got some whiskey from the barman.

when you want something so badly that it hurts, is it enough to overcome the nerves?

you look at the number of people who you’re up against, the other girls who have resumes far more impressive than yours, the ones who have been around for a while and aren’t just fresh out of college, and you wonder: why me? why did i get the call?

you feel honored, scared, excited, and nervous.

you know that you’ve been busting your ass to get off book, to get those lines memorized, to make intelligent and defined choices, but you can’t help but ask: will it be enough?

sunday evening, here i come. cross some fingers for me or something.

if i went and lost myself – would you know where to find me?

i have an inkling.

double entendre.

do with it what you will.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?

- Bluebird by Charles Bukowski

but i didn’t care where i was going ’cause they’re all different names for the same place.

things you should know about me:

- i will most likely wear inappropriate footwear in the dead of winter; flip flops, shoes that are neither warm nor waterproof, and/or boots that are so well-worn that they no longer provide protection from the elements.

- i will always be cold. always. when it’s 95 and humid, i’ll be the girl in jeans and a t-shirt, not the girl in skimpy shorts and a bikini top.

- i will always prefer biking. the cta is only used in cases of extreme emergency, or when it’s pouring rain and i’d rather not show up at an audition looking like a wet rat. (but i’ll still wish i could have biked, and i’ll probably whine about not being able to.)

- my hair has gone from pin straight, fine, and blonde (when i was little) to unruly, red, and curly (now). i’m fairly certain that genetics had something to do with it, and generally, i’m too lazy to try to tame it. granted, i do try now and then because if i don’t, my hair resembles that of a lion’s mane – but in most cases, i’m kind of ok with the fact that my hair makes me look like the ginger-kid version of the bride of frankenstein (or, for a slightly different albeit similar visual, like i stuck my finger in a light socket). fair warning though: if my hair tries to eat you, i can’t be held responsible.

- i will not waste my time kissing your ass, nor will i waste my time kissing anyone elses, either. i am far too busy to do that, and if that upsets you, you can kiss my ass. (except, not in the nice way; in the “go fuck yourself” kind of way.

- if you ask me to be honest, i’ll be honest. i will not sugar-coat things for you, so if that bothers you, don’t ask me to be honest.

- sometimes i have good comebacks. sometimes. usually, i think of a good comeback after the fact and replay the situation in my head.

- i am perfectionist, sometimes (usually) to a fault.

- i’m a sassy motherfucker.

- i am more than willing to engage in intelligent discussion about anything and everything (religion included), even when i am 100% sober. i find it irritating, however, when people spout nonsense in an attempt to make themselves sound intelligent, ESPECIALLY after indulging in alcohol.

- i am fiercely loyal. i may be easy-going and thick-skinned, but if you fuck with my friends or my family, don’t expect me to remain so easy-going.

- i would love nothing more than to get paid to travel the world; or, at the very least, have the money to travel for a year before having to play the role of “adult.” i still need to visit both coasts, go to burning man, go skydiing SOMEWHERE, go back to europe, visit australia, finally make it to africa, and check out south america (though, the list is extremely long – these are only the few at the top.)

- i can easily sing on a stage in front of hundreds, but i have yet to grow the balls to sing in the shower when my roommates are home.

- if i’m tan (or, in most cases, burned), i have mad freckles on my face. ginger kid, represent!

- i’m bad at keeping in touch. it’s not because i like losing touch, i just get busy and lose track of things; in essence, life happens.

- i keep going through these “i’m trying to be professional” phases where i take my nose ring out with the intention of letting it heal. i’ve had about 10 of these phases, and the nose ring is once again back where it belongs.

- if i was not an actor, i’d probably have more piercings and a multitude of tattoos. i think body art is beautiful (usually), and i never tire of hearing the stories behind each piece.

- i have fairly low self-esteem; i’m just really good at pretending i don’t.

- 99% of the time i use song lyrics for the titles of journal entries. they never have anything to do with the content of my entries, they generally just happen to be the song i’m listening to at the moment i’m writing, or a song i haven’t been able to get out of my head. some day soon (maybe the next entry) i plan to make a list of the songs i’ve used thus far and figure out why they mean so much to me.

adieu, internet. i have to dog walk in the morning, and i’ve stayed up far later that originally planned.

until next time.

i killed my dinner with karate, kick him in the face.

as human beings, we’re always going to play the “what if” game.

chalk it up to human nature, genetic programming, or social influence; everyone does it, and everyone will be doing it for years to come.

it’s not that we are unsatisfied with what we have – sure, in some cases that may be true, but generally, it’s entertaining to, well, entertain the idea of something that we don’t have.

what if i had consented?

what if i hadn’t held out?

what if i had gone to veterinary school?

what if i hadn’t gone to that party?

what if i had read that book first?

what if i hadn’t recieved that message?

what if i had made a move?

and so on and so on, etc etc and blah blah blah.

it’s fun and intriguing to entertain what could have been, what could have happened, who we could have met, how things could have atltered life as we know it today.

but if you had made that decision, or maybe you hadn’t, wouldn’t you be playing the “what if” game using your current senario?

if i hadn’t done that, then i’d be doing this and this, and that would never have happened, i would never have met them, and i wouldn’t be this and this with a degree in that, pursuing a career in that, going to those, and working there. hell, i wouldn’t even be living here, or dating him, or living with them, or trying to do this and that.

confusing, yes. but there are no regrets, and i’m not lamenting the life i could have led, based on the decisions i did or did not make.

