etc, well, yeah, it might sound that way but I've always been trusting in that regard and it's never (knock on wood) failed me. He wouldn'tve stolen the stuff, it's pretty much worthless, except to me, on a night of a show, when no one else had a piano. We hadn't exchanged numbers but I gave him my card and prayed he'd call or e-mail at some point while I sat there, having found them, and bring them by. But alas. But I ended up talking to this guitarist and taught him the chords to one, one and a half-ish songs, and he was awesome... And... I was kind of nervous about this place, or would have been if I weren't so harebrained, and it ended up being REEEEALLY unimpressive. All the shows I've played here have been... to tell the truth... I dunno... Haven't done that many.

Anyway. I drove right to work from there though Carlos (the guitar player) invited me to come play another club, but I need the damn money so I can buy another ac and sustain tomorrow (ugh) and after the clothes today, and I realized, I can come in at 11 if I want. Really. I won't, cuz that's a jerky move, but I truly could. And I actually was really in the mood to, with all my new gear. And it was so fun dancing and actually being able to dance now that my shoes aren't hanging on my feet by a millimeter of clear plastic, and totally treadworn threatening to flip me on my ass every step... And I made a ton of money. Stupid ton. I've made a ton every night I've gone in this month. I just haven't gone in that many... I think that's part of it...

And I probably drank 6 vodkas in 2 hour, and then went to the diner with a fancy namedropping dude who invited me, and ate like a pig, and my eyes started to close. Here I am. Going to sleep. NOW.

Love and ladies of the night,


Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Technical Difficulties?

Ah and just when I need you most!!! Trouble posting comments to my blog, I've been told by a few little birds... True? If so, let me know, I think you can send message through here? And what do I do about this catastrophe?

Love's Executioner

That's the title of Julian's book recommendation (generally recommended on his website, he's not mentioned it to me personally).

The first story, of the same name, is sort of a cautionary tale about doctor/patient involvement. That's not directly or ultimately the message, but it's a driving force. And the celebrated psychiatrist author comments that the therapist will always have this elevated position, and that's why he believes they should never get into relationships with their patients.

I'm still in a puddle, I'm crumbling at just the thought of today, actually audibly sobbing, I never do this, I never do this, how many times have I, in the 10 days writing this blog, done THIS, and stated that I never do this? But today is bad, it's really bad, I actually had no control over my behavior for a couple minutes, and it wasn't any extreme behavior, just a little burst, and sniffle, and another one, angry ones, that I didn't want there, and I didn't want to be there, and I didn't want to look at him. The usual slow rolling tear, the gentle reflection... it's different... I don't but I could stop them if I wanted, easily.

Not today, and I'm still hurt and angry, tearverged, all day, left work early and my boss called me and I was all ready with the I'm-a-wreck non-excuse that flies at strip clubs and other mob-run establishments, and he was like, I was just calling to see if anything happened to you, you safe at home, come back if you feel like-- and I just COULDN'T deal with how nice he was and managed (this time) to duck away before blubbering like a fool.

I wonder if this is some therapeutic breakthrough, it is always is in the movies, troubled, guarded misfit bursts into tears in the office, into the arms of their sage doctor, (where's my hug?) and triumphantly transforms into a graceful, happy, healthy member of society.

Come what may. I'll take a breakthrough. I'd actually be kind of happy, to, for once, be textbook SOMETHING, to be someone's success, to be making such rapid progress, in the textbook fashion, the psychodynamic process. I don't believe in it, in that, Freudian crap, and Julian probably doesn't either, in fact he doesn't believe that immediate family environment or early childhood experiences have much effect on the personality at all, but that doesn't mean he discounts the whole transference thing... It's probably accepted in general... I have no idea.

So I drove home, furious, composing my e-mail all the way, and wrote it up, and sent it, and, characteristically, triggerhappily, immediately started an amendment, which I drafted up for a respectable chunk of an hour, 20-odd minutes of straight outpour with no break for revision, missing his response. And then I got the response, and Oh! I hadn't received it yet before I sent this off-- hey maybe don't read it?

But he did, several hours later, when he got home, I guess, and he responded, and his response was, well God knows I read into every word, but, it was, as it is always, necessarily, formal and brief, but it was to the effect of,

Siobhan, I can't do justice to what you've said in an e-mail so I will have to wait until Friday. I don't mean to leave you unanswered and I will try to address everything you've raised in person.

I appreciate what you say and how you say it.

So, there, I did it, I paraphrased, and it doesn't really look like, anything. But he doesn't usually respond to the e-mails at all. But but but. But nothing. Anyway. I outpoured, and immediately regretted it, imagining Elena's disapproval. I told him I felt like he wasn't listening, like he didn't care, and that I know it was just the time, and not disinterest, but that I wondered anyway, that I have no idea how his job works, how his mind works, what he is listening for and how many times he's heard it before, what his own pain is, that it's palpable, some days, that I know it's inappropriate to ask, but that I wonder, I wonder, and I'm worried, that I'm sharing so much to someone who doesn't care beyond 45 minutes, even though I know, that's how it goes...

And God, this is textbook transference. "Transference," the transferral of one's feeling toward one thing to another, the reenactment of X, Y, and Z in the therapeutic setting. I said as much, self-discovered, in the e-mail, that I usually (if wrongly) feel like people don't care, and that when they interrupt or just have otherwise clearly not been listening I shut down and get upset... But... that's not transferral, or it's been transferral as long as I've been that way, oversensitive to that...

God, I can't look at that word. I don't even know how to spell it anymore.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Thank God I counted to 10...

I was going to post the contents of today's correspondence, Julian's and mine, mine to him, his to me, and mine to him, and his to me again. In fact I have a draft with it all saved right here, formatted, with all the names, places and contact information obscured. And I read it through, and I actually read the disclaimer after his automatic e-signature thingie for the first time:

SECURITY/CONFIDENTIALITY WARNING: This email and any attachments hereto are intended solely for the individual or entity to which they are addressed. This communication may contain information that is privileged, confidential, or exempt from disclosure under applicable Federal Law (HIPAA) e.g., personal health information, research data and/or financial information. Because this email has been sent without encryption, individuals other than the intended recipient may be able to view the information, forward it to others or tamper with the information without my knowledge or consent. If you are not the intended recipient, or the employee or person responsible for delivering the message to the intended recipient, any dissemination, distribution or copying of the communication is strictly prohibited. If you have received this communication in error, please notify me immediately by replying to this message and by deleting the message and any accompanying files from your system. If, due to the security risks, you do not wish to receive further communications via email, please reply to this message and inform me that you do not wish to receive further emails from me.

And I thought about paraphrasing him, but I didn't want to, and I thought about just posting my letter and describing his response, and then I thought the whole thing seemed really disrespectful. I mean everything that goes on between us in that room is private and, well, so are all intimate moments, shared or solitary, worth writing about... and so many people do it, but to take his words (besides bordering on illegal), or my private words to him, to recycle them and display them, that's another story. I won't do it. Those e-mails, starred, saved, cherished, are staying between us. I'll write about them, it's nothing monumental, but I won't exploit them like that. God no. I can't believe I was considering it.

Act II

Maybe this is Act II of this drama, maybe finally, after being stuck on Act I of Scarlet on the Couch.

And it blows.

