I Fucking Faked it for Anchorman

I don't fake anything.
I'm as real a Resa as you can get.
I think I did fake an orgasm once but that was only because I wanted the sex to end.
So that doesn't count.

It is rare that anyone or anything has the power to bring the feigned out of me but there is a minority breed of bastards with the alluring charm to compel me to enjoy their un Resafied interests.

Once I fell victim to the showmance seduction of one very bi curious actor who owned pet rats.
R-A-T-S.
Blech to the double eeeww.

I can't think of a critter more un Resafied than a filthy rat.
Except perhaps a filthy dog. I fucking hate dogs. Yeah. I said it. What?
In his hippie abode, he had TWO filthy rats.
And he loved them the way those crazy dog lovers cart their mutts around in a baby carriage.
Excuse me, a bitch carriage.

And what did I feign for this freaky rodent lover?
HE WANTED ME TO KISS HIS RATS.
God, I wish that was a euphemism.

I don't know what in my crush crammed mind made me think the homo would like me more if I liked his stupid rats but I totally felt, as he held one of them two inches from my face, that I had a choice.
I could decline and lose his affections.
Or I could relent and cleanse my mouth with vodka for the next 72 hours.

I kissed his fucking rats.
I fucking faked it for fucking rats.
Fuck me.

Well, I also faked it for another charming seducer.
This Romeo invited me over for a night of cinema and wine.
How sweet. How romantic.

But then I learned what film we were to be watching.
Anchorman.
Cough. Cough cough. Clears throat. Cough.

**Can you come a little closer.....I'm gonna have to whisper this because it's very hush hush, very top secret.....are you listening? I HATE ANCHORMAN!**

Good God in heaven, it feels good to say that.

I HATE those kinds of comedies.
I know, I know, I'm a "freak."
Everyone loves those stupid movies just like they love stupid Harry Potter and stupid Twilight and the color orange and dogs.
I, contrastly, detest these things.

But this dreamy guy, this moody, melancholic sweetheart of a fellow was so excited to watch his favorite movie with me because I'd never seen it.
The dear.

I knew the only way I would make it through was by intoxication.
Thankfully, the wine served my purpose and he had to switch to beer.
Drinking my first two glasses quickly on an empty stomach made my acting all the easier.
It really WAS hillarious!  And YES I was smashed!
I have never worked so hard in my life to appear to be enjoying something.
But I'm certain it was right up there with Meg Ryan's orgasm performance in "When Harry Met Sally."

I was so proud of my performance, of my genuine laughter and my obscene amount of smiles that I knew there was no shadow of a doubt in his mind but that I loved what HE loved and therefore, I ROCKED.

The movie ended and he looked at me skeptically. "You didn't like it, did you?"
I was so furious that it took everything in me not to smash the wine bottle on his head.
"What?? I LOVED it!  SO funny!"

He was nonplussed. And unmoved. And I did the only thing I was good at.
Well, not the ONLY thing.
I read him something I'd written to try and cheer him up.
And THAT, that did the trick.

So I guess I should stick to what I do best.
Which is to be genuine, be present, be open and honest.
And not have to fucking fake it for any man.
No matter how dreamy he appears to be.

pollyanna's pretty pearls

The truth is, I saw where this was headed from the beginning. I saw that you were a man, wounded and lost, seeking distraction and sanctuary from a world you'd trusted that had shattered around you.  I knew I was to be Transition Girl for you, a sort of stepping stone from one place in your life to another, and I welcomed it with open arms, knowing full well our time together would be brief.  That's why it made me laugh the times you argued we shouldn't be physical because then this would be a short thing that would merely end.

Surely neither of us is so naive as to not already embrace and recognize it has already ended, and so quickly after it never began.

I wanted to give you 'Way of the Peaceful Warrior' because I fell in love with it last year and as I'm re-reading it I thought it might be something you'd enjoy. 

I wanted to tell you that however brief our little laison lasted, I am thankful for it and thankful for you.  I hadn't felt an attraction or connection like that with anyone in a year.  And it's very hard to stop pining for an ex when you never experience the kind of chemistry that made you so crazy for them in the first place.

I went into this whole thing with you assuming that you were the one with the great need for me.  And not realizing that I had needed you too.  You reminded me how unexpected and unlikely encounters can fill tiny voids inside us, reminding us we are enough, simply as we are.

I'm sorry that during those weeks together I let my insecurity and fears get the better of me and I believed the lie that I was merely a toy to you.
I know you to be a much greater man than that.  Or I never would have felt such an attraction to you in the first place.

I watched this music video to "Stranger" by Noah and the Whale and I thought of you.  I think I wanted to stand still with you for a moment and pour into you the affection you seem starved to receive.  But sometimes Timing is not so overly simplistic and I don't think you are ready for the kind of connection I strive to embody.  And that's ok.  Because I hope I gave something small to you that you needed.  And I hope you know how much I appreciate you for offering me the attention and validation that I so desperately needed, knowing a guy I didn't know saw me and sought me out and delighted in me.

I think that's all any woman wants.  And it takes a strong woman to bow out gracefully when circumstances change and with them, her role.

I merely wanted to write this to you to let you know that I think you are one of the most wonderful, sweet, devastatingly handsome, incredible kissers I've ever had the joy to encounter.  And I hope when you think of me you'll remember that crazy girl who wanted to tear your clothes off every time she saw you and who longed to pour the stars from her eyes into yours.

Life is most unpredictable and unexpected. 
And you were this gift I am so thankful for.

I'm terrible at not telling the people I care for constantly how much I think of them.
So rather than be that girl continuing to seek out a man who needs to move forward to other chapters, I wanted to write you here and now, to tell you that when I think of you I smile.  And I remember you as that guy I planned on not feeling anything for sending me a text saying I had him singing in his car.  And me, quietly whispering to myself, "Fuck." Because I knew, I felt a real connection with you. And you were supposed to just be another asshole.

But you, dear sir, are so much more.
And I hope if nothing else, I could give you that, a reminder of the truth that is in you.

I am here for you, should you need me,
should you finally wanna take that walk under the stars, or give me the back massage you owe me or hear some amazing jazz.

