I never wanted to peak early.

I've always strived to maintain at least a small amount of potential with which I might someday be able to realize.

I fear that I peaked today.

Earlier this afternoon, while waiting to pick up lunch for the office, my cell phone range. I'm not sure why (I'm a call screener), but I answered my phone without even checking the caller ID.

Girl whose calls I've refused to answer/return for 3 months: Taylor?
Me:

I hung right the fuck up on her face. It was really more of a gut reaction. In an instant my heart sent the "I don't want to talk to her" message to my brain, which dutifully passed it on to my hand, which snapped my phone closed.

And then, of course, I phoned Connie and we laughed and laughed about it.

Also, I have just decided that my own personal Hell (when and if I ever get there) will be this very same office, except at every desk will be the Bathroom Bombardier. She'll be taking calls about vacation stops at one desk and canceling accounts at another. And, of course, she'll be cackling that ear bleed-inducing cackle through each and every phone call.

Enough is enough, people!

But hey, it's the end of April.

Okay, I think I can sit down long enough to hammer this out.

My trip to New York was, in one word, positive. It had the potential to be described by sundry not-as-nice words.

(For the record, it did not start out so hot. I almost missed my Fung Wah Bus. But I didn’t miss it because it was late. And then there was an accident, so we got stuck in that traffic. And then we didn’t even have a Chinese driver so we spent the entire trip on all four wheels traveling at a respectable speed. And then he decided to come into the city from the north and come all the way down past the park and all the way through the heart of Midtown and it took FIVE HOURS. And then I shot myself in the face four thousand times.)

But then I got off the bus and had a lovely dinner with Miss Connie and Miss Becky and it was really very lovely (despite the four thousand bullet holes in my face).

And this is where I’ll stop the play-by-play because the rest of the weekend is still kind of fuzzy. We met up at the old apartment. His old apartment. Our old apartment. He looked good. He looked happy and healthy. I looked like I’d not only taken a five-hour bus ride but that I’d been run over a bus. There was a lot of small talk at first. We both had a lot to say. It was like we were making a pastry cream. We had to temper the yolks.

Also, if I keep going with this “temper the yolks” analogy I’m eventually going to get to “hot cream” and that’s just not the direction in which I wanted to take this!

There was also a lot of nothing. A large part of the weekend was spent doing absolutely nothing. The only time we left The Girls’ house was to go to the grocery store (which, by the way, was amazing. It was like Disney World and the local supermarket got together one night, had a few too many margaritas, banged like bunnies, and had a baby. There was an animatronic Chiquita Banana Lady dancing over the bananas!). So there was a lot of nothing and a lot of talking.

There aren’t any more questions. There isn’t any more wondering. I know. He knows. We know. The only thing I don’t know is what to make of it all. Or what to do with it all.

I do know one thing, though. And I knew this before I even went out there. Before the tempering and the talking and the nothing and dancing Chiquita Banana Lady. I knew it the very instant I didn’t get into school out here. I’m going back to San Francisco. I’m going back to finish school. That’s where I’m supposed to be at this stage in my life. I know that one thing for sure. I’m supposed to go back to finish school. I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do out there, but I think there’s more. So all I can do is go.

But I don’t know when. I don’t know when I can go. I need to stay here a little while longer and make some money. I don’t want to wait too long, though. It sounds ridiculous, but I’m not getting any younger. My life is on hold until I finish school. So I might start in September of this year. Or that might be too soon. I might start the following spring.

I don’t know. But I know.

Today is Bitsy's birthday!

Happy Birthday Bitsy! I hope she's having a lovely day (and I think she is)! I made her a cake last night. She had requested a purple cake with purple frosting and purple coconut so that's what I made her. I'm not going to lie about it. I wanted to put my head in the oven by the time that cake was baked, frosted, and decorated with purple coconut. My hands were stained from all of the food coloring (and let me warn you: too much food coloring will cause your butter frosting to separate - twice). The cake had overflowed out of the bundt pan and into the bottom of the oven. It took three or four tries to achieve the right shade of purple for the coconut. In the end, though, I was pleased. It was definitely the ugliest cake I’ve ever made, but it was well crafted I’d say!

