Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.

Otherwise, hello, and welcome.
Mail Trillian here<





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Women, The Internet and You: Tips for Men Who Use Online Dating Sites
Part I, Your Profile and Email

Part II, Selecting a Potential Date

Part III, Your First Date!

Part IV, After the First Date. Now What?


"50 First Dates"






Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.

Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Find Federal Officials
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or Search by State

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Contact The Media
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Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)

Quasar
Hyperbole
Amenable
Taciturn
Ennui
Prophetic
Tawdry
Hubris
Ethereal
Syzygy
Umbrageous
Twerp
Sluice
Omnipotent
Sanctuary
Malevolent
Maelstrom
Luddite
Subterfuge
Akimbo
Hoosegow
Dodecahedron
Visceral
Soupçon
Truculent
Vitriol
Mercurial
Kerfuffle
Sangfroid




























 







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Highlights from the Archives. Some favorite Trillian moments.

Void, Of Course: Eliminating Expectations and Emotions for a Better Way of Life

200i: iPodyssey

Macs Are from Venus, Windows is from Mars Can a relationship survive across platform barriers?
Jerking Off

Get A Job

Office Church Ladies: A Fieldguide

'Cause I'm a Blonde

True? Honestly? I think not.

A Good Day AND Funyuns?

The Easter Boy

Relationship in the Dumpster

Wedding Dress 4 Sale, Never Worn

Got Friends? Are You Sure? Take This Test

What About Class? Take This Test

A Long Time Ago, in a Galaxy Far Far Away, There Was a Really Bad Movie

May Your Alchemical Process be Complete. Rob Roy Recipe

Good Thing She's Not in a Good Mood Very Often (We Knew it Wouldn't Last)

What Do I Have to Do to Put You in this Car Today?

Of Mice and Me (Killer Cat Strikes in Local Woman's Apartment)

Trillian: The Musical (The Holiday Special)

LA Woman (I Love (Hate) LA)

It is my Cultureth
...and it would suit-eth me kindly to speak-eth in such mannered tongue

Slanglish

It's a Little Bit Me, It's a Little Bit You
Blogging a Legacy for Future Generations


Parents Visiting? Use Trillian's Mantra!

Ghosts of Christmas Past: Mod Hair Ken

Caught Blogging by Mom, Boss or Other

2003 Holiday Sho-Lo/Mullet Awards

Crullers, The Beer Store and Other Saintly Places

Come on Out of that Doghouse! It's a Sunshine Day!

"...I had no idea our CEO is actually Paula Abdul in disguise."

Lap Dance of the Cripple

Of Muppets and American Idols
"I said happier place, not crappier place!"

Finally Off Crutches, Trillian is Emancipated

Payless? Trillian? Shoe Confessions

Reality Wednesday: Extremely Local Pub

Reality Wednesday: Backstage Staging Zone (The Sweater Blog)

The Night Secret Agent Man Shot My Dad

To Dream the Impossible Dream: The Office Karaoke Party

Trillian Flies Economy Class (Prisoner, Cell Block H)

Trillian Visits the Village of the Damned, Takes Drugs, Becomes Delusional and Blogs Her Brains Out

Trillian's Parents are Powerless

Striptease for Spiders: A PETA Charity Event (People for the Ethical Treatment of Arachnids)

What's Up with Trillian and the Richard Branson Worship?

"Screw the French and their politics, give me their cheese!"


















 
Mail Trillian here





Trillian's Guide to the Galaxy gives 5 stars to these places in the Universe:
So much more than fun with fonts, this is a daily dose of visual poetry set against a backdrop of historical trivia. (C'mon, how can you not love a site that notes Wolfman Jack's birthday?!)

CellStories

Alliance for the Great Lakes


Hot, so cool, so cool we're hot.

Ig Nobel Awards

And you think YOU have the worst bridesmaid dress?

Coolest Jewelry in the Universe here (trust Trillian, she knows)

Red Tango

If your boss is an idiot, click here.

Evil Cat Full of Loathing.

Wildlife Works

Detroit Cobras


The Beachwood Reporter is better than not all, but most sex.



Hey! Why not check out some great art and illustration while you're here? Please? It won't hurt and it's free.

Shag

Kii Arens

Tim Biskup

Jeff Soto

Jotto




Get Fuzzy Now!
If you're not getting fuzzy, you should be. All hail Darby Conley. Yes, he's part of the Syndicate. But he's cool.





