What about that list of your mothers?

I never learned to read.

Most of them are yours.

And it's so nice sitting very still without those old shoes.. I could never fill.
----

I wish they were still around. A feeling of comfort you doubt (know) you'll ever (never) find again. New ones refuse to feel the same. Kind of awkward, too much to get used to.. too much to adjust to, and the smell of plastic still lingers even after first wiff. Nothing can replace the old ones. Fuck, nothing should replace the old ones. Ever. (I'm speaking of the band, not the shoes, right? .. I hope the shoes are in goodwill and gone and used up by someone else whose feet they can mold, conform and grow on.)

Speaking of replacing, how do you do it? Can you do it? Should you? I was once told you don't recycle human beings. You don't throw them out either. You just preserve, preserve, preserve. Cherish, even. Humans (me) are not disposable. I'm going to be replaced. Suddenly (not so?) I'm disposable and it's finest (worst). At a place where people love(d) me. Past and present and future mushing together into one big ball of memories I won't be in. I don't like it. But this stuff happens, right? .. My old shoes won't fit anyone else. Ever.. right (wrong)?

I read and re-read this cess pool of internet banter I once thought was me at my most articulate. (I now realize my most articulate moments are effortlessly crafted on a La Luna dance floor after 3 PineappleUpsideDownCake shots and 5 Captain&Gingers.) My electronic diary is me whining about boys. Whining. Seriously fucking whining. Kind of pathetic. No one should be sympathetic and I regret to admit I'm slightly apathetic.

I'm having a good time, though. A real blast. A hoot, if you will. Despite my lack of accurate punctuation and word usage, I'm doing good. I can't place my finger on the problem, where I've been going wrong. If I knew where I've been going wrong, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have made a left hand turn at the sign for right. Maybe life is one big loop. One big caldisac of weird occurances, moderately acceptable random nights.. and a pinch of serious business. Some houses hidden behind white picket fences, other homes boarded up and abandoned.

Irregardless, you can hunt and locate me by my trail of ill-fitting, smelly shoes.

I need a really significant amount of glue to hold my crumbly life together.

Dudes gone wild.

Edit: Wow, I'm a bitch!

And I fucking woke up at 10:30am because in the middle of the night my phone broke and I missed work.

I am irresponsible annnnd a huge bitch.

Hustle.

Shit. When did I turn into the bitch that cannot sleep alone? Seriously. I even deleted 98% of my phone contacts, which in turn means 100% of my shitty dude contacts are gone. How did I call you? Ohhh because you text me with super dumb hook up things. Blah. Delettttttte. Anyhow, tonight was fucking awesome. Even though Megan lost her camera and I unsuccessfully screeeeamed at the cab driver to "take me back to my English loverrrr!" I feel like it was a success.

Stephanieeeee.. I successfully "eye-fucked" someone. I owe the ability all to you. He was English (aka totally NON-BUFFALIONIAN) and tattooed and up my alley. Although I eye-fucked him and pretended I was not interested. I am dumb. English men have bad teeth though.. right? Fuck, I need something to justify my "hard to get" shitty attitude.

Ah, I am still in love with the bartender/bar back. But he "has a girl" in West Seneca. Meh, that whole scenario ruined it for me. It kind of made everything too real. A little crush first of all and now I am picturing his white picket fence and chocolate lab. I want to take it back to when he called me "babe" and "doll" and leave it at that. Oh wait.. tonight, yikes. "Nah, these drinks are from the boys and me". "You never know"- Sara. So true!

Oh well, this whole jam is null and void. Because I have decided that from now until I am 30 I am going to fuck like a dude. For real, 30 is my scary (even terrifying) age. 30 is when my life has either been successful or not. 30 I will (hopefully) marry and have beautiful babies named Ramona, Antoinette, Milo, Luca and Liam. 30 I will have settled into a fantastic job. Orrrrrrr 30 will just be the year when I reflect on the previous 8 years and realize how awesome it was to FUCK LIKE A DUDE.

Ah, total trainwreck.

And now I have nothing.. but your heartbeat in my head.

After being in really good company the last few days, I realized I don't need a male companion. I haven't successfully been my own, legitimate companion in a really long time. (And I probably haven't been the best successful companion to my family and platonic friends either). I should work on that before I work with someone else. Butttt then here come the texts.. like clockwork, even. Sorry I shoot you down, but it's more logical to do that then get blown to bits in the near future. I refuse to be a secret slay, my dear. And I refuse for you to be my completely public slay. And for some reason, I still don't think you are shitty. In fact, I think I am more.