it’s just entertaining to entertain them. and i’d rather be sitting here, entertaining those, than sitting there, entertaining these.

i see myself within your eyes, and it’s all i need to show me why.

this is the funniest thing i’ve seen in a long time.

the best part? it’s a documentary – and these people are SERIOUS about their ferrets.

yep. she wrote a song.

this is only a clip – the whole film must be watched to achieve the desired effect.

he was in the habit of taking things for granted.

it’s been a while.

sue me.

i graduated college, met a really awesome guy, signed with an agency, moved apartments, jockey’d lattes, walked some dogs, and am currently in the process of trying to be a real adult, thus why i haven’t had time to sit down and write/update.

in all honesty, i probably did have time, but most of that free time has been spent attempting to make my bedroom liveable, and by liveable, i mean unpacking and painting-ish.

word. well, i’m alive, in case anyone actually reads this. and i promise a better update/post later on today or tomorrow – i swear i’m going to get back into this whole “blogging” thing.

i’m going to try to stop being so masturbatory in my posts as well. granted, all blogs are masturbatory, but don’t like whining, and i’ve got a lot more going on in my life than what i generally post about.

so, yep. awesome. check ya later.

reports of my fame are greatly exaggerated, exacerbated by the fact that my syntax is highly complicated.

i just spent an hour dancing to latin music in my living room.

and now, i feel like my mood is slightly better than it was this morning.

just pull me down hard, and drown me in love.

i wanted to write you a letter
but i lacked the words to say

maybe i’ll just send you a postcard
no return address
feel like that would be easier
less hassle, less mess
so i’ll just dot my eyes and cross my lips
seal it with a weighted kiss
and hope it finds you well

or maybe i’ll send you a valentine
awkwardly written, without any rhyme
it may find its way to you
two months long overdue
on red construction paper
perfumed with stale cigarettes and tinted with wine

but rainy days melt paper hearts
the few words i’ve found just run apart
in punctuated rivers and narrative streams
flower petal wishes and faded blue jeans
i needed to write you a letter
but i lacked the words to say
here’s hoping you know what i meant to say,
anyway

i’m falling apart to acoustic love songs
unbuttoning at the slightest sigh
every hand held reminds me of you
yet the words won’t come out right
trying in vain to form the letters
forgetting fumbling fingers on worn-out sweaters
how do you say i love you in felt-tip pen?

because rainy days melt paper hearts
the few words i’ve found just run apart
in punctuated rivers and narrative streams
flower petal wishes and faded blue jeans
i needed to write you a letter
but i lacked the words to say
here’s hoping you know what i meant to say,
anyway

there was a time when i thought you could read my mind
can’t we just go backwards to that place and time?

because
rainy days
melt paper hearts
and the words i’ve got are only a start
the punctuated rivers and narrative streams
the flower petal wishes and faded blue jeans
i tried to write you a letter
but the words wouldn’t come out right
here’s hoping you knew
here’s hoping you know
what i mean to say, anyway

and it comes and goes, like fitz and dizzyspells.

sometimes, you can just taste the ball of frustration and anger.

it lives in that place right behind your sternum; too big to fit in your throat, but close enough to it that you feel pressing against your lungs every time you breathe and swallow.

it doesn’t happen often – ususally, you’re good at hiding it, or pretending it isn’t there. putting on a facade, ignoring it, pushing it down.

but sometimes, you can’t.

sometimes, it’s a huge build-up of things, and the ball gets stuck there until you’re forced to take deep, calculated breaths to ease around it.

and even then, you have to wear sunglasses on the walk home, despite the fact that it’s overcast and stormy and you probably don’t need them on.

but you wear them so that no one sees the rare occasion when you can’t pretend everything is all right. no one notices the tired half-squint, no one notices the threat of tears.

all they can kind of see is the rhythmic tensing of your jawline, which is also offset by the long cigarette drags and desperate sips of coffee.

but you’re listening to the same song over and over again on your ipod – it’s not set to repeat, but every 4 minutes your fingers slip down into your pocket to hit the back button. sometimes, it only gets 1 minute in before you restart it.

something about the familiarity of it.

maybe it’s the acoustic guitar, the lyrics, the blending of instruments, the melody, the wandering bass line.

maybe it’s a combination of everything.

all you know is that when you turn up the volume of that song loud enough to drown out the sea of city strangers, that ball of frustration starts to melt away.

sometimes, it takes three full plays of the song to get it right.

sometimes, you can feel your body begin to relax as soon as the familiar notes pour into your ears.

the heavy sighs become softer, the nicotine drags less frequent, the tension in your shoulders oozes out through your fingertips.

like magic.

and you get home; the apartment is dark – lit in a murky grey by the the rainy rolling sunday skies.

it smells wet and fresh – the rain perfuming the hardwood floors from the window you left cracked before you ventured out this morning.

bags are thrown down, earplugs removed, shoes kicked off, soggy blue jean bottoms scuff half-hearted circles around bare feet.

tired fingers find worn out strings.

melodies emerge from fingertips.

eyes close as the body of the guitar hums against your chest, urging the last of the pressure behind your sternum to dissolve and fade away.

like magic.

and you play until your fingers hurt – cracked knuckles from hours of washing and pulling espresso become stiff and sore.

yet, it feels good.

like magic.

the well-weathered acoustic nestles back into its resting place as you shrug under covers, lulled into sweet sleep by the soft patter of spring rain promises against the window pane.

bad days breed creativity – especially when it’s storming.