Jenna's House of Idiosyncrasies Version 10.0 [Focus.]

Once again, for some reason, we are discussing my vocabulary in the office, and this is Neil's suggestion to me:

“You should do like a Jenna Tollerson word of the day.”

Bryan (our manager) is walking by and interjects, “Doesn't Merriam-Webster already do that?”

Me: “And dictionary.com.”

Neil: “Yeah, but I mean compare those operations—compare dictionary.com to jennatollerson.com!”

Bryan then deadpans, “I understand the value added there, for sure, but it's quite a bit a work.” He turns to me. “Maybe you could do weekly instead of daily, so you'd have 52 instead of 365.”

Neil: “You could use your crazy stories!”

“My crazy stories?”

“Oh, you've got some crazy stories.”

“You know, when I was in third grade I did win an award for the best spelling sentences. I came up with some crazy stuff.”

“There you go!”

Start with two Irish Carbombs. Add two overpriced cigarettes and and two Smoked Porter brews from Copper Creek. Mix well until there is a pleasant, steady buzz. Laugh loud at the Brit and smoke another cigarette on the way home.

Arrive home before midnight. Change into pajamas, slam two huge glasses of water. Climb into bed at 12:03 am, excited about the long night of rest that lies ahead (a whole nine hours!). Fall asleep painlessly and instantly.

Your phone will ring at 12:57 am, waking you, but don't answer it. Instead, inspect the time, decide that it is one in the afternoon, that you overslept, and are now late for work. Begin formulating excuses for your boss.

30 seconds after the ring, the mind cloud lifts, it's one am again. Go back to sleep without trouble or incident.

At 3:45 am, wake up suddenly and completely, without cause, and stone sober to boot.

[It should be noted here that there are two main kinds of insomnia: the people who can't get to sleep and the people who can't stay asleep. I have always been one of the former. I am not too keen on becoming one of the latter.]

Lay in bed, still dead tired but now unable to sleep, for two hours. Get up and write, believing it will help. It won't. Get back in bed until 7:00, and then give up and get in the shower.

After getting all fresh and clean, go the kitchen to make breakfast. Knock a box full of pasta off it's shelf. When you go to pick it up in your groggy state, the box will be upside-down. The top will come completely undone, and you will have ruined dry pasta all over the floor.

Sit on the floor in your bathrobe, heave a big sigh, and clean it up.

After breakfast head to Starbucks to kill time before work. Listen to lavishly and obnoxiously arranged version of “O Holy Night”. Note that Christmas music before Thanksgiving is part of what is wrong with the world, and is certainly a sign of the rapture.

Move quickly (trying to outrun the music) out of the coffee shop. Mix well with one overpriced but delicious eggnog latte, charged to a credit card, and send to work for 6 ½ hours.

Serves no one. And everyone.

It's been a long day.

Annie of "Annie Waits"

Frightened to death at the prospect of being alone for the rest of your life, you're desperate and ready to please whoever will have you. You're ready to change, though.
"Annie sees in dreams: Friday bingo, pigeons in the park. Annie waits for the last time."

What Ben Folds song character are you?
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I woke up at 3:30 and haven't been able to get back to sleep. Goodness knows I have tried, but my body is just not cooperating. What else is new, really?

I've been having a lot of random thoughts the past couple of days, especially many crazy Tyler Durden-esque ones about throwing bricks through plate glass windows just to watch the way they shatter, or tearing open my own flesh just to look at the muscle. Thankfully a compulsion for self-preservation (and a healthy fear of the law) keep me from acting on any of this.

(I swear, the destroyed window of George Dean's on Clayton, TOTALLY NOT ME. Although I kind of wished I was there when it happened.)

I am sure that part of why I can't go to sleep is that currently, I am quite frustrated. However, I went out earlier tonight (first to Molly O'Shays, then Copper Creek), and had so little to drink that I managed to sleep for 3 hours and wake up prematurely, but stone sober. That's either a testament to how well I'm handling it, or evidence that my malcontentment is simply manifesting itself in new ways.

Still awake 2 ½ hours after the fact, I'm guessing it's the latter.

I cannot wait until the holidays are over. I'm ready for a new year.

A ridiculously charming and generous Brit is in my kitchen, making British tea for Abie and me.

Why is tea made by David better than regular ol'American tea?

It's the accent, of course.

C-Bro, Brown, CB, "That Brown Boy"
     [15:48] i have the same birthday as ben folds.

Jenna
     [15:48] cool!

