The Quest for Vocal Perfection or Just Another Damn Thing to Worry About

I'm sitting at the stupid day job, trying desperately to master some facsimile of an Israeli accent for an audition tonight. Normally I am very good with dialects, but the Israeli is proving quite difficult, as French and Eastern European keep taking over at various unexpected intervals. Next thing you know I'll be slipping Vietnamese in there.

Perhaps I should have been doing this earlier than several hours before the audition, but I didn't notice that little easily lost line in their e-mail to me requesting that the audition be done in an Israeli or Palestinian dialect if possible. The if possible almost always means you'll most definitely be out of the running if you don't at least make an ass of yourself trying. And, umm hello? Israeli and Palestinian dialects are not exactly interchangeable...they're actually kind of different, so which do I learn? I've been listening to and repeating back recordings of both Israeli and Kuwaiti (the closest I could find) dialects, which is probably what's screwing me up a little.

Of course most Americans don't really have much of an ear for dialects, and probably wouldn't notice a little French or Eastern European creeping in there. I always try to be so meticulous and then I always get notes from directors that my dialects are too authentic and need to be toned down for comprehension purposes.

Really I just fucking hate auditions.

And its been a rather long period in a motivational toxic wasteland, so I'm a bit out of practice.

Which is exactly why I should go.

(and make an ass of myself)

Have I mentioned how shitty auditioning is?

[editor's note: the above must be read aloud with an Israeli dialect while standing on your head juggling fire sticks and attempting to prove how friendly and wonderful you are to work with; then you may have an inkling of what it feels like in an audition room, but only if there's someone else in the room ignoring you or eating their lunch]

Not-So-Interesting Blabbering

I'm in a very funky mood today. I just lost the perfect futon on craigslist by an hour and the same one will cost me about $75 more in the cheapest of stores. The reason I am furniture trolling on craigslist (and yes, I only use it for furniture, thank you very much, although the sugar daddy offers are tempting) is that my comfy chair that lived under my loft bed was brutally fractured in a battle with my roomate's out of town guests. Whenever my roomate, The Kid (I'm being quite nice because I really want to label him The Gassy Wonder), has guests in we exchange bedrooms, due to the infintessimally miniscule size of the apartment and the lack of a living room or even a real 2nd bedroom for that matter. Last Friday night I stumble homeward to find one of two matching chairs completely broken - no note, no nothing. When I inquire about this mystery to The Kid, he replies, "I don't know how that happened". I don't mind if something is broken, its just stuff, but freakin own up to it. When I returned from the weekend of wedding hell, he said "Yeah, sorry about that. I have no idea how that happened. My friend just sat in it and it broke." Hmm, then maybe, just maybe that would be how it happened? Ya think? So now I am doing the craigslist dance and losing out on the absolute perfect futon because I took a little nap. Do you see what sleep does to you? And they say sleep is healthy. Ha! Clearly they have never lost out on the perfect futon sofa bed because of sleep.

Last night I went out with my spunky take-no-prisoners neighbor, The African Vodoo Spirit. She's an amazing fiesty transplant from a tiny African country whose name I can never remember; I heard her speaking French on the stoop one day and we've been friends ever since, although until this past week we've mainly seen eachother in passing and impromptu stoop parties. Her friend from Vienna and my friend Buff, an actor from home whom I've just recently reconnected with, met us at Lincoln Center where we listened to free Zydeco music. I'm all about their free concerts, and they even have dance lessons for the different types of music (not free, of course) and a dance floor on which the people who have paid for the lessons get to twirl the night away. Buff and I might do one of the swing nights, though I warned him of my rhythmically challenged inabilities. He replied "I know." I said "Yeah, but have you ever tried to dance with me before?" and Buff said "Yes, it wasn't that bad." Not that bad..hmm, I guess I'll take what I can get. At the end of the evening, we retired to the stoop for another impromptu stoop party, where we met many of the very interesting cast of characters residing on my block and drank beer and wine into the wee hours of the morning. But it was fun and chill, and I'm all about the relaxing and not running so fast these days.

Thursday night I got a message from Mr. Emotionally Unavailable. He is evidently immune to the illness, as further tests noted. While I am absultely grateful for his immediate disclosure, I certainly wish I had known before soending $150 at the doctors needlessly!

