If there is one thing I am sick and fucking tired of, it's feeling like a fucking outsider. In school, I'm older than everyone except the creepy Grad students. At work, I am older than everyone and pretty much the only one without kids. To top that off, I am their superior. The other managers don't like me so much because I am outspoken and...well, I am not sure, but they don't. My "friends" love me drunk, which is cool, I am not bothered by that. There are at least a few of them that I could call if I needed something. We won't even mention the other aspects of my life...

Anyways. It gets fucking old. It really does. I don't know what else to say. If I am good enough to listen to YOUR bullshit when you're drunk, I should be good enough to talk to when I am sober. But go ahead, mock me, hate me, make fun of me. I'll just bitch about it on my blog and not speak to you further.

*you is a generic term here...sorry.

As I walked through my living room, as I seldom do these days, I noticed a picture on my shelf. It's a snapshot of a thinner me. Also in the picture is a gentleman in a crisp Cingular logo button down. We're both smiling...Not that fake smile that is usually captured with a digital flash, but a genuine, "I'm glad to be here" toothy grin. Odd halos of smoke, frozen forever in time, stand above our heads. His hand is perched on a carafe of golden beer. The glaring neon of a Budweiser sign casts a tinge of blood red across the table.

Cingular has been defunct for nearly four years now (It lost it's own name in the merger of 2005.) And I don't remember his name, (Probably due to the obvious involvement of alcohol...)but I wonder, where is he today?

Well...Fuck you.

If I am so fucking perfect, why aren't we together? If I am so fucking amazing, why am I the miserable one? Why am I muse lacking? Why

Nothing I say makes a difference.

You say that there was a point that you realized how fucked up you were...and you decided that you didn't want to bring me down with you....

Did you think that maybe you fucked me up from the first hello? The second year was overkill...The fourth? Well, I'd been in the grave a long, long time by that point.

I love you more than I love myself and I know that every part of that statement is wrong.

My mother spent 8 to 10 (I'm not really sure exactly) years with my father. He died. Regardless of the correct place for blame, he's gone. He's been gone for over 15 years now...She never got better. Every decent man...Every evil bad man...Every in between man...They were just tools to help her rid her mind of him.

I know how she feels, but I don't have that luxury. My mind won't let me fall in lust with another.

You tell me that I can not only find someone as good as you, but I can find better...If I just let myself...You say I only see everyone else's green grass...I only see the other, better side....

You fail to realize, you are the green grass...You are the other side.

I don't want to drink my pain away, but do you have a better solution?

You're my first, my last, my everything. I don't want to die alone. I don't want to be the lady with six cats and four degrees that never got what she wanted in life.

I want you to grow up. I want you to realize that you have someone right here...Someone willing to give you her everything. Someone who has already given you her best, yet still strives to be better. I want to be that for you.

Sometimes, I think about my death. I think about what would happen if the worst happened...You know what I worry about? Who will call you. Who will tell you that the woman you love, yet fail to be there for, has passed? Who will let you know how much you meant to me in the event that you didn't already know?

I don't want to die like this, but if you don't/won't change...

I'm KIND of okay with being a semi-celebrity in Tulsa. By semi, I mean that all the DJays and all the artists...and all the party people know me. I am okay with that.

HOWEVER, fuck this place. I am tired of being here. Everyday I get hammered at a shitty bar is another intellectual year lost. No kidding. Everyday that I drink or do blow or WHATEVER, I feel more retarded than I did the day before. Plus, no one knows how I live. I have no REAL friends that live here.

Yes, I am being obnoxious and just talking on my blog AGAIN. I know everyone subscribed gets irritated with this, but since all my friends that I talk to daily are A.) MARCUS or B.) MARRIED with CHILDREN aka JAMIE...then I am kind of fucked as far as outlets go, aren't I?

Anyways. I don't really care what people in Tulsa think of me. I know who I am. I know what I do. Lately, that has been work, but previously, it was drinking.

I did get to hang out with my "bro" tonight. I actually do enjoy his company. It's like hanging out with my biological brother...Okay...Exactly like hanging out with Bio Bro. There's not much of a difference.

I had a blast. Spent too much money as usual.

I WANT OUT.
I hate it here. HATE HATE HATE.
I love my family, but here? NO. Save me.

I'll probably reopen this post shortly.

Yuck, yuck, yuck. Yellow Tail is NOT a decent cheap wine...By any means.

I am not blogging tonight...Just like I never use this as an actual blog. I just pretend it's mydiary.com from 1995 and roll with it.

She's bothering me. She's not talking to me because I told her to fuck off, but she's still bothering me.

I want Marcus back as badly as she does, but I am not delusional. I've figured him out.

Ugh. Cheap riesling, expensive headache. bye

He's engaged to Laura. He's cheating on Laura with Ambre. I wish this whole building would collapse and kill Marcellus and I.

I may ACCIDENTALLY drive my car off a bridge on the way to work.

Should my car lose it's brakes, thanks to all of you that have put up with me since '07.

It's pathetic really. I know why I am in this mood, but I can't get out of it for at least three days. Meh. Who gives a fuck?

I've got $10 to my name. Even when I get paid in five days, I'll still have nothing to my name. I owe Clay, Grandpa, Jess, Paula, Mandy, Freddie Mac, Sallie Mae, PSO, Peter, and Paul every dime that I'll earn for the next 60 years.

The only things I own mean nothing to anyone else. No one wants a tailless dog and a shoebox apartment in the hood...Hell, even the apartment doesn't technically belong to me. That's, of course, in his name...

Basically, all I've got is roaches. I don't want those either, but I've got them.

It's pathetic. Even the roaches are less lonely than myself. At least they have friends...Fucking millions of friends.

Blame isn't something I can place on another. The whole ordeal is my fault. My depression deepens with each hour. There was a time I could drown it, but the monster can swim now. I've learned nothing and I've only succeeded in being exactly where I was pre-him.

Blame is all mine...Yet, I blame him. I blame my sister. I blame everyone else, but myself even though it is apparent that doing so is illogical.

I'm not fooling anyone. I can't write worth a fuck. I want to be Chris Rose or Anthony Bourdain. As much as I loathe Stephenie Meyer*, at lease that bitch has duped millions of Americans into buying her shitty novels.

I can't think anymore. I am so embarrassed about where I am working that I won't even tell anyone. I am in such a hole. I doubt every step I take. I worry about what HE would think if he could see the apartment...if he could see the weight I've gained....If he could see that the Christina he once loved died when he left.

It won't ever be over. Cutting it off would be like New Orleans without Second Line, Mardi Gras, and Gumbo...I would surely die.

It doesn't matter. I pick up the keyboard in hopes of creating some grand masterpiece, but only this comes out.

I can't sleep. I need a drink, but I am not doing that right now. Self-control is something I am going to learn the hard way.

Blahs. Fuck this. I am going to lie (lay? See? I suck.) back down and hope that I don't cry....Hope that, for once, I can sleep without him and without alcohol.
*Who fucking spells their name like that anyways? The bitch can't even spell her name and she's better off than I.