It's been a million years since I looked at this thing. After getting out of the habit, it's really tough to get back in. But I'm going to give it a shot. If for no other reason than to keep ex-boyfriends (and current ones!) on their toes.

Here's the Reader's Digest version of what's happened since I last updated. I had my life consumed by the show, was told I had uterine fibroids, got a boyfriend, finished working on the show, decided to take time off, painted my apartment, got three kittens, gave one away, had a small breakdown, found out the boyfriend can't breathe around cats, gave the other two away, was told I didn't have uterine fibroids, started a diet (again), realized I am going to have to go back to work soon, decided to use the remaining days to be productive. It's been over a month and, as usual, I have utilized most of my time for the purpose of sleeping. Why is it that I get ten million times more done when I'm pressed for time, than when I have loads of it just lying around? I'm going to try and clear out the cobwebs in a few areas of my life that have been neglected and get on top of things, instead of feeling like I'm buried beneath them. Here are some poems that have been drafted for weeks and never edited.

Baby Bear

You're in my chair.
Every time I look over,
there you are.
With your bare feet on the cushions
and a book in your hands.

Watching my television,
drinking my wine.
You're a guest I can't get rid of
in a home that isn't mine.

You go to all my parties,
all my restaurants
and bars.
You wear a dress
just like my dress
and sleep in my man's arms.

I don't know why
I feel evicted --
when I left those things behind,
when he asked me back
and I wouldn't come,
why it should sting
after so much time.

Maybe because no chair
has been quite as good.
Every one felt
too soft
or too hard.
He's the only
that ever seemed
just right,
but just right just isn't
in my cards.

Static

Tonight
I was reminded of you
by the womanizing
alcoholic character
Jack Nicholson played
in Terms of Endearment.
I felt like you'd almost
patterned yourself after him--
except at the end
he turns out to be a nice guy,
and you'll never stop being
a prick.

something blue

i always cry at weddings.
but not for the reasons
you might think.
sure i cry
because she looks exquisite,
because their parents are bursting pride,
because they're pledging their lives to each other.
of course i do.
but mostly i cry
because when i see those two people up there
i can't,
no matter how hard i try,
i can't imagine
standing at an altar
and saying those words.

they dance their dance.
people tell stories and laugh.
there's cake
and champagne,
it's a joyous event.

all i can do
is make it out in one piece.
then fall apart on the drive home,
screaming at the top of my lungs,
fuck.