But I just wanted you to know, you're intoxicating.
And what more could any woman ask for?

farewell, love

I remembered tonight how right before Mr. Volcano and I broke up we spent a couple weeks apart, thinking about things, praying about them, trying to make sure we had peace about whatever decision we came to concerning us.

And I remember how there was this one night I couldn't sleep.

And how in the middle of the night I simply knew.

It was over.

I sent him a text and he called me shortly thereafter.

Because as Chance would have it, he couldn't sleep either.

We hadn't spoken in so long and I still remember how tenderly he said, Hey on the other line.

We decided to meet right away and when I got to his house he opened the door and we just stood there, hugging, not saying a word.

For a long time.

If we had actually listened to our hearts that night it would have been one of the most beautiful breakups I'd ever experienced. 

A love that let go.

Of course, our saga was not nearly so neat and tied with a Tiffany bow.

But the rest of that sad story is not the point.

I felt another instinct tonight.

A calm and peace, an acceptance that strengthened.

And life has unexpected twists and surprises around certain corners, but I felt in my heart that my little fling of late has played out.

It is finished.

And we never grew close enough to have such an in tune finale together.

So I decided to embrace it with these arms alone.

I heard from an old flame tonight, a flame that with all time and reason should very much be burnt out.

And yet there is something about who I am to him that endures.

And where so many lack the passion to make such an effort, he always reaches out.

And I had to laugh because it all seemed so simple.

The crush I long to explore does not share my sentiments, at least not in a way that is visceral.

Nor a way he'd ever be ready to admit.

And on this night as we each transition one star away from each other I still smile in knowing the end of a thing is never really an end.

Merely the beginning of something I hadn't realized I was missing.

And I'm thankful the wrong man could remind me so much of how the right one is still waiting.
It's time I looked with both eyes to greet him.

Baby, I'm a STAR!

I woke up this morning with a wretched cold.
I mean, the kind of plague that literally wasn't there as you closed your eyes to count sheep and then suddenly knocks the wind out of you when you open your eyes hours later.
Happy hump day to me.

I'm pretty pathetic when I'm sick.
I hate being alone and I get extra sensitive and emotional.
Imagine combining the worst PMS with a tender six year old.
That's me, minus the pink tutu.

And to add insult to injury I was impatiently longing to hear from both my crush and my casting producer.
Trying to be the hip friend I strive to be (rather than being such a woman) I'd given Richie his space and not contacted him in a week (6 days, but whose counting).
But viral plague a brewin' my need for contact and reassurance heightened and I sent out a 'Hi Friend' kind of text which seemed in fitting with the rules considering I'd never responded to one from him two days prior.
My God, it's exhausting following all these guidelines. Sometimes I really do miss PC when contacting a guy 27 times a day after not seeing him for 5 months was normalcy in our book.
I'm an intense woman. I act in extreme ways.

Today was also the day they were planning on making their casting decisions for the film I'd auditioned for.
And I really wanted to know the outcome.
And I really hoped I'd landed the part.

My callback was earlier in the week and I had left feeling like I'd nailed it.
That is such an incredible feeling, knowing that you gave it your all, that there was nothing more you could have done, so if they decide they want you or not there is no room for regret.
I rarely leave anything out in any area of my life, which is kind of how this all started in the first place.

The only reason I read for the part was because someone who reads this blog recruited me.
She liked my raw honesty and she saw something in my mind, in my heart, in my bravery to put it all out there, that resonated with the complexity of the character.
And that meant the world to me.

At the callback they told me I looked beautiful and showed them the range they were looking for and that also meant the world.

I got the call tonight and found out I didn't get the part.
Disheartened, I listened to the disappointment with quiet acceptance.

Truthfully, you had a stronger audition and there were some people on the panel that wanted you to get the part. But there were so many different factors to consider and we went with someone else.

I silently nodded my head.
That's show biz, kid.
I once had a director tell me the only reason I didn't get cast was because they decided to go for the blonde instead.
It's the beauty and the pain of such a turbulent industry.
Good roles happen to bad actors.
And sometimes no roles happen to good actors.

And sometimes great roles are written for great performers.
And that's what I was offered instead.

He was so amazed by your audition and so inspired by you he is writing you into the script.  He's turning what was originally a small part into something else entirely, just for you.  You're so beautiful, we need you in this movie.

I gave in to every tender, emotional, feminine instinct in me and wept.

I not only had been seen, I'd been sought.

I didn't just fit a role, I'd inspired one.
And that made me feel so proud, to be the flawed, crazy, intense, irrational, open, passionate woman I am.
Because in this moment, for this time, I was what they had to have.

I was wonderful, as I am.

Noah and the whale

http://www.ticketfly.com/event/63165/

9/28/10

unless

a shooting star

If I could I'd take your pain away and leave in its place a love that inspires.

The love would comfort you and wrap your cold shoulders in its warmth.

Its patience would move at the gentle, glacial pace you craved and it would radiate when you closed your eyes and blinked them back open.

If I could I'd plant seeds in your mind, seeds of affection and trust.

So whenever you should doubt your own heart each loving word would grow.

And soon there'd be a garden in your mind, gleaming with quiet contentment. 

And the hurt would lessen and fade.

And you would smile more and cry less.

If I could I'd mirror the truth in your cheeks, in the smile betwixt your eyes.

And the glass you'd built around you would shatter amidst such heat.

And the broken shards would sprinkle around you and make you dance.

 And you would surprise yourself by all that was within you, all I was so joyful in seeing.

And you would think of me nights, remembering the way my eyes looked into yours.

And your longing would grow.

And you'd move mountains to find that crazy girl who saw what you were too broken to see.

You are wonderful, as you are.

time and space

There are two women I'm close to who always remember poignant details of my life; my mother and Betty Ann.
These women recall every event, quote, tear and UTI with such ease and never cease to amaze me with the minute details they can recall.
Betty Ann probably could list the names of the men I've dated with more ease than I.
My mother? My mother remembers the color of the dress I wore to sophomore homecoming.
They're just that good.

So I told my mom how life always seems to repeat itself, how patterns emerge and when you fail one test another opportunity comes along that seems to be a copy of somewhere you've been before.
It's deja vu, all over again.