Also, we played Pin the Tail on the Donkey! Our first attempt each was nearly successful. Her second one ended up on the window and, after a close call with the filing cabinet, mine was on the donkey's sneaker. Butter luck next year!

Lastly, as a gift to herself, Bitsy sent Mouth into the other room to work the switchboard. Happy Birthday to you and Happy Birthday to me.

Once, when I was very young, my mother and dad got in a fight and Mother hurled a pound cake at my dad's head. That will always be one of the highlights of my life.

I can't, for the life of me, figure out why I'm not filthy rich.

I was born for a better life. Not that my current life is so bad. It's fine. Just fine. But I feel like I have the capacity to have a lot of money and handle it in all the right ways. It's just something I've been feeling very strongly about lately. That's all.

(Of course, that's not really all. I'm spoiled. I want more. More more more. I want everything. I want it all now. I can't help myself! It's disgusting and I know it and I just can't help it! Somebody slap me!)

There's a website. Give me a moment to find it. Friends Beyond the Wall. There. It's is technically a pen pal service used to pair up inmates with someone "beyond the wall." But let's not joke about it. It's really just a hook-up service. You want to meet and fall in love with an inmate at your local penitentiary? This is the place for you. Are you hot for conjugal visits? Sign yourself up. Are you willing to wait several years (or even as much as a lifetime) to spend real, quality time with your honey? Love is waiting for you!

How did I find out about this gem-of-a-website? Mouth, sitting directly behind me, has been scouring the site for two days. How accurate.

The phone system is down at work today.

We are, for all intents and purposes, a call center. The very heart of my job is taking and making calls to “fulfill” the subscriber’s needs. I’m sure you can only imagine the fun we’re having here this morning. We’ve already done the Kelly Clarkson concert recap. We’ve covered the office trash talk. We’ve even taken the time to project what our lives might be like 20 years from now (the future is not bright for me, my friends)!

Kelly Clarkson was, in a word, amazing. Despite her somewhat cheesy beginnings, she really has blossomed into a very good performer! And boy can she sing! Of course, every song was a gem, but the highlight of the show for me was when she did A Moment Like This punk-style. It kind of turned me on. Also she’s so tiny and cute in real life. I wanted to put her in my pocket and take her home with me so that the next time I get wasted and try to take a shower with my clothes on I don’t need to sing Since U Been Gone all by myself.

Something that I feel very strongly about: Vonzell Solomon being the next American Idol. I’m not an idiot – I know she’s a long shot. I also know that she’s a wonderful person! Vonzell gave that little girl her cell phone number and permission to call her whenever she wants. Furthermore, if she doesn’t hear from the girl after a few days she calls her. People, please. If that’s not what being an American Idol is all about, then what is?

Again, I know she’s not a top-runner, but I won’t stand for Dirty Bo or Dirty Constantine taking the title. And Carrie Underwood, albeit a decent vocalist, has the IQ of a dirty sock (hello. Left the cake out in the rain. Never have that recipe again. Not a tough metaphor to wrap one’s mind around) and, thus, should not receive the title either.

Now I’m all fired up and I don’t even have some unsuspecting 97-year-old newspaper subscriber to take it out on.

At the end of her two-month tour,

Kelly Clarkson will have traveled to 26 US States, as well as 5 locations in Canada. How is it that I can barely stomach the 15-minute trip to work in the morning?

Well, I guess Kelly gets paid more than me. Also, she doesn’t have to work with Tweedle Dip-Shit and Tweedle Douche-Bag.

And in a vote more controversial than that of the recent Conclave at the Vatican, Anwar Robinson has been voted off of American Idol. I am proud to say that I am an Anwar fan. I, too, felt that he was technically the best singer in the competition. Just because he maybe sang the same song week after week doesn’t mean he’s not a star.

Actually, I just had a thought. Maybe Anwar should be the new pope. I bet he’d work those robes and that little cap.

