It's noon, and the AC at work is out today.

This is bad. Very bad.

I'm not a big fan of being hot. Or even warm. Mild is ok, but I prefer SUBZERO. Sunshine? I was over that shit in third grade. Not to mention that the sun is not necessarily a fan of mine, either, and is content to BURN THE SHIT OUT OF ME at every chance.

So the upcoming Mexican cruise should be interesting. My strategy is to deal with it the same way I deal with problems: by sipping tropical drinks in the shade.

And doing a a hell of a lot of reading.

It's beginning to look like I may need two suitcases for the 5-day trip, because along with the heels (great idea for when you're going to be drunk on a boat!), sun dresses, super-dark-hangover-helper sunglasses, and five bikinis (one for each day!), I'm also packing:

The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay
"In 1939 New York, a young artist who also has been trained in the art of Houdini-esque escape, teams up with his cousin to create a great American literary product - the comic book. As the shadow of Hitler falls over Europe and ultimately the world, the boys end up immersed in the Golden Age of Comic Books, finding greater fame and more trouble than they could ever have imagined."

Because, you know, I don't read/talk quite enough about comics.

The Bell Jar
"This witty and disturbing novel follows Esther Greenwood through three seasons, step by painful step. Esther slides ever deeper into devastating depression, attempts suicide, undergoes bungled electroshock therapy, and enters a private hospital."

I don't know how I've never read this book. Witty and disturbing? Check and check.

The Brief History of the Dead
"When a virus wipes out mankind, the dead gather in "The City" to remain as long as someone on Earth remembers them. Laura's parents, co-workers, friends and acquaintances reside there but Laura, isolated at an Antarctic research center, has no idea how truly alone she is...or that so many dead people rely on her memories alone in order to continue their afterlife existence."

Moving on from depression to widespread death. Joy.

The Devil in the White City: Murder, Magic, and Madness at the Fair that Changed America
"Bringing Chicago circa 1893 to vivid life, Erik Larson's spellbinding bestseller intertwines the true tale of two men --- the brilliant architect behind the legendary 1893 World's Fair, striving to secure America's place in the world; and the cunning serial killer who used the fair to lure his victims to their death."

True crime generally doesn't interest me much, but for some reason the World Fairs always have. Plus, this book kind of goes with my whole death theme I've got (accidentally) going.

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter
"Written when Carson McCullers was 23, her novel's heroine is the strange young girl, Mick Kelly. The setting is a small Southern town. The characters are the damned, the voiceless, the rejected. Some fight their loneliness with violence and depravity, some with sex or drink, and some - like Mick - with a quiet, intensely personal search for beauty."

The title alone intrigues me. When I read a few reviews of this book I actually panicked for a moment and thought "How have I not read this already? If I die today, my life will not be complete! There are so many books that I still need to read! Where will I find the time? Sleep isn't that important, right?"

The Shadow of the Wind
"Barcelona, 1945 - A great world city lies shrouded in secrets after the war, and a boy mourning the loss of his mother finds solace in his love for an extraordinary book. But he soon realizes that this book is as dangerous to own as it is impossible to forget - for the mystery of its author's identity holds the key to a secret that someone will go to any lengths to protect."

Rereading this one. Because I loved it. And this is why I have no time to read other, great books.

I can't help it.

Flowers for Algernon
"A classic story of a mentally disabled man whose experimental quest for intelligence mirrors that of Algernon, an extraordinary lab mouse. In poignant diary entries, Charlie tells how a brain operation increases his IQ and changes his life. As the experimental procedure takes effect, Charlie's intelligence expands and seems to be a scientific breakthrough - until Algernon begins a sudden deterioration. Will the same happen to Charlie?"

Becoming suddenly stupid; one of my greatest fears. (As opposed to becoming very gradually stupid, which I am fully aware happens every time I sit down to watch an episode of Top Model. And I'm ok with that, because life is all about compromise.)

Five bikinis and books about comic nerds, murder, death, heartache, and mental disabilities. Am I going to be the most fun person on that cruise, OR WHAT?!?

(Besides, the on-board "activities" reek of forced and desperate mingling a la Bed and Breakfasts, and I'll have no part of that whole talking-to-other-humans thing. The only event that piqued my interest was the Coke-Tail party, and upon further investigation it turned out to be less interesting than I originally thought/dreamed. It's actually a kid's event and a play on the word cocktail, because, you know, imitating mommy and daddy's drunken activities and behavior is hilarious!)