I don't think he likes me anymore, like that, I don't think it'll ever happen, I can't see it anymore, and it's raining, I can't see through the rain again, I think it's just therapist-patient now, for him, and consequently for me too, because in love there are no one-way streets. Maybe it's healthy, the way it's moved on, maybe he decided to take it there, and maybe it's a good thing, but I don't know, because right now I'm just so mad, and I'm crying, and I'm mad at him, and he knows it, and yeah, he got me emotional, but not for the right reasons, and no, it's not because I don't think he likes me anymore.

He interrupted me. He let me talk and talk and I don't think he was interested, and I wasn't particularly interested either, about my mom's death, and the aftermath, and then he interrupted me mid-sentence, because the time was out, and I burst into tears, and he said, What, what is it, and I said, I don't know it was just being stopped in the middle, and he said, I'm sorry, I should've said something sooner but I didn't want to interrupt, and he said, It felt like, it was easy for you to say a lot of that, and then there was this emotion, and it caught me off-guard, but I had to...
"Before I stopped?"
"What was it, what was I saying?"
"Something about your dad's wife?"
"His house, I said it was his house."
"Oh. What was the emotion?"
"No idea... Wasn't that boring?"
"...It's my job..."
WOW. "Heh." Burst sobbing again, a bit.
"We can take a minute... to wind down..."
"I feel self-conscious."
"Why do you feel self-conscious?"
"I don't know how long it'll take me to wind down..." Julian laughed.

I got up and walked to the door, as he asked, so all set for... I said, Thursday. No, not Thursday, he said, Friday, do you want me to give you a card? I probably have a card somewhere, I said and made another step to the door, and he was already scribbling it down on a card. He handed it to me. I looked at him for a sec, then walked out.

I opened the door myself.

Love Letter to Julian's Shadow,

Oh man. I'm sitting here, reading this book, imagining Julian, reading this book.

I wonder how many years ago he read it...

When he was 25? Already counseling at his graduate school, working on his doctorate, in a new place, completely different from the one where he grew up, already having lived abroad, I wonder how many love affairs he had there...

I wonder how he felt when they looked at him, all the beautiful women with their long, shiny virgin hair, and their olive skin, and the books under their arms. How they looked at him, dashing, with his black hair in his blue eyes, with the world under his thumb.

I wonder how many hours he spent dreaming of home. I wonder how many dreams he still has, that he had then, the same passion or panic still swimming in his blood.

I never want to shut off the light. I wonder what it is, the last thing he looks at before he shuts his eyes each night.

Some real serious sh-t...

First thing I did when I walked in the door just now was turn the damn piano off.

I just spent 5 hours in the studio with Kosta recording my songs... He's a pretty serious producer, jazz musician, and just cool and laid-back, and older, not like the guys I've worked with before who just wanna sleep with me or make quick money that they'll never make because their stuff is bland and boring and trying to be of-the-minute, always one step behind. Kosta was watching me play (on his RHODES.AMAZING.) and was like, "You're getting into some real serious shit." Hahaha. He asked me to do the vocals and piano separately which I've never done, and I had to redo the piano a bunch of times because I don't even know what I'm playing and it's different every time, and he tried playing a few bars just fixing it up for the track, and I showed him what I was actually playing and he was like, "Huh. Yeah. That makes a real hammering sound, you have all these classical elements, yeah, this is some different shit. This is good." And I was like, "That's good to hear cuz I don't show it around a lot and I can never tell if it's just totally off-the-wall or what..." And he was like, "It is. It's great." OK, let me just nerd out for a sec here... As far as having classical elements, there is this piece I've been listening to, it's called "Das Buch der Klange" (Book of Sounds) by this modern German composer Hans Otte, and it sounds like the voice of God and the heavens and the stars. It's seemingly simple piano, just gradually changing repetitive chords, but it's really hard to play and I kinda stole that style of twinkle. Ineffectual Snob-man Scott showed it to me, along with some other pretty things. He's pretty himself. But ew. Anyway.

Ahhhhh. Sorry about the boring music talk. I'm so hungry. I'm SO.HUNGRY. I'm seeing Julian in 10 hours. :-) I ordered a book he talked about and just got it delivered today, and I'm reading it, but I don't know if I'm gonna tell him... It's by a famous shrink and it's stories from therapy.. I have a feeling it might go into some no-no territory about being attracted to a patient and what a no-no that is. So I'm gonna finish it first.

WHY does rice ALWAYS stick to the bottom of the pan and burn??

I need a maid.

Sunday, January 24, 2010

Turn it off.

I know. I mince words. Like it's Sloppy Joe night. So: Sick. Fat. Frustrated. Lazy. (Strep?) Flake. Tearverged. Disappointed. Car battery dead. Four days now. Shut in. Four days now. All ready, set, strengthgathered to go play at big place in town, too, before discovery.

Joanna flaked, or tried to make it tomorrow. I was, momentarily, just overit.


I almost think I shouldn't blog right now. I'll keep it short. I don't know what to say. I didn't leave the house today. I finally got some sleep last night, woke up late, at like noon, and recorded and played and chatted with people online and talked to Elena for hours and she told me being alone right now is the best thing I can do, and everything I'm going through with J, that I'm going to experience a massive growth. (Sounds like a tumor.) I didn't go to work. I did yoga but I didn't run. I comforted Elena and then she comforted me. I've been crying. I know she's right cuz she's always right. But the isolation. But the isolation.

Saturday, January 23, 2010

Should I be worried?

This is a picture Manny took of me in my Halloween costume as Marilyn.. I think it's small enough and I'm in costume enough to be safe. I could be wrong.
It's 2.

I said I'd go to bed by 12. I think if I just went to bed, I'd be asleep by now. Now I'm "playing Blues Brothers" like J said, "Well, if you can't turn off the light or the computer at least maybe you can play Blues Brothers..." meaning wear sunglasses at night, at home, when I want to start getting ready for bed. It was cute, really cute. I realize... I feel like the loneliest girl in the world. An old girlfriend from home called me, after a year, she lives here actually and we went for a drive while she took bad pretentious pictures for her music video for her weak boring music and she was completely self-absorbed and just talked about herself the whole time so I asked her to drop me off after half an hour, because I had a date, which I wanted to cancel, so I asked him to come earlier, and then he said he couldn't, so I was so happy. And then I spent hours playing and recording and then no one was online except my friend James from Scotland and I wanted to send him my music but it wouldn't go through and he kept asking me to send pictures of myself. There's a hilarious comic on Comedy Central. I wish I could put my songs on here somehow. I wish I could talk to Julian or Elena.

My friend Lucy from here doesn't want to be friends with me anymore. We stopped talking at some point, around the holidays, and then kept saying we needed to hang out, and we never did, talked online occasionally though, and then I asked her to read something in the blog, and she probably read it all, and she stopped talking to me, and IM'd her once and she said she had to go and "Let me know if you need anything." And hasn't spoken to me since. I have a feeling... It was condescending. She's 20. And I feel like sees me as a mess now and beneath her. Julian would challenge me on that. That maybe it's in my head and I assume everyone's judging me and if I reached out to her she'd be there. And he'd do it with just a look, get me to say all that. And now his voice is in my head at all times and I question it myself. Maybe it is just me. But it sure seems that way. I'm going to try again. Good night.

