Yesterday, I was elected, via popular vote plus an almost unanimous bid from the super delegates (Britney Spears and Michael Jackson pulled two votes each) the sole party candidate for the Presidential election of Crazy Town. I am currently attempting to withdraw my candidacy effective immediately, but the locals keep pulling me back in with bribes of happy pills and bottles of wine.

I have severe reservations about disclosing the exact events and/or circumstances under which I earned a VIP seat on the Express Train to Crazy Town (which bypasses Obsessive-ville, goes way beyond Nuts-o City and stops just short of Lunatic Junction) yesterday afternoon. Let’s just say it was a very, very low point that did no one (least of all ME) any good. A low point, a cavern if you will, which ultimately left me sitting across from Barbie #3 at a Dupont bar last night recounting my ride to Crazy Town whilst tears streamed from my red, puffy eyes that I tried to mask oh so cleverly behind Jackie-O sunglasses.

Thankfully, by the time my second Guinness was delivered by what had the be the WORST waiter in the history of food service, the tears had abated and I had re-applied my eye makeup, the evening took a decided turn for the better. By the end of the night, life didn’t seem quite so hopeless, and while I was still VERY crazy, at least I was laughing at my own insanity.

I will spend this weekend waiting to purchase a one way ticket back to the realm of sanity while I try to forget the fact that my friends are at my alma mater without me. And that despite his undeserving behavior, Fuckhead will be with them and I will not. I will try not to remember last year’s reunion and look, instead towards to future and concentrate on the present.

I have a beautiful weekend planned with Army to be spent on the Eastern Shore at a little Bed & Breakfast with sailing, shopping and sea food. Frankly, it sounds infinitely preferable to fraternal drama, substance abuse, and feeling significantly older than my 21 year old, undergraduate counterparts.

So continuing with the more positive, upbeat attitude (at least I’m trying to fake it), I accepted the challenge of Michelle in the City. I doubt any of my silly joys and obsessions hold very much interest for you, dear readers, but here they are and I encourage you to do the same! What do YOU love?*

I love coming out of cold movie theatres into warm summer nights. I love the smell of suntan lotion. I love the feeling of silk pajamas on my skin. I love wearing my hair in pigtails. I love the smell of fresh cut grass. I love swinging on swing sets. I love Cowboy hats. I love hearing my cat purring next to my head. I love waking up to freshly fallen snow. I love the crunching sound of my shoes as I walk along a dirt road. I love my bed. I love the smell of pine trees on my family’s farm.

I love seeing babies smile. I love key chains. I love the fact that I have six toe rings. I love angry girl music. I love InStyle magazines. I LOVE hot hot showers. I love the sound of rapidly typing on my keyboard when I have fresh, new ideas to share. I love road trips. I love mixed CDs with no rhyme or reason to their song choices. I love the colors red, yellow and pink. I love blogging. I love driving even though I don’t own a car. I (unfortunately) love to worry about things over which I have little to no control. I love glitter. I love my red hair. I love Facebook ‘Flair’.

I love classical music – more specifically, especially anything by Mussorgsky. I love party dresses. I love rediscovering how many stars are really in the sky when you’re away from the city lights. I love the smell of lilac bushes. I love the grainy feel of sand between my toes. I love falling asleep on the couch. I love sleep masks. I love dark nail polish on my toes. I love Subway’s seafood subs on wheat bread with vinegar. I love books on tape/CD/mp3. I love red wine. I love the large fountain in the National Sculpture Garden on Friday nights when they have live jazz.

I love Christmas trees. I love playing the piano. I love my high school. I love to sing in the car. I love the fact that I have volumes of journals dating back to 1994, they’re a record of my growth, my life, experiences, hopes, dreams and loves. I love long, passionate kisses. I love getting caught in misty rain. I love music and lyrics from Dar Williams, Tori Amos, Ani DiFranco and Diana Krall. I love phone calls that last for hours. I love musical theatre. I love all books written by Jane Austen and Elizabeth Wurtzel. I love Michigan football. I love Texas football. I love IMAX 3-D movies. I love my hometown with its one traffic light.

I love leopard print high heels. I love Potbelly’s skinny chocolate malts. I love Washington DC monuments illuminated at night. I love history books. I love Sudoku puzzles. I love Marilyn Monroe and Bette Davis movies. I love oysters. I love kicking ass while watching Jeopardy (even if there’s no one there to notice). I love traveling. I love skimming across the water in speed boats. I love the smell of salt water. I love Hugh Grant movies. I love reading books about classical history. I love the first sip of beer on a Saturday morning during football season. I love finding hole-in-the-wall restaurants with great food. I love catching all the metro trains at just the right times.

I love the smell of spring. I love Opera. I love walking barefoot in the front lawn of my parent’s house.  I love stretching after a hard workout. I love Riesling. I love rubies. I love funky t-shirts. I love giving people presents and watching them get excited. I love waking up next to someone I love. I love lacy boyshorts (and the way my ass looks in them!). I love collecting Owls. I love listening to talk radio. I love Goat Cheese! I love singing all the lyrics to Kid Rock's 'Cowboy'. I love the way my cats follow me around. I love the smell of clean laundry. I love falling asleep to Wyndham Hill cd’s. I love grilled cheese with cheddar and tomato. I love hot tubs. I love sitting around campfires and eating s’mores. I love flavored coffee with skim milk. I love bubble baths.

I love the way my legs look in heels and a short skirt. I love flirting. I love yellow jellybeans. I LOVE red lipstick. I love itty bitty kittens. I love walking down the street with music that reflects my attitude singing through my headphones – as if my life has its own soundtrack. I love fresh strawberries. I love ribbons. I love my Cherry Chocolate cell phone. I love crossword puzzles. I love friends that you can sit in silence with and still enjoy the company.  

