You know what's worse than writing a cover letter? Writing a cover letter for a job you really, really want so bad it almost makes your eyeballs bleed.

That is all.

Been a little down today.

The funk began last night while waiting for the N train under Times Square. It's a bit of an angry thing, bit of a sad thing, bit of a thinking too goddamn much thing. It's just a thing. Thinking about poetry, those sad little words I write that no one is ever going to read. I write them anyway. Why?

And thinking about people, and being alone, and my life, what's to become of me.

Meh. It happens sometimes. Just have to wait it out. Should be over it by tonight. Sometimes I find it's nice to savor a bad mood.

I guess it's pretty official. I hate Times Square. I don't know why, maybe it's all the flashy lights and the hordes of various tourists (like the guy behind me as we slushed our way across an intersection saying to his friend in a slow Southern drawl, 'Well, I reckon it's colder here than Texas.') And all of my carefully cultivated sense of direction just goes out the window. Thank god I have taken to carrying a compass. I mean, it's not much use except for the occasions where you're coming out of a subway entrance you may not be familiar with, but you know you need to go North. Then it's handy to get you started in the right direction, and you can sort things out as you go after that. But for some reason, even with the compass, I went in the totally wrong direction TWICE today on my way to the interview. I suppose I'm an idiot. Or maybe my orienteering skills are just subpar. At any rate, I rest the blame entirely on Times Square. It needs to stop sucking. It's like a really cold, slushy, dirty casino, with extra flashy lights, but fewer slot machines. So, a note to anyone who comes to visit me here, I'm not taking you to Times Square.

Even if I did have this really crazy dream last night, in which I was at one point I was about to appear on that stupid video show-- ooh! I just remembered. It's TRL. I don't know if it's still on, or if they even pretend to play videos anymore-- but I was appearing on it in a really godawful neon ensemble, plugging some sort of something. The host was a very plasticy, ugly boy with bad skin and bleach blonde hair. I was confused as to where I was or how I had gotten there. But there I was. And that involves Times Square, in kind of an obtuse way. Maybe I was just bitter at it today because I was not, in fact, the kind of C- or D-list celebrity who appears on there. If I were a celebrity at this point in my life, I think I would only qualify as possibly a Z-list celebrity.

Overheard from a group of teenage girls while walking back from the grocery store:

"Gay boys may not like girls, but they're fun as hell."

There you have it. That's a life lesson if ever I've heard one.

This survey is about me. And you. And you and me... da da da da dum... Ahem. Do it!

Part I
1.Your Middle Name:
2. Age:
3. Single or Taken:
4. Favorite Movie:
5. Favorite Song:
6. Favorite Band/Artist:
7. Dirty or Clean:
8. Tattoos and/or Piercings:

Part II
1. Do we know each other outside of LJ?
2. What's your philosophy on life?
3. Would you have my back in a fight?
4. Would you keep a secret from me if you thought it was in my best interest?
5. What is your favorite memory of us?
6. Would you give me a kidney?
7. Tell me one odd/interesting fact about you:
8. Would you take care of me when I'm sick?
9. Can we get together and make a cake?
10. Have you heard any rumors of me lately?
11. Do you/have you talk(ed) crap about me?
11.5 Would you admit it?
12. Do you think I'm a good person?
13. Would you drive across country with me?
14. Do you think I'm attractive?
15. If you could change anything about me, would you?
16. What do you wear to sleep?
17. Would you come over for no reason just to hang out?
18. Would you go on a date with me if i asked you?
19. If I only had one day to live, what would we do together?
20. Will you repost this so i can fill it out for you?

It's only been a few months since I've posted here. No big, right?

I've got something to do later today, and I'm scared as shit about it. Huge ass butterflies in ye olde stomach. Stomache.

And I don't really want to talk about it, because I don't want to jinx myself. Anyway.

Wish me luck. I'll talk about it later, once I know how it turns out.

(And no, I'm not preggers or anything. Pervs.)

Okay. Let me start by saying: I don't really like my company housing. But my only real complaint so far has been the sulfer water running through the pipes in this house, making the tap water... well, not potable, and making my showers (and therefore me) smell kind of like...