I am now back from a lovely evening with Mr. Saucy Funnybuns and the New York contingent of the Wonder Twins...and while I would love to finish this post, I can't at all recall what more I wanted to say and its 3am so its definitely time for bed. At least I wrote something, and senseless blabbering is still better than nothing, right?

Artsy Fartsy Symbolism in Drunkeness

Would these infernal hiccups be symbolism for the hopefully (oh god please let them not be permanent!) momentary hiccups in my state of well being as of late or am I just drunk and tired?

Please Shoot Me and Put Me Out of My Misery (Hiccup Induced and Otherwise)

I'm still hiccupping! I'll never get to sleep at this rate! If I am a zombie tomorrow, you'll know why...(its either the Paraguay illness, the hiccups, the lack of sleep, the fact that I'm just naturally slightly flaky, or any combination of all of the above...)

Finished Off By Hiccups at 4:30am

I paid $150 badly needed dollars today to go to the doctor and get tested for the illness I was possibly exposed to by Mr. Emotionally Unavailable's authentic Paraguayan exeperience. The doctor confirmed that the chances were very low that I actually contracted the illness and that Mr. EU's test results did most likely show an immunity, as he had previously asserted. I find out Monday, but I had absolutely none of the symptoms listed other than fatigue, which is also a by-product of the thyroid disease (Grave's disease) that I have but often forget about (read pretend like it doesn't exist).

We actually spent quite a bit of time discussing Grave's Disease, which I adamantly refuse to seek treatment for as the options are constantly adjusted and not necessarily effective medication for the rest of my life, burning away bits of my thyroid with radioactive iodine and then being on medication for the rest of my life (the option the doctors reccomend), or surgical removal of the thyroid and being on medication for the rest of my life. While these forms of treatment all sound like such great fun, since being formally diagnosed two years ago I have chosen the ostrich method of treatment; that is to bury my head in the sand. The symptoms include huge energy swings (I'm usually tired, but then again I lead a pretty full life), barely noticable occasional shaking, sleeplessness, anxiety, and irritability (and here I thought I was just a pissy bitch!); the main risks in not getting treatment include heart attack, stroke, double vision, frog eyes, and osteoperosis (which my mom has pretty severely). Evidently as you get older, it swings from hyper to hypo on some sick energy pendulum, according to today's doctor...which kind of reaffirms my decision not to pump my body full of prescription drugs that I'm certain will fuck with body, as they'd be rather innefectual anyway if I'm to be swinging back and forth between thyroid disorders.

Cigarettes, alcohol and the occasional recreational drugs, however, are good for your thyroid and don't fuck with your body at all.

I never claimed I wasn't a complete hypocrite.

Anyway, I had kind of forgotten about the whole disease I already have thing, and forgotten how upset doctors get when you choose a route other than the conventional pharmaceutical industry driven one they prescribe for your well being. The notion that someone wouldn't want to pump their body full of expensive prescription drugs and radioactiove iodine and the like is so alien to most doctors that they get quite angry and aggressive, at least in my limited experience. This doctor, we'll call him Doc-out-of -the-Box, was actually fairly cool about it, especially once I explained that I didn't have health insurance and that my case of Grave's Disease was still fairly mild as far as I knew. He was also incredibly cool about the possible Paraguayan illness exposure, and commended Mr. EU for being forthcoming and alerting me as soon as he was informed himself; I am not yet so forgiving (though it does depend upon what moment you catch me in). He was also a fabulous gay man, so I of course adored him from the get go.

And that was my visit to the doctor.

This post was begun hours ago, before the surprise block party on my stoop, discovered as I went to take the trash out. Before over four hours of discussion and comraderie with all of my neighbors, both in my own building as well as adjacent ones. Before the plans for a block barbecue 2 weekends away, and before remembering how much more to life there is than my own little solopsistic vantage point.

This post was also begun long before the infernal beer inspired hiccups currently plagueing my almost 4:30am existance.

Tomorrow will be more than a challenge, but I definitely needed tonight.

