Pet Peeve #5

Girls who wear hats.
There is an air of condescension to them. Or maybe it's pretentiousness. I can't put my finger on it.
Anyway, I mean any kind of hat: baseball cap, a beanie, or those seem-to-be-cool-right-now cabbie hats. All of them. Above all I loathe the ones that seemingly have not purpose such as the cabbie hat. It doesn't have a brim that would keep the sun out of one's eyes, nor does it protect the ears from bitter cold. Why? I don't know.
The iceing on the cake is that girls with hats always seem to be attached to a guy. A cute guy. I wonder what he thinks when she takes off the hat and gets an eyeful of what's sure to be hat head.
My final words on this will be this: I thought hats went out after Blossom was canceled.

Cowards are my favorite

A few days ago I posted about my disdain for the band, U2. I promptly recieved a reply from "Anonymous" about how I was "something, something, something,... Get over yourself."
Well, I don't feel it neccessary to publish posts from people who choose to remain, "Anonymous" and who have nothing important to say. Fuck off. OR:
Try saying something smart. Maybe give me a new perspective on U2, although I'm pretty sure that's impossible since they are SO one dimensional.

My face is a big, red stop sign (II)

Listen. Can you hear me? I thought so. So why is it that when I say hello to someone, or try to catch someone's eye, they act as if I'm invisible OR (and this is even worse) they say something smart, not knowing, of course, who the fuck I am. Listen, I will kill you. Well, I probably won't kill you, but I will light a red, "Ecce-Homo Gran Poder (great power)" candle that I got at the supermarket and pray that you will get what is coming to you.

It's official, my fat ass isn't welcome anywhere.

I heart drama. I've been known to create it if there's none areound. This weekend was a triad of it.
St. Patricks day is a day begging for drama. When all you have to do is drink (as opposed to the other holiday's where drinking is also the main activity but you have distractors like a turkey or presents) there is bound to be a person or two who sets the drama ball a-rollin'. In this case it was not me.
I was minding my own business, freezing my ass off as only a California ass could in 50 degree weather, trying to catch a cab home from the St. P's celebration in downtown SD when this dude cut right in front of my friend and me. We said something to alert him of our rightful place at the front of the cab-hailing line, but this guy was not caring. After much back and forth between he and us I walked up to him and, very seriously, informed him that if there were not police on every corner around us I would stab him in the eye with the filthy heel of my shoe. Whithout skipping a beat he told me to fuck off. I searched his eyes for a shred of fear, of remorse at being such a prick, but he was empty. Visions of him wooing girls into loving him and then raping them in the ass because of his repressed homosexuality flashed before my eyes. I saw him killing kittens as a child and knew he was the sort of guy who would tie a girl up for days whilst savagely beating her in which case I thought it best to leave him be. As I crossed the street to search for another cab-hailing spot he yelled out, "get your fat ass out of here!" Not again. Be original.
Later that night, Laura and I were entertaining two gentlemen we met earlier at the festivities. Peter, the one who I was interested in, lives down the block from us and I found him entirely charming. His charm soon faded when I noticed that he and Laura were holding hands. I let it slide though because Laura was plastered and he might have been holding her hand because she grabbed it in her drunken fog - even though I had discussed my attraction to him with her several times during the course of the night. The whole night turned into a nightmare when I heard Laura invite him up to her apartment. Not five minutes later she came back and informed me that he was in her apartment and she didn't know why. I told her it was because she was a whore and had invited him up even though I was the one who liked him. I went to bed questioning the human race.
In the morning light I decided that although Laura had wronged me, I was better off forgiving her. She apologized, claimed she didn't know why she did it and we proceeded to drink Mimosas.
After we ran out of orange juice we went to the local Pub to see what we could get into. After a while a rowdy bunch rolled up in a double-decker bus straight outta Merry Ol'. These people were dressed like they loved Ireland: green, orange, and drunk. We wondered aloud how one could join such a ensemble. What better place to find out than a trip to the bathroom, right? Wrong.
I walked into the head and was not greated with smiles of the jolly-drunk, but scowls of bitchy girls. "You guys look like you're having fun. How does one go about getting on a tour such as yours?", said I. "You join at a place called AA!", remarked the anorexic girl whose hair was thinning and skin was sallow. "HA, HA! No, really, is it through a travel angency or what?", I asked. "I'm serious. You join through AA.", she quipped.
Instead of smacking her fucking face, I wrote it off to what must have been too much alcohol. She was, after all, 89lbs. Surely one beer could do a number on her. Oh, but God has a sick sense of humor. Whenever I behave well, mind my manners, turn the other cheek, he makes sure I feel the affects. The next time I went to the bathroom she was in there and can I just tell you that she looked me straight in the face and said, "Oh my God. It's like I bad omen that I've seen you twice." I said something about how she didn't even know me and how it was probably a good omen (still trying to be Christian about it and all). What I should have told her is that I could be her worst nightmare and that if she knew what was good for her she would shut her ugly, fucking face before I grabbed her by the hair and slammed her mouth against the counter and knocked out all of her front teeth.
I let it go though. I'd had enough drama for one weekend.

