Good Job, Amanda. Good Fucking Job

Let’s recap. I’m 25, I’m a fucked-up barely functional pretense of an adult, and I’ve moved back in with my parents.

I got my heart broken — which I deserved. I developed a drug addiction and massive credit card debt, and lost all my friends — who, honestly I barely had in the first place. So I ran home.

Fuck me. Fuck me fuck me fuckmefuckmefuckmefuckmefuckmefuckme FUCK. ME.

I don’t remember the exact date that I left Winston Salem and moved back in with my parents, but I know that I’ve been here a few days short of a month.

I know that honestly, I probably saved my own life. I know that… I know that I would have eventually… It was getting to the point of being irrevocable. And after seven years, not worrying about money has been nice. I got a $100 haircut yesterday. Because I could.

I really couldn’t care less.

I hate this.

I hate my new job.

I fucking hate only being able to smoke a cigarette about twice a day.

I hate not knowing where anything is in town and spending an insane amount of time driving around half lost.

I hate being sober. I’m going to say it again. I hate being sober. I hate it! I HATE IT I HATE IT I HATE IT GODDAMNIT I WANT MY DRUGS. Fuck you, America. Fuck you, Republicans. Fuck you and your fake separation of church and state. Fuck you and your fucking anti-drug legislation. Fuck you America for being so broken and greedy and fucked up. Where are your priorities America? You want to fix the economy? Let R J Reynolds sell packs of joints and tax the hell out of them. I’ll sure as fuck pay for it.

They’ve got the machines ready. RJR has machines in their warehouses that are ready to roll up a pot cigarette right next to their regular cigarette rolling machines. That’s not a fucking joke, either. R J Reynolds knows. They know it’s coming.

I hate not having a single fucking sane person to talk to and I hate living in this batshit-crazy-for-Jesus house.

I’d forgotten, honestly. Seven years; it’s not so long but it’s, eh… 28% of my life so far. Long enough to forget. Long enough to forget how fucking repressive and revolting it is to live with hyper right-wing Jesus freaks. Seriously. These are people who read (and believe and agree with!) World Magazine. Who play Sean Hannity’s entire radio program every afternoon. Who — no fucking lie — have recordable VHS tapes labeled Close Encounters of the God Kind and Bibleman and Prayer Bear 3; who have the entire Left Behind series. In Hardback.

I’d forgotten that my middle sister is a loud, obnoxious brat who thinks cruelty is funny and my baby sister is prone to frantic melodramatism is order to retain some of the attention. I hate it. I want them both to shut up and go away and never talk to me again.

I’d forgotten how dutifully my… family buys into the pretense of consumerism. I’d forgotten about the sheer amount of money they spend on material crap that settles into a constant patina of clutter in the living room and kitchen and hallways. It disgusts me. Fuck your possessions. Use your money for something meaningful.

A month.

Occasionally it’s very nice to have the memory/attention span of a squirrel. Time passes quickly when you can’t remember it.

Plan:

There is a plan. It’s flexible. Timing is… at this point, a little vague. But there are ingredients:

  • Move out.

This one is not going to happen immediately. I’m going to have to see how much money I’ll make when Famous Anthony’s opens up and I start waiting tables for them. I’m going to have too see if I can handle working at Target and Famous A’s at the same time. Or rather, I should say, I’m going to have to see if I make enough money at Famous A’s to justify quitting Target. I know I’m going to have to quit Target anyway when I start school in January.

  • Finish school.

I actually filled out the paperwork today at the community college. I have an appointment with an adviser on Tuesday. I’m going to hate it and I’m going to be scared shitless but I’ve got to do it. I’ve got to quite fucking around, and I’ve got to get my Web Development degree.  So I can quit fucking around with jobs like Target and support myself in a way that doesn’t make me feel like a fucking extra in Attack of the Clones. And for the money. And the money is so I can:

  • Get A Place

Which is different than moving out. Getting a place involves actually having a modest little old house of my own — and it will be modest and will be little and it will be old, because even if for some reason out of bizzarro world I actually make a decent amount of money one day, I don’t need more than a bedroom and a bathroom and a kitchen and a living room. You know why? Because consumerism is fucking disgusting. There are enough perfectly functional little houses out there already. Who am I to think I’m so special as to use up ever more of our earth’s resources to build a new little house.

