I'm convinced far too many people are bullshit. And I guess when you finally come right out and tell them they are bullshit, they end up yearning for you even more. Part of me knows it's one of those "I can't handle you not liking me" situations.. another, more vain and self-absorbed (yet altogether oblivious) part of me wishes it was what it seems to be. Wishes it was as simple as "you don't know what you got 'til it's gone". Rather exhausting, if you ask me. But for some reason, for some fucked up reason, I love hearing "sorry". Maybe it's due to months and months lacking apologies, who knows.

My stomach is hurting over the new Death Cab for Cutie album. (In a good, great way). It makes me want to make memories that I will reminisce over when I replay song after song.

I went with Ian to watch him get tattooed by Erich. It was nice spending time with two of the most down to earth guys I know. Entertaining, genuine conversation immersed us for 3 hours. It felt comforting.

I've been sleeping about 15 hours a day. What is wrong with me?

I am confident that if I quit drinking I would lose the 20lbs I've been packing on like some grizzly bear anticipating hibernation.

Such a shame that I don't know how to have a good time without a drink or nine. Kidddddding, right?

Oh well, maybe I can meet up with Joey from the Real World and we can go kayaking or take some long walks in the park sans alcohol.

Stefffffan, hush up.

Oh god. It seems as though the treacherous weather, my broken digital cable box permanently stuck on Discovery Channel and the tattered and ravenously chewed computer plug are all in cahoots to ruin my day. Or to make me realize how much my body is going completely wild right now. How bad it hurts all over and how I'm in desperate need of a massage of sorts. Yikes, being a girl has been kind of awful recently and that is honestly the first time I've uttered such a phrase in all of my menstruating years. Alas, I am going to try to lay off the chemicals for a bit. I'm doing enough harm by drinking and smoking in a fashion nowhere near the term moderation, so maybe I'll give Alan's holistic methods a shot.

A woman outside of my apartment complex is making herself look like a real maniac right now. I can't say for sure that she "issss" a maniac, but she definitely is acting as though she has a few screws loose. And to an outsider, they'd think that.. but I heard her confrontational conversation escalate to the heights of her screaming "Shut your fucking fucked up motherfucker mouth, Steffffan!" I mean, he was really bugging her like a gnat divebombing on your last, tasty meal. All she wanted him to do was be quiet, calm down, take a step back and get out of her face. Now here they are, riled up on North St, causing a ruckus. She looks crazy, and he looks battered. Story of my life.

Last night was entertaining. Marshall and I created a non-Monday-Monday for ourselves. I got lectured on racism and reverse racism by a boisterous black man named Abraham who had the ability to take out all of his teeth in one swooping hand motion. Quite the party trick. I, as per usual, asked Marshall invasive questions and begged for advice on certain topics. And, unfortunately, I got quite an eye-opening view on things. Bummer, maybe. Not really, sort of. Ohhhh well.

I honestly don't even feel the slightest bit bad or remorseful because I have a few great great great things to look forward to. Even if they are "me me me" things. (Or silly unattainable, yet fun things).

I'm okay with doing whatever floats your boat.. just don't make waves in my sea.



(I only want the good waves that jolt your stomach and flood your heart and don't let two ships solely pass in the night.. and maybe even shoot you ridiculous looks that are filled with weird intentions across a dirty bar at 3am because I can see you are unhappy. Maybe I am crazy, maybe you need to stop having a girlfriend and I need to stop letting undeserving people take tiny parts of myself.)

Since when does skin color matter? Seriously, it's 2008, get with the fucking times! Ah, the transition from "third room" to "la luna" was basically three white girls getting murdered. Yikes. Annnnnd Luna bartender can quit calling me by my first name and/or acknowledging my presence because I am donnnnne with it. Done as in.. yeah sure I will check out your ass, but you are a bartender aka Buffalo Celeb with a girlfriend and I will not participate in the game.



On the contrary, today was kind of fucking really awesome. I liked it. And I love Sara and Courtney because we moved from hustling to balling to dancing like ethnic bitches.

Ohio was fantastic. Ohio was home, in fact. Everyone and their Southern drawls, lazy days and awe of Buffalo. I'm growing to let it grow on me. I detoxed for a few days and actually felt alive. Shame that I came home and ran to a pack of Senecas as if it were my life support, but to each his own.

I officially missed people while I was gone. I understand it was only a few days, but I've crumbled my wall and in return built up some amazingness that I enjoy. Some solid ground, if you will.

I get myself into pickles often. A persistent pickle in the middle is how I feel. I'm testing the waters on one end of the pickle, but I just absolutely cannot bring myself to give up the other, sooo so far away, end. An end that could be a great beginning if I were still a dreaming, hopeless romantic. If I wasn't so goddamn cynical. If I shed my skin a little and got a tan. But this other end, shit, it's been good. Great, even? I hesitate to say great because after great things get ambiguous and iffy and.. why not stay at great? I shall. A pickle, indeed.

And, bluntly, why does everyone have a problem with great? Well, only a problem that my back has had the leisurely pleasure of overhearing. hah

Spring fever has gotten so many people riled up. Negatively and positively, but more heavily on the downside. I wonder about many individuals. I've always been a sincerity skeptic, but come on. Or rather, don't. Way too much "sweating the small stuff" when, in fact, there is not nearly enough heat to warrant perspiration. I know too many chronic perspirers (is that a word?) who love sweating the small stuff and actually enjoy making others yearn for a fan and cool drink of water. How do you do this to "good friends"? How do you purposely try to make people feel bad by resorting to the most petty of tactics? Who knows. I sure as fuck don't know, but I'll play along if that is what floats boats around here.