C-Bro, Brown, CB, "That Brown Boy"
     [15:48] AND RUBEN STUDDARD!

Jenna
     [15:48] OH GOD
     [15:48] sign of the rapture

C-Bro, Brown, CB, "That Brown Boy"
     [15:49] the apocalypse is coming.

Jenna
     [15:49] I have the same birthday as Michelangelo

C-Bro, Brown, CB, "That Brown Boy"
     [15:49] strange, i have the same birthday as lorenzo de medici, who i
think funded a lot of michaelangelo's stuff :)
     [15:49] COINCIDENCE? I THINK NOT!

I could never imbibe enough liquid courage to tell him how I really feel. These days I'm a coward with a staggeringly high tolerance.

CB (9:07:13 PM): you're a hardass. not that i condone that.
CB (9:07:16 PM): but you can drink.
Jen (9:07:36 PM): me?
CB (9:08:06 PM): yup Read More »

I am not as young as I used to be.

This is a scary thing to be saying at the arguably young age of 21, but lately I sometimes feel like I am physically falling apart. Today while I was sitting on the bathroom floor, exercising my gag reflex, trying to get myself well enough to go to work, I thought over and over again two points that I've got to learn to take to heart:

1. My tolerance is no where near what it was at 18 years old
2. I don't have to prove anything to anyone, least of all to myself

These are easy things to think the day after. The night before I felt fine. Seriously. I thought I would sleep it off, easy as pie. I was wrong, and had to leave work early to keep from passing out—or worse, throwing up—on my keyboard. I came home, crashed on the couch and slept into the evening.

I feel like I lost a day. I might as well have blacked out.

Time for some real change.

Speaking of blacking out, I have to say that I do not remember writing this at all. What the hell was I doing awake at that time?

me: “But me and [him] is never going to happen. He's just not into me. I'm this great friend to him. I'm another guy, basically.”

her: “You never know.”

me: “I wish [he] was into me, because I think we are perfect for each other. We have the same interests and the same sense of humor... you know he's always telling me stuff that he says he doesn't tell anybody, because I'll ‘get it’... guys don't rest on their laurels the way girls do. If a guy wants you, he will let you know.”

her: “I could really see you guys together.”

me: “Well, there is no chance.”

her: “What you need to do is just get him drunk, lay it out for him and... let things flow.”

me: “I just wish he would've stuck his tongue down my throat already if he likes me so damn much, as you say.
      “But, honestly, I don't think it's a possibility.”

deedsy: “Duder, you're not cool until you have a fuzzy jacket. It's badass, man.”

I spent tonight as I seem spend many weekend nights these days: pining after someone who is not interested in me while doing my best to get drunk, so I can forget about the fact that he is not interested in me.

In this light, it's a blessing that I am in dire financial straights recently or I would be really wasted right now.

As it is I'm too drunk to be typing, especially typing and actually posting things to the Internet.

deedsy: “You don't post nearly as often as you should.”

Click here for what Abie describes as “scary”. [09.23.2004, 714 KB image]

It has been a pretty aight week so far. Work has been semi-stressful, but the ties that bind always keep me going. School, as usual, is sort of a non-existent force, which for right now is really fine.

Despite the annoying return of sleeplessness, I feel pretty good about life in general, although I am a bit apprehensive about getting advised for Anthopology.

Yes, I changed my major last week. It has become clear to me that the art school is never going to let me in, and even if they did, I don't have the heart for it anymore. So I'm going the academic route, in a small, highly acclaimed department, in a subject I actually have a good deal of interest in. It's not practical for anything I want to pursue in life, but I'll be able to graduate before I'm going to UGA with my nieces and nephews, and that is surely a plus.

I'm trying to make some changes, and take control. I know I can take control, okay?

...

Profundity: “Sorry if you think I rudely put my opinions and thoughts in your life, I just don't want to be like everyone else in life that just nods and concedes without making an effort, even if they are wrong or don't apply.

“It's what makes better friendships.”

...

J (12:41:34 AM): I'm just saying
J (12:41:59 AM): man, I try to be so difficult sometimes
N (12:42:57 AM): you do.
N (12:42:59 AM): its ok.

I had not intended to go out last night. I was going out, but the plan was not to “go out”—I was going to run down to Lunch Paper and see the Outfit play at about 9:30, then get some real food (as my body was reeling from eating cheesecake for breakfast and a small bowl of mashed potatoes for lunch), bring it home to eat and watch a movie. I was going to take it easy, maybe having a glass of Bailey's for dessert.