Friday, January 22, 2010

The Psychic and the Psychologist

Yesterday, I didn't get to touch him.

But I brought up the psychic thing. We were talking about my mom... I was, I mean. He was silent mostly and I laid on the couch looking up not at him and I just let all sorts of things spill out, viscera floorwards, but poetic, wistful, funny... He was kind of mesmerized... I turned around at one point and he was watching and I said What??? And he said What?? And I said, You were... looking at me like I just came crashing into your office from the moon... and he said, Oh, no, not at all...

And then I said... I know you don't believe in them. But I do and I take some comfort in... communication with... spirits... Like my dreams about her... But they're never...

"So, you enjoy these dreams that you feel are- you enjoy communicating with your mother?"

"Well, no, because they've never been good." I looked at him. "It's always like I'm panicked, I'm asking myself, what the fuck happened, didn't she die?? When was that? Did I tell everyone she was dead? Like, she's often not there, but her presence is there, but it's, it's dread, I'm in the basement of my old house and there are canvases everywhere, and they're charred..." I sat up and hugged my knees. "And then there was one where she was sitting on, we had this big yard you know, with a, a patio, and she was sitting on the patio with her feet on the grass in a nightgown and, she said, Don't you know? Don't you know I'm dead? Touch my face," and I put my hand on my cheek, "See how it's cold?" Julian kind of nodded, slowly.

"I knoooow, they're just manifestations of my own uncertainties, my emotions, constructions of my mind, right, yes, and all that shit. I know." He didn't say anything.

"Whatever they are, explained or unexplained. Magic is just a matter of semantics. I'm sure I sound like every walk-in wacko. But. So it goes." I laughed. I wasn't looking at him.

"I have predictive dreams too." I looked at him and half-smiled. "Crazy, right?"

He half-smiled.


Heavy-lidded, thirsty, headthrobbed and humble, I blog.

I ran six miles today, mostly in the rain, it felt so good, it feels so good, just running, just running, why does it feel so good, all those things that aren't supposed to feel good, or that are, but are chores to other people, work, and it's all I ever want to do... Run, play piano and sing, write, clean... I didn't used to be like this.

I used to love to play.

I still do. I love to go out dancing. I love to travel and swim and go out and make out and *$(&.

Trust me. I LOVE it. There's just... I just don't know.

So, I figured it out. (If I'm repeating myself I'll figure that out too and edit.) Julian is divorced, with a child, in elementary school. Maybe just separated, but I'm pretty sure divorced, and they don't live together. I figured it out last night after more obsessive, exhaustive sleuthing-- which is NOT, by the way, what kept me up, but just something I fell into after tossing and turning for four hours.

This makes Scarlet very happy. :-) I mean, not, because that really sucks, divorce really sucks, specially with a kid, and now looking back I realize how many times I mentioned I never wanted to get divorced because like everyone in my family has been... But, the thought that he was married, or married with children, really kind of upset me. I would never, ever mess with someone who's married. It's been tempting, I mean not that I was tempted but just I've had attractions/connections with married men but no, no way.

Ugh. Dan is calling. I'm writing. I never answer the phone... It's in excusable. But, ugh, I'm busy.

I talked to Elena for hours today and yesterday. Elena is my heart, my pulse, without her I lose myself. Sometimes beautifully, but, I lose myself.


OH. My god. I've been awake for 36 hours. I've been in bed for several... trying to sleep... I've been so exhausted all day. Why can't I sleep. WHY CAN'T I SLEEP.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

No me importa que sera....

I just LOVE. I LOVE. I love Julian Darcy and it really doesn't matter what happens because he is beautiful, a beautiful spirit. And I love, purely, and wholly, really.

I'm giving my friend Joanna from the club piano lessons. Woot! :-) She's so beautiful and kind of enigmatic, I'm stoked. She's the only girl from the club I'd ever want to hang out with honestly, just her depth... Like Julian said today, emotional depth of field... I further regret my kangaroo keyboard-- of all things with which to be CHEAP. That, and oh my dancing shoes!!! I was discussing this with another girl last night... Being DIRT CHEAP with our dancing shoes and clothes when that's how we make our money, and I mean, for real, it's ridiculous, my shoes are PRETTY MUCH broken now, and they were cheap POS to begin with. Well, I'll splurge a whopping 50 bucks on a new pair and they'll feel great. Ahhh today was sloshy cold rain again and I wore flip flops cuz I really just loathe shoes, especially after last night, and I came into Julian's (after drying my feet in the bathroom though) and he was kind of stern-ish, the first few minutes, he is sometimes, I love that, that he's moody, not like mood-swingy obviously, but that he has different moods and he doesn't hide them. He's not fake. Some days he's just really cheerful and some days he's not, like a real person. There are so few people, especially people you work with on some level, that are just real and don't give the same face everyday... Anyway I apologized for my feet. He was like, why? I said cuz they're all wet in flip flops. He said, Oh, doesn't matter.

Goal for the Day:

So, Sleepless Scarlet is up at it again, or rather still up, though I tried to rest for an hour, in the yoga position that Julian "put me into" the other day, btw, during those 5 minutes in his office when I came in at the wrong time, by asking me to lie down a certain way and close my eyes, and gingerly sliding a pillow under one knee without touching me at all-- "pick up your knee," and he slid the pillow under, and then handed me the other one, and "now put this one under your other knee..." My eyes closed the whole time. Steamy stuff. :-/

Which brings me to today's goal. Which serves multiple goals really, and is not just a manipulation, though in many ways it could seem like such... I want to TOUCH J. I want to ask him if I can touch his hand. Because:
A) I want to TOUCH J. ...and...
B) I want to see if I can read him at all... because
1) I actually AM kinda psychic, maybe, not like big-time but in a parlor-trick psychic way and sure he'll never believe that and neither will you or even I sometimes, but I do get senses about people, intuition maybe, maybe just more intense when I touch them because I'm reading body language or whatever, but when I touch people I do get sort of flashes of things, that just pop into my head... I started noticing it more recently working at the club because I touch so many goddamn people, and I can just see things, like their strengths, their mood, things about their background, what's on their mind... It sounds hokey but I'm good to the point where people call me psychic at the club all the time, customers, and they'll challenge me, and I'm right an awful lot of the time... but whatever it is, I want to read J, psychically, and then, more carnie-style gypsy psychic-style, so,
2) I can read his reactions to things I say. Like, if I feel something, and say I feel it, his response will be telling in and of itself. Now, this is basic gypsy trickery, and I'm sure he's onto it, but I also believe in my genuine ability to read, and, either way, I wanna. I WANNA!

So, how to go about this, when I'll be strolling in there, headthrobbed and sleepless? I don't know. I don't want to plan it out. I just wanna.

Did good again last night. Real good, and it was a terrible night. Yeah I'm a sex-bomb but my shoes are almost BROKEN and I need new ones stat, so my dancing is CAUTIOUS hahaha... Psychic parlor tricks, perhaps? I spoke a man's language to him before he spoke a word, I made a joke about Wagner's Ring Trilogy to another because I knew he wanted to go to that opera, and these guys were non-DESCRIPT mf's and I mean that's pretty obscure stuff; got a bunch of dances from both of them. Guessed another guy's last name and hometown. Whatever. I don't even know what it is. Just saying. I did really well on the Zener Test. Just sayin.'