I may update this weekend (I don't usually, but I'll actually be in at work over the weekend), and may or may not touch base from the boat (I'll have my laptop so that I can keep up with schoolwork).

If you don't hear from me, assume that I fell overboard and was devoured by a giant squid, which is most definitely the way in which I want to go.

Or was, you know, too busy drinking and reading in the shade.

I should probably stop viewing the work week as recovery/detox time, and the weekend as TIME TO DO A LOT OF BAD/FUN SHIT.

I went out Saturday night in fine form. I had spent the early evening getting a manicure and pedicure, reading, bathing, and since that was all so terribly exhausting, napping. While getting ready I listened to Ella Fitzgerald and Chet Baker croon away, sipped a (few) glass(es) of wine, and dressed in my favorite vintage slip and little black dress.

I returned home Sunday evening (it was a long night) with a small rip in the dress (from hopping a fence - I am sadly out of practice), a chipped nail, a bloody lip, and a bruise on my ribs. My lipstick, however, was still perfect.

I'm sure that this is nothing compared to the damage that my body must be suffering. During the week I generally get plenty of sleep, eat reasonably well, go running nearly every day, and even drink water, actual glasses of water, not just the stuff that the ice in my glass of whiskey melts into.

And then, like a stampeding bull, comes the weekend.

The weekends in which the most exercise I get is from walking from one bar to another on 4th Street, stay up until 6 or 7am and then crash for 5 or 6 hours so that I can do it all again the next day and the next, don't eat for a whole day only to devour junk food the following day, and then collapse, completely spent, at 9pm on Sunday evening.

This needs to change.

I could stay in next weekend. It may even happen, seeing as how I have a class meeting (yes, on the weekend. Librarians, we know how to party.) on Saturday. It also may happen because I plan on being exhausted, this time BEFORE the weekend even begins.

Starting next Monday I'll be in Mexico for five days.

Come the following Saturday night I'll either be dead, or staying in for once.

Bets?

Things are going so well lately that I really don't have much to say. Remember when I said that things would be different, really different?

Well, surprising even me, they are.

Drunk shenanigans? I've been staying in weeknights now, so not so much. (Though if you're thinking that this means that I REALLY do it up on the weekends now, you would be correct.)

Emotional outbursts? Thank goodness, no. (While -being female- I am certainly attracted to them, my energy level -more feline- just doesn't have what it takes to sustain them.) My mood has been pleasantly even, and now the only thing that I consistently feel like is a nap, a glass of water, and not much else.

School must be a bitch though, right? Not even close, actually. Even though I started school TODAY, a short 10 DAYS after the summer semester ended, I couldn't be happier.

This may have something to do with being enrolled in two classes that address subject matters about which I actually give a shit (archives and historical research). It doesn't hurt that the professor (the same one for both classes) is also my graduate advisor, whom I already have a relationship with from taking two classes with her in previous semesters.

So, this semester is pretty much going to rock.

I'm even excited about next semester and The Graduate Thesis. (I'm sure this one will wear off, though.)

Even work is going well. Very well, actually. I was recently approached to purchase graphic novels for the library system. That's right. I am getting MONEY TO SPEND ON COMICS. I am not even joking when I say that this is a high point for me. A shining moment, if you will.

So where's the drama? What the hell am I going to write about if things are going so peachy?

Well.

There's always men.

However, besides getting shit for BEING MYSELF and by now you know quite well who that is because in addition to being upfront and honest and TELLING YOU I also SHOWED YOU, and you had a chance to walk away but you stayed and said it was fine but it's becoming clear THAT IT IS NOT FINE, there hasn't been that much drama in that department, either.

No, really.

I'm off for a 3-day weekend in which there will be much celebration for a good friend's birthday, plenty of introductory research for the aforementioned thesis, day trips to LA which will hopefully! include some record shopping, and reading in bed for hours on end.

Cheers.

The decision to go to library school was, for me, less about wanting to actually go to library school and more about, oh, I don't know, BEING A STUDENT FOREVER AND EVER.

(At this pace, that task is just about accomplished.)

Luckily for me, the decision panned out, and I entered a program that I thoroughly enjoy, and more importantly, academically kill at.