Frankly, With Love,

*I challenge you to make your own list or leave a love of yours in the comments. The only catch? You can't include a single person you know on your list. No "I love the way my husband laughs" or "I love hearing my little girl call for me." It'll be tough, I know. But this particular little exercise is about stripping away everyone who defines you and figuring out what you (not his partner; not their mother/daughter/sister/friend) love.

#1. UUUGGGHHHH - Canadian is pissed because of yesterday's posting. PRECISELY MY POINT! It appears that he's not speaking/txting/iming me...a very mature approach to this situation. Especially when he's in town. Very productive. Very mature. Bravo Mr. Legal Genius!

#2. I just ate a sugary doughnut and now I feel miserable.

#3. I'm still fretting over my security clearance prospects. Though the massive amounts of alcohol I've been consuming on a nightly basis does tend to help. (If you're a govt. official reading this, I'm kidding! It was a joke!)

#4. Every time I think I'm really starting to like Army, I do something like get my knickers in a twist over the Canadian, or obsess about fuckhead's troll-esque girlfriend  other stuff, thus fraying the emotional connection I'm trying to build. Perhaps its a self-defense reaction as he IS leaving in 3 months. For Florida. And then I can start the hurt and single process all over again. There was a time I would have approached the situation with an attitude of 'who cares?' and 'tomorrow will take care if itself', 'live and love today', but I think my heart was much stronger then.

#5. I've been having dreams about being pregnant. Disturbing to say the least. I'm getting the feeling that while my biological clock isn't 'ticking' necessarily, someone has definitely taken it out of the box.

#6. I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook. I am now 'friends' with people I seriously never intended to speak to again. And that prognosis didn't bother me. Who knew we'd run into eachother again via social networking after our middle school graduation!? What are you supposed to say?? 'How are you? What's new? Did you finally get over that glue obsession? or I see the acne cleared up nicely. Congrats. how about: So, are you STILL as big of a bitch as you were in middle school? May I point out that I'm, in fact prettier than you now. I guess sometimes the smart girls DO win.'

#7. I'm hungry and i don't know what I want for lunch.

#8. It's really pissing me off that the Canadian hasn't returned my txt or emails. We're supposed to have drinks tonight - and if I get stood up, I'm going to be SEVERELY pissed off (So, if you're reading this...).

#9. I was seriously kidding about #3, Mr. Govt. man!

#10. My college alumni weekend is coming up. People are excited, getting ready to come into town. Making plans. Asking me what I'm doing. And i can't go because fuckhead will be there!!! Sure, I could drive down, and live one of the following scenarios: #1. See him, burst into a mess a tears, becoming an absolute inconsoleable mess for my friends to deal with. or #2. Climb up on a chair and punch him, most likely break a nail (if not a finger) doing it, and causing an even bigger scene with the gushing blood and all. Basically, I cannot go without putting my emotional stability and dignighty on the line, and I'm not a big gambler. I'm just disappointed I'll miss the chance to see everyone.  

Ok, I'm done venting now.

Frankly,

I’ve bitched about it before and I’ll bitch about it again – I HATE that my ex’s read this blog. This means you: Russian, Canadian – or whoever else I may have inadvertently flirted, dated or slept with that currently access these posts.

One might argue that if I put my neatly folded, crumpled up and thrown on the floor, or even downright dirty laundry out on the internet for all the world to see, I must prepare myself to live with the consequences. I disagree – on the sole principle that this is MY little corner of the universe. Anyone may come and go as they please but the moment a reader hinders my ability to freely express my thoughts and feelings – he is no longer be welcome. And that is exactly what these men are doing. Seriously boys, you have taken pieces of me away that will be forever yours and never returned. Can’t you at least do me the courtesy of leaving me my own words?

Do you agree, readers? When you post to YOUR blogs, do you find it an intrusion, at all when someone you know reads your posts without being invited? Or am I just being a whiney, PMS ridden, psyco chick?

Shockingly enough, it no longer troubles me whether or not the Russian chooses to peruse these pages. I have even toyed with the idea of unlocking the breakup posts which are, upon review, surprisingly well written given my mental status at the time of their creation. As he has lost most – if not all the respect I once had for him, I have tried to force myself to care less and less what he thinks of me. Truth be told, I doubt very much that he thinks of me at all. Therefore, I am relatively confident my ramblings on any subject he may have once cared about, go, for the most part, unnoticed. (Probably best considering the rather blunt, hostile nature of my keyboard earlier this year).

Then there is Mr. Maple Leaf. Who is back in DC this week, btw – and, it should be noted, the impetus for this rant. I would like nothing better, dear readers, than to fill you in on that front. I want to give you updates, tell you what I’m feeling when I’m feeling it for no other reason than the fact that it helps me sort things out in my OWN head. But no. Can't be done. I'm not able to say anything about that situation either good or bad unless I'm prepared for him to hear it.

But, it is neither the Canadian nor the Russian from whom I wish to completely shield my thoughts.

Army does NOT read this blog though he knows of its existence (I had to come up with SOME explanation as to why I received press passes to Shamrock Fest and how I came to know the fabulous Red). Ironically enough I trust that he has kept his promise to respect my ‘privacy’. Frankly, I want to avoid a crisis management situation in having to explain any thoughts, feelings, actions real or imagined that I choose to write on these…on MY pages. Sometimes, you need to hold your feelings closer to your chest.

The motivation behind starting this blog was the same as many, I would imagine: To create a forum and haven for my thoughts and ideas openly, honestly and through a certain amount of anonymity, absent of fear and personal judgment. Fear not, I’m not about to run away….I’m just lamenting the loss of that anonymity I so desperately sought and so foolishly relinquished.