Who or what is HWNMNBS: (He Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken) Trillian's ex-fiancé. "Issues? What issues?"







Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.


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Reading blogs at work? Click to escape to a suitable site!

Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)

Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains

Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away

Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains

A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right

Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains





























Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero

 
Friday, October 23, 2009  
Being unemployed sucks. Big time. Obviously. Goes without saying. But I just thought I'd say it anyway.

I've been going through most of the usual phases and mood swings that accompany a loss of this magnitude. Confusion. Fear. A lot of fear. I fear a lot. Helplessness. Hopelessness. Disconnection from society. Loneliness. Isolation. Despair. Fear, more fear. Zero self esteem. Most of the symptoms point to depression. I have periods, days go by, where I don't leave my condo, not even to retrieve the mail. I can't work up the, I dunno what, nerve? energy? desire? to make the elevator ride down to the mailbox. I suppose it's fear, again. Afraid of what will arrive in the mail.

I get a laugh out of myself. The clichés I'm experiencing are so typical they're comedic. Not that I think I'm above experiencing the phases and moods people go through during a loss, a job loss, but it's just funny when it happens to you and you're very aware of what you're going through. "Ahhhh, okay, so this is the 'don't take a shower for days on end phase.' Huh. Wow. I didn't think I'd succumb to that one. Well. Okay then. So much for my latent need for personal hygiene. Just goes to show, it can happen to anyone. I get it, now. Check that phase off the list."

I could rally against it all - I know people, some of my unemployed friends - who fight against the ubiquitous phases and moods. They refuse to lapse into the them. They say they're refusing to be a victim. They say they are not going to be defeated by it. That's all very nice and Joan of Arcky, and I, too, have moments of defiant refusal. But they're short-lived. I suspect my friends' never give up, never surrender attitudes are not constant, either. I suspect they have the same phases and moods as any other unemployed professional but they are trying very hard to convince themselves it's all a matter of attitude so they're doing their darnedest to fight the cliché behaviors and emotions. There's a nice bit of nobility, dignity, in that and hats off to them for at least trying to fight against it, or for at least trying to mask it, trying to kid themselves and everyone else.

Ironically, or, surprisingly, depending on your view of my alcohol intake, I haven't been drinking. Much. I kind of thought I might end up being one of those unemployed people who spends their days drinking. I have long wondered if my professional responsibilities were the only thing preventing me from drinking before noon. Turns out that's not the case at all. Which is one of the good things I've learned about myself. I'm not an alcoholic! I've had a few nights out with friends which have resulted in two or three drinks and nice little numbing of the pain, but I'm not reaching for alcohol on a regular or even semi-regular basis. Here I am with the "freedom" to drink every day and/or night of the week and I'm not interested in it. Remember when you first went to college and booze was everywhere and no parents or adults who know your parents were around? That freedom of fear mixed with the ready and easy availability was, literally, intoxicating. But after the novelty wore off it wasn't a big deal. "Drunk off my ass at 3:00 on a Wednesday afternoon? Yeah. Been there, tried that, not interested."

I'm proud to announce that this week I've taken a shower and washed my hair every day. And I made the trip to the mail box every day except one. Progress!

Or, well, maybe not. Two steps forward, two steps backward.

It's Halloween-time. Which means candy time. Which means easy access to my arch nemesis. Stronger than the lure of alcohol, the deceptively innocent evil foe who has stalked me all my life is weaving its seductive spell on me.

Refined sugar. Salve my wounds, oh sweet elixir.

In times of distress is there anything more satisfying, more deceptively innocent and culturally accepted than a dinner comprised of Twizzlers with a diet Pepsi chaser?

O, sweet salvation.

Oh. Yeah. I dunno when, maybe a few weeks ago, I took up the diet Pepsi habit. Which, I know, is fueling the sugar cravings and deep satisfaction obtained from cookie dough. I don't even remember when or how I came to imbibe that first diet Pepsi. I think it was after three nights of only two hours of sleep and I "needed" caffeine to stay awake. I can't stand coffee and I didn't have any caffeinated tea, and there, in line at Walgreen's was a conveniently placed fridge with ice-cold pop. Caffeine in a refreshingly cold and bubbly form, the staple of my late teen-age diet and college-anorexic years: Diet Pepsi.