I've always been a bit intense in my serious relationships.
Me? Intense? I know you're shocked to read such a confession.
Truth be told, I'm probably intense in all of my relationships.
I, like many foolish women, fall into the habit of talking with my infatuation every day, seeing him nearly every day, doing everything together and then feeling hurt when he suddenly needs time to himself.

In my defense, it has been several years since I've had a serious relationship.
I'd like to think I wouldn't be nearly such a silly school girl about it all.
Time will tell.

So I'm telling mother about this guy I've meshed with--how's that for vague and nonspecific?-- and how true to repetition (SEE chapter Men are like rubber bands a la Men are from Mars...) he communicates his need for space.

He's a dude. This is how they roll. They get close to you, then they need to pull away so they can feel like strong, independent heroes not clingy, needy emotional man babies.
It's cool. It's even a good thing.
I'm a savvy enough woman to finally understand this.

But I was telling my mom how there were so many years where I'd get my feelings hurt if I felt the guy I liked was pulling away.

Well that's because of what happened when you were dating Mason, my mother reminded me.
What do you mean? I asked.
When he distanced himself from you and started seeing a counselor and you got worried about your relationship and you said you thought the counselor would tell him to break up with you.
Silence on my end.
And then you called me one time in hysterics because he did break up with you.
More silence on my end.
You don't remember that??!!?

Uhh....No.
Not in the slightest.

Once again, I give thanks for mother and her abillity to recall every detail of my life, even the details I'm certain she's making up.

I think that because he was your first love and the first time you experienced a man you cared for withdrawing, and then he left you, there's this fear in your mind that it's gonna happen again.

Hmm. That did make sense.
Something traumatic happens and then we associate anything similar to that experience.

I get you.

But I'm not that nineteen year old girl anymore.
And my faith is strong enough now to trust if God wanted anything to be different today, it would be different today.
And now I think I've realized how valuable space is.
I need space just as much as the boys do.
I love my time alone, to write, to read, to miss them.
To hopefully, be missed in return.

Doesn't it feel incredible anticipating when you'll get to see that someone again?
It's this delicious building of energy, wondering what surprises may turn up around life's corners, what unexpected invitations might be offered, which stars might finally be walked under.

It's intoxicating.
This stuff that is life.
And I revel in every fraction of it.
Even the parts I'm still learning to love.

Shut up and KISS ME!

I really like this guy.

Like, irrationally, nonsensically enjoy his idiocy.

He's so terribly wrong for me my rationale should set me straight and my crush should evaporate.
But I REALLY like him.
Like, he kissed me for the first time in DAYS the other night and I felt high.

I've never actually been high before but if it feels anything like that then I fully understand people's propensity for getting cracked out.

I'm totally jonesin' for another fix.

I even felt dizzy telling a friend about what had happened between us.

I put my head in my hands and groaned, Ugh. I just love kissing him.

Which would be swell except the pilgrim thinks it's best if we lay off the kissing for awhile.

PURITANICAL PRUDE!!

All our lives we read books and magazines saying the same thing, our mothers warn us about the viles of men and how they only want one and one thing only.

And yet somehow, I always manage to find the guys who care too much about me to just be physical for physical's sake.

The frustration pent up inside me has grown to such astronomical heights if I were a cartoon there'd be steam coming out my ears.
At least someone would be coming.

It's fine, we all need to set boundaries for ourselves and I can respect them.

So long as I have not made love to vodka before seeing him.

But it is rare to find someone you can stand.

And it is even more rare finding someone who can stand you.

So to meet someone who seems to be amused by your crazy, who you can stand looking at and who magically seems to physically fit with you like some jigsaw puzzle?
Not literally, of course, I told you, he's a pilgrim.

It's such a gift!  Such a find!  Such an unexpected treasure chest of naughty goodness!

But no. No. No. No. No. no.
My relationships are never so overly simplistic.

They are convoluted, complex, chaotic comedies, is what they are.

I fucking love alliteration. I really really do.

So. Fine.
Just FINE.
I am not affected.
I'm not aching for his kisses.
His kisses are gross.
Freakin' sweet nectar of the gods makes your mouth water gross.

Damn him.

I need to find a new lover STAT.
Or I may just end up walking up to perfect strangers and start kissing them.

Somehow, I really doubt they'd mind.

a window into a resa's love language

The Five Love Languages

by Gary Chapman

Receiving Gifts

~the gift of self~

"There is an intangible gift that sometimes speaks more loudly than a gift that can be held in one's hand.  I call it the gift of self or the gift of presence.  Being there when someone needs you speaks loudly to the one whose primary love language is receiving gifts.  Jan once said to me, 'My husband, Don, loves softball more than he loves me.  On the day our baby was born, he played softball.  I was lying in the hospital all afternoon while he played softball,' she said.

'Was he there when the baby was born?'

'Oh, yes.  He stayed long enough for the baby to be born, but ten minutes afterward, he left to play softball.  I was devastated.  It was such an important moment in our lives.  I wanted us to share it together.  I wanted him to be there with me.  Don deserted me to play.'

That husband may have sent her a dozen roses, but they would not have spoken as loudly as his presence in the hospital room beside her. 

'Have you based your conclusion that Don loves softball more than he loves you on this one experience?'

'Oh, no," she said.  "On the day of my mother's funeral, he also played softball.'

'Did he go to the funeral?'

'He went to the funeral, but as soon as it was over, he left to play softball.  I couldn't believe it.  My brothers and sisters came to the house with me, but my husband was playing softball.'

Later, I asked Don about those two events.  He knew exactly what I was talking about.  'I knew she would bring that up,' he said.  'I was there through all the labor and when the baby was born.  I took pictures; I was so happy.  I couldn't wait to tell the guys on the team, but my bubble was burst when I got back to the hospital that evening.  She was furious with me.  I couldn't believe what she was saying.  I thought she would be proud of me for telling the team.

'And when her mother died?  She probably did not tell you that I took off work a week before she died and spent the whole week at the hospital and at her mother's house doing repairs and helping out.  After the funeral was over, I felt I had done all I could do.  I needed a breather.  I like to play softball, and I knew that would help me relax and relieve some of the stress I'd been under.  I thought she would want me to take a break.  I had done what I thought was important to her, but it wasn't enough.  She has never let me forget it.  She says that I love softball more than I love her.  That's ridiculous.'

