Blush.

How I love thee, sweet Carlo Rossi jug of Blush Wine.
I can drink you straight from the bottle, by the cupful-anytime, anywhere I am ready for you.
However, sweet wine, it appears you do not care about me and my friends too much.
Combined with that bastard Captain Morgan, Blush, you turned against us and made for quite the deadly combination.
From blacking out, to puking in a handbag, the inability to chew eggs up, to drawing kitty-faces on friends, to encountering very eager 17 year old boys and hardcore sickness and hangovers-You two alcohols really fucked The Crew up.

Adventuring.

I hate mornings, especially when I don't know what time I'm going to be woken up at. Today it was at 9:30 after I went to bed around 4-ish. I had to catch the bus to Davis in about 15 minutes.
It was like Die Hard.
I had to run through my house looking for what could slightly resemble presentable clothing and something to clip my hurr back. And then grab all my junk plus unravel the secret hiding place to get out the 155 dollah, dollah bills for A.
I made it. And I felt like death. I had a sweater on because I couldn't remember if I had a bra on or not ( Thankfully I did), ran into Crazy Mike waiting for the bus, almost cracked my skull open because I didn't hold onto anything as the bus barreled down the path to Davis-and then finally made it and had to wait 20 minutes for S. to get there.
I gave her the money, pulled down her dress like a good grandma because she was just showing too much leg, wished her luck in getting A.'s whatever, and congratulated her on getting the new job all in one fell swoop.
And then leapt back onto a bus, got home-and meet H.'s crew. And they are having breakfast now and I am typing this. They were supposed to make me an egg over easy, but it's alright. I'm going to go back to sleep, forever probably. And if not I'll wake up in an hour and a half and have my own egg/ maple sausage and toast extravaganza. Like how I planned it out at 4 a.m.

"What's that?!"

I found a pair of man-ties on our balcony yesterday. No men live in my apartment, nor were there any male visitors that night. And they got there between 6 and 8:30 a.m.
So...
Seriously, I live in a collapsed continuum, a particle accelerator of oddities.
And I bought a huge cake last night with A. for 8 dollars. It was so worth it, just to see the FAB! Christian fellow ogle it and start a witty repartee with us on the bus about diabetes.

" I think I see the light."

Sweet Jesus, how I love Cat Stevens/ Yusuf Islam.
Nadia gave me her dad's c.d. of Cat's Greatest Hits, and then I saw Harold and Maude.
And then my life changed forever.
Basically, that's it.
I simply wanted to proclaim my deep and passionate love for the lyrics, music, ideals and messages of Steven's music. Past and present, I really like An Other Cup.
He speaks about a whole generation of youth who looked for love, happiness and away to deal with what surrounded them: Depression, Clashes of thoughts, and the usual inability to express what they were feeling.
And I don't think I'm the only one who adores him ( Rod, Sheryl...I'm looking at you.)
Whenever I hear " If you want to sing out, sing out" my heart leaps a bit in my chest.
Thank you so much, Yusuf Islam for making such beautiful things that make my heart-strings vibrate and my brain dance.

Wonderland

No, not the blue line stop.
Nay, this weekend I traveled down the fucking Rabbit Hole of the Space and Time Continuum, where time is actually non-linear, and it's almost impossible to leave.
What to do in such a place?
Drink. A lot. And frolic freely by the ocean, playing with old and new friends, including a seagull and a couple little yip-yap dogs. And some bunnies, crabs and townies.
This is my life. Day-tripping to non-existent places in the Universe, warping and teleporting to the unsearchable recess of the mind with a couple of good friends in the South Shore.
As A. said " What is my life about?"
I don't know, I don't want to know-but I believe it's going to be beautiful and amazing to look back on my youth.

BALLIN'

Job? Yeah, I got one.
Dollah, Dollah Bills? Mad amounts of the green.
Tickets to see The Who? Ch-Check.
Most Extravagant Birthday Rager? Hosted by me and my apartment clique.

Fuck them bitches, Get money.
Damn straight, Biggie's Girl. Fuck 'em.