I don’t know much about the Pope. Pretty much everything I know I’ve learned from Bitsy in the last few weeks. So, I guess I’m not even sure how much having this new Pope is going to affect me. I’ve learned, though, that the Pope is actually a prominent political figure (like I said, I was a Pope dope until recently, so this is all new to me). So I don’t really know how to feel about him. After reading all about him on Tuesday, the only thing I could really say with complete confidence was “Well, he looks like a Pope.”

According to the thermometer in The Bathroom Bombardier's drawer

(I'm not going to lie, I just typed drawers instead of drawer and that's a visual I could have lived without) it's 74 degrees right now.

According to my own internal thermometer it's four million degrees in this office. It's four million degrees and I have a wicked wedgie. I just can't take it. I'm 2 seconds away from either slicing my wrists with the serrated edge of my tape dispenser or taking my pants off.

Every morning when I put my underpants on I tell myself not to put on the blue and white striped ones or the red and orange striped ones. Don't get me wrong - they're cute. Really cute. But they don't quite fit. They're just a hair too snug. In an effort to maintain even a modicum of self-dignity I try my damndest to refrain from picking my wedge throughout the day. Only once was it so bad that I had to readjust in the supply closet. I just know it's going to be a bad scene by the time I get home though. The last time I accidentally wore these underpants I thought I was going to need a small army of Asian children wielding salad tongs to get them out of my bum crack.

God, people. When did I become such a downer? Do I ever do anything but complain? I'm happy right now and everything. Really happy! Things are going swimmingly! I got my favorite chicken fingers for lunch and a raspberry lime ricky (thanks to Bitsy's sister). And, if everything goes according to plan, Scott Savol will go home on American Idol tonight!

I know everyone's going to think I'm crazy.

They're going to say I'm just trying to justify a move back to the west coast and that I'm only making excuses. I don't really care, though. I had a sort of revelation today.

I was thinking about purpose, about circumstance, about consequence. I was thinking about everything happening for a reason. I was thinking about everything that happened. I was thinking about the reasons. I was thinking about all these things that I believe in very strongly.

Something was giving me a hell of a time when I was trying to leave San Francisco. We're talking floods (literally), pestilence, and plague. Everything that possibly could have gone wrong did. I didn't think I'd ever get on the plane. I thought that if I got on the plane it would most assuredly crash into some farmland in Middle America. I was convinced that I was being punished. Purpose, circumstance, and consequence wanted me dead. I felt like I was constantly fighting against a current - a current trying to force into staying out there against my will. I thought I was being punished for something I'd done or not done. I'd been bad. I'd been naughty. I'd been sent to sit in the corner. I was not to leave the corner. I just wanted to leave the corner.

It was, without a doubt, the most trying, painful time of my life.

I had a thought today, though. What if I wasn't supposed to leave? What if I was only fighting against myself? What if I was trying to bite the hand that fed me? I know now that I was never supposed to come back here. I know now that I'm supposed to be out there. I know now but I didn't know then. What if something knew then?

It’s Friday.

I’m wearing my cowboy shirt (yeehaw).

I finally bought a new black jacket (Kenneth Cole black nylon biker).

And I'm going to see Kelly Clarkson at The Orpheum one week from today, thanks to my ever-lovely friend Angel.

I did hit a very low point today, though, when I was scouring Bluefly for a new jacket. I saw this specimen and fell in love. I had visions of the two of us strolling lazily down Newbury Street on a brisk April day. I imagined myself lovingly hanging it up after each and every outing, rather than throwing it on the couch in my bedroom (the admittedly unfair treatment some of my other jackets endure). I wanted this jacket. I needed this jacket. Then, like a boot on a cockroach, my dream was crushed.

Medium. They only have mediums left.

And then, I'm not going to lie to you. I cried. I actually started to tear up. I wanted that particular jacket so badly that, when I learned that I couldn't have it, I began to cry. Bitsy had to come over with a tissue. It was a brief moment of sorrow, but powerful nonetheless.

And now I'm fine. Really. I'm fine.

It’s Spring and that means one thing to me:

Time to assess my wardrobe. Without a proper inspection I can already tell you that I need some new clothes.