He was a sincere husband who failed to understand the tremendous power of presence.

His being there for his wife was more important than anything else in her mind.

Physical presence is the most powerful gift you can give if someone's primary love language is receiving gifts.  Your body becomes the symbol of your affection.  Remove the symbol, and the sense of love evaporates."

i like my princes a little demented

When you get to be my age dating is more complicated than ordering a half decaf double tall one pump sugar free vanilla one pump sugar free hazelnut half nonfat half soy extra hot no foam latte.
And that was an easy order.

Dating becomes this dance, a game of cat and mouse, and ever unstable, one faulty step can kick down the sandcastle you've worked so lovingly to create.
People don't know what they want.
They have baggage and tattered pasts and issues they projectile vomit onto you that make you want to scream out, I'M NOT HER!

But we all do it.
We're all guilty of the same psychosis.
We just handle it differently.
And I stand alone as my own Queen of Crazy.

I rock the kind of crazy that drives otherwise stable men to nearly lose their minds.
It's a gift. And I use it recklessly.

I miss the days of homeroom and hallways where dating meant a boy left a note in your locker and you held hands and didn't worry about waiting for him to call.
Things were simpler then.

Except of course for me.
I dated the guy who caused a huge melodrama with me because as prom was ending I left his side to say hi to my favorite theatre teacher and when I went back to him he sighed his most dejected sigh, I can't believe you LEFT me.
I spent the whole night trying to console him and eventually we got into a huge fight because he claimed he loved me more than I loved him because I needed my friends more than he needed his.
But that's love when you're 18, for ya.

Maybe I don't want to be back in those kinds of romances.

No, what I want is for people to be genuine.
I want when a guy likes me for him to take a risk and show me.
I want him to be scared shitless by how drawn he is to me but allow his desire to override his fear.
I want him to open up about his past and trust I'll like him anyway.
I want flowers and letters.
I want when I tell him I wanna punch him in the face for him to kiss mine.

And I want the friends in my life to trust that I'm strong enough to take care of myself.
Yes, maybe the idiot made me cry. 
And maybe I was also drunk and on my period. A frightful combination.
Maybe he's confusing and inconsistent and selfish and unable to care for me in the way I deserve.

And maybe I'm just as selfish as he is and equally interested in what I get from this encounter.
Maybe it's nice having someone to cry over that's not Prince Charming.
Maybe it's nice the times I actually see him feeling how he sees Aphrodite in my eyes.
Maybe I just really like kissing him.
Maybe that's worth the moods and being a low priority and him pushing me away when I get too close.

Maybe not.

But while there are literally thousands of other men I should be with instead I am seventy two percent sure I love him. 
Or at least, like him.
Most days.

It's not every day you find someone who makes you as crazy as you make them.
And those kinds of wonderful*horrible*surprising*delighting*confusing connections are worth a little extra patience.

At least they are in my book.
And this is my story after all, is it not?

how foolish of me

My makeup was flawless.

There are days when my makeup is alright and days like tonight when it is perfect.
I felt radiant, like the night I took myself to the symphony.
The way I used to feel when he looked at me.
The look that made me feel divinely feminine.
Even the gal I knew at the venue and the gal working the door complimented me.
That dress is stunning. And full of hope, the romantic girl within me beaming, I waited for him to arrive.
Every body that passed the windows caught my glance and I wondered if each figure might be his.
His.
So unknown and still somehow comfortably familiar, like a recurring dream, where fragments are vivid but the whole, the whole you can hardly recall.
And I marveled over timing and destiny, over its trips and slip ups, over its uncertainties and its irrefutables.
And the music played on, beautiful, vivid, and the people stopped passing by the windows and my phone, silenced, blinked with no messages, and the hopeful girl in me accepted defeat.
Once again. One more night. One fallen prince.

But as the songs poured on, the candles continued flickering, and the little girls strength grew.
With or without such a handsome stranger, hope glowed.

Someone, some day would see the beauty within one woman's songs and ache for the chance to hold it in their hands.
Some things are worth waiting for, a lifetime, a symphony of unheard melodies aching to fall from her lips.

Until then, she plays.
And she sings.
Every eve.
For the music, the music must play, with or without its chosen audience.

still sparkles in her eyes

One of my favorite old Starbucks regulars came in yesterday and was so excited to see me.

"Look at you! You look so beautiful. And you have your sparkles on. You haven't changed at all."

Coming from her I knew that was the highest praise.

Once, while at Starbucks, she looked me square in the eye and asked with loving sincerity, "Does anything ever get you down? You always seem so happy and like nothing ever gets to you."

The beautiful thing about the compliment was that I had spent the previous night shedding buckets of tears.  I mean, the kind of crying where you can hardly see and your eyes are cloudy afterwards.
I was hanging on by a thin thread of faith.
But I clung to it for dear life.
And I tried with all my might to muster as much joy as was within me.
And that's what she saw.

And that meant the world.

I wasn't ungenine.
I wasn't feigning happiness.
I wanted to feel all that my smile broadcasted I felt.

And she never had any idea.

And talking with her, over a year later, hearing her say I haven't changed was her seeing my joy once again.

And what a wonderful way to be remembered.

through the looking glass

memorandum

there are these moments

like crystal

where all imagined 

glistens with clarity

each word unspoken

dances

side by side

with melodies

closed hearts long to hear

one hopeful

one uncertain

but such persistence

overpowers

doubt

falsities

mistaken miscommunication

for each hearts goodness

rivals blades past

what was once unfavored

longing transcends

these stars unwalked

sparkle

waiting

amidst your absence

Reese Swan

                                              
I went to an audition today.
And I can honestly say, as much as I want the part, I feel like more than anything, the point was for me to go there and meet those people.
I can't even say with certainty I'm meant to have the part.
But I was definitely meant to go to that audition.

Weeks and weeks ago I had endured some drama with the pick-a-little ladies who'd gotten their feathers ruffled by my sassafras writing.
Why I never! Gee golly! Blessed be!
If they could have they probably would have made me over to have a bad bleach dye job and covered my skin in cheap makeup to make me breakout.