Try for yourself.

math exercise..

I'm gonna do like I learned in math class and round:  one hour left!!!

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Veggie Day

After the self-inflicted battle wounds of yesterday I really kept it mellow today. And I'm very black and white. Keeping it mellow means driving to get cookies and then watching 5 or 6 hours of Bravo. The Millionaire Matchmaker is starting afresh. I love that trashy show.

Madeline knocked over my water glass twice, and the second time I picked her up and sat her in the puddle. She loved it. Loved the whole thing. Guess I'm gonna be buying those stupid water bottles for a while.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

A Lapdance is...

"A lapdance is when a man pays a woman to treat him like a chair. A chair she really, really likes." -Demetri Martin

Monday, January 18, 2010


Ugh! He's probably handicapped! Now I feel bad... :

I was smitten. I did like you. Still do, actually. Never meant to insult you or appear aggro. Not my way, I assure you.
Bret (the ass-hat)
PS Regarding my music? Kinda don’t know what you mean on that one."


Oh well, Julian (Julian!!!) would be moving me right along on this one (O! Hearken the day! Erst I once showed mine own true J of Darcy Dan's text and he said, "Just leave it.") and I'm gonna make him proud. The guy isn't actually handicapped.

Oh, fack, update on the neighbor. Like $200 earrings and necklace from Betsey Johnson. WHAT. Not my taste at all (and bearing the receipt. With price. Class-y.) but goddamn.

From the Notebook of Anna Magdelena Bach-- Asshats.

********************************************************************************************************Meh, I know there are a couple typos and more than a couple thinkos, but I still think it sings.
Oh god and this asshat's music. I seriously, I cannot even describe, cannot even begin to do it justice...
But I'm damn sure gonna try:
Ok, it was like... Cleveland from Family Guy singing, a song to Loretta, that Chris from Family Guy wrote, from an episode about Quagmire from Family Guy's lovelife. Self-produced, ahem, on some sorta magic TOOLZ so brilliantly it made me and my kangaroo keyboard and Bluetooth mic feel like f'in Jon Brion. UGH!

Politics and the Divided Self:

And now a word from the pundits on the left:

But it's not all in her head. There are a few things that happened, that are fact, that are irreducible, that are not just her interpretation. Like, a few weeks ago, when this is all started, (not my infatuation with J, which predates all this by 3 months, but when things got weird) we were talking about, something, toward the end of a session, he started acting really irritable, and short with me, and he stopped making eye contact with me and he told me time was up really abruptly, no "Last thoughts?" and something vague about a call he had to make, and he gave me my appointment card, pretty much dropped the thing into my hand and recoiled, and when I stood there, dumbfounded, looking at the card, he stared up at me and said, "Whatever it is can WAIT."

See, I didn't move because I've never even touched that door. He opens it every single time. Every time. He's a gentleman, it's a common courtesy, and sitting at his desk while I left was just SO off... So I was just, standing there like an idiot, and then mumbled "Sorry" and started backing out and he looked back down at his desk and didn't say Bye or anything... And then the next session, which wasn't for a week because Dan took me to Miami, well the next session he was just, harsh. He almost made me cry I felt so uncomfortable. He attacked and picked apart things I said, he didn't smile once, he snapped at me for touching a shelf or having my feet up which are things I always do and go without notice... That was when I started this blog. He hasn't been that way since, thank Christ.

And the Right:

She has a pretty powerful imagination. The "facts" don't exist here, they don't even belong, they have no place in this setting, a therapist's office, or rather, the recollection of a therapist's office as seen through the eyes of a lonely, romantic, oversexed, highly imaginative but emotionally adolescent 24-year old singer/writer/stripper. The ultimate taboo, what a juicy premise for a late-night fantasy or a confessional blog, maybe? Even if there were an attraction or even a flirtation it would likely be subconscious and therefore not a flirtation at all, but just the natural behavior people who are of fond of each other, on any level, who have a connection. Verdict: This isn't Hollywood, kids.

And center: Ugh! That's enough out of the two of you! Shout out to John, thanks for commenting, and thanks for caring :-) It isn't Hollywood, so what other outcome could there have been than this, anti-climactic, aimless denouement...?

Love, Left, Right, and Center,


Ode to the Art of Holding Horses--

Whoooooaa, Girl!

I used to ride 'em, too. Disgraceful.

Okay, I won't delete my last post because that would be cheating, censorship and denial, but I'm gonna take it easy with the trigger-happy temper-tantrum trash-talk from now on... If I'm a jackass, I'm a jackass, but Julian is not, and really, he's done nothing wrong in any way, hell, I don't even know if he's ever been flirtatious at this point, I don't know if this has all just been in my head...

That being said, the HeadSpin on today is that... Oh god it feels deluded to even suggest, but...

Okay, okay, first the No Spin Zone Play-by-Play. Well I came back in feeling lethal and hollow. I sat down and after the five-minute warmup routine he asked if I had anything else on my mind and if not then, okay, and I stopped fidgeting and crossed my legs and put my hands in my lap and looked straight at him with my own impenetrable pokerface, the kind I can only manage when the stakes are high, prepared to be utterly unmoved, and okay then, he was "just thinking about talking last week and-- wondering if maybe sometimes I give the impression that, well, like about the movie for example--"

YES? Bring it already, goddamnit!

"I don't want to underplay the effect past experiences and upbringing could have, because, it seems they might weigh quite heavily on you, and we hardly discuss them, it's almost conspicuously absent..."

Zoink??? Okay... Well, the pokerface was still a good bet (when's it not?) and thanks to J's penchance for polysyllabic English, and the slow, deliberate way he articulates, I made a full recovery by the time I had to respond (though I wonder if the gratitude and relief were hidden entirely.)

So, anyway, we ended up talking about my family and stuff, which I'll avoid here too, for as long as I can, though if the lien on personal photos is any indication... I just don't wanna nail too many people to the cross here... But, yeah, it was just Julian being beautiful Julian, and I can't complain about that.

But okay, it really felt deliberate. I know how bananas that sounds... but it did, that ambiguous lead-in, the announcement of the pending Big Question (again!), the suspense, the phrasing- concerned about giving off an impression? It's just that, Julian IS.CALCULATED. He is. This is what he does, he is a clinical psychologist, and he's psycho-smart, and there is not a snowflake's chance in hell he's unaware I have a mean, steamy hard-on for him, and okay, I'm gonna stop. Maybe he's just trying to bring things to a balance...