Nick's friend from his old work died this morning. I say "friend" and smile because she was in her 80's and somehow infiltrated my brother's hard exterior and really touched his soul. He's devastated and refuses to show it because he's a Mazzi and we just don't do that. All I could say to him was "Are you okay?" He didn't answer and merely ranted about his shitty day at work. We haven't experienced death in awhile. Jackie passing away tore us up inside. I still dream of her and my stomach hurts. Every funeral since then, I've seen her and only her in the casket. Not saying I wasn't paying all my respects to Rob and Mr. Besch.. but I don't think I'll ever forget the utter loss I felt when she left. I see her everywhere, in everything. Sometimes hanging out with Courtney is brutal because we both feel the same thing, and we both know it. Phyllis isn't even having a wake or funeral, just a party at the old Cricket Club. It's very fitting because she was a vivacious, classy, party animal.

Fuck. I hate the whole dying part of life.

.. this is our decision to live fast and die young.

Blah. Apparently after Dave's Prom I was very angry. Irate, even. Luckily only this blog and a glass I smashed in my apartment felt my wrath. I thought I had fun? Alcohol is a tricky substance. I woke up and I had 15 numbers left in my phone.. for some reason I left the Pizza Hut that delivers and Liberty Cabs. Even belligerent me knows what is important in life.

(P.S. Sorry, Hilary Clinton! I don't really think you are a dykeass who can't get over Bill gettin' blown. A sober me would never even say "dykeass".)

I hate insincerity. Especially when I am doing quite possibly the most sincere thing I've been waiting to do for two years. You don't know how many times that dollar has burned a hole in my pocket. How many times I've hesitated to feed it into a vending machine. Rather than getting some fatty candy bar that will only stick to my thighs, I have stuck with my heart. Not appreciated. Some people's priorities will always be scanning a crowd for the next summer face to appear and disappear in their lives.

So my brother and I have this weird thing that when we are intoxicated in a semi-unfamiliar place we will walk home abruptly in a slight stuper and/or rage. After countless times of me escaping from Allentown or further, my brother confessed he had the same problem. We racked our brains and tried to figure out why we do what we do. Usually I am the panicky "I gotta get outta here" walker. Nick is more of the quiet snake that slips away. And after many nights of wearing out shoes on Buffalo's unforgiving pavement I realized where I learned this habit. Where we learned this habit. My dad. My earliest memory of my dad being outrageous is a wild one. A yellow school bus pulls up out in front of our childhood home. Grown men are hanging out the windows chanting "tony! tony! tony! tony!" My dad rushes into the house, grabs a thirty pack of beer and doesn't say a word as he joins the chanting men on the rowdy school bus. Hours later we get a frantic phone call. My dad is lost at the Bill's game and the bus cannot find him. (I'm sure he couldn't find the bus either.) Fast forward two hours later and we receive a slurred phone call from my dad who walked 20 miles down Southwestern in search of our home from the Stadium.

Sometimes, you just gotta walk.

He's just not that into you.

.. the only dude that truly ever will be is my dog, Marley, and that's okay.

I fear I spoke (evoked my real feelings via an internet diary) too soon.

Poo.

I should promise myself I will not give away the milk for free anymore. Not with such a pricey cow for sale.

From now on.. fun. No feelings, just fun.

(Stephanie, I miss you.)

OH GOD. I totally lost my cool at work today. Seriously, I cannot show my face tomorrow (tonight). If it wasn't already completely obvious that I've never got over you/smitten to an extreme/me/us.. it probably is grossly and blatantly obvious now. I'm a fucking embarassment. I had to turn on the air conditioning in 50 degree weather. Co-workers stared and wondered why I couldn't get it together. Not like I can ever really get it together, but come on. And the woman in the next car definitely said "You look like you need a cold shower." Normally, I'd be offended and feel ridden with perversion.. but truer words have never been spoken to me in quite some time.

Since when am I a horny 15 year old boy? And since when have I gotten so jaded by this area that I literally bought a one-way ticket out of here? Since when has my head not only been unattached from my body, but been so far up in the clouds that I can confirm the absence of heaven?

Inappropriate.

I can't say "People in Buffalo love to talk shit." Far too much wrong with that statement. It's more of a "People I know who have Buffalo connections and live in Buffalo love to talk shit." A good friend once told a story of Kyle Bishop talking way too much shit for his own good on some tour. Well, people held him down and shit in his mouth.. because if you talk shit, you should probably eat it as well. In my opinion, this is a genius idea. Not saying I don't have an everlasting love for Mr. Bishop.. but I am certain he hesitates before emitting a foul statment about another human being. If this happened in real life all the time, everyone who talked shit would be walking around with a heinous case of dysentary and the public would be well aware of their diarrhea of the mouth tendencies. Problem(s) solved. Hah!

Don't get me wrong, people telling me that I have std's now or saying an ex (whatever.. bf?) is a coke head.. all entertaining, but it boils my blood to an unheard of degree. Quite possibly the best part is that I keep my mouth quiet about you and you and you. If I was less of a lady, (and actually had the ability to shit), I would fucking shit in your mouths. Mark my words.

