peach is a horrible name

Not to operate under the implicit assumption that anyone cares, but the reason I haven't been posting is because I've been feeling sad. Not sad like "Since I'm feeling down, I guess I'll have a martini at a bar while reading some Murakami by myself while pondering the futility of human existence" kind of sad, but more like take a week off work, don't answer the phone, and sleep for 18 hour stretches on various combinations of antidepressants, antihistaminic cold medications, and over-the-counter sleep-aids, sort of sad. But I'm doing much better now, thanks for asking, and it's in no small part due to the new man in my life.

He is Italian. He has dark hair and a great smile. I have had to pay for his services, but no relationship is perfect.

I bought a Nintendo DS.

I know that I'm 25. 24. I know that I'm 24. And I know that this device is the rage among 10 year-olds, and not the hip ones at that. But I don't care. I will finish Super Mario Brothers if it's the last thing I do in this life; and neither that short Italian bastard who screams his head off every time he falls into a pit of molten lava, nor the judgment of my peers, nor my full-time job will stop me. I have been playing for hours every day. I play during my lunch break in the bathroom. I play as soon as I get back from work. I play in bed before I fall asleep exhausted and more frustrated than the times I've had to cuddle with a guy, but I will persevere and I will finish this game. Last night, I had a nightmare after World 6-5. I didn't dream that I was Lady Mario and was being chased by little munchkins and red porcupines, no. Instead, I dreamed that I was in my grand-aunt's house, sitting alone in a corner, playing the game when I suddenly went blind. But when I realized that I could no longer see, I didn't scream out "I'm blind!", but rather "Fuck! I can't see the screen! I can't see the screen!", then proceeded to throw myself onto the floor and roll around in agony. Then I woke up.

It may be eating away what few remaining brain cells I have leftover (from alcohol abuse and a very particular habit of hitting my head against hard surfaces whenever frustrated), but I remain fantastically pleased with my purchase. I love Mario. Only if he vibrated.

holidays with Marc

Things I miss about my ex-boyfriend:
- His mom's cooking.
- His mom's teacup poodle Theo.
- His mom.


Things I don't really miss about my ex-boyfriend:
The incessant, maddening, soul-deadening, mind-numbing, fighting. Oh, the fighting... We fought for four days about every little trivial thing that we could possibly think of.

At the ATM:

Marc: You're hitting the wrong button.

Me: No, I'm not.

Marc: Yes, you are, why don't you just pick fast cash from checking? Is this your first experience with an ATM machine? Do they not have these back in your country?

Me: It's not an ATM machine, you stupid fuck.

Marc: Um, yeah, it is.

Me: No, ATM stands for Automated Teller Machine, so you're essentially saying Automated Teller Machine Machine, which, despite being very meta and all, makes no sense.

Marc: Why don't you just get your money so we can get in the car and I can drive us both off a cliff or something?



On Boost Mobile's hot new service that lets you pinpoint where your friends are using your cell phone's GPS technology:

Marc: What the hell is wrong with these people? Who wants everyone to know where they are all the time?

Me: I don't know, someone nice?

Marc: I am nice. But no one needs to know where you are all the time. Maybe if you were married. And epileptic. Yeah, if you were married and epileptic, this phone would make a lot of sense.

Me: How about if you were single and epileptic, and you weren't a pathological liar and a cheater? Would you buy the phone then?

Marc: What the fuck? No! When did I ever cheat on you?

Me: No one said you cheated on me, why are you being so touchy?



So what have those four days filled with Christmas joy, caramel cookies, bickering, and sexual frustration taught me?

1. Never stay friends with an ex.
2. Never, ever, accept a gracious invitation from an ex to spend the holidays at his house.
3. While you're at it, stop celebrating the Christian holidays all together.
4. Admit the fact that you are a Godless, loveless, tactless, hopeless shell of a human being who will never change for the better and who is destined to spend the rest of her days alone, not even living, but merely existing towards a sad, quiet little death.

