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2004-10-16 @ 1:51 a.m.
the wittykitty titty bitty

I am so proud. Very proud indeed. I was just looking at my Google hits for the day: Meredith Viera's shoes. South America Fruck. Halloween Nudity. Girl eating bull's testicles. And Cock Sucker Bitch Shit. Yay me.


And I remember that Girl Eating Bull's Testicles entry just like it was yesterday. Oh yeah! But the Cock Sucker Bitch Shit one? They might have heard me curse when my mother called me for the sixth time in a single day today, but as far as writing it? I don't remember.

Hmmm. Ambien. It really messes with your memory.

Well, I am deep into PMS territory. Like the only thing keeping me from committing homicide is the lock on my front door, Catholic School guilt and clonopin. I even had to do an e-mail consult with "A" today. I'm having a hard time. Fortunately he had a good reply so I am feeling a little better.

PMS is rough though. Especially when you are trying to recover from a broken heart. And this broken heart thing is completely unresolved. I never got to have a big final blow up. I never got to say all the Final Big Blow Up Things. Like "You're a Fucking Asshole and I hope your dick falls off and 23 coyotes chew on it". I crave that. I really do. Especially in this, the second week of the month.

heh, heh. My cousin's boyfriend just started a new business. Its called PMS. That’s what painted in big letters on the side of his truck. What does he do? Stomp around and yell at people? Drive too fast? Eat greasy food? Crave chocolate at breakfast? No, it stands for Plumbing (&) Maintenance Service. Good one Roger!

After "A"s group yesterday, I did do something I shouldn't have done. No not that. Its been over a month now since I've had a massage and my body is really sore and tense (gee, why is that witty? Oh, you're a psychopathic PMS bitch maniac, that's right). I also suffer from fibromaylgia and tenseness just aggravates the hell out of that condition, so I went to the mall and coughed up $10 for an aqua massage. I really can't afford a randomly spent $10 on my miniscule budget, especially since I just used up the last of my sketch pads and I have to buy one before my next class which puts me down to my last $110 until November 3, but whatever, you freakin' little crybaby.

I don't know if you are familiar with Aqua Massages but you get into this big metallic contraption that looks like an iron lung and once there, you are pummeled with aquatic water pulses, which travel up and down your body. And you get to control when and where they travel. If you want the water to just pummel your ass for 10 minutes than go for it. Yippie! I really wanted to be naked, but the machine is like 8 steps from the main corridor of the mall. And you're not supposed to be naked. And I think the filipino chick in charge would have gotten really nervous if I just started shedding my clothes.

But I REALLY wanted to. Bygones. Get over it witty. No nudity in the mall. Its the law.

She ask me how hard to adjust the water power. And the way I was feeling, I was like "How about one click below getting knocked unconscious." She looked at me oddly.

But then after it started up, I realized, Ouch. Like Ouch Ouch fucking Ouch!! I felt like I was getting throttled by Mohammed Ali. It was especially painful on my calf muscles which were really sore from walking. Married Guy used to always spend a lot of time on my legs, since they were always the muscles I used most.

...Except for the ones used to control guilt and anxiety.

Later in the afternoon, once I regained consciousness, I went to my Survivor Group. Things were a little better there. I finally feel like the have let go of the fact that I was involved with a married man (I felt like they were judging me), and they were a lot more supportive of me individually. I do have one slightly sticky situation though. The woman who runs the group knows Married Guy socially. They run into each other at local political events. She does however, have to abide by the confidentiality rules dictated by therapeutic support groups. I know though that when she sees him in the future, she will probably have an emotional response, that will be apparent on her face or behavior. And he knows she knows me. Oy.

After group I headed out to dinner at the piano guy restaurant with my mom (I was driving my own car). I also knew though, that the cool art gallery where my painting is currently hanging was having its official reception...the one sponsored by the non-profit agency responsible for the whole thing. Last week's reception, which I had missed by a half hour, had only been for the other artist, whose work was hanging on the other side of the gallery.

So driving to the restaurant I was really struggling about whether I should drop by the reception. I had seen a woman from the non-profit agency the night before. She had asked me if I was coming. Me: "Ummm. Ack. Well. Ummm". Her: "Good, I'll see you tomorrow night!" Also, the leader of my Survivor Group, who is also employed by that agency, had also encouraged me to go. And I think "A" did too.

Dammit. Stop ganging up on me!! Otherwise, I might be happy and successful!! And then what???