Funny how I've mused over the possibility that if I didn't watch it I could have a drinking problem, but never once considered that the drinking problem I undeniably have is diet pop.

More alluring than booze and a lot more problematic because it's socially and culturally acceptable, I kicked the diet pop habit when I kicked anorexia in the ass. Every now and then, just every now and then, I'd indulge, but I vowed to keep it under control, just one, no refills, and then get right back on track the next day.

My parents never allowed me to drink pop except for Vernor's, which, in our house was medicinal. Served cold and warm, Vernor's is my mother's go-to home remedy. It cures everything. And, honestly? She has a valid point. When your stomach is unsettled nothing calms it like Vernor's. Baby fussing after a feeding? A couple sips of Vernor's and BURRRP!!! Happy baby. So, Vernor's didn't count as pop. But every other carbonated beverage was off limits. Coke, Pepsi, 7-Up, Sprite, none of it was allowed in our home. When I went to friends' houses where pop was allowed I felt too afraid to drink it. If a friend's mother offered me pop I looked upon it as being offered alcohol. I'd give a wide-eyed and proud "No thank you, ma'am," as if I'd just turned down a temptation of sin.

And then, one day, junior year of high school, I was at a Junior United Nations event (oh shut up, we all know I'm a dork) at a hotel. Some of the senior girls invited me to join them in their presentation prep group. They stopped at a pop machine and got diet Pepsis to fuel their insatiable desire to solve world issues right there at the Junior United Nations Forum, Regional Finals. A victory here would take us to the state finals and then, oh, then, dare we dream? We'd be off to nationals at the actual United Nations. (Oh shut up, we all know I'm a dork.)

I'd just been elected to represent the entire Scandinavian contingent (we didn't have enough kids interested in Junior UN to represent each country (go figure) so the smaller, less politically active countries were divided into regions). That election was a major coup. The kid who represented Scandinavia before me was ousted after being implicated in a chemistry lab scandal. Scandinavia was always represented by a senior student and my nomination and election caused quite the political stir. A junior representing Scandinavia? Why, why, it's, it's risky! It's unheard of! It could be Junior UN suicide! But there I was, rubbing shoulders with Junior UN elite: United Kingdom, Russia, Japan, China, Germany... this was huge.

Before that I represented the combined countries of Belgium and Luxembourg. (Oh shut up.) And that assignment was controversial. Not too many lower grade students got to represent any European country. But because I'd actually been to Belgium I was deemed "fit" to represent them even though I was only a sophomore. I had my eyes on Canada, but when I was feeling a little full of myself, a little drunk with power, in my wildest fantasies I imagined myself in the coveted United Kingdom representative spot. Skyrocketing to early glory repping Scandinavia in junior year put me one step closer to acting out that fantasy. (Oh shut up, we all know I'm a dork.)

The truth, I now know, was that our teacher-advisors and principal wanted to make the chemistry lab incident go away as quickly as possible. Punishment to the participants was swift and merciless. No extracurricular activities. Period. And to make a good show to the parents and school board they swiftly replaced the chemistry-lab deviants' places in student government and clubs with the most innocent, above-board, undeniably good kids they could find. Enter: Me. "And a child shall lead them..."

I didn't realize all that at the time. I just thought my history grades, interest in world affairs, unwavering zeal for the UN and Norwegian ancestry were what got me that coveted spot representing Scandinavia.

We had long night ahead of us. Our advisers gave us our study guides. We were armed with news magazines and history books. This was going to be a long night of studying and political strategizing. The senior girls loaded up on Diet Pepsi. They knew the restorative power and secrets of caffeine.

Oh yes, they were juicing.

I was a caffeine virgin.

You know where this is going.

A young girl thrown into a group of older, more aware, more savvy girls. A night spent in a hotel, away from home and watchful parental eyes. A Junior United Nations Regional Finals debate. A pop machine.

The senior girls loaded up with arms full of Diet Pepsi - two or three each.

