February 15, 2006
Grad School
I've been having serious grad school fantasies of late. I don't know whether to be alarmed or not. It hasn't even been a year. I was so ready to be done with school last year, I don't think I should want to go back yet. On the other hand, it's not the academics I was so sick of as much as it was campus life as an undergrad-- I wanted an adult life, meaning a studio apartment in San Francisco and a cat.
I've been reading a book of criticism to review, and reading it has gotten me engaged again in thinking rigorously about literary studies. I feel in my element when I'm making notes and responding to authors. I know grad school is something I could be very good at, and I think a large part of its recent appeal has to do with that. As a non-student, I'm just like every other mediocre, loserish twenty-something. I don't have a real job, nor any real career aspirations, and there's no place I see myself going. I'm just totally unspecial. And I don't like that. I realize that if I were still in therapy, my therapist might encourage me to cite this as a reason not to run back to school but so much of who I understand myself to be is a student. What I do is school. What I do well is school. Other things, not so much, but school I do well. School, academics, literary studies, critical writing-- that's where I can plant a foot.
Posted by hissycat at 10:35 AM | Comments (8126)
December 15, 2005
Power Of The Purse
Me: Mom?
Mom: Huh?
Me: Did you book my return flight? Remember, like I asked? I want to fly back to SF before New Year's.
Mom: I can't talk about this now. I'm working.
Me: I can hear the TV.
Mom: I'm with the boys at the group home.
Me: Why are you whispering? Don't you think they've figured out where they are? Also, the TV is really, really loud. Well, is it alright if I go ahead and book my ticket then? I'm worried they'll fill up or the prices will bump or something.
Mom: No. We're watching a video called R. Kelly is In The Closet. Normally, I don't care for R. Kelly, but--
Me: Uh, yeah, I think I heard of that.
Mom: You'd like it!
Me: So, I need to get a return ticket, right?
Mom: Your father and I just want to see you first and make sure you are, you know, alright.
Me: Can't you do that with a return ticket?
Mom: You had us very, you know, worried.
Me: I'm sorry.
Mom: I don't want you to be sorry.
Me: Ok, well I'm still going to need to go back to California I don't see what the point of not buying a ticket is.
Mom: I'm serious, Joanna, I can't talk about this now. I'll be home in two hours.
Me: Fine.
Ten minutes later.
Me: Mom?
Mom: Yeah?
Me: I just have one more question for you, I'll make it snappy.
Mom: Ok.
Me: Are you and Dad planning on abducting me and holding me captive in New York against my will?
Mom: Tsss, don't be ridiculous.
Me: I'm not. Is that-- is that why you suggested I bring the cat with me? So you could hold her as a hostage?
Mom: Hmph.
Me: Are you and Dad planning on committing me to the Columbia Psych Ward when I get there? Because you cannot make me board that plane!
Mom: No, we're not planning on having you committed, how ridiculous! I'll talk to your father about the return ticket.
Oh, and for the record, at one point while arguing the importance of getting back to San Francisco for New Year's with my friends my mother said to me, "you know, it's nice that you're making new friends and all, but just remember, in high school you used to use friendships to self-medicate so just BE CAREFUL." I have no idea what she's talking about, considering I was a really lonely kid in high school, but that aside, I just started laughing when she said that. It's like she just said to me, "you are using interpersonal relationships to fill this gaping void in your life where MEDICATION should be." She asked what was so funny and I said nothing and then we said bye and I felt sad.
I just want a family full of quiet estrangements, just like everyone else has. Mine is a total madhouse.
Posted by hissycat at 06:35 PM | Comments (148)
December 01, 2005
Just When I Think Things Can't Possibly Get Any Worse, They Do. Again.
The insurance co. called today to let me know they will not be fixing my car. Good-bye, sweet car! I'm so sorry, Rachel Owlglass-- for that was her name. You were such a good little red cutie car, and you deserved so much better than this.