I've been trying to synch my breathing with a boy. I don't know if it's outlandish and unrealistic, but I have been liking it. Humans are far too complex, yet completely simple at the same time. Right now, it's simple and fun and (causing so many rumors! Yes! Go Buffalo!) a good time. Something might be off though, I'm guessing it's me. I'm terrified to genuinely like someone. I have this irrational fear that they will get brain cancer and that cancer will be a bigger part of their life than I could ever be. I'll help them through it.. be their heart, soul, nurse, friend.. and then have nothing to show. Good karma, maybe. But what good is karma when you ultimately lose yourself? I've been rebuilding relationships for 6 months now. I still have nightmares of my brother or Marley or Stephanie getting really sick and dying. It's terrifying. I wonder if I'll ever be back to normal. Hopefully.

Scott comes home soon. Aside from family and great friends, he's the only genuine thing I've let into my life in a long time. I miss him. Sometimes I think my life would be so much easier if he lived here. California makes me nervous, too much sun. Everyone hassels me for sincerely enjoying his company, but that is only because they don't have sincere in their lives.. anywhere.

I went to my sister's plea bargain for her trial. I can't even describe it. Sad, an eye opener, devastating. Sitting on the bench and seeing my father actually showing he cared about the situation really got to me. I started crying and the judge made eye contact with me. For some reason, I had a feeling he might save her. I hadn't had a sister for a good 20 years. How can they take her away now? I can't raise her child. Ah, I don't really have anything else to say about it.

So Says the Dream

This is going to sound a little weird so bear with me.

Last night I went to a bar to play pool by myself and only had a few beers and a couple shots, thought I was fine, but then remembered the shots were DOUBLE shots, which I hadn't noticed at first, so I was hungover this morning and needed to take a nap after going through the morning routine with Larry.

And I always have wild dreams when I take naps. Just outlandish. But this time my dream was long, pretty steadily focused, vivid, and realistic as all hell.

There were four parts of the dream, that mixed together, and popped up at random times to sort of finish tying ends together. Kind of like Magnolia. But the reason I am writing you is because you were in the dream. We were on a train, and I guess it was present day, Spring, because everything was that fresh sort of green color, outside. Fields of wheat that looked like honeycombs. Watercolor skies, clear as aquariums. Clouds like jellyfish. You know.

And you started to open up to me. I'm not even sure if I've ever heard your voice before, but it sounded familiar. Anyway, you told me that sometimes you lucidly hear music in your head, along with flashes of images, sounds, colors, what have you. They all blur together and it makes it hard for you to focus. But it goes away when you drink. You got a real sad look in your face, when you said that. And we kept talking, I don't remember about what, and you told me you wanted to feel loved, so bad, but hated feeling needy. And your eyes soaked up the scenery flashing by outside of the window.

Unfortunately I don't remember anything else we said.

I'm thinking I just projected my own character onto yours, or someone else's, or made it all up or whatever. That's the likely, psychologically sound conclusion. But I figured I'd at least see if this sounds like you, because if it is, it's kind of neat I dreamt it. And also, if I was dreaming you, I want you to know that there's other ways to get all of those sounds and colors out of your head besides drinking, and there's nothing wrong with wanting to feel loved or being needy-- just make sure you are very particular about who you give your heart to.

So I probably just made an ass out of myself but oh well. I like to believe that life can do bizarre things like this.

- E. Payne.


((It's surreal knowing someone who knows me better than I can ever possibly know myself. And we've never met, but lurked in the same odd vicinity of corn fields and cows for years. I don't know what else to do besides marriage.))

Bad news.

At least I have this guard built up similar to that of an indestructible wall of Legos that a youth builds, but never fully realizes it could crumble at any moment.

I'll probably get hurt. It'll be another life lesson to tuck away in the back of my mind.

Too many Buffalo connections for my liking.

Did your heart break enough this tiiiiiime?

The simple word "emotional" describes me so well lately. I watched a full episode of A Baby Story (hey now, don't judge) yesterday and was practically hysterically crying when the (still young) older brothers were telling their new baby brother "You now have my heart!" in their adorable and innocent 6 year old voices.

If only everyone I knew could be as honest as a 6 year old.

Life has too many options. It reminds me of Coldstone when I stand in line with a very vague idea of what I'd like to feast on. I think I have it all figured out, but once the outwardly flamboyant worker asks me what special treats I'd like to toss into my Cake Batter ice cream, I lose it. I am at a loss for words and all of the clear jars filled to the brim with unknown substances make me entirely antsy. I always panic and include the same old, same old ingredients of white chocolate chips, twix bar and caramel. I want to go wild. I vow to add some gummy bears of sprinkles or maybe fresh fruit.

My metaphors are ridiculously ambiguous. Maybe I should take my own advice and be as honest as a 6 year old?

I don't even really like chicken wings that much.. ?

(I am a disaster!)