Nothing spells revenge like a mob of angry, catty women.

And even though I thought I didn't care, it got to me.
I began to question myself as a writer, my writing voice, my style.
Maybe I'm too uncensored, I thought. Maybe I need to be more pc.

And then days later, as the curiousness of Time should have it, I was contacted by a fan.

Been following your blog--it's too fun!  Are you still acting or interested in film work?  I am on a production team for a film shooting in October. There is a character I think would fit you well.  I like your spunk and personality and would love for you to audition.

My mouth hung open like Sebastian when he sees The Little Mermaid suddenly has human legs.

No. Freaking. Way.

My BLOG landed me an audition??
The same blog that got the pick-a-littles' panties in a twist caught the intrigue of a casting director?

Truly, my life is not without a sense of humor.
Warped. Twisted. Dark sense of humor.

I was flattered.
I was stoked.
I was relieved to learn not every stranger that reads my words feels compelled to hurl their laptop at my face.
I read the sides and the character seemed really complex and interesting.
One of those women whose more than meets the eye.

So at the reading today I honestly have no idea how it went.
With singing, you know if you hit the notes, if you remembered your words, if you managed to stand on the stage without your dress falling to your ankles.
But with acting, especially film acting, it's so painfully subjective that I could be cast or cut because of my curly red hair.

Half the reason I landed my debut film role was because of my double d's. And I thank them for it. Every day. Mwah!

As they told me more about the film and the role I was reading for I realized it was an actor's dream. 
It had the intense layers of a role like Nina in Black Swan and I had been invited to read for it.
I was honored. And hungry for the chance to take on a role so juicy.

But the thing that made the audition amazing was that my talent scout told me why she'd invited me to audition.

Your writing is so raw and so honest and most people don't write like that.  Most people censor themselves. I thought you would be a good person for the role not only because of your larger than life personality but because you would have no fear diving into such a complex role and taking the kinds of risks needed to play such a role honestly.

From one passionate artist to another, it was one of the greatest compliments I've ever received.

I told her the story of the girls being offended by my writing and she said with quiet knowing, They don't understand you.

And how beautiful for that one moment to feel that someone did.

Someone else on the production team even said, Your blog, your writing, is about you putting yourself out there. It doesn't matter whether people like it or not.

And the truth is, it doesn't matter whether I get the part or not.

To have eyes looking at me, seeing all the potential sitting before them in this spunky red head was worth more than even the rush performing brings.

I. Was. Seen.

And for all the times I feel invisible, for all the eyes that look away,
I remembered what it felt like when eyes look into the fire that are my own.

I felt it.  Perfect.  I was perfect.

Resa Schmizza. Get a real hobby.

I came to a conclusion as of late.

I'm done defending who I am.
I'm tired of explaining.
I'm over making excuses.

I am simply Reece.
Take me or leave me.
Or take me.

I remember years ago I was convinced I wanted to make my career the stage.
And audition after audition my voice was "not what they were looking for."
I was Julie Andrews in line for the role of Christina Aguilera.

And wanting to please, wanting to succeed, I thought I needed to try and emulate what was so popular, what was so mainstream.
I worked to take the vibrato out of my voice.
I chose songs that were more jazzy and tried to make my voice have more belt.
And I still couldn't land gigs.

Finally, on one particular day, I finished what was assuredly a blase rendition of 'My Funny Valentine' and the director called attention to my resume.
"I see here you have opera training. Do you have a song that's more legit?"

I wanted to scream a high C in fury.

He had to be fucking joking.

No, I didn't have a song that was more legit because every feedback I got from every role I didn't get was my voice was TOO legit.
Too legit. Too soprano.
Too a spoonful of sugar when I needed to be a genie in a bottle.

But I learned a valuable lesson that day I walked away from yet another failed audition.
I learned when I try to be someone I'm not it doesn't work. It doesn't sell.
I'm not good at being anyone other than myself.
I'm not good at sitting quietly in the background.

But I am apparently good at pushing people's buttons.
And this is a bad thing.
Some chic told me I should be mindful and use my words carefully.
Which nearly made me spit my vodka onto the table.

I'm fairly certain the dude I offended never would have started talking to me in the first place if I hadn't demanded his attention with my anything but mindful or careful words.
More like my, Holy shit! Did she really just say that words.

And suddenly it becomes my fault and I'm supposed to cool off now that he's gotten too close to the Resa fire and can't handle the heat?

I've said it before and I'll say it again.
If you can't take the heat, move to Alaska.
I'll send you a postcard.
I'll be wearing my flight attendant uniform.
And saluting you.
Having a great time. Wish you here.

It's amusing because don't they say the very things you initially loved about a person are the very things that drive you crazy later on in the relationship?

Like, I used to think it was cute the way this one guys voice would squeak like he was going through puberty even though he was 32.
But I'm sure if we stayed together I'd eventually bitch slap his scrawny ass and declare, GROW A PAIR!!

That's just love for ya.

But love should not make you doubt yourself.
Love should not make you feel like the you that is true is less than or wrong.
Especially from people who sought you out in the first place.

Hey buddy!
You asked me out, remember?
This was your brilliant idea.
Is it my fault you weren't smart enough to see what you were getting yourself into?
Maybe you should make better choices.

But it's cool because you know what?
For every jaded bud there is someone else amused and drawn to my ability to be anything but beige.

I just can't believe I considered toning down the sass for a dude.
Few. Can. Handle. This.
And I will only settle for one who can.

Godspeed.

If you give a Resa a hug

If you give a Resa a hug she will want to give you a kiss on the cheek.
         The kiss will make her happy so she'll want to sing you a song.
                  She'll play the piano while she sings and all that singing will make her thirsty.
                        So she'll want some pink champagne.
                            She'll suggest mimosas.
                                And the mimosas will make her want eggs.
                                   So she'll want to make breakfast food with you.
                                      After eating the delicious eggs and toast she'll feel sleepy.
                                  She'll get a blanket and want to watch a movie.
                          She'll pick a black and white one, with Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant.
                   The movie will make her giggle and she'll cuddle up next to you on the couch.
           And lay her head on your shoulder.
After the movie you'll notice how tired Resa is so you'll say goodnight and give her a hug.
      