Posted by hissycat at 06:26 PM | Comments (19)
November 23, 2005
Just When I Think Things Can't Possibly Get Any Worse, They Do
I'm at fault for the accident, and I'm going to lose my car. I just can't afford to keep it anymore. Anyway, it might be totalled. I'll find out next week. My mother is giving me hell and has said she will not help me financially in any way in the future. I had an awful conversation with her on the phone today. My good cheer is gone. I'm having sadness relapse in major ways.
I want to die. I'd kill myself if it weren't Thanksgiving and so totally cliche.
Posted by hissycat at 09:49 PM | Comments (4)
November 14, 2005
Not Today, Not Yet
I hurt all over. I woke up sore all over-- my neck, my shoulders, back, thighs, knees, arms, hips feel tender and cramped. Today I woke up, ate some Valium, fell back asleep and stayed there till four. I spent the afternoon in bed watching My So-Called Life and smoking.
This is no good. While I am generally of the belief that one cannot milk too much bed rest and self-indulgence from an auto accident, after a month of gainless unemployment, this was supposed to be the week when I snapped back into action: find a job (or a bartending course), get out of bed before noon, do, I don't know, things.
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November 13, 2005
A Smashing Conclusion To The Best Month Ever
My left knee is swollen and tender, and I can feel where on my face I'm due for some bruising, but mostly, I'm ok.
I don't remember what I was doing or thinking before the impact. After colliding with the car ahead of me, my car tipped onto its left side and jumped three lanes left before the wheels on the right side returned to the ground and I could brake it. I came to a stop in the left shoulder. It took me a few minutes to understand what had happened. My glasses were not on my face and I remember thinking how stupid of me to drive without my glasses before I remembered that I had been wearing my glasses. They had flown off my face when the car crashed. I got out of the car to look at the other car. The other car (actually, there seemed to be two, though I don't know how the burgandy one was involved exactly) was on the right side of the highway, about 200 yards behind me. My car was smashed in on the passenger side in the front. No one was hurt, as far as I could tell, though, being on opposite sides of the highway, there was no way I and the other people could talk. I called Zuzka and Caroline and burst into tears.
Then the highway patrol came and the tow truck came and they towed my car and collected my information and the officer drove me to the Bart station and I went home.
I promised a more excited blog post today, but I've spent the rest of the day in bed, nursing myself with cigarettes and Desperate Housewives. I feel shaky and damaged and quiet. I'll write more tomorrow.
Posted by hissycat at 07:18 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
November 10, 2005
Scratch Off My Fork With A Face
My mother is coming for a visit tomorrow. She writes in an email, "me and my aerobed will be arriving at 10:10 in the morning!"
Fantastic.
This little spur-of-the-moment jaunt is, I assume, an attempt to 'check up' on me, since I am obviously failing at life (it's true) and, moreover, not flying home for Thanksgiving (I had been meaning to, but I waited too long and the tickets to New York are now way too expensive). While she is largely correct in her suspicions that I am miserably unhappy and quite possibly a danger to myself, I can't think of anything less helpful to me than a visit from now.
Oh, and, as you may have inferred, she intends to stay in my apartment. My teeny, tiny, filthy, reeks-of-cigarette-smoke studio apartement.
Please just scratch my face off with a fork. I don't want to live.
Posted by hissycat at 08:34 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
October 26, 2005
How To Be A Pyschotic Ex
with apologies to Lorrie Moore
First, get dumped. This step is essential. If you can manage to get fired the following day, score!
Getting fired will provide you with the unoccupied daytime hours you will need to destroy property, not to mention the aimless daytime hours to sleep through, which you will come to appreciate more and more with every passing weekday night on which you decide to get plastered and do something stupid.
Remain friends with your ex, even if it breaks your heart. Especially if it breaks your heart. Be so adamant about friendship that when he forgets to return a phone call on an evening he said he "might be up for hanging out," freak the fuck out like you've never freaked out before. Don't be put off by the fact that, when you were his girlfriend, you did not whip yourself up like a banshee on account of one little missed call. You now have permission to blow meaning out of all proportion. Of course this means he was lying when he said he wanted to remain friends! Of course this means he hates you! Of course this means you are unloveable and he is trying to destroy your life! Don't hold back when making assumptions. Think Medea. Remember, the more extravagant your assumptions are the farther along you are on your way to becoming a psychotic ex.