I had long suspected a few of them were juicing. Meaghan Cartwright had always been a little chubby. She left junior year with a belly and a round face and returned senior year very, very fashionably thin. There were rumors of anorexia. Which, at our school, was a good thing. An anorexia rumor would instantly elevate a girl to heights of popularity unrivaled. If a girl was thin enough to incite anorexia rumors, the boys would want to date her and the girls would be envious. It was instant credibility, instant social clout, instant status. (I know. I know. Trust me, I know. I'm not saying I condone this. But. It existed, and sadly, still does. It is what it is. Blame the media. Blame the fashion industry.) For a member of the nerd-herd to attain that kind of status, an anorexia rumor, well, that was unprecedented.

I was still too naive and too much of a goodie-two-shoes to be impressed with the anorexia rumor. Instead I was worried about Meaghan. I liked her. She was smart and funny and was always nice to me, even though I was a grade behind her. I didn't want to believe that she had some sort of deep emotional wound or self-esteem issue that would cause her to suddenly become anorexic. I wanted her to be above caring about an unobtainable media-approved body. I wanted her to be free of body image slavery. If Meaghan could succumb to the pressure to be ridiculously thin than anyone could.

I wanted to fit in and I knew we had a long night of studying ahead of us so I was tempted by the lure of caffeinated social acceptance. But my parents didn't allow me to drink it. There must be a reason why, right? My parents' rules were always fair. If they didn't allow it there must be a darned good reason. So instead of taking my turn at the pop machine I jovially volunteered to get ice.*

When, a few hours later, I saw Meaghan scarf down an entire pizza I worried about bulimia. When it was clear she wasn't excusing herself to barf up the pizza and was, instead, voraciously digging through magazines for information on recent political issues in Italy (her country) my eyes fell on the three bottles of Diet Pepsi she drank. Diet Pepsi = lots of energy and skinny. Diet Pepsi good.

Close to midnight my energy was fading fast. I was exhausted. I felt like a stupid little kid because the other girls were still hopped up high on Junior UN Regional Finals enthusiasm and I could hardly keep my eyes open. I knew. I knew their secret. Caffeine. And lots of it.

The next morning Jesse Moran offered to make a Diet Pepsi run. I went with her - to get the ice. She had to hit two pop machines because one only had three Diet Pepsis and "we" would need a lot more than that to fuel our big day.

I was still tired. We stayed up until two in the morning and had to be ready to hit the deck at 8:30 AM. Four teen-aged girls + one bathroom = up by 6 AM.

When Jesse and I returned with the pop and ice I watched as the three girls transformed from bleary-eyed zombies with attitude to bright-eyed, sharp-minded, chirpy girls ready to take on the United Nations.

I knew I had to be alert and on my A-game for the debates that day.

So just like that, in an instant, I drank from Satan's cup.

My first reaction was a gag-reflex. That stuff was awful. Worse than the Drambuie my father let me taste. Worse than beets. It was disgusting. Vile. How could these girls so happily ingest bottle upon bottle of the stuff? I figured it was an acquired taste.

I was right. Two months later I was on a first name basis with our local 7-11 proprietor because I was using my lunch money to sneak two or three bottles a day before and after school. Yep. I skipped lunch so that I could have Diet Pepsi. All the girls did.

I think my parents knew but didn't want to admit to themselves that their daughter had a drinking problem, a habit. Surely not their daughter, not their baby, not their good girl. That Meaghan Cartwright girl, yeah, they could see that. Mrs. Cartwright was quite plump and Meaghan was headed in that direction. Mr. Cartwright was a high-energy guy who coached water polo and told off-color jokes. Meaghan seeking refuge from her mother's DNA and hope for her dad's high energy in diet pop seemed logical. But their daughter, their Trillian? No way. Not Trillian.

Not surprisingly, that's when the insomnia kicked into a higher gear. I'd never been a good sleeper but after I started the Diet Pepsi habit I was functioning, very well, thank you, on three-four hours per night. Instead of sleeping I read, I studied, I sketched, I wrote, I worried about not sleeping, I worried about my parents finding out I was drinking not only pop, but even worse, diet pop. I vowed to quit.

Each day I tried to quit, and each day I failed. I wanted it. By that time it was more than trying to fit in with a peer group. It was my cold, fizzy, caffeinated friend who was always there for me and never judged me.

I was 5'11" and a late bloomer. I had barely a hint of boob and only slight curves of hips and butt. I was all arms and legs and shoulders.