After plugging away (sleepily, drunkenly, and half-heartedly, until the day before something is due and then full-fucking-speed-ahead) for two years it's almost time to be done and to focus on the Dreaded Graduate Thesis. I'm going to try my damnedest to do it my way and focus on a topic that I actually care about: comic books.

That's right, because just being in library school? Doesn't quite make me enough of a nerd. No, I'd like to really like to ensure first place status in that regard, so yes, comic books it is. Though I had fleeting exposure to comics growing up (didn't all young girls want to kill Cyclops so that Wolverine and Jean Grey could just get it on already?) the past few years I have really delved deeper into the genre, even going so far as having attended Comic Con last year.

(Shut up. I totally got laid on that trip.)

(I think.)

(Sigh.)

During some research into various historical aspects of comics (my thesis will definitely have a historical slant), I stumbled across this site, which details the so-bad-it's-good moments that spring up like oh, every other page, in many older comics.

While subversive text and images are nothing new to comics, some of these entries are so blatant (Butch Dykeman, anyone?) that it's amazing they ever made it to print. I find it wonderfully amusing to think of all the old writers and artists raising pens to corrupt the youth of the 50s with, dear lord!, punny names and PG upskirt.

Totally the makings for serious graduate-level thesis material, no?

I'm sure by now you could likely tell that me? Not much of a morning person.

It doesn't matter how much sleep I get, whether or not I took a nap earlier in the day, or any other factor that would normally make waking up less painful. I never, ever enjoy waking up. No, not even for that. (In fact, especially not for that.)

One of the few saving graces in my morning is something generally hated by most: the commute. My car (being as old as the men I date - and yes, this is a newfound source of jokes) is not a big fan of traffic, so my 45 minute drive is not spent on the 405, but rather on PCH, breathing in the cool sea air, checking out the surf, and rocking out to Monday morning music, or, music fast-paced and loud enough to keep me from nodding off and driving straight into the Pacific.

Today's music:

Descendents
While Everything Sux adequately summed up my feelings around, oh, 8am, by 8:10 I was in a better mood and had moved on to We. Thank you Milo, I too feel that everything is going to be ok.

Jawbreaker
And so continues the trend of intelligent lead singers that I had a crush on in high school. I have determined that there is no bad time to listen to Jawbreaker. I really can't think of one. Even the dark tunnel of despair that is a Monday morning is made better by them.

The Pogues
And here we make a radical turn, from men with advanced degrees to a man who has hardly any teeth. Still, he puts together turns of phrase that could make grown men cry, and therefore has the ability to make me -possibly- feel something stir inside my chest cavity (normally dead inside, remember?). A good way to end the drive.

And now I'm here at work, starting the week, safe and sound, though still a bit sleepy. Good thing I brought my iPod. Because nothing says "professional" like "don't talk to me, fuckers".

Completely out of the blue (it seems to be the week for that) I decided to plan a trip in November to Austin, Texas for the Fun Fun Fun Fest.

I've wanted to go Austin for years now, so badly, in fact, that two years ago that my boyfriend at the time offered to pay for either a trip to Austin or a for a car ('31 Ford) for my birthday. (Ultimately, I ended up choosing the car. Which I gave back when I broke it off with him. I don't know why I did that, either.)

And now that one of my favorite bands, the Murder City Devils, is playing in Austin it seemed like as good a time as any to finally go out there. Other favorites (Against Me!, Sick of It All, Madball, and more) will also be playing the 2-day, 3-stage festival, too. And I already have the time off from work, as one of my regular weekends off. Are you getting the picture that it would be a crime for me not to go? Because it would.

So, Texans? I need your help. I'm going to have relatively little time (2-4 days) to spend in Austin, most of which will be spent at the festival. I'll have to be quite efficient with that time if I want to see all of the sights, or like, more than one. And sure, normally "lazy" is a term that I could quite possibly be the very definition of, but when it comes to making sure I get to go to a bunch of good dive bars, used book stores, antique/thrift shops, and the like? Hell, break out the color coded maps and watch me go. So if you know of any good places (bars or otherwise), feel free to email me so that I can add it to my agenda.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get started on that map. (What, you thought I was joking? I'm not in library school learning valuable research and information organization skills for nothing, people.)