And I hate housework.

Having a little place of my own means not having a roommate.

It means having either a yard that is private enough to grown my own pot, or having a modest little place with a second bedroom to use as a growing room. Considering the climate around here, it’ll probably be the second one. But it still has to have a yard. And a backporch where I can sit on the steps and watch trees and listen to birds while I smoke. Because if you want to know what I consider an ideal moment, it involves a backporch, some trees, some weed, some sun, and either some birds or my iPod.

And possibly:

  • A passport.

Because you have to have one to get into Canada these days. And we all know why I want to go there.

Notice that nowhere in that plan did I mention find a new girlfriend or make new friends. Because, seriously, my heart is broken. I’m done. Finished. I played that game and as I result I very literally wake up crying almost every morning. If I need to get laid I’ll go to a bar. But my heart is damaged merchandise and I am not lending it out anymore. Fuck that game.

And as for friends: I’m going to be growing the weed. I’m not going to have a shortage of people who want my company. If they entertain me they can hang around. But never again will I put myself in a position to get hurt like I’m hurting now.

In other news, I’d really like to be a vampire.

GodDAMNIT I have to be at work at 4am tomorrow.

Wishful thinking

I just learned that Neil Gaiman has a son who’s my age — which is a bit weird to me, since I didn’t realize that Neil was that, well, old.

But then I thought, I wonder if he’s single? ‘Cause Damn, I would love to marry into that family.

um.

This was going to be the post where I talked about how I’m supposed to start work with Target on Monday and how I’m also probably going to be working as a waitress at Famous Anthony’s at night, and how I think after ten hours of driving and a couple hundred dollars, I actually managed to pass my drug test.

Instead, I’m just sitting here really really thinking about trying to sneak off for a cigarette, because my cousin just told me that he really really wants to fuck me and I’m so not sure how to handle this.

Knowing is Half the Battle

I feel like ass.

I spent almost all of last night half awake and half asleep, tense and nervous about today. I was awake enough to worry and be aware of the fact that I wasn’t doing myself any favors by not sleeping, and asleep enough to dream about Rachel. I usually don’t dream about her, thankfully. I have to hold on to the little things that actually go right in my brain, and one of the few nice things is that in the midst of all of the nightmares and anxiety dreams and  Chris-dreams that I have every fucking night, I at least somehow manage to not dream about Rachel.

Generally. I guess I save her for special occasions.

They were good dreams, too, in the sense that in my dreams she was my girlfriend and we were happy and the only painful part was waking up.

And brilliantly, and probably predictably, I set the time on my alarm clock last night but forgot to actually turn it on. So I sat straight up in bed 30 minutes after I wanted to be awake and ran like mad for the shower. I went to Target, to the job interview. I made it on time. And I must have said enough of the right things, because they offered me the job.

Along with the drug test papers.

The drug test had to be completed in 24 hours. It was 10:30 am by the time I got out of there. I came home and looked up a few things on the internet, and got back in my car.

And for the second day in a row, I drove back to North Carolina.

I had a job interview last week that I obviously wasn’t charming enough for, and I was stupid and took the last of my Omni Cleanse before even going to the interview. And I’m sure that there’s a place I can buy a detox kit without driving two hours to Greensboro, but I don’t know of it yet and I couldn’t find one on the internet. And knowing is half the battle.

So I made it to Glitters a little after 1:00 in the afternoon and bought two detox kits — which thank God. Thank God I bought two. Thank God that right now is one of the tragically few times in my life that I had money to spend on something besides rent and car insurance.