I don't know why I bother to construct plans for myself. I don't follow through with my own resolve.

Melissa called to ask me if I was bringing anyone with me (to gauge how big of a table we might need) and named off the existing members of the party thus far. One member was particulary of interest to me, and I decided I would not be returning home right after the show. So I made myself a small, quick sandwich, chomped it down while getting ready, brushed my teeth and was out the door.

[An aside: I somehow got out of paying the $3 cover at Lunch Paper. I'm not certain how; I just walked up the doorguy, said “Hey.” and he said “Hey.” and smiled and gestured for me to go inside, no id check or cover necessary. I have my suspicions why, however, and it bolstered my self esteem. Thankfully, it would be deflated again in a matter of minutes.]

I ordered my first Long Island and sat down with my group. We couldn't see the band (the set up of Lunch Paper is such that if people are standing in front of the “stage”, there is no way you are going to see the performance from any other part of the bar) but we grooved anyway. Emily, Greg and Danny threw Reese's Pieces at one another while Melissa and I watched. I protected my Long Island from target practice, but others were not so lucky with thier beverages, and soon there was candy in beer, which I imagine, doesn't actually taste that good.

“It's like babysitting children!” Melissa mused.

“Three drunk children.” I pointed out.

“Aw, my three drunk children.”

“You're such a great mom.”

After the set the four of us walked outside to meet Abie, and then the whole group walked back up Washington Street discussing what we should do now. No one had any good ideas, and we ended up standing at the corner of College and Washington, in front of the smoke shop, talking about how cold we all were and watching Emily, Danny, and Greg try to do handstands. Emily actually does a decent handstand, even after a Long Island Iced Tea.

Finally, I made a decision. We headed to Washington Street Tavern. We went in, and I went to use the restroom while everyone else went downstairs where it was (presumably) less crowded. I headed down there, hit the last step, was greeted with a definitely less-than-pleasant smell, and my whole group came towards me, declaring that they can't stay here. I concurred, and we walked back outside, way back to the other end of town to Flicker. At Flicker, I got a terribly made $7 Long Island, and we sat outside chatting it up. I stood against the railing, smoking. I finished my drink quickly and began (unconsciously, I swear) leaning towards the gentleman I'm interested in. He began (consciously, I'm sure) leaning away. This did not make me happy. You see, I was trying to re-enact some previous events involving this gentleman, and he was having none of it.

I foolishly held out hope as we headed to Room 13. I started a tab, bought myself my third Long Island, and then waltzed over to where my group was playing foosball, and attempted to buy the gentleman a drink. He declined. If it was obvious that nothing was going to happen before, it was definitive now. So I did as I've been conditioned to, and attempted to drown my sorrows. I bought another Long Island. I had barely started it when my group decided they we were leaving, so despite insistence that there was no need to finish it, I gulped the whole drink as my roommates watched in horror.

That is how Abie came to be sitting on the bathroom floor with me at 3:00 am. I wasn't so sick that my stomach was compelled to get the contents out, rather, I was compelled to get the contents out of my stomach, and did so by mostly by sheer will, but with the aid of a functioning gag reflex. Abie, further proving her qualification for sainthood, fed me water and crackers, brought me my pajamas, put up with my terrific moaning and talked to me for a long time until she was sure I was fit for bed. I continuously apologized for needing to be cared for and she pointed out that this was only the second time since we had been living together that I have been so sick I couldn't care for myself. This made me feel better, but not less rejected.

I'm going to be avoiding booze for at least a little while. This morning I woke up still feeling residual effects of three days of heavy drinking. I quiped to Abie in frustration, “My legs say, ‘I don't work!’ and I say ‘Yeah you do! I'm sober now, hello?!?’ My head's not drunk but my body refuses to accept it.”

It is 10 til 8:00 on Friday morning. Dehydrated, head pounding, I stumble into the kitchen to get water. As I pour a glass, Emily, who is about to head off to work, looks at me with concern, tilts her head and asks, “How do you feel?”

The first word I utter this morning comes out as a choked, low sound as I squint at her.

“Drunk.”

...

Thursday night I was invited out by coworkers (mainly, Neil) for drinks at Copper Creek. I arrived a little after 8:00, with Abie and the Indian in tow, and ordered something they brew in-house at Copper Creek, an Abbey Ale. Abbey Ales are fruity, dark and deliciously deceptive: even though it is printed clearly on the sign touting house beers, one soon forgets that it contains 7.9% alcohol. By the time our party had moved out to the patio area, I had consumed three, plus the half of Abie's she had been unable to finish (“I'm just not a big beer drinker!” she had proclaimed).