My humble beginning

At the Assumption Catholic Elementary School there are rules, like a master artist’s studio, about form and order. There should be quiet voices, there should be good, disciplined children in the classrooms, and there should be a show of deference to everyone. That, at least, was how the teachers presented the school to me. A blood red brick building with a massive white cross jutting from the building’s roof, as if Christ had struck the building in a similar fashion as the astronauts did in the sixties with the moon. This was His school, where he would be so upset with me if he found out what a bad girl I was. My parents certainly were disappointed, I was informed, and so naturally Jesus was going to be too. The Assumption School was His, and just look how disrespectful I was acting: I forgot to bring home my “N” papers-“N” as in Not Satisfactory. Age seven and already I’ve failed miserably. What was so terrible though, was that I was not in the least bit scared that I had upset my Savior; I was petrified that my mother and father found out how’ awful’ I was. The school, I suppose, expected me to be mortified that The Messiah had found enough time to be dismayed with my second grade learning, or lack thereof, abilities. My teacher must have forgotten about how Jesus forgives when one seeks forgiveness. However, my parents were not Christ; they do not forgive as easily as The King of kings does.

The teacher was going to attach a note informing my loved family that their only child was a dunce…and a lazy one at that. I had dared to not get those “N” papers signed when it was expressly clear that was my task at hand. Now I had to the face the consequences of my ‘laziness’. She, Miss Dell, was going to write a letter home, stating that I was a bad girl, that I was stupid, that I wasn’t going to get into Heaven( or go to third grade) because...because why?

I wanted to just cry and cry. I was not lazy! I was afraid! They kept telling me that my parents were going to be furious with me, and I could not stand that. It was a fate worse than death: to have Daddy pick me up in his black Ford Bronco and drive me back to our home, only to realize he was not driving his little daughter home…but a not satisfactory liar! He would hand Mama my miniscule purple backpack, and she would reach into the bag only to pull out a mass of red markered papers with a neat and fluorescent post-it that detailed my descent into idiocy and my life as a lying N- paper hoarder. I just could not bear that pain. I had to do something, devise some way to make it through the fiery obstacle course that was second grade.

The seven year old mind is a very fertile land of imagination, and the only way I was going to survive this childhood trial was to imagine a way to save myself from the terrible devolution into failure. There was the option of creating some story that would explain to my parents that there was another Evie Goggins in the class, or that N actually stood for Nice!-That they had to merely sign the papers to recognize how good I was at learning. The only flaw with such an idea was the cursed Post-It, declaring my blunders. Thus, there was only option remaining: make good use of pity and my mind. Perhaps, like Jesus, Miss Dell would recognize my shame and forget about my erroneous ways.

The plan was quite simple. Make good use of my cherubic, babyish features. Speak in a voice befitting an upset child and, most importantly, convince her that I was legitimately distressed. How was I going to pull of the biggest coup the second grade had ever seen? I would need to use every ounce of creativity and intelligence I had acquired in my short life. I was about to begin my life as a writer, as a storyteller, as a creative person.

I slowly walked up to her desk, positioned cheerfully next to the windows bright with buttery sunshine rays reflecting the grimy crayons’ pigments on a nearby shelf. She was busy doing paper work (most likely delighting in her daily ritual of giving me an “N”), and I had to lightly tap her free hand to get her attention. When she looked down at me, I was ready. I was rubbing a chubby hand in my eye, and whispered “I don’t want any more “N”s…please.” She gave a look of bewilderment and then sighed. She was about to begin a speech about how I have to be a good student to not get anymore “N’s” and I was not being a good student. I had prepared for this ‘talk’ too, and launched into, quite possibly, the best acting I have ever performed. “Oh, Miss Dell, please don’t give me anymore “N’s”! My uncle, from Spain, is visiting us, and how awful and angry he will be with me if he finds out that his favorite niece only gets “N”’s! They don’t stand for Nice, either! Oh please, you don’t want my uncle to be mad at me, do you? How am I go-going to sh-show him only “N”’s?” and then a perfect tear fell down my mask of misery.

It felt as if I was a Broadway actress giving an award winning performance. I knew I had melted the icy heart of Miss Dell, and that I was going to be safe from gazing up into the would- be heartbroken and dis-appointed faces of Mama and Daddy- faces which one day I would learn, will never bear that expression in regards to myself. My slate was wiped clean, I felt like Lazarus rising again- I was starting over; no more shame at the hands of that dreadful fourteenth letter of the alphabet-N. Besides proving to be a slick and slippery talker, and an exceptionally bright and clever second grader, I had also shown to be a quick witted and artistic being that could easily conjure up the full power of imagination.