Also, for the record, I need new clothes like I need to know what it feels like to swallow glass. I need new clothes like I need a high sperm count. I need new clothes like I need to spend 45 minutes in the car while Mother listens to Marvin Gaye’s Sexual Healing on repeat (which, might I add from experience, is not fun).

So yes, I need some new clothes. I have very few outfits for work that take the rising temperatures into consideration. I could take care of that with just a few shirts – four or so – and a couple pairs of pants. That’s fine for work. It’s not a fashion show over there (don’t make me talk about the get-ups that The Bathroom Bombardier sports on a daily basis. Let’s just say that plaid flannel shirts, black pants, white socks, and black ballet slippers does not an outfit make).

I really need a new Spring jacket, too. I always have a couple of denim options for the times when denim is okay. And I have a cropped navy blue jacket from J. Crew. And a tan corduroy blazer from BR. And an olive linen jacket from the Gap. But I don’t have a single black light-weight jacket! My two black jackets are wool and, thus, not appropriate for this season. Unfortunately, and despite my best efforts, I’ve yet to find a black jacket that suits my needs.

And I need new brown shoes (I also think I need new black shoes, but I’m sure the existing eight pairs could beg to differ).

So yes, I need to go shopping.

(Additionally, I need to go shopping about as much as I need to sit through that God-awful Pam Anderson show on Fox one more time.)

See this girl?

This girl right here? She and I are on the same page today. Same page, same chapter, same book. Naturally, my hair is perfection, but it’s just one of those days.

It all started when I opened my eyes this morning and had an overwhelming urge to club myself like a baby harp seal. I’m either not getting enough sleep or dying.

And then I heard on the news this morning that some people in Wisconsin are trying to pass some sort of law that says that anyone with a hunting license is allowed to shoot cats they see on the street. Hello. I don’t even know where to begin with why this is so wrong. Equally as wrong was the lot of people they showed in the meeting hall discussing said issue. The whole group, collectively, probably had 15 teeth. 15 teeth and mullets. And buffalo plaid shirts, too. Fifteen teeth, mullets, and buffalo plaid shirts = you don’t get to make any decisions that might alter or affect the lives of other living creatures.

And then I got into work and had to listen to the deaf man who works out on the dock tell me about his “seven-inch shooter.” If I could have reached in and plucked out my mind’s eye right then and there I would have. He was trying to convince me that 7 inches works just as well as 9 inches (a fact which I have never disputed, much less wanted to discuss with him).

And then, just moments ago, I’m here in the office and an abandoned cell phone sitting on a desk across the room started to ring. Now, it’s not a traditional ring, as so few are these days, but a song. A catchy song. I got the bug to dance. So I did. I got up and I danced along to the cell phone song – and then my boss’ boss walked in. I don’t think he was feeling my moves.

That’s fine, though. I told Bitsy that if her boss is in the mood to fire anyone today I would gladly raise my hand. Just give me a reason to pack my bags.

In other news,

today was my first day back to work after a two-week vacat- pardon me, sick leave. It was wonderful to see The Boss Lady (who will henceforth be known as Bitsy for reasons that will never be completely known to you, her, nor I). So it was wonderful to see Bitsy again. By the grace of God, Mouth called out sick today, so I was able to wean myself back into that office setting, being left only to deal with The Bathroom Bombardier (who switched things up this afternoon by announcing “Ladies’ Rooooooooom!” instead of “Bathrooooooooom!” before laying assault on the Classified girls).

I’m not looking forward to Mouth’s return tomorrow, though. You know how someone might, in an attempt to exaggerate the amount of talking another person does, say that he or she “Doesn’t stop to take a breath”? This woman literally and actually does not stop to take a breath. When, by the physical limitations of her own body, she does manage to expel all of the air from her lungs she pauses for only one brief second to suck in a large audible breath through her nose, powering her to talk on for many painful moments to come.

In other words, I’m anticipating a Letter-Opener-In-The-Eye kind of day tomorrow.

Because PayPal is an ass-hat,

or, more accurately, because I'm an ass-hat who can't remember his own email adresses/passwords, I've borrowed a guestbook of a diary from days gone by. So the book is up and running - don't let the url fool you.