Hilarity ensued.

I remember:

• Neil, Abie and Tyler trying to get me to sing. When I displayed reluctance, they tried to get me to rap.
  “C'mon Jenna! Bust out some Southern Hospitality!”
  I declined.
• It somehow coming out among my coworkers that I'm a ‘nympho’, if only by my inability to deny it.
• Insulting people, having it repeated back to me 10 seconds later and truly not remembering 10 seconds later calling anyone a “cunt”.
  
  “I didn't just say that, did I?”
  “Yes, you did.”
  “Wow.”
• I was asked to and sang along with the cheesy jazz covers record they had been playing in the bar on a loop for the last three hours. I was too drunk to be accurately singing, and kept exclaiming in my defense that the singer was in a really weird key.
• Repeating expertly accented Japanese phrases back to Abie, under the pretense that I actually might remember some of it, which of course I don't. She was delighted by my skillful pronunciation, however. I got mad skillz.

After I finished my fourth (and ½) Abbey Ale, at about 11:30 the group split, with Neil and Tyler off to the 40 Watt and myself and my crüe off to Tastyworld for Bain Mattox. Sam Deeds was there, as were my roommates Alli and Catie, my sister Sarah, and Heather and Rob (who are delightful, but officially belong to Abie I think).

The Indian buys me more beer. I protest that I don't need anymore. He pulls the “I'm not asking, I'm telling!” form of best friend manipulation. I cave. I have a lot more to drink, but am never so drunk that I fail to get served at the bar.

The Indian forces me to waltz with him during one number, and I step on his feet a lot as we bump into everyone around us. This did not make us popular, I think.

At the end of the show, I spend long amounts of time praising Bain and his bandmates on their most excellent performance, and then have the audacity to quiz him on my name. Very confidently he blurts out “Abie.” I smile and correct him. He feels bad, and then I feel bad for making him feel bad. I tell both Bain and Brian at separate times that they are the cute one in the band, both while they are standing right there. I monopolize their time.

It's amazing what some people will put up with when it comes to their fans.

After saying goodbyes I make it home, drink a couple glasses of water, and decide that I'll be okay for class and work at 9 am. Obviously, I was wrong.

...

dude (6:31:37 PM): you have a rough morning?
me (6:32:04 PM): yes. yes I did.
me (6:32:33 PM): still drunk this morning actually
dude (6:32:41 PM): lovely
dude (6:32:46 PM): yeah you were pretty plowed
me (6:33:40 PM): I wasn't that bad, was I?
dude (6:34:28 PM): hahahahaha
dude (6:35:04 PM): :) you were tolerable :)
me (6:35:14 PM): tolerable
me (6:35:29 PM): what every girl wants to hear, that she is tolerable :)
dude (6:35:34 PM): hahaha
me (6:36:28 PM): well I meant all that stuff about being glad to see you, even if I did say it 45 times
dude (6:36:56 PM): hahaha
dude (6:37:32 PM): i wonder
dude (6:37:51 PM): if we as humans have a drunk memory section in our brains
dude (6:38:08 PM): you know how sometimes when you're drunk you don't remember what happened
dude (6:38:25 PM): well what if you got drunk again and then made an effort to think about it again
dude (6:38:28 PM): would you remember?
me (6:38:33 PM): hmmmm
me (6:38:49 PM): I don't know
me (6:39:02 PM): I usually don't have memory problems when I'm drunk

So I lied, but I didn't know I was lying at the time, I swear.

Today, I practiced my right to vote. I am part of the system now, as flawed as it is.

In celebration, I made an election day mix.

1. Hey Mr. President (Anyone But You) - Will Hoge
2. Young America - Jump
3. Bleed American - Jimmy Eat World
4. If 6 Was 9 - The Jimi Hendrix Experience
5. Know Your Enemy - Rage Against the Machine
6. MOSH - Eminem
7. Politik - Coldplay
8. Oppression - Ben Harper
9. Bible Vs. Gun - Will Hoge
10. Rainy Day Women #12 & 35 - Bob Dylan
11. Bombs Over Baghdad - Outkast
12. Who's To Blame - Ozomatli
13. Let It Be - The Beatles
14. The Times They Are A-Changin' (Bob Dylan Cover) - Will Hoge
15. Mercedes Benz - Janis Joplin