This epiphany that I was among the creative was a miracle. The fact that I knew I was -although many doubted that this and tried to make me believe so- inventive and was unique aided me through many a similar rough patch; it is a comforting thought to know that one is worth having such abilities. How thankful I am that I have been bequeathed such an ability with acting and words is inexpressible; simply stating that I would not be very much who I am today without having been able to have found the path to artistic ingenuity-beginning that one fateful day in second grade- is the most I can string together to display my gratefulness. God only knows how else I could have become the writer that I am today.

AND!

Belgium is essentially no longer a country. Because the legislative branch of the Government could not decide on the different language barriers present in the country.
The Premier of the Country sent the King an official document to dissolve the state, because the Government had split apart and could no longer function. The King, I'm guessing, didn't sign it because in name Belgium still "is". But, it has no rhyme or reason, no government, no anything.
The Chocalitiers must be running wild with no restrictions on milk-fat.
The Horror.
This is what Michael Phelps' superhuman prowess trumped.

I'll be damned if I let Satan ignite me.

The quite peacefulness of being completely alone and undisturbed in the apartment was just broken by a gaggle of Bro-Dudes gallivanting along towards the creepster, hole-in-the-wall bar down the street. Perfect time as ever to do some writing, I think.
But about what. There really isn't much to say, other than the fact, and yes indeed, FACT that I fucking hate Somerville. And I really am my Father's Daughter, I do let my angry feelings get the best of me.
I was always told that 'hate' is a strong word, and to never, ever use it. Alas, this time I cannot heed my elders' warning and thus I proclaim my deep, passioned hatred of this God-forsaken place. Why? No particular reason for hating the location or appearance of Somerville. In truth, I do love to see an Indian pow-wow in Davis Square when I'm on my return here. It's quality imagery. But, what I hate, loathe, despise, et cetera about Somerville are the majority of people that live here.
Besides the businessmen that elbow me en route to work, or the glitter lipstick woman that, apparently, has the ability to go through a Wrinkle in Time and know me; to the point where she showed up one day while I was waiting for the bus to greet me with " Hi, Eve. It's been so long, you look so different" although it was first contact with her, it is a special ensemble of players in the 'Ville who have taken hold of my wrathful attention.
I suppose, in their own words, they hate me; for what reason I do not know. However, they do. And hence, their demonic ( that IS going to far) presence, constantly, in my life.
Slowly it appeared to me, that this crew was beginning to mind fuck me every waking moment. Slowly, but surely. Bullshit here, Gossip mongering there, it could be said. And not even good gossip, which is the very pits! Fucking, I have a lot of different facets to my personality, I thought they'd be more creative than saying I was a stupid bitch. That's so...Peaches Geldof. Srsly.
Anyways, I hate them for living in my new Golden City. For making me feel that I do not belong where I am because they are so filled with genius and truth, that they MUST, MUST be right.
Well, They, You aren't. They ( how childish of me to do this, no?) are hypocrites ( ah, but then who isn't?- Not me) who eat my bargain food. So, while this time, you did Ignite me, Satan; I've been known to drive people to the brink of sanity, throw lollipops at my head, have a backpack throwing tantrum in public, and scream " FAT CUNTS" in my direction. So, I will bide my time, wearing the latest fashions, reading Art Criticism and allowing myself to become Sylvia, and planning my escape from they're clinging grasp of idiocy.
Thanks to David Devant and his Spirit Wife, and the Slovak/ Irish stoicism.
This is all complete nonsense spewing forth from my Brain, to my Temple, to my Fingers, to this nether space.

Get BACK.

Sometimes I think that a headache is a way that the conscience punishes it's owner for disregarding it's advice.
Also, I've found that craigslist.com is fucking weird, unless it happens to be a personal ad of a young man from the UK. So that's pretty ace.

And I might have a job. Finally.
A repeat of the word 'finally', I finally got a lot of what was resting upon my shoulders off. It's feels delightfully good.

Did we mention this?

OH!
Also on the same day, I found out via the world of frappacinos, I am a big jerk.
And Lazy.
And Controlling.
And Domineering.
I'm like Xena. Suck it, Lil' Kim. I'm the Queen B now.

Home Sweet Apartment.