                   And chances are...

                             If you give a Resa a hug .....
                                         she will want to give you a kiss on the cheek.

He likes me. He really likes me.

You ever notice that when you PRIDE yourself on something life always has a way of putting your pious little behind in its place?

I pride myself on reading people.
I'm an actor so studying and interpreting others behavior is a necessity.
You can't emulate what you don't understand.
People are often so obvious with how they feel.
Body language and facial ticks.
You don't even have to listen to what someone is saying, you just watch them.

And I pick up on all that.
I can feel when a guy is interested in me and when he's too queer to realize how ravishing I am.
Like the hottie at the coffee stand?
SO my tall, lanky, shy cup of decaf.
I wanna get up under that and get my face rocked off.
But He. Is. So. NOT. Into me.
Douche nozzle.

But.
I'm savvy enough to know the difference and pick up on the subtlties of his body language towards me.
So.
Snaps for me.

So my arrogant little gauge of character was knocked on its puffed up ass recently when the schmuck I'd a-s-s-u-m-e-d was another sleaze monkey actually gave a damn about me.

How the hell was I supposed to know he was clever enough to see how awesome I am?

Guess my awesomeness sometimes clouds my brain from seeing how nice some sleaze monkeys are.

My bad.

Double Edged Sword

"These trials are used to push us to do things that we don't really wanna do but are weak areas in us. And we wish that God would remove them but many times he doesn't remove them when we want Him to because He wants those weak areas in us to keep surfacing until we finally realize we need change and we allow God to change us." 


I remembered tonight what finalized my rift with Mr. Volcano.
I got mad at him because I felt he was ashamed of being friends with me and I ripped him a new one.
Not quite sure what the hell that expression is supposed to mean but if I could have I probably would have actually ripped it off.

Our relationship had been strained for months.

We'd broken up then hooked up then screwed that up then made up.

EVERY. DAY. was something different with that kid and the exhaustion of dealing with his manic moods finally took its toll on my poor, wounded, weak self.
I could not believe the best a moment longer.
And damned if it wasn't The Facebook that broke the stupid camel's back.

He had untagged himself from every picture I was in.

And for whatever reason, Fate's sneaky sister Timing grinning like a vicious witch, I lacked the love to find the good in such an action.

Do you know how many times he'd say or do something unloving, he'd uninvite me to the beach party he'd made such a big deal he wanted me to go to, or he'd never call when he said he would, he'd never make time for me, or he'd possess the sensitivity of a skinless arm.

But did I ever lose my temper?  ONCE??
N-O.
I was fucking Mother Teresa being silent as a dove, offering words of life instead of death.
I'd say something encouraging to him on the phone and then make a confused face to myself, like, Damn woman!  Where the hell did that come from?  Why aren't you going bananas on his monkey ass?

I loved the bastard.
And I was determined to believe the best.
D-E-T-E-R-M-I-N-E-D.

Until this one fated Sunday when I left a voicemail saying I was so sorry I was such a burden and he was so ashamed to be associated with me.  And that maybe it was best if we spent no further time together as he was incapable of treating me well.

And he sent back a vile text and I knew immediately that I had failed to walk in love.
And I overwhelmingly wanted to be restored and make things right.
He, alas, did not.

I stopped by his place after my play rehearsal and was met with what may still be the greatest disdain in a pair of single eyes.
We can never have anything to do with each other ever again, were his famous last words.
And he meant them.
And that was many moons ago.

And I don't know how I made the correlation but there was another man in my life I grew to care for, one with similar uncertainties and clouds of haze, and I never let his actions stir me.
Until one fated Wednesday when I wrote a post pouring out my hurt and frustration believing the counsel of my friends and fears that once again I'd been had. And used. And cast aside.

Once. Twice. Three times a foolish lady.

And once again the power of my words struck the core of the one I thought felt icy indifference towards me.
If only we used our power to edify how rich our days would be.

And I awaited my friendship's fate of adieu and eff you.

But stunningly life's circular pattern hiccuped a change in effect.
The boy in question accepted amends.
And the virulent waves of emotion parted long enough for the stars to take center stage.

I marveled over life's patterns, over life's change.
I was humbled by my girlish need for acceptance, for feeling wanted.
Apparently the strong woman I embody houses a timid child whose greatest fear is losing her favorite friends.

And how fortunate for every pair of unforgiving eyes, there are always others who see all this little girl sees.

Boom goes the dynamite

Life has this way of spinning its web of chaos in a perfect, complete circle.
And I find that frighteningly beautiful.

Weeks and weeks ago, far too many to count, I received an email of finality from a flame that fails to extinguish.
Drinking in its sincerity I trusted each words validity and assumed it really would be the last reminder of such vibrant ardor.
I sang a tuneful acceptance and looked ahead towards days void of scars.

Simultaneously, as though the next stanza of my refrain, I heard from a new man.
This seemingly lost and wounded soul reached out with an urgency that tugged my heartstrings, in need of new company, of distraction, of the overpowering presence that was me.
Wary, uneasy, I relented, uncertain of what possible benefit could derive from such interactions.

None worth knowing, to quench your curiosity.

More weeks passed, again too many to count, and I found myself entangled in his web of inconsistency.
Some eves full of tears and tunes, others with chilling contempt.
Newness seemed to be following me like a rain cloud overhead and other players entered the weeks scenes as well.
Kisses were had, secrets were shared.
One took his exit, while another drew beside.

And still the overwhelming nagging beating within me would not relent.
Something was rotten in the state of Portlandia.
And as Fate's cleverly woven web should have it, I was about to get stuck in the overpowering discovery of truth's right hand.

A girl as verbose as I, truly we are a most peculiar breed, crossed paths with me in a most timely way.
Conversation was exchanged, pleasantries and such, and somehow, as the words would have it, she began revealing details to me about this new mans past.
Details shocking and upsetting, details that made me want to kick the wounded puppy he had claimed to be.
I grappled with how to handle the heavy information and what words suffficed such communication.

But two very timely coincidences occurred within the days surrounding such discoveries.
The new man in question suddenly lacked the effort time for me deigned.
And the old flame's finality was forgotten and he reached out with surprising swiftness.