Because I got back in my car and started taking the four pills and the shot of really nasty fruit punch flavored diuretic. Before I’d left Virginia I’d filled up an empty 2-litre with water and slammed the thing on the ride there. I was feeling good. I had time. It’s a little more than a two hour drive, it was a little after 1:00, and I had till 4:30 to get to Prime Care for the drug test.

Except that right after that, it suddenly went from being a little after 1:00 to being a little after 2:00 and I was on the wrong highway and it took me damn near 40 minutes to turn around and get unlost. WTF?? How did I lose that hour? What happened? Was I just paying attention taking the detox kit and zoning out? Or did I really just spend an hour driving in the wrong direction with absolutely no memory of it?

I was fucking scared. I’ve had secret suspicions before that I really do sometimes mentally shut down and operate on auto pilot, and then realize I have no memory of my own actions. Not that often. Not often at all, really. But it’s happened before. And I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m being careless or if there’s something deeper going on. But driving for 40 minutes in the wrong direction, and not having any memory of it, especially when time is so important. That’s a colossal fuck-up.

I know Greensboro just barely enough that I was able to turn around and get back on track. But I was scared and lost and not at all entirely sure I was going the right way. It was a shot in the dark that thankfully worked. Almost.

Prime Care closed at 4:30. I made it back to Lynchburg at 4:36.

Technically I have 24 hours to complete the drug test. I can get up in the morning and be there at 8:00 when they open and still be within the rules. But I don’t know if Target is going to find out that I waited so long to show up. I really fucking hope not. I know it wouldn’t look good at all. And I really fucking hope that there’s not going to be any hassle, that I’m not going to have to beg and plead my way into a late drug test.

I completely missed my other job interview. I was still an hour south of where I needed to be. I didn’t want to fucking work there anyway, but still. I can’t just do that. It would have been a job. It would have been a start.

So what do I do now? This is the second $35 detox kit I’ve wasted. The time frame of guaranteed results for this one closed about a half hour ago. But between the one I took today and the one I took last week and the amazingly huge amount of water I’ve been drinking — maybe that would be enough? Maybe I can pass a drug test on that alone, especially if I get up an drink another litre of water before I go in tomorrow morning.

Or should I take my last kit in the morning? Do they become dangerous? And more importantly, if I take another one tomorrow, will it be really obvious to the drug test people? I guess all they can do is make me take another one, which after this, after three detox kits and insane amounts of water, I’m sure I can pass on my own.

I know this one made me feel like ass, which the Omni never did. Perhaps it was because of stress or the two hours of sleep, but when I got home I was depressed and sore all over and barely awake and really wanted to puke. I sat and talk to my mom for just a few minutes before I had to go lay down. I hurt all over. My heart hurt and my body hurt. I laid there and fretted and hurt for a few hours and slept for a few hours.

And now I have to decide. Take my last kit in the morning or wing it?

I think I’ll take it, and I’ll just have to live with how it makes me feel. I have to go to the post office in the morning, too. I sold my old phone on eBay, and I really should have shipped it by today. I’m going to pay for overnight shipping to make up for it.

This has been a fucking expensive venture. Gas for a nearly 400-mile round trip. Three detox kits, two of which were wasted out of my own fucking idiocy. Overnight shipping for an eBay auction that I should have taken care of two days ago. Breaching on $200? At least $150.

And amazingly enough I’m doing all of this so that eventually I can move back out on my own and grow my own pot. And it’s not that I’m refusing to learn my lesson. The lesson here is that America is still fucking retarded enough to criminalize marijuana and people like me are going to have to continue to live in secrecy and black market tricks until our country realizes how much money it’s wasting on “criminal justice” and the “war on drugs” and how many millions or billions of dollars it’s losing on import taxes. Because hell yes I would go to a store and pay taxes on weed just like I pay taxes on cigarettes every other day, and so would you.

