Heaven knows I'm miserable now

Between the "Am I an Alcoholic?" quiz-taking, the late night calls from panicked and insane foster families, horrible self-inflicted hair cuts, and crying jags, I was too busy to notice my gradual descent into moppiness.

People in my life sent up flares. Friend #1 suggested that I quit my job--"It's killing you"--while #2 told me that I should "um, take more walks? You might be going crazy." A third friend yesterday told me that he is worried because loneliness is eroding my natural "effervescence." It's all over when the friend I give ridiculous, Chik'n Soup for the Soul-type advice can tell by this very blog that I'm not...you know...feeling great. Behind her questions, all full of sarcasm and flippancy, was the Behaviors of Major Concern checklist. As she and I and others of our ilk know, every Behavior of Major Concern has a corresponding Behavior to Alleviate Concern, and I'm on it, swear to God. Took a walk this morning! Have activities scheduled each night! I have a chart to monitor my drinking! I'm wearing my favorite shirt--stripy! And just as soon as I finish listening to Smiths (Elliot and The) while writing on my blog, I'm going to get wicked upbeat. I'm talkin: driving to the South Side, singing at the top of my lungs, Usher-style upbeat--and I am not ruling out Mariah Carapy.

While this depression is all me--something wonky, sad, tender, something I should remember but have forgotten right now--Chicago is also a bit moody today, grey and cold and spitting rain. Summer is ending and all the things we were supposed to do are undone and the hot immediacy of City Heat is returning to the Earth's core. We all love sweater weather but it's like flexing a sore muscle: enjoy it now, because it's fading fast. You know what's coming, and it is going to kick your ass.

Oh, and how many big words could I knit together into a giant cozy to cover what is really getting me down? Thirty years old and never in love, lovelies, and while I am assured that it will happen I'm sort of anxious because I've cleared my schedule and have blankets and snacks ready. What E. Jean and all the other Sassy Advice Ladies have said and will continue to say is that I should enjoy the party myself and then the guests will arrive. Ugh. In the end, what saddens me most is not Lebanon nor child abuse nor inadequate hurricane response but the nagging suspicion that I will not ever be loved enough. The shadow of that suspicion is a bad place: I grew up there. The fact is: I'm loved enough right now. It's right there. I could focus on it more if fucking Morrissey would pipe the fuck down.

The point is, I'm bouncing back, I am going to activate my behavior and steady think positive. While I don't actually think Usher is that great--how can he stand the feel of wearing a hat but no shirt?--his stamp of approval means something, as he is a man whore of the highest order. I'm going to get stuck in Damn Ryan traffic listening to "Caught Up." Instead of "If you're pimpin', pop a bottle to this" he'll sing "St. Renegade, you're one Sexy Bitch." And you should, too. This is my town.

Stay home and get your cat high!

Remember when you were in 8th grade and lived in a one room apartment with your dad? And he was so clinically depressed that he couldn't address your binge eating so he padlocked the fridge and cabinets? Back then, you were like, reading Interview Magazine and planning your art exhibits and 30 years old was a million miles away. There was a road, Robert Frost, and it was like this:

DEAD or 30 YR OLD FAMOUS ARTIST.

Oh, Robert Frost was too fancy to address alleys. Apparently there aren't alleyways in New Hampshire. Whatever. There are in Toledo, Columbus, and Chicago, and they are were my life went, so that the road less travelled was the road toward sociopathic foster kids and nephews. They led to this: 29 and drunk and at home with your cat. She loves me so much.

I went for credit counseling and I make too little to qualify.

I cannot sell my eggs.

There is a 29 year old selling her virginity on Janemag.com. They are doing God's Work, people! 29 and a virgin!? She probably has a stammer, or an ass. In fact, I saw her on the Insider and she had a real "I collect dolls" vibe. Mostly because she kept weeping as the English guy with the tattooed neck gave her a corsage. The corsage was ironical, bitch! And English guy: call me. I don't weep (that openly) and I don't collect dolls. I collect scissors. Sooooooo sexy. Not creepy, not one bit.

Corrections, mia culpas, etceteras...

Corrections:
Firstly, the song is called "Ballad of the Sin Eater" which makes a great deal more sense. In my defense, it also makes sense that I would conflate 'eating' with 'Father'--let's chalk this up to my weak Christianity and my strong appetite--for salvation.

Secondly, I really didn't mess this up, because you can't hear my voice saying it--which is the problem with reading and not speaking, leading to this sad, dark place--nearly 30 and I didn't know until tonight that Goethe is pronounced 'Greta' if pronounced, you know, correctly? It would be ridiculous to go into how I figured that out, but I did.

Mia Culpas:
Everything. And nothing. That's life. I'd like to update this blog daily with magic words that beam love into every lonely soul. At the least I should be funny, but maybe that's not where I'm at. Maybe I am a hot mess trying to piece it together, and that may mean terrible posts about dating (blech) or punk rock lyrics.

I can't say as I am guilty in this regard, but I certainly regret missing the nuptials of Paramjit and Jeff in California. There is a little guilt because their gift will arrive in time for their second or third anniversary (so, sixth or seventh). On the other hand, my gift will arrive when all their other friends have forgotten the initial magic induced by bhangra dancing and Punjabi drinking games. The loving couple will have settled into a staid life of medicine and scholarship, allowing my gift of pig-shaped salt and pepper shakers to rekindle the flame of their love.

Et Cetera:
Big news last week, for me. When I write my self help book/memoir of recovery/calendar, I will maybe call it "When the Pillow Comes Alive" in order to describe the countless times I have heard a bit of loving wisdom, thought condescendingly "that's the kind of crap I should embroider on a pillow" and then, at some later date, smack bam, the pillow comes alive and I gain a deeper understanding of my life and personal journey and other such crap suitable only for pillows. Repeat as needed: you are at a bar having your tattoo warmed by the breath of a sexy Boy Man, or in church in Athens, Ohio, or crying in a field in Gharibjonyan, Armenia, and a cosmic pillow flies up to hit you in the face like your sister threw it.

All these stupid posts have pictures of men in them. Men are ridiculous. I can spend maybe two solid hours thinking about a book I just read, but some jackass on the train, or a crush from 1994, or the new guy at work who I love like a cuddly puppy--roughly 3000+ hours of my life. It's not a complaint, really, it's an annoying biological fact. Annoying and time consuming and fun and increasingly not enough.

I debate my options. While making other plans, I have somehow become the wacky major character in a younger, poorer, slower, and more Midwestern Catholic 'Sex and the City.' Should I online date again? The terrible pain and ackwardness of my 10/05 month long trial has faded, and I'm back to imagining a date in which I am not bored, or sad, or assessing their obvious trauma background.

I'm supposed to put my desire out into the Universe, and so, Universe, blogosphere, Lord: I want a great date. I want two of them. I want more than that, but that's not very Midwestern--I don't want to be greedy. I want to wear sexy, uncomfortable shoes, enjoy one more coctail than strictly necessary, and laugh all friggin night.

Make it work, Universe. And thank you.