Happy 2007 to everyone.

don we now our gaaay apparel

Buon Natale e Felice Anno Nuovo, people...
And to all my good Canadian friends, Happy Boxing Day!

I am leaving town to spend Christmas with an ex-boyfriend. Do not ask why, or how, for I do not know. But I leave with the promise of a most colorful and detailed play-by-play of my weekend of frustration, anguish, and discontent (for that is what will inevitably happen) upon my return.

Oh, one last thing: Please read this. And tell me you share my murderous rage.

www.newyorker.com/talk/content/articles/061218ta_talk_collins

Bankers are fucking wankers.

I doctor (I punned)

I'm nearsighted. I've been nearsighted for a while now, so I've accepted it, along with my mediocre stature and my accent, which, when unchecked, makes me sound awfully like Borat's first wife. So last week, I went to the eye doctor to get my prescription renewed. I knew it wasn't going to be pleasant. I didn't think it could go this badly.

My doctor, who I swear could not have been a more than two years older than me (despite his receding hairline and awful taste in whimsical, statement-making ties), asked me into his office, and that's when the fun began.

He started off with the standard stuff, covering one of my eyes and asking me to read a series of letters.

Me: Um, I can't read any of those letters.

Doctor Genius: Please try.

Me: J?

DG: No. Try again?

Me: I?

DG: Nope. Go again.

Me: I honestly can't see the letters, should I keep on guessing?

DG: Sometimes, our eyes become accustomed to what our brain tells them what they can and cannot perceive. I'm trying to break through this, so we can get a more accurate reading for your prescription.

Me: That's great, but I'm not being complacent. I really can't see that line. Or the line below it.

DG: Try.

Me: Seriously?

After about fifteen minutes of guessing games, the first part of the fun was over, and he figured out my prescription. Then he said that he'd like to check a few more things.

DG: You are going to see two tiny black boxes. The bottom one will be fixed, and I will move the top one from left to right. Tell me when they are perfectly aligned, like two buttons on a shirt, O.K.?

Me: Fine.

(He does it.)

Me: Wait, you went too fast.

DG: That's quite all right, I will do it again, pay attention now.

(He does it again, only faster.)

Me: Aaah, almost. You're doing it too fast.

DG: Can you please apply yourself?

Me: I am applying myself.


Can I please apply myself? We are sitting in a near pitch black room. The only two sounds I hear are the whirring of some machine and your stupid instructions. You have a contraption over my head, so the only thing I can see are the stupid black boxes, and you're worried that I'm distracted? By what exactly? Your masculine wiles? Your Hanae Mori aftershave burning your memory deep into my brain? Stop going so goddamned fast.

I almost got it on the fourth try, and even though the boxes weren't perfectly aligned I was too annoyed to say anything, so we moved on. He then showed me a bunch of criss-crossed lines, and asked me which ones appeared darker and which ones lighter, which took us another half an hour. By the end of it, I was exhausted, and all I wanted to do is get out of there and get drunk.

DG (after much deliberation and head scratching): O.K. What you have is a condition referred to as convergence excess. Basically, when you are reading at a close distance, your eyes converge too much (brings his two fingers together and crosses them), and then your eyes have to spend extra effort readjusting.

Me: I'm cross-eyed?

DG: No, no, you misunderstand.

Me: Well, your gesture, that was the international sign for cross-eyed. And I know I'm not an optometrist, but I'm pretty sure I'm not cross-eyed.

DG: You're not cross-eyed, this happens only when you're reading, which is the definition of convergence excess. Your esotropia is greater for near-vision, so you will need bifocals.

Me: Um, I read fine. I can read two pages per minute. Do you know how many pages that is an hour, or do they not teach you basic multiplication at optometry school? And really? Optometry? Med school must have been a bitch... I mean, even orthodontics has to be harder right? 32 teeth versus 2 eyes? Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong doctor, but I'm thinking that an orthodontist could take you down, and he could take you down hard. What do you think? Oh, and I freaking aced, aced, the SATs and the GREs, so I think it's unfair for you to judge me so quickly, and call me cross-eyed just because I couldn't align the two buttons... I mean boxes. Dammit... (I break down crying)... Can I have a tissue? And a hug?