Real Time Disaster Footage

Well, what a perfect set-up, what a perfect set of cheap narrative tricks, so obvious I couldn't have even made it up, for fear of offending my own sensibility. First of all it's pouring like a German barmaid out here, gray, freezing, sheets comin' at you from the sides, and im sitting in my car, and I'm sitting in my throat, and I'm watching myself and I'm looking out and each layer is so heavy with tears I can't see outside and I can't see past this day and I can't see past my face. I couldn't sleep again last night. But now, now I'm sitting in my car, Julian gave me the wrong appointment time and I have to come back in 2 hours, he asked if I wanted to sit for a minute, he was friendly, he said he wanted to ask me something but didn't want to be cut off and it's all over now, baby blue. I don't even want to go back there, I know how it will go, so clinical and humiliating, maybe an apology for not "addressing it sooner when I felt perhaps I should have" and humiliation and I don't know if I'll be able to hold it together, but I will, I will, and I'll go back, and I'll sit through it, and I'll fucking figure it out. I always do. I don't even like him, and his boring wife, and his sleazy job, and his antitherapy that's left me a mess, suck it Julian Darcy, thanks for everything, that's for the inspiration for some songs that I'm gonna hate now, and this blog that is devoid of point now, and what will I do with all this shit and all these months wasted in rose-colored glasses on a flight of fancy when I could have been DOING SOMETHING, like being OUT THERE in the cold, miserable world, alone, cold and miserable and alone but with no illusions. Cuz that's life and that's how it's gotta be and I'm never gonna let another privileged, blessed, posh PSYCHO therapist lie to my face and tell me otherwise.

OK. I'm done.

He's married.  I just sleuthed it out.  Fuck this.  Seriously.  I've been such an ass.  I'm done.  I don't know what I'm gonna tell him tomorrow.  Might be that I'm done.

Sunday, January 17, 2010


.... I wish I could put up some pictures for you all (you nebulous, indeterminately-existent-"All"...) but I'm on the DL. Here's one though... I think it's safe enough... But this post may disappear soon-ish...

On second thought...

I have clean warm sheets.

I have clean warm clothes.

Madeline smells good.

And I have the evening ahead of me.



I can tell it's
Winter, by the size of
The lump in my throat,
Gotta lump in my throat.

I'm frustrated today, I'm a rusted wheel.

I just, did everything, from the moment I got up I've been going, and save for the orgasmic endorphin rush I got after running 5 mi and my Power Yoga routine, it's all been really kind of frustrating. I just did errands and bought stuff and washed the house and gave Madeline a bath and played with Madeline and put my own ass in the shower and then caught up on e-mails and some phone calls and even gave Facebook a 5 minute nod and everything takes so LONG and I've just been on the verge of tears.

I did well last night at work... Couple regulars, one of whom I went out with a couple times, and liked, but like, not ENOUGH, but quite a bit. And sorta blew off. But I like him. I don't know and another guy I've gone out with, music industry guy, wanted to go out tonight and I said rain-check partly because quite honestly it is raining and I've had such a damn long day just catching up with myself, or trying, and though, partly it was because I'm seeing Julian early tomorrow and I, I always do this, if a guy wants to take me out, and I'm seeing J soon, I make it for after... Like because something might happen? And because it's so primarily on my mind?

And I've been thinking about him all day, of course, replaying past conversations, imagining new ones, and I'm just thinking, just thinking, he's helped me a lot with things, but now, it's like I don't have real psychological issues (well, ok, shut up) I more just need a friend to talk to, like ELENA, who went off to a fancy school and is never around, but is right, is right, Elena is ALWAYS right, and she told me I wouldn't rest til I had him (or knew for sure I couldn't) and that I'm just dicking around wasting my time and is she right?? Because without J maybe I'd go out more, maybe I'd like some of these guys, maybe I'd start building something somewhere somehow, maybe it's really just UNHEALTHY. An obsession.

But I love Julian. And now... it's just changed between us... and I don't know what will happen, and right now I'm confused and LONELY LONELY LONELY LONELY LONELY LONELY-

And the minute I sat down just now I had to go move my clothes into the dryer and it made me cry.

Saturday, January 16, 2010

A Message from the Grave

Meowing from work.  All sorts of overit, really, I feel like such a trainwreck when I go into these comas, it's not cool, not cool at all.  My place is a DUMP.   Madeline was driving me batshit bonkers.  Dan called me 10 million times with some really Borderline shit.  And OMG!  That neighbor knocked AGAIN today.  I heard the knocking, and pretended I didn't hear the knocking, and then for a good minute, kept knocking.  Peephole, NEIGHBOR, "Hey-- sorry- I really don't like knocking, I'm just weird like that--" "Oh, yeah, I just have a Valentine's Day present..." ???!?!?!  "...Just in case you were busy that day or something..."

Two little boxes from Macy's.  I have not opened them yet.  Swear to God though.  Okay.  Back to work.


Apologies for not writing yesterday. I slept through the entire day. I slept through eveything... Right through plans and calls and "A League of their Own" and 30-odd hours of Nickelodeon blaring in the background, coloring my dreams lime-green and DayGlo orange. I do this like once every two weeks, after living in a sleep-deprivation tank of my own construction. Sigh.

I told J about needing the tube on to fall asleep and waking up to Spongebob Squarepants (genius) after clonking out to Roseanne (also kinda genius) on Nick at Nite when all the other channels have gone black, and he made a face that made me laugh and then he said, "No, I mean, nothing wrong with Roseanne, it's just, all that noise..."

I woke up like 18 times last night/yesterday/Thursday night to Madeline in various poses around my head and body. It was exactly like this website J told me about:

If you've got a kit-kit, check it out. Okay, time to address everything needing addressing.

Love and late-night television-movies,


Thursday, January 14, 2010

What did the Yogi say to the Hot Dog Vendor?

And he told me a joke.

What did the yogi-swami-guru say to the hot dog vendor?

Make me one with everything.

I asked him about poses that would help me sleep. He said maybe he could find a picture. He looked around. He said Okay, well I can explain this one to you. He explained it. "And the other one's a little harder... I could put you in it, one day when you're wearing pants because..."

I felt just a little cheap, for not... Next time I see him, I'm gonna leave contrived sexuality at home. Sharon Shone shot, I think not.

And maybe I'll lie on the floor, and he'll put me in a pose. Gentle, firm, leaned over me, touching my body, guiding me, divining the universe.


So long, farewell, auf Weidersehen, good-bye.
The sun has gone to bed and so must I.

It's bittersweet, the color of my heart.

Today was, it was beautiful. I didn't wear any makeup. J was relaxed and composed, and so was I, save for moments, a few self-conscious pauses, subtle challenges. We just talked today, for forty-five minutes, like people, like a man and a woman. I wasn't Lolita. But... it was flirting, in its own way, as Julian told me about himself, parts of the story of his life, his career, his impressive, dazzling, laudable career. He let go. Not bragging, but consciously impressing, and it was just the truth, and it was fascinating and it was funny. And I didn't play myself as hysterical, and I was funny too, and I was challenging. And we debated, back and forth, and when I gave him an off-hand compliment-- "because you're talented"-- I saw a glimmer of self-consciousness.

I asked if he is a total atheist. He thought his answer aloud, and then he asked me, and I thought out loud to him, too. We talked about science, and yoga, and spirituality, and writers, and I could tell, he was talking to me as an equal. And thinking about that now kind of blows my mind, but in the moment, I was just, right there with him.

With beautiful, beautiful, blinding Julian Darcy, who quoted my writing as he held open the door for me at twilight, my whimsying-heartbroke and made-up words.

Sharon Stone Shot: Hot or Not?

Manny: This sounds hot.

Me: Uhhrghlllrrrll....

Manny: What do you wear?

Me: Like, different each time.

Manny: Like sexy? Showing leg?

Me: Oh yeah, uh-huh.

Manny: Hot. You should go in there without underwear... give him a Basic Instinct thing...

Me: No way.

Manny: Just say you didn't do your laundry. That would give him some jack-off material.