Hello, Tucson?

Who are you? Do I know you or are you a random reader?

Santa Patricia's Day

Tomorrow begins my birthday month. One month from tomorrow I will be 27 years of age. Feel free to take a few moments to thank the good Lord above for bestowing me apon thee.
In other news, today I got debriefed on my eval. It was an EP, 4.67. I'm pissed. I know I should be grateful because it's an EP and a 4.67, but I am not because out of the two IT2's at the command, we both got EP's. Since we are transitioning to a new command, they made my eval a special eval and his a regular, that way we could both get an EP. That's all fine and well, that sort of communism, but I really busted my ass for an EP. For Christ sake, I've taken 9 college classes since Fall on top of volunteering every weekend since then! It just hurts not to be recognized... again... always.
Speaking of that, I had planned to extend my trip to Pensacola at the end of the month to include a visit to Jacksonville in the spirit of visiting Ben. Turns out that he's too busy to have me visit for a weekend. Well, Ben, that was the last bit of effort I will exert for you. I'm tired of not being appreciated.
Happy Santa Patricia's Day!

I hate U2

Goddamnit, do I hate them. Bono thinks he's so cool and I can hear it in his voice. I literally want to vomit whenever one of their songs comes on the radio. I fucking hope that Bono gets herpes in his throat from sucking the dicks of underage boy prostitutes in Thailand and can never sing again.

Pet Peeve # 4

Classism. Friday night at the Airport Lounge (my new favorite place in Little Italy) brought to light the rampid classism that apparently plagues, not only the military, but the rest of humanity as well.
My new friend and neighbor, Laura and I were offered a ride home by our new friends, and bouncers at the club, Karl and Donny. We were also invited to a party at AJ and Justin's apartment, friends of the owner of Airport (or so they claimed). Truthfully, I would have much rather not have gone to their apartment, but Leah, Laura's friend was taken with one of them, so we were obliged to go. Laura and I invited Donny and Karl with permission from AJ and Justin. While walking out to the car with AJ and Justin, Justin made this comment: "so, slumming with the help are we?" and I just couldn't believe it. I quickly let him know that what he just said was rude and that Karl and Donny were people and not just bouncers at the club his friend owned. I couldn't even look at him the rest of the night.
Another case of classism occured one week prior when I ran into Bob, Crush's friend, outside of a restaurant. We chatted and I suggested we get together sometime for coffee since we both lived in the area. He said that would be great, but before we could exchange the obligatory phone number or time to meet, he exused himself from our conversation and got into a cab. Before I knew what had happened, he was gone and I was left, jaw agape, wondering how someone could be so mannerless. Fucking jerk.

A woman of duty.

The smartest thing that the boy Ashley ever told me was the theory of "Karmic Duty." In this theory, it is acceptable to do what you feel instead of what you think is right. The theory justifies this by explaining how even if your deed seemed wrong at the time, it may have been neccessary in the grand scheme of life.
I used to feel bad about myself, about the fact that I frequently treat people exactly the way I feel about them regardless of what I actually know about them. But thanks to Karmic Duty, I can feel confident that my actions are serving the greater good. So next time we interact and you walk away thinking, "God, what a bitch!", just thank your lucky stars and know that you are still in it.