Well, you know that Easter egg that maybe you didn't find that one Easter when you were a kid? And you remember that time, months later, when Uncle Bernie had too much 4th of July schnapps and fell into the boxwood in the front of the house and found the Easter egg? Do you remember what that smelled like? Yeah, well, that's the smell of my hair right now.

But, okay, fine, whatever, I can deal with smelling like rotten egg for three months. It's fine. I'm going to complain about it until everyone's tired of hearing it, but it's not going to kill me, and it will make me appreciate clean, fresh-smelling tap water all the more when I get back to Virginia.

Two days ago, I got home after rehearsal to find two of my housemates standing at the bottom of the stairs with a large, hairy, middle-aged man who's holding a tennis racket. Why? There's a bat upstairs. O-kaaaaay. This guy is representing the local pest-control company, and his tennis racket is actually standard issue for dealing with bats. Which is really, really immensely reassuring. Not at all. How is he going to find the bat? He's going to wait until he hears it flap it's little hairy wings against a wall upstairs. Then, I assume, tennis racket it's freakish flying-mammal ass. In the meantime he's telling us all horror stories about bats: the way they like to climb into people's beds, the way they like to hide in people's clothes, and the way you have to get seven shots in the stomach or butt if one bites you. I spent the night at Cassy and Sarahs.

Day two, I come back, expecting the bat's to be gone. Instead, I find they've duct taped a sheet to the stairwell entrance with aign taped to it that says: "BAT UPSTAIRS!" Grand. I go upstairs, get toiletries and a change of clothes, and go to work to shower in the wardrobe house. Spend the night with Cassy and Sarah again.

Day three: I come home this evening to discover the sheet still in place, and one of my housemates on the couch (where he slept last night.) "Any news on the bat front?" I ask. "Well, they killed fifteen of the in the attic last night." Which is EXACTLY WHAT I WANT TO HEAR AT THIS POINT. FIFTEEN BATS, ALL OF THEM POTENTIALLY RABID. Okay, okay, so why is the sheet still in place? Because they still haven't caught the bat on the second floor, where my bedroom it. Fucking. Awesome. I have the rage.

I'll keep you posted. Just as soon as I find somewhere to sleep tonight.

Packing up for the seven-and-a-half hour drive to Cooperstown tomorrow. Kinda apprehensive about the whole shebang, but not too much. Good-bye, Virginia. (For a few months, anyway.) I'm going to miss Charlie. And the cat.

Feel like I have a lot to think about, but I probably don't. Summer will probably be pretty okay. Knock wood.

Anywho. I'm putting off packing, so I should go do that.

/end pointless post.

So I used to wear this oil called chypre. I got it at the hippie bookstore in Cookevegas. I loved it. It was like warm citrusy sugar cookies. It's the best scent I've ever, ever found.

And Spiritual Sky, the company that used to make it, discontinued it.

So I've started looking for it online. It turns out chypre is a type of fragrance oil, not an essential oil. The original formula is no longer made, although lots of companies now use the general formula as a base for mainstream frangrances (Like Yves Saint Lauren's Y.) But I HATE perfumes, because all I can smell is the alcohol they use to cut it. So I'm looking for the oil. And the only places that sell it are Wicca supply sites. Great. It's not enough that I want to smell like a hippie, now they tell me I want to smell like a Wicca hippie. What is chypre used for? According to The Goddess Shoppe Online: "A love oil that brings peace to unhappy relationships, calms jealousy and mistrust, use with a white candle."

I feel dirty inside. And not just because they think spelling it shoppe adds a touch of class.

/end rant

I'm gonna have to go slap some bitches. I STILL haven't gotten my money from JMU for that overhire work I did last month, and I need some spending money for the trip to LA... I leave on Sunday! WOOOT! Hugely excited about the whole thing. Today is a fun banking day, though, since I"m heading out to open up a Bank of America savings account. Then to the Lion of Food to pick up some ingredients for tonight's dinner. Also on this weeks agenda is buying more black pants for running wardrobe, and possibly getting a hair cut. Split end city. And going to costco for bulk hot chocolate, camisoles, and a phone card to use in NY, since the boondocks don't have cell phone towers.

Meanwhile, my cat continues to be insane.

Tonight is another girl scout meeting. We're helping a brownie troop bridge into girl scouts. Should be a hootinany. So I should probably go now so I can get all the errands run and start dinner before Charlie gets home. I'm so fucking domestic I make myself sick.