Swear you will not call but will maintain the silent dignity of a martyr. Then, fuck martyrdom. Fuck not calling. You have no dignity! You are the psychotic ex!
Harass and accuse. He won't actually pick up, as he'll be busy, or his phone will be out of battery, or he will be sleeping, but, in a way, this is even better than if he did, as it enables you to leave strings of messages of increasing hysteria. Don't be discouraged if harassment and accusation were not your style before. You are a psychotic ex, and they are now, so shriek like the harpy you are.
The next day, tear up with self-pity and self-loathing as you read the email he wrote from work that morning, after he finally got all your emails and messages. Nobly decline the offer to get dinner tonight and go to the concert with his and your friends. Five minutes later, give in.
Behave admirably, if unattractively, throughout dinner. It will be easy. You will be depressed and deflated anyway. Then, smoke drugs, and, at the concert, drink until you can't not dance, shameless as Sheela Na Gig. Just be sure to point your eyes away from couples. Do not see people dancing close, do not see people kissing.
Oh, while at the concert, see some dumb celebrity. In your state of drunken moroninity, decide what you must do is blog this, which, since you do not have internet in your apartment, requires you to go home with ex. This is acceptable, as his roommates are your friends, and they stay up, too, so, really, you are hanging out with them while he just happens, through no fault of yours, to be sleeping in his room down the hall.
However, you will stay up long after your friends have turned in (you've had insomnia all week). Around four in the morning become genuinely, suddenly exhausted. Just worn out. Done in. Outside it is dark and undoubtedly even colder than inside, though that hardly seems possible.
Gently pry open the door to his room, where he is sleeping and naked. Whisper his name till he wakes, startled. Yes, this is creepy, but, on the other hand, you are psychotic. When he asks what's wrong, look down and say something about the cold outside and the exhaustion that's taken hold and meekly ask if you can crash here, in this apartment. When he asks where you would stay, blurt out in one unpunctuated rush that could you please, please sleep in the bed, you promise you will keep all your clothes on and sleep head-to-toe and you are sorry and you are awful but it is so cold and you are so tired, and please? Of course he lets you. He is nice and decent and kind like that, even though you have behaved abominably. And even though he would not mind if you made use of the pillow he is not using and even though he would not mind if you took off your belt or unlatched your bra, keep everything on and hunch, pillowless and upside down, at the far edge, just to be extra pathetic.
You wake up, rattled by dreams, long after everyone else has left for work. Make some coffee. Step out to smoke. Use the internet. Nod off in an arm chair. Wake up. Make more coffee. Grab roommate's copy of Allure and step out the kitchen door onto the back stairwell to smoke.
Pull the door all the way shut because you are being extra-courteous and will not allow even a hint of your smoke to waft in. Immedeately realize your mistake, but smoke, page through the Allure as it becomes increasingly impossible to stifle the panic.
You are locked out, without your shoes, without your phone, without even a book or another goddamned cigarette, and it will be hours before anyone is home, and all you have is that Allure, which is not all that good, even as Allures go.
Consider your options. There is a kitchen window you consider shimmying through, but quickly realize that not only is the window about four feet from the edge of the staircase and two stories high but also is the kind of window that does not open, like a square porthole on the side of the buidling, which suddenly strikes you as especially stupid.
Remember the way in middle school, when you forgot your apartment key, you would get a neighbor to buzz you in, decline their offer to watch TV in their apartment until your parents returned, assuring them that your mother was already home and probably just in the shower and would no doubt hear you now and let you in. Remember how you'd use your plastic library card to jimmy the lock; you'd shoulder your weight against the door and it would give and you were in.
You don't have a plastic library card now or anything like one. What you do have is panic, psychosis and, you notice, a pile of wood chips. Wood chips. Damn you're psychotic. You try slipping wood chips between the door and the frame, as though they were plastic library cards, which they are not.
