saturday night i destroyed myself in williamsburg.

i had three gin and tonics, and a shot of...well...sour cream, jager, and peach schnapps. i'm pretty sure i also drank some jack and coke and a couple sips of frozen margarita. i don't remember much, besides a catfish taco, walking in on a girl peeing in the men's bathroom, and a hookah. and walking home in the pouring rain at 4:30 in the morning. i met new people, nice people. i think i can call them friends. a girl my age, too. i'm really worried about money. really worried. it's making me very stressed, and my eyes are twitching.

soon, i will explode. and on that note...

it started like a stone. i grew it out but then i rested it, i found sweet road. it came announced on the right. i left my purse then found the road. i'm tainted in a patchy problem, none can tell what i can tell ya. let them eagles have good times. it's a road and not a soda. i found sweet road, i found sweet road.

old dirty day. an old, violently rainy day. i woke up at five in the morning, and got on the subway around six fifteen. i arrived for work four minutes late. drenched. i was ready to beg for a cup of coffee to drink on the clock, but decided against it. i wouldn't want to risk looking desperate for caffeine. so instead, i implied that i can't start my day without it. it was cool. i made myself a soy latte. old bastard day, it was.

my manager told me she thinks that i am a potential shift supervisor, and that her and i should sit and talk about it. i think that's a great idea, since i've been with the company for about two years now. it's about time i move up in position. considering i just transferred there, i'm afraid i might piss off some of the other partners. "well this girl just started working at this location. why does she get a promotion and not i?" well, it's because all of the higher authority can see that i'm one of the hardest working baristas at the store. i never goof off, i never milk my breaks. and if i feel as if i'm wasting time, i find busy work. whether it's re-writing the c.o.d.'s, or plunging the toilet. i'm a damned hard worker. and i have a pin back button that tells me so.

i've been alright lately. i'm thinking about getting a second job. maybe three. one part-time for my week days off, and another for the weekends. granted i'll probably rarely see my family, or greg's hairy face. i need the cash.

i like when fire engines blow passed our building at late hours, because then i think, "that probably just woke up the neighbors, and it's not my fault!"

i'll be recording all of my songs right outside philly in a couple of weeks or so. michael is going to help me with that. i'm very excited. the high e string on my guitar popped a couple of weeks ago, and i've been to lazy to re-string it. so i haven't really been able to practice any of my songs properly. in addition, my guitar seems to be excelling in crapitude daily. i walk to guitar center once every couple of days and daydream in the acoustic section, playing all of the wonderful guitars, admiring how far i've gotten. you know, since i can't tell how great of a guitarist i've become since i just...can't really tell when i'm playing a piece of crap.

i guess i'm just stalling until gregory gets home from band practice to hold me until i drift into sleep. it's hard for me to sleep alone, now. not good. i should desire sleeping alone every so often. for the privacy, or some crap. i'm no psychiatrist, but i'm pretty sure that's how it works. i had just gotten used to sleeping alone after i moved back into my parents apartment in august. i had just gotten there. to the point where i could say, "hey, check it. i can scratch my ass and nobody is here to say 'ew'." but here i am again...insomnia due to lack of company.

what a dirty bastard day.

(edit 12:52am:)

turns out greg wasn't really practicing at all. very considerate. suddenly, i'm quite comfortable sleeping alone.

i finished printing up my mini-comic at office max. it took about three hours of trial and error to complete, but i did it. and it only cost me about fifteen dollars for approximately one hundred copies, with seafoam and peach covers. i call it "my boyfriend hates me". i'm worried lately, i've been going really crazy in the apartment. i'm not sure where i am going, and it's certainly terrifying. it's easter. yesterday afternoon, i took a train back to long island to see my family. my mom let me drive her brand new, $50,000 cadillac back home, since i almost forgot how to drive. i really, really miss driving. and that freedom. i miss my car. i pulled up to our driveway, and my car was in the street and it made me want to cry. so many memories. it's a piece of shit, but...so many memories. on the train, i peeked at the conductor's hands. they were so old. such old hands. am i going to have hands like that when i am older? and will they be punching holes in ticket stubs? will they still be serving lattes? will i be constructing buildings with my hands? will i be tearing them down? what about my feet? will they still be beautiful and dainty after i'm through with them? will i ever be able to purchase another pair? i have a lot to learn. last night, my mother kissed me on my forehead, because i am sick, before she went upstairs to sleep. she told me that she misses me being around. i told her, "i know." i told her that i'm part of a living, breathing city now. i have an obligation to that city. i am a part of what makes that city tick. and it needs me. she understands, and she said that she knows, but she misses me. i am only nineteen. i'll be twenty-five in six years. and so on. i don't want old hands, and i certainly don't want old feet.