I feel a little better now.

Likelihood that tomorrow will suck: 66.67%

Virginia -- Eat the Kids First

I wish I know whose tag this is, because I would bow to them. That, my nonfriends, is brilliant.

I drove back to Winston-Salem today. I needed to. I had to pick up some money that was waiting for me. $1,266.83, actually. Which means that right now ranks up in the top ten wealthiest moments of my life. Which is sad.

And oh my god I fucking hurt now. I loved Winston-Salem while I was living there. I really did. It is such a beautiful little city. Even at my most depressed it still felt like home to me. And that word — home— I don’t use it lightly. I went to 12 different schools before I completed eighth grade. I love my Mom but damn she fucking gypsied the hell out of our lives.

Is gypsied a word? Fuck it. It is now.

I was 22 years old before I ever felt like I had a place to go home to  and I love that fucking city.

JerryFallwellburg hurts, and frankly, it scares me.

But I had to go to the bookstore and my old apartment and get my money and now I’m sitting here lonely and homesick and I want it back. I left WS running away from a broken heart. Fuck me. Fuck me and my broken heart. It doesn’t matter. I’m just one incomprehensibly insignificant little girl. Who cares if my heart is broken? I don’t even care half the time.

in other news, I. Am. So. Fucked.

I have a job interview tomorrow. Two, actually. I’ve gone through my entire supply of temporary drug test cleansers. Half the reason I chose to go today was because I knew I could stop at Glitters in Greensboro and stock up. If only I had called ahead to learn that Glitters is fucking closed on Tuesdays.

Let’s talk about irony. Can we do that? Irony is the fact that all the things on this list apply to me:

  • I am a fucking pothead. If there were no weed I would have no purpose in being alive.
  • I intentionally moved to a city where I know no one and have no dealer.
  • I still cannot pass a drug test. And I really need to.
  • I need to pass said drug test as part of a possible way of finding a new dealer and eventually becoming my own dealer.

Brilliant, Amanda. Fucking brilliant.

Job interview A, which is at nine in the morning, is for one that I would really like to have. And I know for a fact that they drug test. So here are the scenarios. In Scenario 1, I go to the job interview, it goes well, and they send me home telling me they’ll call me back. I drive like a bat out of hell to the closest head shop that I can locate on the internet tonight and stock up on piss cleansers. They call me back and I cheat the drug test and get the job. In Scenario 2, I go to the job interview. It goes well and they hire me that day and send me for a drug test, and I have to decline the job. In Scenario 3, I go to the job interview, it goes badly, and I still drive like a bat out of hell to stock up on piss cleansers for future options.

I’ve got a 33.3% chance of tomorrow not sucking.

Job Interview B is for a job I’d really rather not have, which probably won’t drug test. Even if it does, it’s at four in the evening and barring some catastrophe I’ll be loaded up on cleansers by then so it won’t matter.

Job interview C, also for tomorrow, is one that I would like to have, but is also not really a job interview. It’s just when I introduce myself to some guys that are opening a restaurant and will need waitresses in a couple of weeks.

A Chart:

Job A Job B Job C
Likelihood of finding a fellow pothead at new job who knows a dealer 50%-75% No fucking clue. Can’t even guess Seriously? It’s a casual dining restaurant. Those motherfuckers are high as shit. Stereotypically, at least.
Likelihood I’d meet some cool people to chill with 75%-100% 0%-25% Insufficient data
Likelihood of getting the job: 33.3% 75%-100% 50%

Likelihood that it’s already getting late and I’m wasting time playing with html for a secret blog when I should be finding headshop listings on the internets: 100%

Likelihood of me finding a free wordpress template I like: Fail.