Now, press on the door. Press harder. Slam your weight into it. Something heaves, cracks and sighs. You see that you've torn part of door frame off of the wall. Consider stopping. Consider your stupidity. Consider how truly, awfully boring that copy of Allure is and throw yourself against it again. Again. Until, on the fourth or fifth try, the door suddenly gives in, at last becoming as unhinged as you are. You stagger back to survey the damage.
Ah, behold! The work of the psychotic ex-girlfriend!
Posted by hissycat at 11:03 AM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
October 25, 2005
Self-Pity: My Favorite Sport
For five days now I've been meaning to write a hilarious post about Friday's riotously funny escapade in which I brought about the destruction of ex-boyfriend's kitchen door.
Told with the characteristic wry humor for which I am famed, it would be a winning tale indeed-- just one of the zany mishaps of our endearingly neurotic neurotic encounters on her sometimes rocky, but always hilarious journey through life and love in the big city! I want to spin the story thusly so that it will blink back at me as it reflects off its readers' glossy eyes and I come to believe it that way: a charming story about a quirky, single girl, and not a horror story about a deranged ex-girlfriend, or, worse, a sad story about a deranged girl.
I have trouble mustering up the whatever it is I need to spin the story I envision. I sit down to write and at once find my intentions smothered by the thick dumbness and pathetic obviousness of the elements.
The primitive protection of the emotional endorphins buoyed me through last week with unrealisticly good cheer has worn off. Nearly two weeks have passed since the stunning calamity of getting kicked to the curb by boyfriend and by boss in the space of two days. The acute slap of unrequested freedom, so refreshing at first, is replaced by the persistent throb of lonesomeness, the dull ache of aimlessness, and a sickly dread of the grinding progress of untended days.
"There are people who are just depressed in ways that have nothing to do with their situation and there are people whose lives are genuinely depressing," Alex, in the car with me after helping clear out my office, said. "And then there are people like you who are both."
Posted by hissycat at 10:19 AM | Comments (6) | TrackBack
October 13, 2005
Jokes
Set-up:
What is funnier(/ sadder) than a depressed, lonely person whose beloved cat has died?
Punchline:
A depressed, lonely person whose cat has died and whose beloved boyfriend has left (dumped) her.
Set-up:
What is funnier(/ sadder) than a depressed, lonely person whose cat died and whose boyfriend broke up with her?
Punchline:
A depressed and lonely person whose cat has died, whose boyfriend has left her, and whose boss has just given her (something like) her walking papers.
Set-up:
What is funnier(/ sadder) than a depressed, lonely person whose cat has died, whose boyfriend has left her, and who is about to be unemployed?
Punchline:
Nothing.
And who is sadder than her?
No one.
I live in San Francisco, should you want to hire me.
Posted by hissycat at 12:15 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
September 19, 2005
My Net Worth
Is $34.06. Says my bank.
Counting the money I owe people it is more like -$2734.06.
Fun times.
Posted by hissycat at 01:40 PM | Comments (12) | TrackBack
September 16, 2005
How Pathetic
Brett had to drive me to Pier 70 this morning so I could retrieve my car from the pound. It was towed sometime last weekend (for blocking a driveway, even though I totally left enough room for another car to clear it). Why, you ask, did it take me so goddamn long to get my car back? First, I was too depressed and anxious to call the Dept. of Transportation immedeately. I didn't want to know how much money I would have to pay. Second, I just didn't have the money to get it back. My bank account has $54 in it and my goddamn hard-won credit card had not processed my payment (which, granted, I made about two weeks late), leaving me with only $134 of credit. I get paid on Monday (I think) and, even though the longer it sits in the pound the more money it costs to get it back, I didn't see what else to do but wait for the check to come in. Last night, though, Brett took pity and loaned my the $419.25 it cost to get the car back, and we went down to Bryant street to take care of business, only to find my car had already been moved to the long-term storage facility. So back we were this morning, release slip in hand, to get my car, Rachel Owlglass, back. Oh, Rach, baby, I'm sorry. I missed you.
I still have $189 in unpaid parking tickets. And the moving violation. And the injunction to show the court proof of insurance. And traffic school. Fun.