Mr. EU used to mock my neighborhood, himself being a very long time East Village resident, but at this very moment in time I wouldn't trade Hell's Kitchen for any other locale.

Except one without hiccups.

What a day. What a week. What an unexpected night.

Tears, Cake, and Alcohol or My Weekend of Wedding Hoopla

I somehow managed to survive my weekend of weddings and engagement parties, and without valium injections at that! I did spend quite a bit of time engaged in traffic blubbering - the art of sobbing profusely in one's vehicle while attempting to mask said sobbing from the adjacent vehicles. I was largely unsuccessful in this endeavor, but was a bit too preoccupied with my self absorbtion to care all that much.

The weekend was definitely more trying than I had anticipated, and despite making friends and being generally well-liked at the wedding, I left feeling infinitely lonely and eschewed the after party for my motel room bed. The next morning and early afternoon, despite the sage advice of Mr. Saucy Funnybuns who spent a good long time on the phone with me Saturday night, I went to the barbecue for the newly wedded couple. I left after about an hour and a half, to begin making my way from Pennsylvania to Annapolis, MD, not realizing just how upset I was until the isolated bubble of the car prompted the flood of tears that had been long threatening to overflow their restraints. I was a pathetic mess. This lasted for pretty much the whole 3 hour trip, and I was certain that I was going to ruin Orphannie's engagement party and burst into tears upon seeing her, which is probably considered a bit of a faux pas amongst the Annapolis society...just hazarding a guess there.

Luckily I remembered that Sarachkah, Raoul, Orphannie, and even J. as the newest addition to our little family, all love me very much and I felt surrounded by that love and support from the first moment I arrived. I also spent quite a while holding Bijou, the treasure that I fell immediately in love with, who took equally to me as well I think. These things all reminded me that no matter how lonely I feel, there are people who love me unconditionally even amidst my feeling rather broken and worthless.

I am home now, and in a bit of a fog. I go to the doctor tomorrow and all will be well no matter what; I'll get a vaccination for the posible illness exposure, and with time I'll not feel so very hurt and betrayed by Mr. Emotionally Unavailable. I may even be stupid enough to attempt dating again at some point. Probably not.

I told Mr. EU on the phone last Friday that I had trusted him with my feelings and that was stupid, and I had trusted him with my body and that was even more stupid, but the worst offense of stupidity had been trusting him for a year and a half. I also asked him not to call again, which he promised to comply with excluding a phone call this coming Friday to discuss further medical test results. He apologized several times for all offenses, but that does nothing to relieve the smarting injuries.

At least the wedding weekend is over and I did not get some sort of horrendous allergic reaction to all the happy unions and blissful couples. Nor did I get exposure to any illnesses, so despite the painful nature of the weekend it was certainly better than a weekend with Mr. EU.

Welcome to my Cheesy Horror Movie

Sometimes nightmares and scary movies have a fake-out ending, where you think everything is finally going to be okay and you can maybe begin to breathe and then you open the door and wham! there's someone with an axe waiting to sink it into your skull or the dead person suddenly revives for one last fight. This is always the point in the nightmare or scary movie where I shriek uncontrollably in grating high pitched tones clutching desperately at the nearest body and attempt to hide under their shirt.

This is my life.

Mr. Emotionally Unavailable sprung out from hiding last night, axe in hand, ready to hack a completely unsuspecting me into a macabre and slightly pretentious contemporary art exhibit.

He had called Monday, just wanting to know how I was and say hi, and saying he didn't know if that was okay or not. I didn't know if it was okay or not, but I knew that it was definitely hard to hear his voice. I kept repeating my mantra of "He doesn't love me. He doesn't love me" like a horribly depressing country music refrain, desperate to keep the floodwaters of false hope damned. I spoke with Lady Charon about it at length on Wednesday, and she said it was pretty impossible to suddenly transition into being just friends at the blink of an eye. She suggested that I spend some time away from him, without comunication, in order to break the cycle of repeated misery I've been in. The cycle thus far has been I'm miserable with him, as he can't give me what I need, so we break up and then I'm miserable without him, so I run back to his bed and into the same hamster wheel. She said the only way to break the cycle was to rise above it; to transcend it. I, of course, was reticent to make such a firm break, temporary as it may be. I have a fear of cutting people out of my life...of letting go to such an extent; there's a sense of finality about it that seems a bit to much like death. But she's right. If I am to break the cycle I do need time away from a constant reminder of all that I love about him. And I need to be away from the temptation.

