She couldn't be GOOD!

I got the title of this post from the title of my journal, "She couldn't be GOOD!" "By Gene Harvey Author of Desire is a Woman". I use this journal to write horribly offensive things about my current occupation, my cabin fever/hostel apartment, and my family who should win an academy award for alienating those close to them and making them want to kill themselves. (Not litterally, but symbolically) ok litterally.

I live in Florida and it's a chilly day today(32 degrees). I celebrate on days such as this. I'd say my heart belongs in New York City but then I'd be giving too much credit to Jay Z and Alicia Keys given their recent "New York!!" Ballad, which always induces a tension headache. I love coldweather and I love Nyc, end of story.

Matt bought me a new Free People cardigan last night--I'll post a picture of it soon. I got it for 50% off! What a steal, I adore it. Matt says it looks "sort of grannyish" but I can tell the more I wear it the more he likes it. It's exactly what I've been searching for. It's flesh colored with cream and gold thread woven through it. There is 3 buttons attached to the front, and they're amazing, white with a cracked almost "desert" like pattern. I'm wearing it right now at work. I bet people think I'm super weird when they come in. "Who is this weirdo and why is she so pale? she works here? This doesn't make any sense." Believe me, I ask myself this question every day, with every intention of pulling a Juliet and eloping to my dream job, while dying in transit. But my big brother always tells me to stop "searching for the answer", and he's right. I'm constantly growing weary over bothersome thoughts about where I'll be in 5 years, 1 year, 1 month, tomorrow. I'm hopeful for the future but I know if I don't make a move I'll be rotting away on this cheaply made plastic Ikea stool, helping middle America achieve the results they want(stage 1 cancer, stage 2, stage 3 and so on) well, at least there's a full bottle of champagne waiting for me at home. Now that's something to work for. Alcohol.

I love the idea of the overly dramatic and "headed for the limelight" persona that some women have. Well, I haven't met any yet, but I long too. In Augusten Burroughs, "Running with Scissors" his mother is this exact character and I love every inch of her. There's something glorious about a psychotic divorsee who flaunts red lipstick daily and dawns vintage crocheted vests. She'd eat cucumber sandwiches while gallantly rotting away in a huge Victorian house, writing poems, and describing herself as an artist who should be published in "The New York Times". I love every minute of it! Maybe it's Augusten Burroughs's writing that I love, well, I do, but his mother is a dream. A fucked up dream. She does nothing but write all day and practices her speaking voice with a microphone, to prepare for poetry readings. I mean, who wouldn't want this life! I'm purely fascinated by this.

I know this kind of lifestyle is ridiculous, and impractical, but I still love it and I aspire to be like Augusten's mom, sans craziness ;).


<3 -E.A.D