Thursday Top Eight: And I'm Not Proud That Nothing Will Seem Easy About Me

It's kinda funny that Sunday I chose to write on "Things that were harder than I expected," and I said I'd write about Easier Things later this week, and between then and now a lot of hard things have happened involving people I love and care about -- even just people I know about -- and I dunno, things feel kinda crap, the air's a bit apocalyptic lately ... while simultaneously containing hopeful violent wind. I'm fighting competing urges to be productive or do all of the following things at once: lie on my couch, drink sweet wine out of the bottle, read Raymond Carver [I love his poetry, why does everyone underestimate this man as a poet, why is his poetry overlooked? I love his poetry.] and watch Tegan & Sara. That's not a mistake, I mean that -- "watch," like concert videos or whathaveyou. I like to watch them play music. Not because I want to bone them, but because it's better than crack.

I once again destroyed my back at the gym: I couldn't get off the elliptical 'til I learned who still had a shot at love with Tila Tequilla -- just about the worst reason ever to stay on the elliptical trainer forever while neglecting form. As I predicted, Steffanie was given the boot, and dear Stef, if you google yourself and land here, I want you to know that everything happens for a reason, and you were probs eliminated so you and I could be together. Also, my first question for you, Steffanie, is why the fuck did you agree to be on this retarded show? Are you retarded, like Tila and the other contestants? Also, readers: Why does no one on this show have a real job [or brain cells]? I feel like they're all "dancers." [I can't tear myself away from this show! It's possible I'll watch lesbians do anything. Except talk about their feelings, I guess.]

Ryan gave me this blue ball I'm supposed to roll around on top of to fix my back. That's not how it sounds. I wonder what'd happen if I swallowed this large pink pill in my desk drawer. Shall we find out? Lets see. Took it. I think that may've been a Percocet. I should probably include "reckless with pills" in my banner. Pill's not working. Nothing works on me anymore, I should be a lab rat for really strong medications. I'm chewing Bubbilicious. This post is going to be weird. I'll fix it tomorrow, it's item 457 on my to-do list. Ow. Giving my tongue a workout. Blowing bubbles. If I knew how to make balloon animals, I would. All the time. For birthdays, Christmas, whatever.

Soooo ... easy things. I feel like everything is easier than I expected, because I don't expect much. I don't really expect anyone to like, love me or hire me or anything. Rejected ideas for this stellar list include [okay, I'm feeling it now. Sort of mushy. Like I feel a little bit like Jell-O but slightly nauseous, and still awake somehow, this is quite weird]: Getting laid, getting internships, getting a job, lesbian sex, getting published, getting a freelance job, making new friends, avoiding phone calls, avoiding life, maintaining perky breasts, getting good grades, graduating college, working out, not going out, not spending money, going out, building a cave, writing 10,000 emails a day, learning to read.

So, right, things that are easier than I expected:

8. Finding This Apartment:
I was informed of my impending ejection from my apartment on March 18th, my then-girlfriend's 30th birthday. Brill timing. I put an ad on craiglist. I was straightforward : "BEST ROOMMATE EVER." I'm a freelance writer, so I've got no pay stub or steady income and I work from home and therefore, I'm home a lot. I stay up late, get up early, play loud music, and often cook dinner at 2 A.M.. I'm not messy, but I'm not a super-neat-freak either, and I eat about 100 meals a day. I've got a girlfriend, and she'll probably be sleeping over a lot, but she doesn't live in the city so I'll never be sleeping at her place. Howevs, I'm super fun! And I won't judge you for anything."

I figured there was no point in sugarcoating the fact that I was a highly undesirable roommate on paper. I expected invitations from people hoping I might not judge their heroin habit or goth band practice -- but most of the people who emailed seemed fairly normal. Then there was all this stuff that happened with another apartment and then I got an email from Zoey. I came to meet Zoey & Ryan and see this place the day after being up all night with food poisoning, and my girlfriend was in the hospital and my article just'd been killed, and it was raining like hard like hard. The apartment is beautiful, we totes clicked, Zoey'd been a fan of my L-Word recaps and thus kinda knew "of" me [like that I was a writer, not a "writer"] and Ryan also had a gay Mom and I was just like, perfect, done and DONE.

Oddly enough, they're most well-behaved roommates I've ever had, like I'm defo the weirdo in the house. Well, except Heart, that little dog we had for a while [see photo], Heart was like, on the depressive side of manic depression for sure.

7. Surfing
It's just really rare that I'll show any kind of instinct at all whatsoever for any sort of athletic activity. I skiied for ten years and still couldn't parallel or ski a black diamond. I can barely even swim. It's a miracle I don't fall down the stairs every day and break my elbows. The reason I picked up surfing so fast? Significant quadriceps. JK, I could barely stand up, but I wasn't terrible, it wasn't a disaster like snowboarding had been.