Me: Well it does happen... I don't do my laundry like, ever...

Manny: Jess probably does it once a month. She has this huge pile in the bedroom. It'll be about $20 of loads.

WHAT DO I DO FOR J TODAY??? It's not gonna be THAT, but what? What??

The Kindness of Strangers

I shall not go to sleep past 3...
I shall not go to sleep past 4...
I shall not...

I was jamming out on the way back from work with my headphones on, oblivious, when I heard two people yelling at me. I looked across the street and there were two guys at the bus stop waving me over... I thought they were probably from the club and had to cross the street anyway, so I walked toward them and they kept gesturing but I couldn't hear so I took out the earbuds and one of them yelled, "You have the voice of an angel!"

"We've been listening to you for like 10 minutes, you were all the way up the street... Seriously, man, amazing range..."

"Oh and you're pretty, too!"

It was nice.

I am beyond shot... I've slept about five hours in the last three days, I got up at seven, and four a.m. is staring me in the face.. It sucks, I get out of work, beyond shot, and I have to go deposit my wad of cash at the bank in case I get robbed or spend blindly or something, and buy food, and eat, and clean up, and feed Madeline, and wash up, and put away more crap, and stretch, blah blah blah. I had to clean tonight. My place is just a devastating mess. It's gotten really bad.

I slept-danced through work today though I did pretty good. I was real close to flaking at like seven. o' clock when I got home from Manny's studio and popped in Julian's movie. I have to say it kinda blew. I love most of his movie recommendations but this one was a honker. I'm gonna tell him tomorrow. He likes really dark, heady, European films, a fact that I can't totally reconcile with the rest of him. It's sexy. Fuck I wanna know more about him.

That neighbor, Alberto knocked on my door again! This time with a birthday present! I opened the door this time and talked to him a little bit even though I didn't have time. He's like five-foot nothing and real nerdy but he's so sweet and he offered to help me with school. The present was... well it was CLOTHING, which is a strange choice for an abject stranger... It was a black tank top and a zebra striped THING I couldn't even identify. Jess and Manny gave me a Christmas present too today... A photo album of pictures he took of me and red business cards Jess made me cuz she thinks I should have them when I meet music people... I didn't get anyone anything this year... Fuck, when will I have the time for anything.

My thighs are bruised and I have whiplash from lazy, tired dancing. Julian tomorrow. Just typing his name makes me burn... But I'm not sure how to act with him after Monday. I told Manny about it and he said "he's toying with you." Well no kidding. He said I should go in without underwear and a skirt and give him a Sharon Stone shot. He said that would give him some jack-off material. Well yeah but he'd also think I'm just a straight-up whore. Nooooot happening.

Ok. Bed. NOW.

Love and loads of Lean Cuisines,


Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Another Stripper Question for a Shrink...

I did good tonight. I always do better when I'm sad... I come in, don't talk to anyone, do my make-up, dance different, more sex, more angst, more pathos... I drink more and I talk to the guys because... I'm there. And I don't wanna be anywhere else. There's nowhere else. Not at some better job, not with better friends, not with a man who loves me. So I dance. Dance the pain away.

My Playlist on Stage:

Buddy Guy- 5 Damn Years
Jay-Z- Empire State of Mind
NIN- Closer
Bob Seger- On the Road Again
Jonny Lang- Lie to Me

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

And Off to the Races.

Well time to suck it up, S-O, and go to work. Off you go, ma poule, my little chickadee, turn on the red light, bitch.

A Knock on the Door

I'm not feelin' too hot today.

Exchange with Julian this morning, e-mailed me to set up next week's schedule in advance. I'd like to say that he's never done that before. He hasn't. But does that mean anything? Did any of any of this mean anything? I feel like a fool. I responded with a couple paragraphs of slick Joycean prose and glib gratitude for letting me know about my makeup. He's probably married. Fuck it all.

There was a knock on my door this afternoon... I hate that, had some bad experiences with stalkers and things... I wasn't dressed and looked through the peephole and it was a neighbor I've seen like twice who FB'd me. He had a Christmas card and he just slid it through the peephole when I opened it, smiling. He said "It's okay, I know it's a weird neighborhood... I just saw your FB post a while ago and wanted to know if you're doing better..." I was so moved...

Ohhhh yea. Ohhhh yea. Uhhhh-huh.

I'm exhausted. I'm drained.

If I wrote this hours ago, if I wrote this entry this evening, when I got home, and not after midnight after being talked down from the clouds by Elena, back into the stratosphere, I'd sound different... In fact, I think I wouldn'tve been able to write at all...

I left Julian's office today shaking. Elated, scared, crying, I couldn't even listen to music or drive to school, but I didn't know what else to do, so I drove to school, and got lost even though Julian's office and school and my house are within 5 minutes of each other. And I kept calling Elena because I was losing it but she wasn't picking up. I got to counseling and they had some issues with registration for one of my classes and I started shaking again, near tears, like, "I can't... I can't do this... I can't... FIND THIS CRAP RIGHT NOW!" And then, I had to semi-break up with a guy-who-thinks- thought-he-is-was-my-boyfriend, and then Elena called while he was over, and I was like, "Hey Dan it's Elena I really have to talk to her!!!" and let him walk out without saying good-bye and he gave me the dirtiest look and he was totally gob-smacked crestfallen and I am SUCH an asshole and this is why.

I woke up really early and I couldn't get back to sleep and my phone was just inexplicably dead, like CONKED, so I just got up and went and bought it a new battery and a new vocal mic for my music and some other crap and a Starbucks and then I got home with still like a good 5 hours before Julian, 5 hours in an leaky hourglass.

I knew what I wanted to talk to him about, kinda, I had questions planned out, and ideas, like I always do, and I wanted to record something with the new mic but planning my outfit became an operatic event. And I wanted to walk to Julian's and then school to get my daily 5 miles in (I'm kind of obsessed with my legs... they're naturally kinda muscular and always were when I was dancing ballet but then I got kinda skinny until I started working at the club again and now I work it out and wear shorts or skirts whenever possible, especially to see certain men... even in the winter... over panty-hose, anyway!) but then Father Time started shaking his sceptre and I was like Ok, Ok, S-O, you're gonna drive it's fine. So I found some really high shorts and panty-hose, and boots, and a top that was both womanly European feminine sophisticated and still with a handsome dip of cleavage, and I got in my little beater and made my way over there, getting whistled at and propositioned, and driving like a maniac, weaving through lanes, beautiful parking karma, made it, made it, made it.

I got in the waiting room and flicked his little light thingy. No noise. Two minutes. Two minutes late. My heart sank and I panicked. I feel like he's been doing that a lot lately. He used to come out 30 seconds after I showed up. I looked at my phone... I found a magazine with a cover story about something I knew he probably read or wanted to read... And then I saw him strolling into his office from the hallway and he waved.

He was dressed a little more casual today, no blazer, he looked a little breathless.

"Sorry I'm late!"

"No, no!"


"How's your kitty doing?" I made sure to ask, so he'd see that I'm not, under normal circumstances, 100% self-absorbed all the time.
"Making progress," his smile lit up the goddamn zip-code.