It's not going to stop

All living things have 9 characteristics that makes them unique. One of these characteristics is the ability to sense and respond to stimuli, both internal and external. The ability is so innate that it is actually part of our DNA; so why is it sometimes so hard for us to face reality, even when it is smacking us in the face?
I have an issue. I see my life marred by very precise, very nauseating black spots:
1. unable to interact well with authority figures.
2. forming relationships with men who are "unavailable", either emotionally or otherwise.
3. expecting insignificant things to change my life. "If I buy this shampoo my hair will be bouncy, people will notice me, life will be fabulous!" (I really think that way).


I'm sure I possess more of these personality flaws, however, these are the three that come to mind first. I see these "patterns", I see myself repeating them. I see it like I see someone else doing it. I can see that the woman acting out this way does not care about the outcome of her actions. She only cares about the moment. She only hopes that this time it will be different.

"Insanity: doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results." ~ Albert Einstein.

Pet Peeve #3

Tatoos. I hate them. I really do not understand why people get them. Admittedly, I have never been a person who values accessories of any kind, and that is exactly what I view tatoos as: accessories. They are the earings that you loved in the 80's, you know, the big florescent orange hoops that matched one of the two pairs of scrunchy socks that you scrunched over your pegged jeans, only you can never get rid of it. Sucks to be you (if you have a tatoo that is).

Yeah, though I walk through the Silicon Valley, I shall fear no evil.

Listen, the best thing I ever did in my life was isolate myself. I know what you're thinking. How can I live year after year, day after day, minute after minute alone? Well, I'm not technically alone. I mean, I have friends. It just so happens that the only people that I choose to let into my life are people who can't really come in. I think it works best this way. Keeping people at arms distance is a fail-safe way to make sure that nobody really gets to know me. I ensures that the Trish you think you know is just that: a girl you think you know. This really is a win-win situation because it allows you (the person who thinks you know me) to invent in your mind the girl you think you know while allowing me to remain a vacant shell. You see, it is much easier for me to just be who I think you want me to be. Oh, yes. It is far easier to do that than to actually be myself. The fact is, I have no personality. I don't have an anti-social personality, just a lack thereof. This handicap makes it difficult for me to do things that normal people such as yourself find common place. For me it is more soothing to stay at home on this Friday night, watching what I want to watch on TV, eating what I feel like eating and not worrying whether someone else is full or enjoys my cooking. It all becomes so taxing. I don't have the capacity to care about anyone except me.
My father had a friend, an old man named Brody who lived as a hermit in the hills above Silicon Valley (before it was Silicon Valley). We visited him once, his body was visibly stiff at the presence of people. He lived a very simple life, even washed his own handmade clothes with water he drew from a well. I wondered at the time why he chose to live alone and whether he got lonely. I used to imagine that he was immensely intelligent and that he chose to live apart from a society so obviously not as progressive as he. I imagined he was alone by choice. I now know that it is some sort of virus, this need to isolate. It starts out as a tiny seed of insecurity and grows into the full blown wall of a hermit in the hills or the characteristic lady with cats and a cardigan. I guess we can all see which one I'll end up being. My only request is that we all stop keeping up appearances and get on with the inevitability of it.

Pensajacksogulassippi!!!

An emotionless sleeve.

Project Runway has quickly become one of my favorite television shows (my favorite is Daniel {swoon [too bad he's gay] }. I can't pinpoint what exactly it is about the show that brings me back each week, but I think it has something to do with personalizing fashion designers. Until now, I had been oblivious to the fact that fashion was, in fact, designed by people. Fashion, and clothing in general have never been things that I was particularly passionate about. I am happy with jeans and a t-shirt. Vogue is a magazine I read to look at the gorgeous women and wish with all my being that I was taller, thinner with brown hair - no platinum, or whatever is in fashion for a model at the moment. I always thought clothing was sort of fundamental. You need to cover X amount of parts on X parts of the body: piece some clothe together and viola! An outfit.
And then there was Project Runway and I had an epiphany. Anybody can sew clothes. All ya do is get some fabric, needle, thread, and there ya go. I bought a sewing machine once in the Oregon years. I don't know what I was thinking; I can't even thread the bobbin (or spell it). I don't think I ever sewed anything either. I just liked to think of the white machine being available to me if I were to need it.