Last night I finally mustered the courage to tell him this, which was no easy task and hurt immensely to say. He asked if I was in his neighborhood or was going to be; I replied that I was not and that I didn't think it was a good idea if we saw eachother. I explained why and he seemed to understand. Then he pulled out the surprise chainsaw and produced a hockey mask from thin air. He told me that he had wanted to tell me this in person, but as I did not want to see him he was forced to tell me on the phone. While he was in Paraguay he stayed in shantytowns several times, wanting to live as the locals did. Shantytowns are not the cleanest of places and illnesses run rampant. Evidently while he was there he was exposed to a particular illness, as indicated by blood work, and thus I was exposed as well.

Ummm, WHAT THE FUCK??!!!???

The chances that I am ill are very slim. All his test results indicate is that he was exposed - he most likely is immune. It has been over two months and I have absolutely no symptoms whatsoever other than fatigue, and the fact that I never sleep most likely contributes to the appearance of that particular symptom. Still, now I have to go, without health insurance mind you, and get a battery of tests done as well as an immunization shot.

Not to mention the fucking fear and mental stress of it all!!

I was freaking out beyond belief last night. I am much calmer now, though I am most definitely angry. I know he had no idea and was not intentionally trying to harm me, but his actions put me at risk for bodily harm. He, knowingly or not, put me in the line of fire, and that hurts. That hurts because its yet another betrayal of trust. I gave him my love and my body; he honored neither, and harmed the former by not loving me back but perpetuating false hope, and the latter by putting me at risk for contracting an illness. When do the indignities end?

Deposition Hell or Stop Yelling at Me Please If You Want Me to Answer Your Fucking Questions!

Yesterday I met the man upon whom I am certain all derogatory lawyer jokes are based. I had my 50-H hearing with one of the city's many defense attorneys, at which I was deposed concerning my claim against the city. This is standard procedure, and everyone involved in the class action lawsuit has to do these. I met with my fabulous lawyer, The Godfather of Civil Liberties, beforehand and he explained that this was my chance to tell my story and not to be concerned, as there were no right or wrong answers. The truth was the best answer to give, he assured me, as I am the victim and the purpose of the hearing is for the defense to get a handle on the nature and extent of my claim against them. This was lovely and comforting and ultimately completely inapplicable from the second The Uber Ass entered the antiseptic conference room.

The Uber Ass had not done a 50-H hearing before and was filling in for other lawyers, thus he rigidly followed the scripted guidelines laid out before him and became a flustered jackass on the attack whenever he felt his script was being strayed from. He repeatedly yelled out me for the grievous and oh-so-impeding offense of rephrasing and repeating the question within my answer. First of all, I was not wholly aware that this is my habit, but it makes total sense as I am slightly hearing impaired and probably assumed the habit to prevent misunderstanding. Aside from evidently annoying the hell out of The Uber Ass, I do not see how this practice in any way obstructed him from doing his job; still he felt the need to severely admonish me every 5 seconds in the exasperated tone of someone being forced to deal with a retarded monkey. He kept saying "It is a yes or no question! Please just respond yes or no! It is not necessary to repeat my question every time you answer!" Evidently he was so severely disturbed on behalf of the court stenographer, who was forced to take down every word uttered (and was quite nonplussed by my grievous offense). If he was so concerned about the transcript, perhaps he shouldn't have taken such pains to ensure his assholedom would come across so blatantly.

