Yesterday was a bad day. I went home and started crying so instead of sitting around feeling bad I decided to go visit Dean Martin at my afternoon local. He was having a rough time of things-telling me how much he misses having someone to sleep next to him. "You know what I mean? Of course you do" he said to me and I realized why I spend so much time hanging out with old men in dingy bars. I have more in common with them. I understand sudden loss, death, illness. I understand what it is like to deal with a body that no longer obeys one's will. I understand radical disappointment in yourself. I know what it's like to look back at the long struggle of your existence and think, "What the fuck was all that effort for?" Hence I end up hanging out with these old men. I don't know many thirty something who can bond with me about going through surgery or losing the love of my life, but I can do it with most of these guys because they know from the world being a rough place.


Still sitting there listening to Dean mourn his wife just made me feel worse because in the words of Humphrey Bogart "Nobody ever loved me that much." When Eric left I envied people who had lost wives and husbands in 9-11, sick as it is to admit, because death at the very least isn't personal. If Eric wasn't calling because he was dead, I would have ben overfuckingjoyed, but he was just dead to me. Same with asshat. No burial. No eulogy. He's a living ghost. One who would rather sleep alone than with me. Doesn't that just frost my flakes in the morning? Even the fucking degenerates of the world think they can do better.



Nice Guy Eddie called and asked to take me out to give Molly Pitcher's, formerly known as F's, a shot. Molly Pitcher's is a yuppified ho factory. It was strange to be there and think of how comforting, how familiar this bar had once been for me and now I couldn't even recognize it. Another loss, another of my few safe hang-outs given over to the very people who make my life miserable-those traditionally "pretty" girls with their banana republic ensembles, their blah badly highlighted hair, their wouldn't know a decent movie or literary reference if it pulled up and bought them a martini minds-those girls who can wear heels and flipflops and feel the sand under their feet when they walk on the beach and not have to think about running upstairs-whose bodies obey them effortlessly and they don't even have the good sense to be appropriately godddamned grateful-you know those girls that men fall in love with and marry and then want to cheat on them with me-because I'm not worth marrying-I'm more the pin up girl type-the fluff on the side-I'm the type of girl that men want in small doses but not all the time-much like jamaica I'm a nice place to visit but you wouldn't want to live here.


And forgive me for saying it but Nice Guy Eddie is another one of them-rather be with his girlfriend who lives in fucking California and has no intention of moving here than with me. Genius at fucking work I tell you.


So I get up to go to the ladies, trying desperately NOT to think all of these thoughts, and when I return the bouncer, this huge black guy asks "How tall are you?" Right cause that was exactly what I needed to make my day complete. So I told him and asked him the same-he was 6 ft 6in. Eddie chided me for giving this guy the shrug off "He could have been your rebound guy. And you would have gotten free drinks!" I told him that I had already been the bouncer route and never again (also included no bartenders or actors). In addition any man whose opening line is to inquire about my height is right the fuck out of the running. One of things I miss about the Asshat with an Accent is that he made me feel normal. This is the advantage of finding someone much crazier than yourself. But also he was close to my size, and this was a big deal. Still he thought of himself as an outsider-partially because he is a short man. Well let me tell you something, he belongs more than I do. He at least gets to go to movies and see men who reflect his physical reality. Don't trust me? Well there are lots of short male actors. Short women? Well since Linda Hunt and Rhea Perlman aren't doing much work lately,the only way I can watch a movie and see anyone who might vaguely identify with my physical reality is to watch Seed of Chucky.And doesn't that make me feel good that I can only identify with films about supernaturally possessed serial killing cross dressing dolls. (Incidentally even Linda Hunt is three inches taller than I am.) So let me tune my violin so I can play moonriver just for the short men of the world.


I just want to be able to get a drink, ride the subway, walk down the street without feeling that people look at me like I'm the last freakin' unicorn. I mean people blatantly turn around to look at me and not in appreciative way but in a "did I just really see that?" kind of way. But apparently it is too much to ask that I get to feel even remotely normal. No wonder I became an "isolationist" when the world greets me so warmly.


New t-shirt idea: It's not that I hate all men. Just every one I ever met.