"Ahhh, are you treating him?" He'd made a joke about his cat having psychological issues... so we joked about that... and then my cat... And then I brought out my opener:

"So... my blow-off list is getting really long... Florida guy wants to-- wanted to come over, I mean-- he IS coming over, and like, I just... I downright can't stand the guy anymore. I mean he's an idiot. Like... How could I not have seen it? He's like, borderline-retarded. I'm just NOT."

"Hey why don't you tell me how you really feel." J jokes. He's made that joke before when I'm ranting about some kangaroo I've been seeing for the free goodies.

And I started to talk about why it was so hard for me to say no to the duderz, not sexually, but like, that no I wasn't interested romantically, even though I wasn't, and being with someone I don't really like makes me really uncomfortable actually, and he got me to admit that I kinda liked the option of having people to pay for stuff, and he said, Okay, fair enough, and I said that sounds awful, that's terrible, and he said (and he quoted verbatim from an e-mail I sent him once about this writer we both like who thinks it's human nature for men to pay for sex) "What happened to 'Thank you, PINKER!'?"

"I know! I don't know... I guess that one year of Sunday school did its thing... Societal norms..."

"Well," he said, and he's starting to give his opinion more and more now, "I think, Buddhistically, sorry, but that maybe it's not Right Practice."

"I know. It's not."

"Did this guy leave yet?"

"No- maybe- I don't know- I was just thinking the same thing-" I pulled out my phone, "Should I just? What do I say?"

And now comes the part where J dictates How to Blow a Guy Off Without Being a Total Asshole about it, as I text. When Dan would respond, I'd show it to J, like a little kid, and he'd advise. And Dan called frantically like 5 times while I was there, and, and...

And then I started talking about being lonely, and Elena not returning my calls, and all the fake conversations at the club and the fact that I don't talk to a soul "except her... and you..." and how all I do all week is listen, listen, smile and laugh and feign interest and "I'm sure you can relate" and then I started crying, which I never do in front of him, but I couldn't help it, and he just said, "I think you're just saying you have to pay a price for solitude..." and then we just looked at each other silently, well, stared, and my heart made its way up my trachea, and I couldn't look at him, and then I looked at him, and he was looking at my legs, and I realized I'd been running my hands up and down them for probably 20 minutes, and my face flushed and he looked back at me and I realized my lips were parted and I caught my breath and looked away and then at him and sort of smiled and then away and then up and down him and then at the floor and his blue eyes were burning through me and it was like probably a whole minute that felt like forever like glorious, glorious, blazing forever.

Then he asked me about the YouTube link he sent me. (Last week, off-hand, at the end of an e-mail about some insurance thing... got me going. Really got me going.)

And then we talked about movies. I told him he has to see Lars and the Real Girl. I found myself describing the whole plot to him and then stopping myself and then he described a whole movie to me, a depressing movie, and then he said, and on that happy note! And, as always,

"Last thoughts?" and then, "I actually had something terribly important to say but I lost it so I guess it will have to wait till next time." Which is what I said a couple sessions back. ("Last thoughts?" "Yeah but... they're not like two-minute thoughts so, no...") And he got up and then he slowly turned back and said, "Well actually I was late so, we have two more minutes."

"Oh. Yes. I need my two minutes."

He sat back down and my phone buzzed again. "Florida guy?"

"Not during my two minutes!" I smacked the phone.

We looked at each other again.

"It's really beautiful outside today." I said.

"It is, I like this kind of weather."

"I get to wear shorts-"

"I've been meaning to say this, since we need to tell each other these things," Julian is saying and time again stood still because before I had time to fucking melt or scream or jump on him-- "Your makeup has run completely afoul."

My hands flew up to my face and I'm sure I was bright, neon, stop-light, fire-truck, sex-doll-mouth, First Aid cross, Coke can fucking RED, stained black (and white all over), "Oh! Oh, wow, yeah-"

"I didn't want you to leave without being aware of that."


And is he FUCKING with me??? Ugh, I'm a wreck. Wreck. He's fucking with me. He's like, really good, and I can't keep up with the innuendos, though I don't let it show too much, but, he's a goddamn psychologist, I'm sure it's obvious, but I like this game. I am game. He rifled through his planner.

"So we're on for Thursday at... noon?"


"Four..." He stood up.

"Uh-huh." I stood up.

He stepped over to the door, and I stepped over to the door, and we said "Bye," in unison.

I must have sex with him. Like. Right now. Thursday. UGH. Oh god. And a bunch more shit happened today, but... it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter at all.

Monday, January 11, 2010

Eine Kleine Nachtmusik

I'm an idiot savant, I'm Rainman in heels, I stepped out to the grocery store (Spidey Sense fully operative, always on my side, I didn't lock my apartment) in the darkest hour and came back to find I'd left my keys home. Locked myself out. Left my phone in there too. Well, I thought, whaddya gonna do. Break in. What else?

I climbed over the steel grating (10 ft high) that leads to the courtyard. There was no way to climb up to the third floor, no fire escapes. I circled for windows with their lights on to "M'aidez!" but alas there were none. So I picked the backdoor lock with my eyelash curler and got in.

Now my question is, because I've broken into several of my previous homes as well... Doesn't it take a brain to be capable of B&E? And doesn't it take a hunk of gray matter with no wrinkles, neural plasticity, synapses and all the bells and whistles that make a brain a brain to forget one's keys so many git-durned times?

These stupid things always happen the night before Julian. Julian in just a few hours. Should I tell him this story? Will he see me as more of a sociopath? Or will he be turned on... Oh, God, tell me I turn him on. God, God, God.


Wish me luck.

Sunday, January 10, 2010

Ten Cents a Dance

Ten cents a dance
That's what they pay me
Gee, how they weigh me

I bet after adjusting for inflation since 1930, Ella and I get paid about the same for our services... and it might as well be monopoly money in either case, hell, she is complaining about it. Hear, hear, sister. Actually it is monopoly money. A lot of the men buy, with their real money-- or, usually, with their company card-- wads of fake cash with the club's name printed on it, which they use to tip us, which we exchange at the end of the night for real cash with a 20% cut. I guess the point is that they can use their company cards, and get drunk, and start feeling like it is just monopoly money (it is), and spend freely since they can't very well hang onto it and give it to the wife to get groceries the following day. I know it's good for the club, and maybe for us too, even with the exchange rate. But it's peanut money anyway. And there are still those who come in and say they can't afford a dance, and watch, and don't tip, and chat away like it's Come on dude, at least fork over the thimble.

But I made out pretty well last night, like I usually do when I stumble in late, dragging ass, forgetting my makeup bag, all sorts of overit, and finish my first gin and ginger before I even get up on stage.

I used to be a real dancer, classically trained real-life ballerina, and it translates, though chaine turns and grand plies would be ridiculous in fishnets, to Danzig, and sliding upside-down down a pole was a move I had to learn onstage, on air, without a teacher. It was easy though... I like to think the dance training helped. So it's actually fun for me. This gig. And, more importantly, it's the easiest job in the world. Lax schedule, short hours, low expectations, no micromanaging bosses; we're independent contractors in a kind of co-op situation where we actually pay for the luxury of working there, with that 20% cut and a significant house-fee to boot. Perfect job for free-thinkers and lazy people.