The questions were also phrased in confusing and vague ways, and when I would ask for him to elaborate he would become very angry with me, as if I was intentionally trying to be as much of an impediment to the process as possible, when in actuality I was merely trying to answer the fucking questions and get the hell out of there, just as he was. Some examples include questions such as "What were you doing before the incident on August 31st?" Well that depends, what the fuck is the incident? The march or my arrest or what? So not knowing what he was referring to, I replied, "Working.", which despite having been assured by The Godfather of Civil Liberties that there were no wrong answers, certainly seemed to be quite the wrong answer. The Uber Ass's face seemed to run the entire color spectrum of reddish hues, and he bellowed at me, "I wasn't asking you what you were doing that day, or that week or that month! I'm asking what you were doing just prior to the incident!" Well then perhaps you should have been more specific in your fucking question fuckwad! This example was pretty much the tone of the entire deposition, peppered of course with frustrated yelling regarding the phrasing of my answers to yes or no questions. Another of my favorites was "What is the nature of your therapy?" Umm, hi, what is the nature of your question? I said "I'm sorry, I don't understand the question...", the exasperated clarification of which turned out to be a louder and brusquer repetition of the question phrased the exact same way. Wow, thanks for that enlightening help there, buddy.

Of course I was so angry, frustrated, and flustered by the constant attack, that even if The Uber Ass had not interrupted me every time I attempted to answer one of the questions, I would not have felt comfortable in my ability to speak with any semblance of coherence (or composure for that matter). Luckily The Godfather has assured me that it is not a big deal that I was not able to respond fully to any question, as this only hurts the defense and has no negative bearing on our case. He agreed that The Uber Ass indeed had something up said ass, and instantly made me feel much less of a lobotomized leper than when I exited the conference room.

Why can't all lawyers be like The Godfather, who I cannot ever imagine treating anyone with anything other than the deepest of respect?

The one bright spot of the hellish ordeal was that I am one of The Godfather's favorite clients! He said he had 50-H hearings with his 4 favorite RNC clients this week, and I felt so proud to be included in this category. At the end of the day, I would certainly much rather have the respect of this man, for whom I have infinite respect and admiration, than some jerk off who gets his kicks intimidating others in his lifelong pseudo power trip.

But damn was it frustrating and unnerving.

I suppose it was a good lesson, and now I can be better prepared and know more what to expect in my interactions with the wrong side of the law (that would be the city's side).

Conspiracy Theory

So I look on the TV tray masquerading as a poor excuse for a kitchen table this morning, at the gargantuan pile of mail that perpetually resides there, and what do I spy but this week's Time Out with a gigantic wedding cake on the cover and a huge title callously screaming "NY WEDDINGS" in my half asleep face.

How lovely to begin my day with yet another reminder that everyone in the fucking world is getting married right now and I am alone with my man hating cat, from whom it just might behoove me to take a few lessons.

The Slighty Sexy Good Friend Bloated Slaughtered Cow Spin

Okay, the hormones have calmed down a bit and a solution has been found; I am going home this weekend for a surprise early Father's Day weekend and will rent a car the next weekend and be a non-hormonal non-bitter ecstatic for my wonderful friends guest. I also got plenty of ribbing from both gay boyfriends for yesterday's entry, which definitely helped to let go of the negativity; its good to have people in your life to make fun of you when you take yourself a bit too seriously. Mr. Saucy Funnybuns called last night to check on and laugh at/with me after reading the post; the funy thing was I didn't know he had read it and immediately read it out loud to him when he called. He then told me he was actually calling to give me pity compliments. Mr. Artsy Hotpants e-mailed to invite me to a play Friday (he spoils me with theatre tickets), saying "I know I am one of your gay boyfriends and that is...depressing...". In a subsequent e-mail he complimented me with "100% pity compliments"; I thoroughly appreciated and enjoyed the humor. I'll be the first to admit that I can tend towards the ridiculously overdramatic.

Despite feeling like a bloated slaughtered cow today, I'm actually feeling fairly good about myself. I got a job for Ms. Laughing Wild working 2 days a week for Mr. Event In and Of Himself, which actually works out perfectly because it would have been a bit much for me to take on the extra work but is perfect for the 2 days a week she needs; she called asking if I knew of any part time work and I said "as a matter of fact, I do...". Its lovely - I got to help two friends with one stone...or something along those lines. I also straightened my hair today, in an uncharacteristically high maintanance attempt at self grooming and have gotten non-stop compliments all day at the sdj; which of course is fabulous for my withered ego and deflated sense of physical beauty. I actually feel kinda sexy today, to tell the truth; I'm a slightly sexy bloated slaughtered cow! Hey, I'll take what I can get.