Some tall girls are willowy. Some tall girls are statuesque. I was gawky. So the fact that I was losing a little weight wasn't obvious to most people. But then Summer arrived and that meant a lot of time at the pool, at the Lake and on boats. I should have been worried about my parents noticing I'd lost weight but instead I obsessed over how I was going to procure Diet Pepsi and hide it from my parents.

On my last day of school I arrived home to a big surprise. My mother took me to celebrate with a shopping trip. For Summer clothes. I'd morphed into a thrift-store shopper with what I thought was quite a snappy environmentally responsible style consisting of my brother's old jeans, sweatshirts and concert t-shirts mixed with retro goodies I found at the Salvation Army store and vintage stores. I clung to the illusion that I was above fashion and that I didn't care what the other girls at school wore. Well. I cared. But I couldn't care. I knew my parents would never, ever shell out money for designer jeans or expensive trendy clothes that I wouldn't be caught dead in after only a few wearings because they were no longer popular at school. My way of circumnavigating the whole perilous social realm of high school fashion was to plead disdain for conformity and proclaim environmental consciousness in the form of recycled clothes. I'd like to say I was an early adapter in the whole green movement, but the sad truth is that I did it only as a way to hide the fact that I wasn't cool enough to pull off the high school clothing trends. The environmental benefits were merely a by-product of the fact that my parents were practical. And saving every penny for my college education. My mother used to say, "Do you want expensive jeans that will be out of style in a month or do you want text-books for your college classes?"

So. To be greeted with a shopping trip was a huge stinking deal. I should have been excited but I was panic stricken. Shopping? For summer clothes? Today? Now? Oh no. Oh no. Shorts. T-shirts. BATHING SUITS!!!! She's going to see me, she's going to realize I've lost weight! She's going to find out I've been skipping lunch and drinking Diet Pepsi!!!

Somehow, some way, I got through that shopping trip. I didn't let her see me in the clothes we bought. I affected the best performance as a teen-ager embarrassed to be shopping with her mother that I could. "Moth-er, puhleeeze, I can try on clothes by myself!" "Mum, can I have a little privacy? I'm not a baby anymore." "No, I'm not coming out, I hate these shorts." I felt bad. I didn't really feel that way. I liked my mother. I wasn't embarrassed by her. I trusted her taste and her opinions. I didn't like behaving like a stupid typical teen-ager. But better that than to let her discover what I'd been doing for the past few months.

After that I stopped. Cold turkey. I just stopped drinking Diet Pepsi. The first few days were difficult, but once I got that monkey off my back I felt a lot better. By the time we went on Summer vacation I was caffeine-free and my ribs and hip bones were no longer jutting out from under layers of clothes.

Whew. I felt good, empowered. Happy. Proud of myself. I did it. I did it all by myself. I got myself into it and I got myself out of it. A real mark of maturity. A test on the road to adulthood and I passed. Sure, I caved into temptation but I triumphed over it, too.

Then I went to college.

By the time first semester mid-terms hit I was on a four-a-day minimum. I had a roommate who drank more than I did. I assuaged my shame and guilt by comparing my habit to hers. Yeah, I drank more than I should, but I was nowhere near as bad as my roommate who needed, yes, needed, at least two Diet Pepsis before she could even contemplate a shower much less classes. I wasn't that bad. I was fine. I could control it. I could quit any time. I knew I could. I quit before and I could quit again.

Yadda yadda yadda, anorexia, yadda yadda yadda, a new lease on life and health, yadda yadda yadda it's been a very, very long time since I've been an habitual Diet Pepsi drinker.

I can quit any time. I've done it before and I can do it again.

I am surprised what a slippery slope it is. One day pop wasn't on my mind at all, not even on the periphery, and the next I'm on a two or three a day habit. There's obvious psychology to it. I'm in a time of serious stress. My life has been turned upside down. Nothing makes sense and every buoy I had to hang onto to keep from drowning in my life is gone. With each passing day of unemployment I sink further under water.

And for some reason, some deep, latent psychological reason, I'm seeking solace in my old friend carbonated caffeine and artificial sweetener. I suppose it's because it takes me back to a time when I was under the delusion that I fit in, that I was accepted. Sure, I fit in with the nerd herd and girls with body image issues, but I fit in. I was accepted. And right now that's what I need most: Acceptance. Well. What I need most is a job, but what I need to get a job is to be accepted. I get a lot of rejection these days. I apply to jobs and make the calls to ever-farther-flung connections of connections, anyone, anyone who might know someone who might know someone who's in need of someone like me to fill a void in their company. And so far the unanimous response is: rejection.