As quickly as the blues descended on me, they're gone. Just like that. (Getting 8+ hours of sleep last night may have helped, too, since my total for the previous 3 nights was probably around 7 hours. For 3 days. Yes, ouch.)

While this is undeniably a good thing, the suddenness of both the appearance and departure of such strong emotions leaves me confused. When your feelings catch you radically off guard? Probably not a sign of good mental health.

But then neither are the many, many other things that I enjoy, so fuck it.

I'm on a short break (just over a week - until the fall semester starts) from school right now. So if you're looking for me, chances are good that I'll be in bed, for hours on end, reading. Or in the bath, also for hours (seriously), reading.

Or, you know, maybe at the bar.

Cheers.

They (the experts) say that grief comes in waves.

And this week? This week I started to drown. Sadness and regret choked me and made it impossible to think rationally or see anything more than what was directly in front of me. My perspective was fucked every which way and then some.

The overwhelming surge of emotion caught me off guard, as the past two months have been almost entirely smooth sailing. Less than a week after the breakup I was feeling fine, content with my decision to end it. I moved on, and have been happier lately than nearly any time in recent memory.

And then this. I don't know what to make of it.

(Stupid experts, being all right and shit.)

I'm not going to go into details (unless you sit next to me and buy me a drink, and then I am so, so sorry because I just may) or hate on my ex all over the Internet, because (besides the fact that I don't hate him) this just isn't the appropriate place. (But getting drunk and throwing things, puking blood, and being an incorrigible lush [pick a post - any post]? All totally appropriate topics for discussion.)

Rather, this is the place that I rave, and occasionally rant. This is my creative outlet, something I genuinely enjoy doing. And I don't feel like faking it.

The past few days were hard, and at some times downright awful. But I can say with some certainty (dear god, I hope) that the worst is behind me. I'm feeling better, thinking more clearly, and am slowly gaining back some much-needed perspective.

I'll be fine in time. I just wish it would hurry up already, because this feeling in my chest? It is not pleasant.

(Oh, and can I just tell you how awesome it is to post about being an emotional mess over a breakup [and let's not forget the puking blood - charming tale, that one] when guys that I know and may or may not be dating read this site?

I know there's an easy solution to that (write about kittens! or sunshine! and rainbows! anything but your emotions!), but hell, they'll find out sooner or later that feelings? Sometimes I have them. Don't tell anyone, though. I would be ruined if that shit got out.)

This Friday I'll be -thismuch- (imagine your thumb and index finger a hairs breadth apart) closer to graduating, or as I like to call it, being TOTALLY AND COMPLETELY OVER-EDUCATED.

Which is funny, since all of those very important things that I've learned? I remember about .02% of them. So really, I've just paid upwards of (more than) a couple thousand for bragging rights.

I figure I might as well get my money's worth.

On paper, chances are that I am ridiculously smarter than you. More intelligent. Brighter, and...uh...over-educated. Oh, I said that already? Hm...I'm out.Oh well. It's not like I was an English major or anything.

So yes, Friday. The summer semester ends Friday, an event that I am very eagerly awaiting. To say that this semester has been painful is like saying that Lohan? I hear she likes to party.

It's not just the fact that it's summer, a normally laid-back time when sane people do not voluntarily go to school, that made this semester more unbearable than all of the previous fall and spring semesters (14 total! Holy crap.) that came before it.

Rather, this semester was particularly painful thanks in part to the fact that something in me inexpliciably shifted, and instead of dealing with things (like, say, the breakup of my first serious relationship, for example) by holing up at home, drinking a lot of earl grey, and reading novel after novel I have instead been spending much more time coping by getting drunk with my friends. Which frequently involves evening plans and yes, drinking delicious things. And also frequently involves getting home around 4am.

These late nights, coupled with working full time made it increasingly difficult, even maddening, to find the time to do all of the assigned reading, research, and homework that I was given this summer. Since "staying in more" wasn't an option (I'm dealing with things, people) I instead opted to cut down on sleeping and breathing.

It's been working out ok.

It came to be that the only time I wasn't out this summer was when I was working on an assignment, generally on the day it was due. I've always been a procrastinator extraordinaire, but I reached new highs (lows?) this summer. Tonight, for example, I have a test on some chapters that I should have been reading over the past two months.

Should have.

(Fear not. I reviewed the chapters for the last test about an hour before I took it, and I got an A+. I figure this was not a lucky break, but rather the result of the material being "fresh" in my mind. And therefore a tactic that should be employed again.)

