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.
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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.