So I'm not wearing the bifocals. Convergence excess... Please.

parrots and ferrets

A reminiscence:

I was an utterly unexceptional child. I wasn't reading or writing by the time I was three, I hadn't moved on to quadratic equations by the time I was in the fifth grade, and I most certainly wasn't what you would call "bright". But I was a special little girl, and even though no one else agrees with me on this point, I know in my heart that it's true.

Even though I wasn't a precocious young little thing, I did have a very peculiar habit which presented itself at a very early age. Every time my parents left me alone to play, I would climb the highest surface I could find and jump off. According to my mother (I don't remember any of this, brain damage?) I have jumped off: four couches, two bookcases, six tables, a self-made tower of three kiddie sized-chairs, and the sink. She told me that the worst part of it was that I would climb onto the dining table, run across it at top speed, and simply jump off when I reached the very end, landing with a thud and horrible screams each time. And the next day I would do it again. She insists that I never took off flying.

When I shattered an ankle at two and a half, she took me to the doctor and had to explain my predilection to her, who leaned over me and asked: "Do you think you can fly?" Not being a huge fan of blatant patronization even at that age, I apparently rolled my eyes at her and said "No." And I really don't remember ever thinking that I was a merciless hawk trying to hunt down its prey, or a chubby little quail flying about (I was a fat baby). I don't remember trying to kill myself at two either, but now that I think about it, early onset of self-destructive behavior accompanied by nihilistic thought patterns seems a much more likely a diagnosis than, "I'm sorry Mrs. M., but I'm afraid your daughter believes that she's a parrot." Stupid doctors.


And a recent failure:


It's actually quite painful for me to talk about this, but I'll try. I had a date last week. He cancelled. This was our phone conversation:

Me: Hello?

Him: Hi, M. This is Tom. I'm so sorry but I'm not going to be able to make it tomorrow.

Me: Oh, that's O.K. Is everything all right? (At this point, I'm not feigning interest. I actually kind of, sort of, care.)

Him: Yeah, everything is fine I guess, it's just that my ferret died.

Me: Your what?

Aside: I know I'm not a native speaker of English, but I am down with the English vernacular. I have heard men refer to, um, let's say they best friend, as the General, Bonecrusher, Chocolate Thunder, the Dancer, White Lightning, Rho, Doom, and Craig. The Ferret? What? And it died?

Him: My ferret, Tuggs, he died. He had been sick for a while. He had a gastro-intestinal infection, and last week, he stopped eating all together, so I had been-force feeding him for the past few days. And yesterday, he started throwing up, and refusing liquids, and early this morning he passed.

Me (Not 100 percent sure what a ferret is, but still supportive): I am sorry.

Him: And now, Tricks, she's the female, is left all alone, and we are really afraid that she may catch the same infection, and that possibility, along with what she must be feeling right now, I really don't want to abandon her, all by herself, in her cage.

Me: Um, sure. I understand. I'll talk to you later?


Tuggs and Tricks? Ferrets? And one of them died? I mean, I know I'm no Adrienne Lima, and I know my bedside manners are not much better than, let's just pick a feral animal at random, a ferret's let's say, but isn't it just a little much to concoct a story so overwrought to get out of a dinner with me? I mean, I am not that bad. But what if he did have two ferrets, and one of them died you say? A grown man of 28? Living alone with his two ferrets, one of whom he is clearly rearing to become a ferret prostitute? What sort of name is Tricks anyway? I'll pass.

et cetera

Lunchtime:

I just discovered the most amazing thing in the world: Glenny's Salt and Pepper Soy Crisps.
Not only are they absolutely delicious, and just as crispy and satisfying as regular potato chips, according to Glenny, they also include:

10 grams of soy protein
25 miligrams of soy isoflavones
3 grams of diatery fiber
and, wait for it,
more soy protein than tofu or soy milk!!

