i obsess.

bill murray may be god. this has not yet been confirmed.

I'm failing.  I'm failing!  I'm FAILING!  I'M! FAIL!ING!

Sure.  It *sounds* like he's saying "Is this corn handshucked?"  But what he *means* is: "Is this life handshucked?"

Gotta just trust me, here.

why i am a mimic, and other drivel.

I have a problem with audience.  Allow me to distinguish, though, that I don't simply mean an audience of readers.  I have acute trouble with being perceived, with any measure, by people.  Be it on stage, as an actor or singer or musician or comedian, or sitting cozily with one other person in a dimly-lit room over intoxicating beverages, surrounded by a canopy of sound and fury, I sweat.  I ache.  I writhe inwardly.

I cannot disspell the awareness that my voice is, not sotte voce, generally more fortissimo, yet lacking in delicato and typically much more fervente than otherwise, okay, getting carried away with my own SUPER!HUMAN! knowledge of music-reading abilities (that in truth totally suck because I never did get super-excellently-good at reading music when I would learn a piece -- for piano, I used to play piano, for those of you joining me in the last, oh, forever -- instead, I would memorize it after about 2-3 times through it so I didn't have to wade through the reading of it, which never equated to speed-music-reading since it would take me forever to artist-up the piece and get it worked to a point at which I felt it worthy of the piece itself, felt that my perfectionist soul was even middling-satisfied with the end result, and in point of fact it never truly was but that's the burden of being a perfectionism-lover, and when you live with a dog who sheds easily twenty buckets of her black-and-white fluff on the hour, you could be so busily enraptured with picking its waviness off of every object in one room that you might never even MAKE IT INTO ANOTHER ROOM to clean, what with your blessed absorption with the cleansing of the one room, and never mind the piano standing, totally ignored, in the midst of the flying fur, etc).

What I'm trying to say is, my voice bugs me.

And coming back here, with so much space between today and the last time I wrote something, I hope fervently (oh, I know, I already said that, stop looking at me like my husband does when I repeat myself, no one is *making* you read this) to sound -- like someone else.

I have had so much time to process the daily piffle using other resources than blogging, and I've just begun feeling a rich sense of achievement, of success over the demon of blogging, so I've ducked back in here to announce it.   haHA, blogging!  Your power no longer holds sway over me!  I am free of thy merciless chains!  I need no longer confess to thee, to describe in minute detail, my every tortured, unlyrical thought, so that thou mayest prescribe the anecdote, the many-layered emotional (dog)hair shirts and the self-administered lashings, while I pile the laundry around the room and wring my hands over dog hairs that have scuttled themselves into corners and refuse to leave without a massive restructuring of my sanity.

SEE?  I win. 

I love winning.  I love it.  I don't hear my voice.  I can't hear it.  And I'm not blogging.  This isn't blogging.  This is talking to myself.  And there is no audience.

None at all.

and it didn't even require 140 characters.

fuck.

it's my birthday. it's my birthday.

Too many two-bite vanilla cupcakes from Whole Foods eaten while on the downhill slope away from the climax of Thanksgivingery consumption will sort of dismiss your will to celebrate your laceratingly! thrilling! 36th year of deliverance from the womb of disastrous proportions (not blaming my mother, here, but a little, but mostly just commenting on my existence as a whole, honestly -- but still with at least a tad of totally over-personalized hatred for having to exist at all, because my parents just couldn't resist forcing my becoming on all of us).

Cupcakes.  Attempts to fathom the whys and wherefores.  Vodka and ice cubes and some kahlua and cream drizzled on top to make the vat o' vodka pooled amongst the cubes slightly more palatable in order to down it with more grace and less precision.

It's one of those days, folks.

Tomorrow, Britney Spears and I are celebrating our raisins in the sun.  Minus the sun, on my part, but who knows?  Maybe Britney will toast to her (mid?  late?  *shrug*) twenties in a tropical locale. 

MY birthday wish involves, among other things, snow.  It won't happen, because this is Oregon.  Specifically Portland, and we're at sea-level, or thereabouts, so no, vodka-laced dreams, thou shalt not receive thy snow-capped beneficence.  What the fuck does that even mean, beneficence?  I'm misusing it, or abusing it, one or both, and I demonstrate to you mightily and with sweeping bows my ever-embarrassing, ever-shameful inability to know words.  Or at least their definitions.  So I don't know them in the biblical sense, is my point.  Too bad, since I'll never fuck anyone besides my partner again for the rest of warped-ass time, and hey, I'm coming to realize that's alright since jesus-peanut-monsters but I look not very awesome anymore, and I would be shy in front of anyone more strange than my partner of the last almost-ten years (at least he saw me back in my stripper-strength days of physical tip-toppedness - so he knows what lies beneath the layers of yikes.  Thank heaven.  *smirks dryly*).  But I would like to at least know, biblically speaking, words.  Words because I use them.  I bone 'em dry I use 'em so hard.  And yet I don't always know their meaning.

I'm sorry, words.

(This is why I never made a good gigolo.  Yes.  Women can be gigolos.  At least as far as I know.  I don't know all that much, true, as established in the last over-explaining-yet-incomprehensive paragraph, but I know from unbridled but still somewhat limited searches for truth-through-whoring-around in my earlier years that YES! WOMEN! CAN! be loosey-goosey sexual beings.  Goody.)

(But I sucked at the whole churn-n-burn bit.  I only pined at the wrong times, and I only managed to spurn those who -- oh, whatever.  F. Scott never wrote anything that applied to me, is basically all I'm saying.  I was not wily, nor was I craven.   Probably just dumb and horny.  Sound familiar?  Congratulations, you belong to the "I was also a whore who never wised up, either" club.)

I'm turning thirty-six, and it's not really paining me so much as it is surprising me that I have anything at all to say about it.

Probably the fault of too many cupcakes.  (Fie.  It isn't the vodka.  Vodka is my friend. 

It told me to say that.)