Star light, star bright

I am a huge music geek and I really wish I knew of a website or RSS subscription or something that would allow me to input my, i dunno, 25 favourite bands and be emailed like two weeks or so before the band drops a new album. Because even though I am a huge music geek, I don’t necessarily go to artists’ websites unless I have a specific question, and even that is pretty rare. In fact, I would say that I’ve never even been to most of my favourite bands’ websites. And of course, being a music geek, I’m not going to get the info I want from commercial radio stations. At least none in my area, that’s more sure.

I know that I could spend a couple of hours one night going through and signing up for all these bands’ newsletters, but seriously, we all know that would involve getting a lot of faux-news crap that I really don’t feel like sifting through and I’d just wind up unsubscribing to them all. When I had a MySpace account I had a lot of bands as friends, but really, who reads all those bulletins? Do you?

That’s what I thought.

In the past two weeks, I’ve been caught off guard by Ani DiFranco’s Red Letter Year, Amanda Palmer’s Who Killed Amanda Palmer, Nine Inch Nails’ The Slip, and Mogwai’s The Hawk Is Howling. Not that those albums were released in the past two weeks. It’s just that I suddenly became aware that the bands had given birth and I didn’t even know that they were expecting. And those four bands really all fit into my All Time Top Ten without question.

What else am I missing?

Christian Nymphos (Things That Hurt)

I think this is going to be a regular section here in my anonymous blog: Things that hurt. I feel the need to create this section because, for reasons that seemed fucking sane at the time, I’ve torn my whole life up by the roots and recamped myself in the middle of JerryFallwellBurg. (WTF? Why am I putting links in a blog that’s designed to be secret? Because I have the world’s worst memory? Perhaps.) Seriously, this place is 67% white, according to Wiki. I’m white. But that’s not the point. The point is that we are crazy fucking people and there shouldn’t be this high of a concentration of us in one place.

But I Digress.

JerryFallwellBurg fucking hurts. It hurts to exist here. It hurts to be surrounded by people who are this fucking brainwashed and actively seeking to continue the trend. Seriously, the news that Obama is actually the targeted winner of the upcoming elections by anyone who has a rational view of the world came as a complete shock to me this week, once I was able to stop nurturing my poor broken heart enough to start paying attention to the news again.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s still broken (Chris, you fucktard, I hate you, and I will exact my revenge). But the distance helps.

It was a shock because I’m living in JerryFallwellBurg. I think it may actually be more like 85% or 90% white. I think they’re hiding the black people in the same tank that they’re hiding the agnostics and poor people and people who know who Peter Sagal is. You know what, I’m just going to copy and paste.

The racial makeup of the city was 66.63% White, 29.70% African American, 0.26% Native American, 1.28% Asian, 0.04% Pacific Islander, 0.63% from other races, and 1.46% from two or more races. Hispanic or Latino of any race were 1.35% of the population.

Seriously, WTF kind of place is only 1.35% Mexican? A creepy creepy fucking place. There’s bunkers around here somewhere. There’s gotta be.

Anyway.

Heh. That’s such a cheap tag trick. I’m surprised is still works.

Things that hurt:

Christian Nymphos, whose authors cheerfully proclaim, “We are women with excessive sexual desire for our husbands!” offers candid how-to advice on anal sex, fisting, and “masturbating for your husband.”

Also, fittingly enough, in this first section of Things That Hurt, I’m going to go ahead and say: I like anal sex. Yes, it can be fucking painful, but it can also be really great. Ok. Done. Moving on.

Fisting makes me want to vomit.

And Christian Nymphos gives my heart or my sensibilities or my whatever-it-is-I-engage-the-world-with the same feeling I get when I wake up in the middle of the night with a Charley Horse in both my legs: Something has gone horribly painfully wrong and it needs to Go Away Right Now.

On a side note: The Gone Away World, recently published by Nick Harkaway through Knopf, is one of the best fucking books ever. Buy it. Now. Done.

And also, go read The Sexy Puritan published on slate.com by Tom Perrotta, who is the author of The Abstinance Teacher and Little Children, both of which are fine novels worthy of your attention.