One o' clock, two o' clock, three o'clock, four...

It's midnight, Saturday and I have this large elephant standing next to me in my living room reminding me that I have an article to write, jobs to look for, a novel to get together, a life to plan and somewhere amongst all that, a boyfriend to spend time with. But, what am I doing? Visiting everyone's blog pages, reading about everyone else's life and ignoring my own. I do that often, ignore my life until it begins to bubble and spit from overheating. Hours ago I stood in the shower with the water cascading over my head and repeating to myself that I need to learn to take deeper breaths. The world is not crashing down around me even if a few chips of paint land in my hands now and then. So I blink five times because that's how long it takes me to phase out of negativity, my own version of Foosgraabaaa. But it doesn't work this time because blinking reminds me of how badly I wanted to name my novel "Blink" but it turns out there's already a book out by that name, and the title was wasted on something completely irrelevant to my noble cause of a novel. I'll think of something else eventually. I always think of something else. Actually, I think of too many other things, so many that I forgot where I started. Ever do that? I'm looking at this flashing advertisement of the predator alien running across the screen with the words "Destroy the Alien and win a Free PSP" screaming at me in neon green, but my mind has already moved on to thinking about this guy I refer to as the predator, and now I’m thinking about Vegas where I first saw said guy, and now I'm remembering how that is where I met Anthony, and now I'm getting chills because I still can't believe I had to go across the nation to fall in love with someone who happened to live eight blocks away from me. And DAYUM all that was in less than three seconds, just took me longer to type it.

Am I writing well? I have no f'in idea. I was first praised for my writing when I was ten and wrote a thirty-five page story about a corrupt cop who stalked a family in a suburban neighborhood. I'm a weirdo, I already know this. But, at least then I could believe people we're actually impressed with my work because HELLO what ten-year-old writes shit like that? Now, I don't know anymore. They tell me "Elle, this is GOOD shit." Should I trust the opinion of someone who tells me my work is both good and shit in the same sentence? Then again I use shit as a noun for things unshitty all the time and I'm pretty credible, or so my degree says. But let's not get into what degrees really "say" about someone (that they spend way too much money on a dream and will be paying for it for the next 30 years at high interest rates). College degree- u can hardly get by without one, and yet you can hardly get by with one. Whatever.

So I'm concocting a to do list for tomorrow, maybe I'll be able to walk the straight line this way instead of the overly curve and dangerous one:
1) Employ a really large snake (long story, just know it's a necessity)
2) Buy the Motorcycle Diaries DVD so I can freeze frame Gael Garcia Bernal's gorgeous grill (if Ant can have Beyonce I can have Gael ..whose name I'm not even sure I'm pronouncing correctly)
3) Dream that I'm on the receiving end of a well needed massage
4) Get a pre-tan for the ultimate tan I hope to achieve in South Florida this Thursday- Sunday.
5) Call my three closest cousin's and live vicariously through their sexual escapades.
6) Engage in my own sexual escapade as soon as nature allows.
7) Hang poolside with Marjorie and accept the fact that her ass may not be around next summer to do this with me again.
8) Realize no one is guaranteed to be with me this time next year.. oh damn here come the evil negative demons ... one blink .. two blink... three blink... (fuckin' title!)
9) Get back in touch with Ely, my twin from another mother, the evil genius- where IS she
10) Find a good chiropractor. I need someone to break me and put me back together.

Ahh... I feel better.