Oh, and I just went to the bathroom and while I was pooing, I felt myself up. Lump still there. Haven't done anything about that this week, nor have I made progress getting Gerty to the vet. Gerty the cat still has fleas. I'm also concerned that, following my example, the cat's been getting kind of tubby. She's not massive, but she's definately put on some weight. This worries me. Gerty the cat only has three legs. I'm afraid fat will really slow her down and impair her mobility. I've noticed recently that she's been having a harder time clearing certain jumps. She used to be able to clear the footboard when jumping onto my bed. Now when she tries to make that jump, she has to affix her claws to the sheets and then hoist her bottom half up.
Oh, and my parents visit this weekend. Good times.
Posted by hissycat at 11:01 AM | Comments (15) | TrackBack
August 11, 2005
Bad Me
Oh no. Bad me. I missed my shrink appointment. Bad way to start a Thursday.
And you know, I was really trying to be responsible. Like, Icalled Dr. R from the car to say I sort of remembered making anappointment for today, but I sort of don't remember what time I made itfor, so could you please sort of call me back and let me know.
I don't know how I missed her call, but when I got to the office, circa9:20, I noticed a new voicemail on my phone, so I called it, and it wasDr. R reminding me that I had an appointment for 9:00 am. Ichecked the phone and she had called at 8:50, making this totally my(or my phone's, unless I consider the phone an extension of myself, butI do) fault. Shit.
I really needed this appointment, too. I mean, more thanusual. Dr. R is going on vacation next week, I'm running short onmy meds, and then there is the distressing incident to which I alludedyesterday. Plus, when I miss an appointment, she charges me thefull cost of the appointment as opposed to just the $10 co-pay, and Ireally cannot afford to be throwing away two hundred dollars justnow. Oh, and I haven't heard any update on the status of myemployee benefits (read: HEALTH INSURANCE) so who knows if I'll even beable to afford to reschedule when she gets back.
And now it's time for me to zip over to my lunch-hour Weight Watchersmeeting. Fun! (Actually, I'm such a sicko that part of mereally enjoys it).
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August 10, 2005
Just To Be Clear
So it occured to me that the "something" I wrote about this morning might sound, to someone who doesn't know better,an awful lot like pregnancy. Just to clarify, I'm not pregnant.
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Posted by hissycat at 03:41 PM | Comments (40) | TrackBack
Crap Shit
Oh jesus. I found out something really depressing yesterdayafternoon and confirmed it this morning. I haven't told anyoneyet, and it's not something that I can write down here. I'm alittle sickened and a little stunned, though it is something I perhapsshould have expected. More later. Maybe.
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Posted by hissycat at 09:59 AM | Comments (7) | TrackBack
August 03, 2005
It's Just Another Hypomanic Monday (Oh-Oh-Woah)
I'm doing some serious fantasizing about making radio stories for ThisAmerican Life. I have a couple of ideas for stories I'd like to do. I've been looking at recording equipment on Transom.org and trying to figure out what I need, but I'm having a hard time making sense of everything. All I need is something basic thatworks. Of course, I will probably need to buy a computer first, as the space bar on my laptop has been broken since spilling vodka on it last week; I mean, that's not the only reason I need a new one-- my laptop is also just old and slow and generally busted; I tried to buy a new computer this weekend. Brett and I went to the Apple store downtown and to CompUSA; I even filled out the application at Apple to purchase a laptop on a lay-a-way plan, but of course, I was rejected, because I have no credit history. It really sucks. It's amazingly hard to get a credit card without a history, but of course you don't have a history until you open a line of credit. You also can't do online BillPay, can't get a cellphone contract without leaving a deposit and so on. For the lastmonth I've been applying for credit cards and getting rejected. I know perfectly well that it's totally stupid-- I have a job; I pay my rent-- and that the only reason is that I have no credit score. Still, I feel like such a loser every time I get rejected. Like,it's this judgement on me, that I'm not resposible enough and not a good grown-up.