6. Make My Room Look Better and More Like a Grown-up:
I have these new sheets, they've changed the whole feel of my room. See, before, my sheets had holes [resulting from being nailed into the mattress & a fire of some sort] and my duvet cover was stained with ink, wine, whatevs. I'd covered it with another sheet, just a grey sheet from Tommy Hilfiger I got with an amazon gift certificate earned for using my credit card too often. Haviland & Cait picked out these new sheets & duvet cover for me because I don't know anything about how to make things look not retarded. My room looks so much better now, like fo' real, if you came over, you might fall in love with me. Until I start talking. Howevs, Haviland was dropping stuff into my garbage like we were on a Home Makeover show or Queer Eye. Mostly, she wanted to pitch various objects I'd employed to perform new lives as candle holders. She wanted me to get rid of my little toys too, like the plastic hula girl and the wind-up Santa and the dolphin paperweight but I was like "Carly has toys! Carly has toys!" and so she let me keep my toys in my cave. La-di-da.

5. This
Blogging. Sometimes if I sit and think about it, I'm like, wow, I can't believe people actually read this. Although the way this post is going, you might be wondering exactly why you still are.

4. Coming Out
I totes avoided having to deal with any of the sexuality issues through three primary accidental strategies:
1) The Blog: Though I'd identified personally as bisexual and would always say so if anyone asked, I didn't really start dating girls until about two years ago. Some people had always known, some were close enough to just know ... but most people just read my blog. It's awesome. Also, how many times have you gone onto somoene's myspace profile and been like "OMG, they're gay now?" Probs quite often. So I'm not the only one who uses the internet to avoid confronting a series of emotional realities. Also, my grandparents don't know how to use the internet.
2) The potential impact of having my first "real" girlfriend was sort of overshadowed by all the other special circumstances. I didn't really have time to ponder how to present myself as a lesbian (no one ever assumes "bisexual" in these cases, obvs) 'cause there were far more pressing issues. I wasn't really thinking about the weight behind my formerly innocuous daily communications, like saying the word "girlfriend" instead of "boyfriend." People respond to that, they just do, it's a surprise, to them, they are surprised but trying not to be -- I still remember the tennis club manager (where I worked for a hot minute) insisting on calling her my "roommate," which was not only inaccurate, but retarded. I didn't really have time to think about boys vs. girls, I just fell, I surrendered, when you feel you've found the right person you just zoom in and the rest of it goes away.
3) Apparently, my extended family has somehow decided that I'm a "career woman" who is too focused on work to acquire a male companion. That is just like, I mean, wow. Career. What's a career? Hoo-ha.

3. Getting Tattooed
I was super-drunk, mega-stoned, and I think Stephanie and I'd consumed a great deal of candy. I mean that; actual candy. At first it hurt, but then it kinda leveled out, like just became sort of sharp and muted throbbing, which is more or less my specialty. My thigh's not a particularly sensitiive spot either. The only hard part was figuring out if it was being tattooed in the right direction, as it was Hebrew, which is right-to-left, and I was looking in a mirror, and I was drunk. Anyhow I decided today that I want to get another tattoo. Anyone wanna design something for me? It's L-O-Z-O. That's his real last name. No, I think I know what I'm gonna get, I think the ancient Hebrew script signal for "hand." On my wrist. Maybe. I dunno yet.

2. Getting Health Insurance
The hardest part of this process, besides the 1.5 years before it happened and the six month post-application waiting period, was that I had to go to fucking Inwood to do the paperwork. Oh wait, did I say Inwood? I didn't mean Inwood. I meant basically I was in Alaska, that's how far I had to travel for this appointment, like, I should've called Rachel. It was on like 345th street or something. I showed her my bank statements, which reflected an income of approximately less than zero per month, because I was paid in cash then, and as a super-savvy anti-government radical neo-leftist feminazi super-warrior (not at all), I paid my bills w/money orders and everything else in cash, holla, and there wasn't that much of it, anyhow, so I filled out this form saying I only made $100/week [just following instructions] and then I got approved, which I wasn't expecting at all. I think everyone should have free health insurance in this country, so I was at peace with the whole thing. When I got the acceptance package in the mail, I started crying with joy, literally, crying, with joy, yes. Crying .. with joy.

1. Meet People
When did this happen? I don't know. I used to not even write as regularly as I should have for The Michigan Daily in college because I was afraid to attend meetings -- I hated the five minutes before and afterwards, when friends spoke to friends and I stood alone & awkward, projecting the air of a stuck up bitch who thought she was better than everyone, which was kinda true, as all anyone ever wanted to talk about was Weezer. This was before texting, there wasn't much to do on your cell phone besides stare at it. I don't know when I stopped being so shy and self conscious. When I moved here in 2004 I decided to start testing myself, challenging myself to overcome this -- I started facing my fears by compulsively meeting strangers. I'd meet boys or girls online and then arrange to meet them in real life and see what happened. Usually nothing good happened [though, Stephanie, my aforementioned tattooing companion, was one of the people I met this way], but I found it compelling, I started realising, maybe, how there's not really much difference between the people you're afraid of, and the people you talk to, sometimes for hours, or lifetimes.