Tonight I'm meeting Mr. Saucy Funnybuns and we're going to go to My Little Vidipookikins' apartment, where we'll cook up a lovely dinner with the start of the new summer CSA season; good friends, good food, and a pretty good outlook. Its something nice to look forward to. Let's just hope I don't run into Mr. EU, who much to my chagrin, lives exactly one block from My Little Vidipookikins. Never date people who live so close to your friends; it could prove to be ultimately masochistic.

The moral of the story is that each day is a new day, and if I can remember to let go of yesterday's icky feelings it opens me up for new ones to come in and fill the void...which just may turn out to be positive slightly sexy good friend bloated slaughtered cow feelings.

And I should evidently straighten my hair more often.

Oh, and don't date people who live within a 10 block radius of your closest friends.

I think that's about it.

Mawiage, Fish, and Self Pity on an Estrogen Overload

The wedding bells are ringing ceaselessly. Not for me, of course. In a cruel twist of brilliant comic timing, it just so happens that on Father's Day weekend I have both a wedding and an engagement party to attend in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania and slightly more towards somewhere but not at all close to New York or Pennsylvania Maryland. All of this joy and happiness directly following the final heartbreaking end to a year and a half relationship, thus confirming my fear that everyone else is worthy of and has found love and I will be mildly funny and entertaining but alone for the rest of my life with only my gay boyfriends to shower pity compliments upon me. Plus this all falls on Father's Day weekend, when I had promised my father I would be home with him because he is important to me and working on building and healing our relationship (a top priority as per Lady Charon) is important to me.

I think at this point I'd just like to spend that weekend hiding on my fire escape.

Well, at least I won't have to worry about the cost of all this misery, like renting a car and hotel room, crisscrossing the Mid-Atlantic in endless hours of driving, and missing half a day on Monday because I will get back home at four o'clock in the morning at the very earliest. That would really suck if I had to load up more onto the credit card to have a pre-salted knife repeatedly stabbed into my heart for 2 days straight.

Okay, before anyone's feelings get unintentionally hurt I should state for the record that I dearly love both of these friends and couldn't be happier for them. I do want to share in their happiness and let them know that I am supportive of their choices of spouses to be, and thrilled that they have found their bliss with another human being. I truly am so very excited for them, and honored to be a part of the celebrations. I am ever thankful for their love and support of me (and their understanding of feelings such as these) and will always be happy to love and support them.

Except in this particular female-hormone influenced moment I seem to be having at present.

In this moment I am bitterly doing backstroke laps across the lake of self pity and the sky looks as if its about to thunderstorm.

And I think there are fish in the lake.

I'm terrified of fish.

And Father's Day weekend.

Done

It's done. Over. Kaput. I am no longer dating Mr. Emotionally Unavailable. I don't feel like writing about it right now, but it was beautifully heartbreaking and I feel like I've had a cartoon piano dropped on me from a great height.

Synge Arch, a Lesser Known Wonder of My World

Lady Charon is a wise wise womyn and I could not ask for a better guide in my journey. I was shocked to find myself looking forward to seeing her today; looking forward to my time in the ultra-safe space we've created and looking forward to spilling out my guts there - my contaminated trash, as my friend Ms. Creatively Young phrased it in an e-mail response to my post about begining my travels.

We covered a lot of ground today and talked a lot about Mr. Emotionally Unavailable and what I wanted and was ready to do about the situation. I've been letting things simmer and stew, which is how I work best, and have arrived at the conclusion that I have been sustained on a diet of false hope. Sustinance-wise this is about as nutritous as concentration camp watery broth and a few meager crumbs of stale bread. Things will not change and the relationship will not grow; Mr. EU has said this himself on more than one occasion. Lady Charon said last week "When someone tells you who they are, believe them." I may be finally beginning to believe.