It's worse than dating. When men reject me it's no big deal. I'm used to it. I expect it. I don't even try anymore. But. Job rejection is different. I realize I am not what men want in a date, a mate or even a one night stand. In a sea of desirable women I'm not a viable option. I understand that. But. When it comes to the job market, I am legit. Too legit to quit. I am a viable, skilled and experienced professional. I have career cred. I should be accepted. Employers should want me. So the rejection is tough to handle.

Lapsing into a pattern of behavior that "worked" for me when I needed to be accepted. It made me feel up! and sharp! and accepted! It helped me help take my Junior United Nations team to the state finals. It helped me get through several grueling 18-credit-hour semesters of college. It helped me be thin when my body finally caught up to my height and I sprouted boobs and hips. Huge boobs and hips. It helped me work 12 -14 hour days when I was trying to prove myself as a young professional upstart. It helped me stay awake through endless after-parties and rehearsals when I was dating Rock Star. It helped me manage transatlantic time differences and no time for breakfast mornings. Crazy, chaotic and ridiculous as all that sounds, I was happy during all of it. Really happy. Even when it all crashed I didn't regret a minute of it. Still don't. So. I suppose it's natural, obvious, that I would reach out for the one constant in all of that: A cold, carbonated, caffeinated, artificially sweetened friend.




*And thus began a lifetime of trying to stay good by making myself indispensable with a diversionary task. I once spent an entire semester of college avoiding a contact high from roommate's pot smoke by making a run for pizza, Doritos, Oreos and Slurpees. Not for me, for her. She'd be hungry, soon, and I'd have snacks for her. Why did I do this? Because I wanted to avoid the contact high yet I didn't want her to think I wasn't cool, or that I cared that she smoked weed. I didn't care, but I didn't want to be confined in a small space with her while she did it. I kept my chastity in tact at a party that could have ended very, very differently. There was this older guy I liked, he was an artist (natch), in a band (natch), tall and skinny (natch), sensitive (natch), a little broody (natch), sarcastically hilarious (natch) and was in possession of soulful eyes. There was this party. He was there. There was a lot of booze. Someone might have had a little too much to drink. That someone might have found herself in a bit over her hormonal head thanks to said booze and said guy. Fortunately I wasn't too drunk to remember that I wasn't really "ready" to have sex and I certainly did not want to lose my virginity to a guy who didn't even know my name on the back porch of a frat house. But how, how does a young girl, a young drunk girl, resist the lure of an artistic, broody, sensitive, guitar-playing, sarcastic guy with soulful eyes? And keep some semblance of credibility, at least enough to possibly garner her a date with said soulful-eyed guy? Easy! By diverting attention from a little-too-passionate kiss-gone-horizontal to birth control. "I'll go get a condom!" I far too enthusiastically offered and stepped out into the cold night air. Away from the intoxication of the booze and that guy, I sobered up enough to apprise the situation and leave the scene. I wanted to salvage a possibility with the guy, so I did return, eventually. I was condomless, of course, but diverted the attention from sex to something else all artistic, broody, sensitive, guitar-playing sarcastic guys enjoy as much as sex: Drugs. My stoner roommate was also at that party. When I saw her in the crowd I asked her for pot. She, remembering my altruistic munchie runs, happily obliged. I returned to the guy on the back porch and told him I couldn't score a condom but I did score something else. He rolled a couple joints, it became obvious that I was nowhere near cool enough, mature enough or pretty enough to be anywhere near him, and that was that. But the helpful diversion method saved me from the inevitable angst that would have followed had I had sex with him. And no, even now, I don't regret it. He did go on to play in a semi-famous band - one of those bands that never quite makes it, always the opener, never the main event types of bands. No regrets. Several years later the Universe threw me karma bones. One for not giving into booze soaked hormones: Rock Star. And other one for getting munchies for my roommate: She ended up in a really fantastic career that offers her ins for incredible music and art events and she's never forgotten me, always willing to share the wealth of fun her job offers her. Consequently to this day I maintain that the diversionary make-yourself-useful approach to peer pressure is a viable and even good plan.

6:59 AM

 
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