I got to the gallery and what a difference. The parking lot was so jammed they had a guy out directing traffic. Fortunately I found someone pulling out so I grabbed their space. I was really nervous, but I had made a commitment to just go in and be a cool artist type. I had also just gotten a new sweater at Goodwill last week. It was black and had a very low slit down the front. I mean it was intentional, as inbetween the cleavage. It actually ended below the boobs, so if you took a microscope and I wore my lacy purple underwire push-up bra and I squeezed my cleavage together from both sides with a pneumatic pressure driver, you might actually notice I have breasts. But barely. I had stood in front of the mirror earlier in the day, pushing my boobs together. But you could barely see them.

Remember, witty, its quality, not quanTITy.

Yeah, right.

Anyhoo, as soon as I walked into the gallery I was overwhelmed by how many people were there. There was like about 65-75. Wow. My recent figure drawing show up near the University had only had about 8-10 people. They had had Diet Coke and chocolate chip cookies. This place had wine, cheese, and spinach wrappie things. Talk about classy-a-mondo. For a second I flashed on Soho. I was in Soho in New York City, and a ghostly Warhol figure walked by and took a Polaroid and promised me 15 minutes of fame.
Hell, I’d take 30 seconds, if it paid well.

I immediately spotted the woman who runs the Crazy Crazy place downtown. I haven’t been there in several weeks, because I’ve used up all their art supplies and it doesn’t appear that she’s interested in restocking. But we’re still friends. So she smiled at me and said, “I loved the frame on your picture!”

Ummm.

Ummmm.

Therein lies the very sentence that an artist walking into a reception in an art gallery featuring their work does not wants to hear. “I loved the frame on your picture”. You can even type it into Google.

Well thanka there. I worked really hard on that frame. I poured my heart and soul into that frame. I dug really deep into my soul to create that frame. Ever fiber of my being went into the creation of that frame. Oh wait. I didn’t CREATE the frame. I created that piece of shit inside of it. Thanks.

Homicidal brain surge. Ok. I’m better. Thanks. Eating some cheese now. Moving on.

I did creep over and look at my painting again. I wasn’t quite as repulsed by it this time. Of course I didn’t have that uber cheerful receptionist woman fawning over it. That helped. I then spotted the woman from the non-profit agency. I think she’s a lesbian. So we chatted for a while. She looked at my painting. She didn’t say anything about it, but at least she didn’t compliment the frame. And then we went over and looked at her artwork which was nice.

Someone was going around taking pictures of the artist with their artwork, so they took a picture of “M” with her artwork. And then the photographer asked me if I had work in the show. Well, you might notice I have one of those obtrusive name tags on, that are only given to the artist, so, umm, let me think. Why yes, as a matter of fact I do have a frame piece of art over there. So, the three of us waded back through the crowd to my painting, and the woman took my picture. She had to take two, since I evidently flinched in the first one like I was having a seizure (See, I was getting too much postive attention and it was short circuiting my low self esteem).

Anyways, she asked me if I wanted to see the picture on her digital camera, and even though I didn’t and I didn’t have my glasses on, I said, “Sure!” Well, ha, ha, ha. It seems that my little peek-a-boo sweater with the slit, which had formerly been pretty innocuous since I have small boobs, had gotten hung up on my bra, and I was pretty much suddenly booblicious with my tiny but somewhat cute boob hanging out. Yay me! Is there air conditioning in here? No, its just my breast going to an art gallery opening. I’m so cosmopolitan!

I quietly and discreetly, unhinged the sweater eyehook that had somehow gotten hung up on my bra and tucked Louise back in..heh, heh, stay now. Nudity is good, except at a non-profit agency art show. I quickly excused myself from the lesbian lady, who I think wanted my phone number by then and walked away. I really wanted to scarf down some free food even though I was on the way to dinner with my mom. Who can resist spinach wrapped thingies?

I then bumped into this guy from the Crazy Crazy place called Pontios. He had come into some of the early art sessions with me there, and had actually witnessed the creation of the piece of art I had on display. His primary interest though is photography. He had a large photo of a tiger lily on display. We had a lengthy, involved conversation about wet mounting and dry mounting. Was he talking dirty to me? I’m not really sure. He was sitting and I was standing and he was eye level with the now suspect booby shirt. And all he kept saying was “Wet mounting is cheaper” and then looking at my shirt. Hmmm. Guess I was a little paranoid by then.

All in all though, I guess I’m glad I made that second trip to the art gallery. I was only there about 15 minutes. But being there with a crowd of people, with all the bright lights on and actually having my own personal name tag (if only they could have spelled my last name right, but what else is new), was pretty good. It almost made a dent in the mega PMS, I hate life thing. And for that I am thankful.


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