Lady Charon also put into words something I had not been previously able to verbalize myself (its amazing how well she gets me). She said that what keeps me going back to Mr. EU are the tiny glimpses of his true and higher self, his vulnerability and openness, that I am allowed to be privy to on rare occasions; she likened it to a camera shutter opening and closing. I was dumbfounded and sat there, mouth agape, shocked at her ability to so consisely encompass exactly what was at the heart of why I do have hope and why I have perservered for so long in this particular emotional desert. She said it was the carrot dangled in front of the tired donkey that keeps it moving, thus the false hope making an ass of me. The false hope is not borne of my own creation, it is encouraged behavior; this is such a relief to know.

She also said that the honesty that I respect and applaud Mr. EU for is false honesty. Honesty is not defining the terms of a relationship based on your fears and stating what you can and cannot give; true honesty is owning up to those fears and sharing what you are afraid of and why and working through it because the other person is so overwhelmingly amazing that they are worth it. After almost a year and a half, I am worthy of true honesty.

Mr. Emotionally Unavailable has told me in no uncertain terms, time and again, exactly who he is and what he is willing to give. It is time for me to listen because I do deserve someone who wants to be with me and only me because they recognize how freakin special I am. I am worthy of that and so much more. I momentarily forgot that and got caught up in someone else's dangling carrot. I can be an ass no longer; the state of assdom is a compromise of my self worth. I do want someone who thinks I am wonderful and wants to be more than an occasional part of my life. I do want someone who loves not likes me back.

I called him back today, finally feeling ready to say what I need to say. We spoke relatively briefly, but I managed to stammer out some of these key points. It was really much harder than I thought, my empowered resolve quivering with every word he uttered. But I am proud of myslef for holding firm. He does care about me and does not want to lose me; this was clear even in the brevity of our discourse. But I kept reminding myself that caring is not loving and not wanting to lose me does not mean willing to give what I am finally acknowledging that I need.

At one point I said "This is really hard, because hearing your voice reminds me..." and he said "How much you like me?" And I said "Well, yes. Of course. You mean a lot to me." He replied "I like you a lot too. You mean a lot to me too. " So I said "Yes, but that's the problem, Mr. EU. Like is not love, and I think I've been confusing the two." "So you mean we're not in love?" he asked, which in hindsight was utterly confusing to hear. "No." I firmly replied. "I mean when you say you like me, I've been confusing that for love." He paused and then cryptically said "Well I guess I've never been to clear on the whole love thing..", the combined effect of this snippet of the conversation thus far sending my false hopes soaring once again. I remembered the carrot and the ass and managed to reign them back in, and said "No, you were actually perfectly clear on the subject. You once told me you were not in love with me and this made you very sad because you wanted to be, but couldn't." He replied, "Well that was very blunt of me." "Yes it was," I agreed.

We ended up agreeing to meet soon to talk about this further, though of course as always no firm plans were made and no time set; while he sounded quite concerned and eager to talk, I am evidently not important enough to plan a time in advance for.

So where am I? While still ridiculously yearning for a carrot I will never get to eat and humiliatingly and foolshly hoping he will suddenly realize that he is in love with me and be willing to give and receive wholly with me and me alone, I am also sad because I know if this is not the case than this is the end. I am worthy of being loved and should not settle for less.

Lady Charon took me on a guided meditation to my higher self; the foundation and core and strength of who I am. I feel almost silly in admitting this except that it was really effective and healing for me. She said that this higher self, this true nature, cannot hate myself because it is the very essence of love itself. It is the place in me where I am whole and undamaged and uncontaminated by violations and tragedies and betrayals of trust. It is the part of me that loves myself exactly as I am. It is where I will eventually be able to draw from to forgive myself for my brother's suicide, as it is the part of myself that does not know of any need for forgiveness as it only sees love and strength and wholeness. It may all sound so very silly and new agey, but it seems to have had such a profound effect on me that both Mr. Artsy Hotpants and Mr. Saucy Funnybuns noticed a huge difference in me tonight on the phone. Lady Charon said that I need to spend more time visiting that place and becoming familiar with it, especially if I begin to feel off balance and am in need of centering and remembering my strength.

I am incredibly strong; this I know with absolute certainty. It is a quiet strength, but an endless reserve that has carried me through many unimaginable and, for some, unlivable nightmares. I tend to lose sight and awareness of it; it is infinitely comforting to know that it is always there because it is indeed a part of my foundation, whether I acknowledge it or not.

I must visit more often.