this must be the place

second place in the human race. elvis costello, anyone? anyhow, i just came back onto blogger.com to find that my account no longer exists, so here it goes again. yes, folks, it's three in the morning and i'm having a bedtime cocktail. and no, i'm not making some desperate faux-bukowski attempt to seem edgy or scumbaggishly bohemian (wow, i'm drinking past bar hours. by myself. and writing. i'm suuuuuch a maverick. i bet i'm smoking cigarettes, too, except that i don't smoke, which makes me even more of a maverick, because, like, you can't pigeonhole me into the box of hipsterdom, man. i'm totally an individual, except for the fact that i freak out any time i find out that people are saying negative things about me behind my back, because i'm actually secretly obsessed with what people think of me. well, i wouldn't say obsessed, but i do try to be all things to all people, and it just wears me thin as taffy. there is somewhat of a narcissistic mind frame in one who actually thinks she has everyone fooled into thinking she's a good person--nay, an exceptional individual. here's the thing: i know i'm crazy, i know i've fucked a lot of dudes, done a lot of drugs, cheated a lot of people out of things they deserved, and lied my way through it all to seem like i was in the right, like i was the victim, whatever. the truth of the matter is, i know i'm crazy. normal people don't agonize over whether they should tell someone they've been dating a week that they think he's the one for eternity. normal people don't have sex for sport. normal people don't listen to pop and punk and see the infinite parallels between the two. normal people don't take eight years to finish college, don't hate bob marley, don't bring flasks on a first date, and definitely don't not shower every day. i get it, i'm off. i don't blame mom, dad, stepdad, first cousin, the media, george w. bush, or anyone else for my neuroses but me. but don't be the person who's just as headraped as i am and call me crazy. calling me crazy is about as insulting as saying i have red hair. i bleed out of my vagina for a good six days out of every month; i think i'm allowed to harangue the checker at my local grocery store about the ludicrousness of inconsistency in avocado quality. i'll be as crazy as i want. you keep drinking yourself to bed every night next to the fiancee who you know doesn't really love you, and i'll be mindful, party of one), i actually just got off work and am having an unwinder before i hit the hay--you know, what most of you do at 7pm on a tuesday, only i work graveyards at a shithole diner in beautiful (?) seal beach, california, so my day ends at around two in the morning. well, more tomorrow. i'm feeling slightly stagnant.