I'm cutting ties, apron strings even. If you're not know you never were. And if you never were, I'm ashamed for trying. And if you were trying, we wouldn't be having this conversation.

Marley, here I come.

I'm going to miss some. Others, not so much. Drama, certainly not.. drama would fit into the "not so much" category.

Sara, I love you.

June is bullshit. Complete and total bullshit. I gravitate towards Courtney because she is a good time and I see my youth, our youth, thriving inside of her. We both have the same mentality of having fun no matter what. Some people shun and look down and judge. FUCK YOU. Seriously, I've never been mean intentionally.. but fuck you. I'm screaming that, just so you know. Just so you are fucking aware. In case you haven't gotten your head out of your own shitty self-absorbed cloud in enough time to hear me yell it in your fucking face.

I miss Jackie. I have so many regrets. And I see the regrets coming out in me now. Now that I don't have a family in Buffalo it is making me reflect on my own. How after Jackie passed we rallied around one another. How Nick and I both deal with it in our own ways. How I fucking need to be in Ohio in 3 days. Seriously. I've seen death and I need life. I don't need bullshit drama or petty arguments over me being "boy crazy". Because, ya know what, being boy crazy will help me meet many and weed out many and savor few.

.. the fucking few that will resemble the genuine love and concern and care that my brother and dad show me. At 22, I doubt I'll find that. I doubt that grilled-cheese-making-carry-me-home-drunk boy will be here. But at 22, at least I know what I want. At least I know that I've felt it before. I've felt someone hug me sincerely and lovingly and with the utmost selfless concern for my well being. Sorry if, at 22, for the first fucking time in my life I care about myself and what I want and who I want to sleep next to.

I am a ranting machine in 2008, apparently.

I fucking hope.

I don't know. I just don't know. One day I'll get it.. an epiphany that isn't alcohol induced. My mind and thoughts race at speeds that Danica Patrick wouldn't even have the audacity to sneeze at. One day.. some day, they'll settle down and catch up to hearts and heads all at once.

For some reason I dare not even question, the roof makes me make sense. Does that sentence even make sense?! Does it make sense that a view of a city I grew to hate and learned to love can fucking complete me. I look at it with a biterness that is so saccharin soaked it's oozing with tooth rotting capabilities. It's great. So many loves of my life have enamored themselves in dizzying streetlights and sounds of the city.. with me.

.. I just deleted possibly the best sentence I've ever thought, typed and/or written because it scares me. I hope it scares you just as much, if not more. I hope.

"te quiero puerto rico" - hillary clinton - shut the fuck up!

I need to keep repeating and reiterating and recycling the notion that the only reliable dude in my life is my brother. I mean, Peterbilt.. maybe when it comes to reliable biting. But dude-wise.. who else will pick me and my drunk friends up from a bar at 4:08am.

I think people are too shady for their own good. I had this epiphany of honesty that I just can't shake as of late. It's amazing because I'm not hurting anyone and I refuse to let myself be legitimately hurt. Ever. I will save that hurt for real life because from now to 30 means nothing.. nothing but fun. Even friends.. I completely refuse to be vulernable, yet I make myself socially vulernable.. doesn't make outward sense, but to me it does.

Anyhow, I spent the past hour calling awkward memories from home. Leaving ridiculous voicemails regaling old stories of love and lust and middle school wishes. I miss Derek? I miss Derek. A statement, I think. A moral question, sure. But a fucking statement none the less. I try to brush it off when I hear that I ruined his life. When I hear that I'm the reason he is sooo FUCKED UP. Come on. I loved you since 6th grade and you felt the same and never mentioned it, yet blamed me. Never have I met anyone who made me laugh like he did.. where my insides and outsides ached from a joyous feeling of pure innocent bliss. From giggling outrageously to sitting in silent understanding... we fucking got eachother from day one. Whenever my mom would talk about marrying someone and what it meant I still pictured Derek dangling from a scaffolding we used to paint our Impressionistic piece of art on the hallway in Alden. He did it because he wanted to make me laugh.. forever. Like anyone should. Like I hope anyone I'd want to spend a significant amount of time with. Yet I have not felt anyone who was crazy over my happiness like that yet. I guess I should chalk it up to a childhood memory that is exaggerated with tree climbing and blood brother's oaths, but who knows. I don't fucking know.

Fuck.. I don't even want to know anymore.

How many times can I think and realize and know I am happy before it becomes cliche?!

I just spilled beer onto my laptop. Read between the lines..

So tonight I spent half of a previous paycheck on a bar tab, but it was worth it. It was worth it to be filled with familiarity and laughter and love that I've wondered about for so long. I won't be replaced, ever. It's validated. I am fucking happy.

I don't know how I all of a sudden hit the jackpot of life. Yes, I'm broke. Yes, my sister might go to jail and I will care for her unborn child. Yes, I still have a closet full of skeletons wreaking of past relationships and fucking cancer.. but fuck, I am happy. It's Nick's birthday and I am just bursting with a feeling I want him to feel. Fucking happiness.

And texts from Steph all of a sudden put everything into perspective and make me feel okay about life. About everything. About my situations and previous situations. I love her. Ya know, Because we could die tomorrow and so why the fuck shouldn't we live today?! Exactly.

If you're not now, you never were.