I had to laugh at life's simplistic poetry.
One door closes and another opens.
That door closes and conversely, the old door cracks itself back open, for just a peek.

I had gotten over one dear.
I was cured.
Now to get over the cure.
Who sadly had been nothing but a hologram of supposed affection anyway.

It certainly wouldn't be hard to forget because the truth had revealed there was nothing there to have been had.
Merely words. words. words.

Where actions fail, words endure.
Mine were endless, continual, full of sincerity, laden with meaning.
He, however, was not.
And what untangling freedom releases in that truth.

Mourning a Killed Krush

I sinfully enjoyed a crush as of late.
Indulging in it, basking in it, reveling in every possible fantasy.
His chocolate eyes devoured me like I was a hot fudge sundae.
And I blushed every time I caught my reflection in his eager face.

'Twas pure bliss.

A new crush is transcendent.
It's like walking through the looking glass.
Uncertain of what to expect each step is taken with delicious anticipation.
What might this day bring?
What words might spill forth?

But ever always, as with such illusions, fantasy gives way to reality.
And all at once the looking glass shatters inexplicably.
Words fail, so in silence, each shard is carefully scooped up into the dumpster of what once was infatuation.

The man child's true colors were revealed.
And I remain dizzy by the change in affection.
However are people so ingenuine?
Is it so easily possible to feign affection, to mock endearment?
What a wretched waste of such a woman.

And of such a crush.

Poetically my haste to indifference mirrored his deceit.

It is no wonder such a man is alone in the sea of people surrounding him.
Falsity run rampant through his veins and no beating heart can play music near such strangulation.

The poor dear.
If only I could pretend.
I'd wipe tears from those frozen eyes.

We shall see........

If the first time you talk to a guy he tells you he just finished reading a book on apologizing, walk away.
Or rather, put on your high tops and RUN.
Trust me.
Life is full of little warnings and omens but we're often too distracted to pick up on them.

Shame thy name is Reese.

It's not my fault!
Scripture says, Love always believes the best.
But does that mean I believe the best when everyone that loves me is telling me the dude's stench of douchiness is totally putting them off their latte?
I can't see someone's an asshat if I'm believing the best of them!
Come on, Big G, make up your mind!
You want me wise or you want me loving.
Because clearly it is unwise to love someone who merely wants to use me.

Unless it's from far away. Very. Very. FAR. Away.
Where I can "Pray for you," as they say.
But not have to SEE you.

Someone pack my angry eyes. And the monkeys.

I hate unresolved conflict. 
I don't know how people can just disappear and never talk to those they feel conflict with. 
I would LOVE to do that! 
I would love to hit that button that turns off all passion, all animosity, all hurt feelings and disappointments and replaces uneasiness with indifference. 

But I'm not like that. 
I want truth. 
I want freedom from deceit. 
I want the privilege of looking into their eyes and seeing everything they fail to hide.

I'm just that good.

I hate it when people suck.

I have this one girlfriend, bless her heart--that's southern for, Fuck her for being such an asshole--and this girlfriend always flakes when we make plans. 
A-L-W-A-Y-S. 
It has gotten to the point that if we make plans I will literally make plans with someone else because I know she is going to bail. 
Because she forgot or fell asleep or ran into her ex boyfriend and promptly had to do him in his car. 

It would stand to reason that since our friendship lacks, well, any sort of friendl-i-ness, I should cease contact. 
But when you've known someone as many years as we have it seems really hard to suddenly be like, As a person you suck.  And I've no time for such suckage in my life.  Feel free to forget I exist.

Sadly, they kind of already have. 
It's not even worth the effort.
It just is.

I would like you to remember Resa's are a privilege, not a right.

But I'm so bad at keeping my thoughts to myself.
I just wanna scrawl out a note on pink construction paper and tape it to their door.

Hi.
I hate to bother you..
But I just thought you should know.
You kind of suck.
I'm certain you're already aware.
But now, so am I.

You know you're angry when seeing their name in print makes you suddenly throw your bag of rolos across the room.
Rolos are amazing and should not be reserved for the likes of prebuscent future douche monkeys.

I'm thinking of seducing his best friend.  Should at least make for an interesting blog.
And really, what more can I ask for?
Certainly not genuineness.
That's reaching for the moon.

And it kinda sucks because the spell has been broken. 
And I liked the way things looked on the other side of the looking glass. 
People walked upside down and sang songs on guitars and hope danced between the eyes of their hearts.

Bless his heart.
His deceitful fucking heart.

But the jig is up. And so are the blow jobs.

Thanks for the blog fodder, asshole.
At least you got what it seems you set out to get from me.
Glad I could be of service.

A Rosy Love Story

"Never resist an impulse, Sabrina. Especially if it's terrible."

I think most of the women in my life have given up on romance.
They've turned into these complacent cynics who distrust accolades and roll their eyes at any ounce of mushiness.
Myself included.
You want to make sweet sweet love to me?
Dude. Come on.
We both know what you really wanna do.
And love ain't got nothin' to do with it.
Mmmkay?

See?
Romance. Dead.
In its place?
Skeptics. A go go.

I don't think we're meaning to be a bunch of Negative Nancies.
I think we're trying to be pragmatic by wearing our big girl panties.
Or sometimes, in my case, no panties. I like the element of surprise.
We want to accept that life is far less starry eyed than we imagined and far more practical.
We want to be tolerant and not foolish.

But life, unpredictable, glorious, romantic life finds ways to gently touch my cheek and make me blush when it scatters romance at my feet so I trip, tangled up in it.
And it always catches me off guard.
And it always makes my heart swell with hope.
Hope of a love where romance does exist.
And not just for Audrey Hepburns.

I took myself on a date with the Rosy City for brunch and shopping and music.
The day was radiant and I wore my favorite new dress and one of my favorite old hats.
I walked into one of my most favoritist restaurants, Build your own Mimosa? Why yes, I think I shall!
And whom should I meet?
But one very dreamy host, whom we shall call, Linus.

"Can I sit outside?" I asked.
"Are you  sure? It's pretty hot."
Yes, yes you are.
"Yeah, ok. Sure."
"Well, there's the corner over there that overlooks outside."
"Ok."
"Or there's the corner over there too. What are you in the mood for?"
You. Naked. Sunny side up.
"I don't know. I'm too hungry to make a decision."
"You're cute."
Yes. I know. Thank you. As are you. Good god, are you!