I also had a particularly frustrating encounter with my credit union; I applied (in person, explaining to the teller that I just wanted the simplist, most basic, beginner credit card) and was told I would hear back by the end of the day. Of course, it took a week and I had to call the credit man at the bank and leave messages on his machine. Finally, I got a phone call telling me that I had been rejected for the $10,000 platinum card. What? I thought, well, duh, you'd have to be a moron to give me a credit card with a $10,000 line of credit. You know, I'd have to be a moron to apply for a platinum card and think I could get one. But of course, I didn't. I suppose the teller punched in my request wrong. Whatever. Anyway, I was told that Visa made a counter-offfer for a Classic card with a $500 limit. Perfect. All I had to do, the guy told me, was fax him a copy of my paystub. I asked if I could email it instead and he said fine. I emailed him a copy ofmy paystub. Then I get an email back from him saying that I can't send an electronic version, it needs to be the receipt kind that gets mailed to me. I write back to inform him that I don't get a paper copy, I'm on the University Payroll and do direct deposit at theuniversity credit union. I get an email back that is five words long:
"everyone gets a paper stub."
Not only is this not true in my case, it is not true in the case of what I imagine to be a very large percentage of members of the credit union, since anyone who is on payroll and direct deposit at the University associated with the credit union is in the same situation as me: no paper stub. In fact, I looked this up and there's a big notice as soon as you get to the payroll website explaining that they no longer mail paper stubs. So I write back and calmly explain why I don't get a paper stub (by the way, if I'm on direct deposits houldn't they already have some kind of record of my earnings? is it really necessary for me to make a record of what they obviously must already have on file?) I don't hear back for maybe two weeks. Then I get a letter in the mail-- a letter informing me that I'd been denied that $10,000 platinum card I'd applied for.
So yesterday I finally got it together to go talk to someone at thecredit union. This time, I went to a different branch and had no problems. I got a call the same afternoon saying I'd been accepted and just needed to send proof of income. I told thewoman about the paper paystub issue and she said not to worry, theelectronic copy is totally fine. So now I'll have a credit card in about a week.
I've been feeling kind of funny lately. I'm going to say this is partly my own fault for letting my meds run out last week and not getting a refill of my prescriptions till Monday. But I also just feel funny. You know, I've been out of school a few months,working at my job, I feel like I should be falling into apattern. But all I think about is other things I could/ should/wish I would be doing. Like going to librarian school. Like applying to This American Life's internship program and going to Chicago for four months. Like writing in a serious way--especially, finishing the two short stories I have laying around and sending them off and transforming my thesis into a kicky article on lesbian pulps that I can pitch to some kicky magazine.
I know in theory this is a good job and I should be grateful I found it, but I want to be doing something else. I want to be putting more of my time into creative and intellectual work again. I'd like to look for something else, but it's so hard and takes so much time and energy that I can't imagine working and job-hunting at the same time. I'd probably have to quit my job to do a serious hunt, and I can't afford to do that. On the other hand, if I don't start getting benefits soon, I can't afford not to do that. My salary isn't something I'd sneeze at, but with no health insurance, it isn't worth it. I require three expensive prescription psychopharmeceuticals as well birth control and at least semi-regular therapy and med-checks with my psychaitrist. My goodness, I require extensive upkeep. In any case, at the very least I need my Rx drugs covered. I mean, I could easily be spending half my salary just to pay for my drugs. That's just not liveable. In that case, I think it would make more sense to quit and be a full-time job hunter and find a position with benefits as soon as possible.
Man, I hate that healthcare is so expensive. There are a ton of jobs I'd rather be doing but can't because I need health insurance. Like, I'd rather just have some dinky little job inthe city to make bucks and then have more energy to put into writing, but since there are no bartending/ table-waiting/ shirt-folding jobsthat have health insurance, it's just totally out of the picture. Same reason why I can't just tutor, even though I'd probably be making more dollars. It's just impossible for me to buy my own insurance, and even if I could, no insurance company in CA is going to cover my pre-existing conditions (depression, anxiety, ADD), which are of course the reasons I need coverage in the first place. I hope I get insurance soon at this job, although no one has really told me what is going on. I've been to scared to ask my boss and I don'tget the impression that anyone else has any idea. I wish this place were organized more like a normal kind of company.
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Posted by hissycat at 03:42 PM | Comments (26) | TrackBack