And that's how this ENTIRE SUMMER has been: a flurry of shows, skimming textbooks, friends, cramming sessions, bars, last-minute papers, alcohol, work, drugs, morning meetings, house parties, sleeping pills, and taking notes.

The stress of trying to do it all - maintain my straight-A average that I love more than my closest friends, regularly show up to work (and maybe even do stuff) so that I can buy wonderful works of art (also known as "shoes") and sometimes food, and go out every night possible and have an uproariously good time in fierce defiance of the fact that yes, I do sometimes miss someone and I'd like to ignore, drown, or medicate that feeling - the stress of this all, it has gotten to me.

After Friday I have a whole week and a half break to enjoy summer properly before the fall semester begins. One more year of this torture, one more year of this juggling act, one more year of this financial burden that tries its best to keep me from going out every single night, and then I'm done.

It seems terribly far away, but right now, I'm just looking forward to Friday.

And towards making some changes.

(It would be just super to have time to make my bed.)

Thanks to some recent scheduling changes at the library (now open Sundays!), I occasionally have to work weekends.

Joy.

I was not entirely pleased about the whole situation at first, but it turns out that working on the weekends? It's pretty damn great. Let me count the ways:

1. The Boss is out of the office. This one needs no further explanation.

(Though I would like to add that on Sunday I may or may not have shown up to work in something that I may or may not have slept in the night before. Maybe.)

2. The abbreviated work hours (I don't have to be in until noon) mean that I can still go out weekend nights, and sleep in until a reasonable hour. The Earth can continue spinning, people.

3. There's plenty of downtime to work on your website. On Sunday I fixed the scroll bar issue that was plaguing my site, set up an RSS feed, and joined up with the nerds on technorati. Hell, that was all before lunch, even.

There are many, many things that I like about this job (books! being surrounded by books! all the time! all kinds! books!), but who would have thought, this working the weekends thing? It's now one of them.

(Plus, now that I've picked up a weekend day it means that I'm no longer working Fridays. Which means Thursday night? LET'S SEE HOW MANY LAWS CAN I BREAK IN ONE NIGHT! It's like being in college all over again.)

Something happened over the weekend that I had previously believed to be outside the realm of possibility.

I went to a house party. And (here is the shocking part) it was AWESOME.

Normally house parties are, for me, a last resort. Since turning 21 (or since getting a fake ID at 16, whatever) there has been little need for them because I no longer am forced to rely on someone else/their older brother/cousin/parent's liquor cabinet for alcohol. And when you factor in the lack of good liquor, or even good beer, along with arguing over the shitty music being played, and with futilely searching through to host's medicine cabinet and finding nothing stronger than baby aspirin, it's like, why bother?

So how did I get roped into this one? A friend's band from out of town (Encino? It might at well be New York for how often I go there. Scratch that. I go to New York more.) was playing at the party, which was conveniently located halfway between my house and the bar. I would actually have had to drive past it on my way out that night. While that is something I would totally do (along with throwing something, like my gum, at them while I whizzed by) my friend uttered something that stopped me in my tracks (those of you that know me, feel free to say it with me): alcohol. That, and despite the fact that I have known this guy since before I had tattoos, I had yet to witness him in any of his musical endeavors.

So, I stopped. Priorities in check I walked up the drive to grab a drink, fully expecting to have to fish for a shitty light beer in an tub containing 1% ice and 99% sweaty hand water. I did not expect to walk up to the FULLY! STOCKED! and MANNED! BAR! that was set up along the fence. There were bottles of liquor, people. And (less importantly) mixers. And ice! Lots of ice! Enough to never run out of ice! And bartenders, who were working for nothing other than the pleasure of getting everyone drunk.There was even a handy drink menu of sorts posted above the bar, urging those stodgy old traditional drinkers among us to branch out for a change.

And branch out I did. The first drink I ordered was a Long Island Ice Tea. It did it's job, because I don't remember the second drink, though I'm pretty sure it was blue. Or purple. I think.

The other things I (sort of) remember from that night: the nerd band (my friend's) being foxy as all get-out, numerous tiki torches, foot-long sparklers, and girls dancing around in bikinis. And is it just me, or do all of those things somehow become much, much, MUCH better after a few drinks?

(Hint: It's not just me.)