Granted, that little blurb doesn't exactly quantify how much tofu or soy milk (teaspoon?), and I hate health food on principle, but each of these puffy little chips are like a peppery orgasm in my mouth. They are crunchy, spicy, and perfectly bite sized pieces of heaven. I just finished eating a whole pack, and all I want to do now is to make a huge bed out of them and roll around on it naked.

Brotherly love:

I am a nice girl, I really am. Despite what just popped into my head right now (let's just say it involves a soy crisp bed, George Clooney, and a small tub of French chevre), I am not too crazy. I'm not into threeways, or gangbangs. And I have never wanted to be doubleteamed, by a pair of brothers no less, until last night after my NUMB3RS marathon, also known as the greatest show on television, or ever.

The premise of NUMB3RS is this: Don and Charlie Eppes are brothers. Don, the elder, is an FBI agent, and Charlie is a mathematical genius and a professor at Cal-Sci, a fictional university in L.A. where the show is set. Charlie consults with his brother on a variety of cases, and helps the FBI solve a big mystery every time using his otherworldly genius. The show revolves around the lives of the two brothers, and how much they learn from one another in the matters of work, love, and everything in between. There are few words to describe how awesome it is.

Now normally, I would be much more attracted to Charlie, because the mention of even the first two letters of a Ph.D. is enough for me to take my top off and start dancing for you, should you so desire. I am freakishly attracted to academic accomplishment, and Charlie, with his curly hair, multiple diplomas, and his sexy little tenure is the ultimate sex god for me.

But I can't deny the energy between Don and I either. I don't know if it's his fitted white shirts, his undeniable street smarts, or the way he chews on those plastic coffee stirrers, but every time he comes on screen, with that slightly constipated, yet totally intense look on his face, I want to start touching myself all over. I want to choose a brother and stick with him, I really do, but watching them collaborate and draw on their individual skill set to accomplish a common goal for forty minutes makes me think that these two come as a team, and that it would be foolish to break them up. I mean, they work so well together, and I really don't see why this would all of a sudden stop being the case if I were naked and in the same room with the two of them and asked for a little bit of attention. Is that too much to ask for? No, right? I don't think so either.

Headaches:

I can't take it anymore, I get headaches literally every day now. Someone please help me. I pop Tylenol like it was M&Ms, and it does nothing for me. I hate doctors and I don't know what to do. I wish I could screw off my own head and eat it, so it could be over. It hurts so badly, and it hurts all the time.

So, to summarize: I like soy crisps, David Krumholtz and Rob Murrow, and I hate my own stupid head.

How are you guys?

'tis the season

I just want to take a moment to thank YOU ALL for your dedicated readership (Yes, yes, all five of you. Don't be shy. You know who you are. Come ooon..), and in the spirit of the upcoming holidays, I would like to make a suggestion as to how you could give your friends and family a present they are guaranteed to enjoy, while getting on my and God's good side at the same time: Gift them this site!

But that is not all, my fellow skeptics! I am not just asking you to do my pimping for me, that would be selfish. You also get customized holiday emails, written by yours truly, which you can just copy and paste at your heart's leisure, saving you both time and effort. So, without further ado:

To your best friend:

Dude, check out this site. She sounds totally loose. You would dig her. Oh, and happy thanksgiving and all that shit.
www.company-ink.blogspot.com


To your parents:

Mom, dad, you did a good job with me. Look here. Happy holidays,
www.company-ink.blogspot.com


To that special someone, be it male, female, a cousin, or you know, whatever. I'm open minded.

Baby,
I thought you would enjoy this site, and I figured it would help with your self-esteem issues so we could have lights-on sex for once. But totally your call.
www.company-ink.blogspot.com


You're welcome. I told you that I loved you. You just never believed me.