Don't let some of those old guestbook entries fool you, either. I'm not nearly as cool as I used to be.

I know that no one really cares,

but my credit card is officially paid off. I don't believe it's been paid off in the (one second while I count on my fingers) five years that I've had it. To boot, it's also currently my only credit card. I guess, to me, this just represents a step towards financial stability. Again, no one cares, but I'm so happy I could pee.

Actually, no. One of the few remnants from the surgery is that I can't really pee. In order to pee I need to get into the shower for a few moments and warm up my bladder. Or something. I don't really know why getting into the hot water helps, but it does. And then I have to hop out of the shower. But I don't have time to dry off, because if I do, I might lose the urge. That, of course, makes puddles of water on the bathroom floor. I hate puddles of water on the bathroom floor. One could argue that I could just pee in the shower (I hear this is common practice). If there's one thing I hate more than puddles of water on the bathroom floor it has to be the thought of standing in a shower that has been peed in. So no.

I just watched something on PBS

about the growing issue of homelessness in San Francisco. It made my heart ache, but for all the wrong reasons!

Of course the whole homeless issue is unfortunate, but seeing that made me miss the city a lot. I miss the old man that would be jerking off almost every time I walked by him in the morning. I miss the man that would stand, perfectly balanced and perfectly still, on the edge of an upturned milk crate, moving only to shove his tip cup into your face. I miss the guy selling his "art" (pen scratchings on notebook paper) down on Church street that would ask ever-so politely for change and, when ignored, spew obscenities under his breath as you passed. I really miss the mattress on Hayes onto which someone had spray painted "Sleep here Ho".

I just miss that city and I've been feeling it more lately than usual.

Actually, now that I think about it, if I do move back to San Francisco I'll probably be taking that mattress up on its offer.

So yes, I had minor surgery.

Really nothing major, I promise. Granted, the FIERY and IMMEASURABLE pain I've been in for almost 2 weeks has been tiresome, but it's waning. Today, for the first time, I can say that it’s waning. Which makes me want to dance. But not too much, as I do not want to relapse into more FIERY and IMMEASURABLE pain.

I was actually more worried about the procedure itself. I thought that the recovery was going to be simple. Lo and behold, the worst part about the actual day of the surgery was being carted around the hospital with a bright red bracelet on my wrist that read LACTOSE. It was, of course, to warn of my only real allergy, but turned out to be the absolute bane of my existence that day. “Better get that milk out of his IV!” one nurse joked. “Don’t slip him any cheese while he’s under the anesthesia!” another added. Ha. Ha. Ha. To add insult to injury, my bed in the pre-op holding area was positioned right next to the nurse’s station. Just before I actually went in for my surgery the nurses gathered to talk about their favorite desserts. Ice cream, chocolate mousse, tiramisu. The list went on. At one point I actually yelled, “Stoppit! I haven’t eaten in 14 hours!” and one male nurse that I called Big Gay Nurse (never to his face, of course. Unless I slipped as I was coming out from the anesthesia.) poked his head around the corner and said something like, “Shush you! You’re lactose intolerant! You shouldn’t eat these things anyway!” I smiled and nodded because I knew that I’d be in La La Land in just a few short minutes, but I wanted to say, “I shouldn’t eat your heart out of your chest right now either, but if you were any closer that wouldn’t stop me.”

Now, here I am, in FIERY and IMMEASURABLE pain, unable to take my pain meds because they ended up exacerbating the FIERY and IMMEASURABLE pain, just waiting till I can get my ass out of this house.

The only person who might be in more pain than me is The Boss Lady. I’ve made her endure the agony of The Bathroom Bombardier and Mouth all by herself for two full weeks. She’s a saint, I tell you. A real, honest-to-goodness saint.

It's not that I don't have a lot to say.

I do! I do have a lot to say! I'm on a sort of medical leave, though. Well, not a "sort of" medical leave. I am on medical leave. I will be sure to say all that I have to as soon as possible, though.

Also, I need to get rid of the snowman. That's also in the works. If I could concentrate for more than 12 seconds at a time that might get finished sooner than later.