And, though I would never say it, I feel that Dr. Julian Darcy and I have quite a bit in common, professionally. I pay him an exorbitant fee for 45 minutes of his company, he listens to me, he acts like he cares, and then when my time is up he holds open the back door for me as I leave, closes it behind me, takes a breather at his desk, maybe calls the girlfriend, and sets up for the next pretty hysteric. ...They pay me a comparably exorbitant sum (after doing the arithmetic, it can be even twice or three times more per minute, but that doesn't include the unpaid time sitting, chatting, lubing up for expenditure-- just trust me, it's peanut-money) for my company, I listen to them, I act like I care, like I'm fascinated, titillated, dance around on them with my contrived-genuine lust, never take my eyes off them (while a rectangular bouncer does the same), lead them out of the back room, and head over to the dressing room to smoke, text, whine, or sometimes even read, and stroll back out onto the floor to troll for the next victim.

I would never say it, because it would be a damn insulting thing to say, and because I know Julian is light-years beyond me, and does real things, and is actually helping me and would help me more if I had a real malady other than a serious crush or real true love for him. And he does lots of other things and is very respected in his field, and it's just beyond comparison and I'm not even comparing. The previous paragraph was, well, one long comparison, but... well, only in my twisted little universe. Point is, really, just that sometimes I'm doing multiplication tables in my head when talking and laughing with these monkey-men, but sometimes I meet men there I really do like quite a bit. I've even dated a couple. There was one I met that I totally fell for and ended up seeing for a while, turned out to be a lying, philandering asshole, of course, but to his own credit he warned me he would. I told Julian about him the day after we met, joking warmly that he was the first person who'd ever complimented my clunker when he drove us from the club to a diner down the street and J briefly dropped the poker-face to look at me like I just came crashing down onto his couch through the roof in a Soviet spacesuit, cradling the corpse of Laika in my arms.

"Do you even know anything about this guy?"

Errrrp... I did not, no. I do now, again, thanks to my knack for espionage. But, no.

"Well, maybe a guy you meet at the dance club is not the best candidate for a positive relationship."

He always says "dance club," never "strip club," and only once said "dumb stripper bitches" ironically, after I said it, also ironically, to qualify a certain type of girl. He never swears, either. I don't swear much myself, but I find that I do it more when I talk to him. I guess he gets me going. Speaking emphatically.

I'm seeing him tomorrow. I'm not as nervous as I've been before the last several sessions, because last time was normal, while the times before were... not exactly. I won't explain now but something had intensified and reached boiling temperature I guess, and now it's subsided, which, is sorta cool, and sorta sucks.

Anyway. Check in later maybe, with my audience of none. Off to make my red hair redder.

Love and late-night diversions,

Scarlet O.

Saturday, January 9, 2010

Not Another Stripper Blog

Dear. Everyone.

Dear Anyone.

I stand here before you, in the backyard of cyberspace, cradling my dirty laundry as the breeze catches my hair... I'm here because I need to unload, because, I'm in therapy.

I'm a young person, shall-we-say, a twenty-something. I'm single, though not lacking for suitors or even people who think they're my boyfriend, and I live in a notorious hellhole, and I have a lot of secrets.

Secret #1: I have a very prestigious occupation as a dancer at a gentleman's club, but this is not another stripper blog, and I'm not gonna dwell on it.

Secret #2: I have a very mild form of every Cluster-B personality disorder in the DSM-IV and a load of addictive tendencies and bad habits.

Secret #3: I am terribly, terribly lonely.

Secret #4: I am terribly, hopelessly in love with my therapist.

There. I have lots of secrets, my own and other people's, and I'm very good at keeping them, but I think that's a good place to start.

I began therapy at the urging of an old f*@!buddy/person-who-thought-he-was-my-boyfriend/ex/person, and sent him to the curb after my second session. I was only with the ineffectual SOB because of Secrets no. 2 & 3 and because I live in a notorious hellhole, and I was getting so depressed I could no less stand him than kick him to the curb, and the further I sank the more impossible it was to commit to a 9-5, and the more tempting it was to resort to Secret no. 1, which I couldn't possibly do with him around. He was keeping me down but also paying for everything so I was in a sort of Catch-22 and, despondent, I figured I'd just label myself dysfunctional and hide behind a professional skirt. I used my insurance (blessed, blessed PPO, cursed, cursed new government plan) Dial-A-Doc option and found one with a positively Austenian name, jogging distance from my apartment, and after a brief-- intelligent, compassionate and concise-- phone interview, I made an appointment. I was anxious to get in there, cry me a river, and turn all anguish and personal responsibility over to the hands of a qualified provider (double-entendre duely, dually noted.)

I sat in his waiting room and browsed through the literary selection-- Time, Vanity Fair, Newsweek-- standard stuff but a refreshing contrast to my other shrink's variety which could rouse a latent eating disorder or sexual identity crisis with all the cut, sun-kissed, bare-chested dudes on the covers. (Among the weeklies also lurked a dated, unbound, black-and-white precautionary pamphlet about the perils and no-no's of Whitecoat-Wacko sex, which upon discovery struck me as funny and a little odd, but which I now recognize as a preemptive strike, and have lately taken to reading as I wait, hidden between the pages of one of the heftier glossies, perched almost upright on my knee.)

He opened the door and I was just, taken aback. Dr. Darcy* is gobsmacked gorgeous. Stupid gorgeous, really. He looks like a doctor from a soap opera, as photographed by a giggling, Gaussian Blur-happy groupie-amateur with a digicam and bootleg version of Adobe PhotoChop, sans tutorial. He truly glows; he towers, just under the maximum height cutoff for male models, his eyes are the color of the midday sky after a thunderstorm, he really could turn the world on with his smile, it is genuine and contagious and radiant and brimming with unironic joy. Somewhere in the back of my mind I regretted the depressed teenager getup I wore.

As he asked the routine questions and jotted down his impressions (what were they! what were they!) I took in my surroundings. Tasteful. Spacious. Original painting. Print, artist's name unrecognizable. Love the art. He has a really good poker-face but even at that first meeting I caught the barely perceptible shift, the shadow lengthening under his eyelashes, when he has a hidden thought. This time the hidden thought was that I said something ridiculous, as I spilt my tired old beans about moving, loneliness, bad relationship. And then point blank:

"Wait a minute, what's good about this guy?"

And buh-bye, boyfriend.

Anyhow. That's enough for today. It's been over three months and needless to say, I've stirred another ingredient into my can of beans, and I can't very well talk to my therapist about it, because, in spite of my better sense, I am still hopeful that I have a shot. In spite of all the odds against me on this one-- in spite of "transference," his position, his career, in spite of all the crap he knows about me that I'd never share with a man with whom I had any hopes for any kind of union, even an ineffectual SOB monkey-man and let alone a demigod like Dr. Darcy, and all the personal crap I know about him that he'd never share with me or any other walk-in lunatic, potential Tony Soprano patient-person, and for good reason, but that I've discovered on my own, well-guarded as it is, because if I'd been given some different opportunities in life I'd make a damn good spy.

So, here I am, faceless and anonymous, airing out my dirty laundry in cyberspace, in hopes of some connection, support, and therapy... Maybe even some answers. Maybe it'll stop. But I will be the unsung hero of Transferers everywhere, and I will chronicle my experience on the couch.

Love and latent phobias,

Scarlet O.

*Names changed. Obviously.