life is pretty like sunshine

I spoke to my mother for a little while yesterday afternoon while en route to the L
train. It always vexes me how negative she can be in being sad. If you
were upset that your daughter didn’t call for a while, would you
really yell and throw a fit? Probably not. Probably you would do the
natural thing, act wounded, hurt, upset. Not the very polar opposite
of all things related to being solemn.

But anyways. This is the result: I had to calm my mother’s great
insistence that I move back to MassHell because she believes it
will somehow solve my main problems in life.
Which are unnamed immeasurable and pristinely separate from the life
that I exist in right now. I am trying seriously to focus on the good
stuff, picture the good and all the things I now dream about, not
in a literal sense (yeah, I’m the bitch that dreams those crazy
can-opener in the neck horrors where someone is throwing me off a cliff
or running over my best friend), but in a larger long-term goal kind of
way. I have made some steps to further immerse myself into music, and
one of these four or maybe more possibilities should work out if god
doesn’t totally hate me. hahaha. what a funny thing that people
think that. In any case, things are slowly slowly coming together
again, tapering and sifting and moving and sewing quicker to the seams.

My pedestal has been quietly mini-resurrected. Not in its full original
glory, but you know, it’s like all my friends have been saying. Is it
really good to have anyone expect shit from you when you haven’t know
them for a good long while. Probably not. But I like being a shiny,
though whiny, princess sometimes. And good god, am I skinny. 15 pounds less than I was in that photo a few doors down.
I didn’t plan it, could have used it when that photo was taken, but whatever. Must eat now. hahaha

I worked at the Snipping Room and it’s 6 am and I am wide awake. I had a
rude awakening after getting off work and
descending into the hell that is the NJPATH traiin after the bars
close. I run up the stairs and some dude says “Yo, that bitch is tall,
I don’t think she’s a bitch”. I love how these little thugnuggets

are afraid of me because I am tall and covered in tattoos.
I turned around and looked the kid in the eye, and continued on my
way. At the end were two of your classic jersey frat boy types, and I
throw my bag down and sit on my ass. You aren’t a Narc? She’s a Narc.
Me: I’m a fucking bartender. Are you a dyke, you like girls? Whatever,
I’m not a dyke. Then the worst one tried to embrace me in some the love
of my life has been lost so now I go out and look like an ass
justification. So I gave him my water. The more sober one was alright,
in that he must be a friend of your brother’s kind of way. The sloppy
one was fast asleep, conked out on my shoulder, much to my dismay and
the horror of the passengers on the train. After they got off, supershitfaced
tries to rap some bullshit about Beyonce and I have no idea what. My
finger points out the door, no, just go, go go go rapmaster drunk.

The passengers on the train kind of laughed and breathed a sigh of
relief for me. One gay couple thought it was especially funny, so I
said, Notice it’s always Hoboken that the assholes get off at? The guy
who had been sandwiching supershitfaced with
me was like, honey, he elbow me one more time, and I was gonna throw
the bitch. The guy sitting across from me, finally getting the whole
point of discourse says, “So you didn’t know that guy who was leaning
on your shoulder”. Me, “Uh no. I’m a bartender though, a good sport,
and I feel semi-responsible because I get paid to do this shit to
people. It’s all my fault, it’s all my fault,” I fake wailed.

But it isn’t my fault, you thirsty alcoholics. If so, would I even have
a job that paid so well if there weren’t millions of you to feed into
the dollar pool?

Which reminds me, in New York, it’s a
dollar a drink, not a dollar for five drinks, or even a dollar
for two beers. We would all get along so much better if you all paid
attention to the rules. If you all did that, I would have to stop
pretending you don’t exist when you try to procure frosty beverages
from me with coinage equivalent tips.



Plus, though apparently the only
people who know this are the ones who work in the industry, I don’t get
a shift pay, and even if I did, wouldn’t my $3.25 an hour just cover my
taxes now that I would be declared? Yeah. Think about it. And stop
being cheap motherfuckers!

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