I got back from the homestead in Connecticut at around 10:30. By 11 a.m. my dad found the hookah, the weed bowl, the "Man, I'm starving" drawer and my mom found about 30 alcohol bottles. And then they left. And I miss them very much.
So, long story short.
I feel like a fat kid being caught eating a candy bar at a Fat Farm.
And then I was welcomed home by two of my friends creeping out after my parents left, much like the Munchkins appeared to Dorothy after she rid them of the Wicked Witch of the East. Both examples deal with authority, so I think it is an apropos analogy.
I have mounds of organizing to do. And hopefully catch up on Rolling Stone, and smoking. And then begin my month's painting.
What an odd entry, huh? Jesus Christ, I think sometimes I like writing to no one better than anything else in the world.

So, now my hair is jet black.

Fuck you, L'oreal.
You said that it would make my light brown hair dark brown. And, yes, while it's ALWAYS darker, it shouldn't be black as coal. So thanks for this and making me go out and buy color removal that will probably turn my hair orange or make me go bald. You Bitch.
Err, anyways. On to more pressing matters of the heart.
I am a terrible friend.
I let my best, best friend turn into a mess because I did not think it was my duty to watch over her. Well, I was wrong. It was my duty as her confidante, and her friend, to love her and take care of her. I see that now, now that she's cried in my arms for two hours while I sat in her bedroom, not knowing what to do, because I have no idea as to what has been going on in her life for the past seven months. I used to know her so well, know how to calm her down, make her laugh and also push her buttons. Now, there's a thick stone wall surrounding the person whom I met when I was thirteen. Hopefully, a change of scenery will make her feel more at ease and less stressed. But, I'm not sure. She's so sensitive and depressed that I can't really read her anymore.
I really fucked myself over having lost touch with her. Then again, it wasn't only her that I lost touch with. My favorite uncle, My priests, My other friends, My surrogate grandma, all of them I cut out of my life at appx. the beginning of 2nd semester. I self diagnosed myself with having a small nervous breakdown, and I'm going to go with it. The alcohol poisoning and other blunders in my path of life seem to point to it.
I miss speaking to my Uncle Allan, he was one of the few members of my family that I could truly speak to about...things. Art, our family, life, etc.
I miss speaking to my Priests, I love them so much. Since working at the rectory in 2002, they became like grandfathers to me, and for them to know them goings on in my life I think would make them so sad.
I miss my Grandma. Simply put, She is my Grandma.
And I miss my friends. I never had to hear all this bullshit from them about how terrible I was and how I did things wrong and they never heard that from me. Then I went to college and became, really, a different Eve. And I was ridiculed, and I thought it was fine to pass the ridicule onto friends I left behind in CT.
Sometimes, I really fucking hate living in MA. Many are either full of themselves or such sad sacks that its hard to really be happy. I miss being home with my family, and being simple. I hardly miss not having food in the refrigerator, or paying bills myself.
I hate the competitive streak that also runs so thickly up here, sometimes it seems ironic how it tends to show up in the different relationships I've formed.
Hopefully, I can change a few of these things. I'd like to start writing again, to my uncle and to the priests, and to everyone else. I also want to see more of my 'old' friends. I also want to do better in school this semester. I hardcore dive bombed my gpa last semester and hopefully I can get it back up to a 3.4, or at least a 3.0.
I'm making plans to study abroad in Fall 2009, and in London, maybe at Goldsmiths. Then get an internships at a magazine, and also get a job. But then, the economy is faltering so, I'll have to see how that goes.
I'm thinking of writing a short story about a schizophrenic who gets confused with the 2nd coming of Mary Magdalene.
And also, a few poems.
And I would make this a post script if I knew anyone ever read my journal here, but no one does so, to the hell with it.
I mean my apologizes. When I don't say " I'm sorry" it's because I'm not. Anyone can think what they would like, but it hurts me to see someone who is in my hear hurt. And when I say things I mean them, be that " I'm really sorry, I never meant to hurt you to that extent. And I see what I did was wrong, do you forgive me?" or " I'm your friend, I love you" or " I think you act like an idiot a lot of the time".
Most of what I said isn't reported to the person I was talking about correctly. Maybe it was misheard or purposely misconstrued. But, as evidenced with the latest case of me being a huge miscreant, I always want to be back in my friend's life. And hopefully, they would one day want me back.