So I sat down at the table he chose and Linus said my server would be with me shortly. 
Then he brought me some coffee.
"What are you all dressed up for?" Linus asked.
"Oh. I'm going to see Iron & Wine tonight."
"Really? Me too."
Thank you, Rosy City! This is the best present a girl could ask for!

So then over the course of my brunch I saw my server twice, and saw Linus at least four times.
He asked if I lived in the area and about the concert.  He told me he was a massage therapist and I told him he could feel free to massage me.
Ok. Not really. I thought it. I ached for it. But I was a lady and crossed my legs at the ankles instead.

Linus was the kind of handsome I don't see very often, the kind that only exists in black and white movies, when men only wore suits and took ladies to dinner and dancing.
I felt beautiful and glowing, the way his eyes smiled in mine.
And as he brought me my check I anticipated what words he'd utter, how our meeting would continue.
But there was no invitation, no 'hope to see you at the show', no Cary Grant gesture.

But a dandelion seed floated down onto the table across from me and I smiled at seeing a wish at such an opportune time.

After shopping and walking and holding hands with the city I went to the square for the concert. 
The bands were wonderful and the airplanes were waltzing overhead.
The moon was full and I breathed in the perfume of the city.
I glanced over my shoulder and somehow the wish had followed me across the river.
A dandelion seed now floated above our heads.
And I smiled at seeing a wish at such an opportune time.

I went and sat down for the last song and stared lovingly at the crowd.
Slowly, gracefully, a tall figure walked towards me and as he made eye contact with me I realized black and white movies weren't the only place to see beautiful men.
He sat down on the steps near me and then looked up at me and smiled.
"Is anyone sitting here?" those violet eyes asked  me.
"No," I blushed back and he scooted up the three stairs to sit directly next to me.
My heart didn't skip, it twirled. A beat and a half.

The song ended and the band played a sweet encore.
Again, I breathed in, anticipating my companion's next move.
What words, what gesture.
But again, silence.
And I smiled, knowingly.
Certain, somewhere nearby, a wish floated overhead.

The city had embraced me and released me.
And even though no continued dialogue would fill the pages of my following days, it had reminded me of one overwhelming truth.
Romance is everywhere.
And the moments it fails to leap into unspoken words, it flies overhead.
For me to see, to hear, to hope.
To believe.

Vodka Split

I'm breaking up with vodka.
I think our relationship is getting unhealthy.
That seems to be in the air lately.
Delicious bastards.

I drank so much the other night that I made myself purge just to try and stop the room from spinning.
What did I think I was, 21 again?
I'm way too old for such nonsense.
And I paid for it dearly the next day.
"Dearly" being a euphemism for Could Barely Keep My Insides From Oozing Out Of Every Crevice In My Body nauseated.
I think I'll stick with d-e-a-r-l-y.

The thing is, I'm usually savvy enough to know when to say when.
Actually. No. I'm not at all. I'm about as extreme an extremist a chic with red hair can get.
But I at least don't drink to the point of turning green.
That is for amateurs. 
I usually drink to the point of heightened amorosity.
And then I text some lucky douchelord.

But there are no handsome douchelords to text.
So rather than stopping at Mmsk Mmsk Mmsk tipsy I just thought I'd drink until I couldn't see straight.
Because that is far less dangerous.
O-b-v-i-o-u-s-l-y.

At one point I woke up from my nap and had an overwhelming desire for guacamole.
If you bring me Chipotle I will do you.
Better skip that Facebook status.
My updates have been getting me in to enough trouble lately.
Some dudes I don't wanna do.
That's one diddle I'd want undone, home skillet.

So eventually my desire for guacamole finally overcame my desire to lay down.
But I can't even describe how exhausting it was walking the 28 steps from my car.
Why is there no drive thru?
Then I wouldn't have had to put on a bra.
Assholes.

So since I seem to be incapable of anything in moderation.
I'm cutting it off. Cold turkey.
At least for the next day or so.
Some affairs will never die.
That's just love for ya.

Hit me with a little oxygen

Addictions are sneaky.
Like tricky, ill timed little bastards.
I thought I'd shaken mine, cold turkey, one hundred percent.
I mean, it had certainly been awhile.
It seemed long enough to have fully gone through detox.

And then tonight it hit me with full force, this wave of longing.
This need for a hit.
And before I even knew what I was doing I reached out.

No, I wasn't smashed.

Or depressed.

I lacked excuses.

I just longed.
An ache for the feeling of what had been or what I'd believed had been.

That's the thing about addictions. They rarely are ever what they appear to be.

And I thought it was crazy that I could crave something I didn't actually want anymore.
I'd learned to like someone new, to crave different highs.
And yet buried within my cells, tucked away in corners with me unawares, the longing continued.

And it overwhelmed.
And made me dizzy.
And I wondered where they were and what they were doing.
And if their room had suddenly began spinning.
Or if it was just me.

No full moon.
No meaningful day.
Just an unexpected wave.

And I wondered if everyone experienced these pangs over the loves they'd lost.
And if they always crept up on you so unexpectedly.
Or if they'd ever just go away.

Which seemed nice.
And sad at the same time.

Change was a good thing.
Maybe the best of things.
So why did I still hope to see their name appear in my phone?

Maybe I wasn't as ready as I thought I was for everything he wasn't ready for either.
We could each rest on the clouds of haze while they passed through.
Whenever that may be.

Another married bastard

I had an overwhelming sense of ickiness.

But I wasn't sure if I should listen to the voice in my head or tell it to calm the fuck down and stop being such a paranoid android.

Always listen to the voice. It's savvy paranoia.

So for weeks this nagging feeling in my gut kept prodding at me.
Something's not right with this picture.
There's something inky going on.
What to do. What. To. Do.

I'm not good at cutting people out.
I want to believe the best even if that means choosing to ignore the fact they're holding a gun in my face.
I'm sure there's a logical explanation for their behavior, I'll reassure myself.
And marvel with genuine surprise over the blood dripping from my head.

I like attention.
I like pushing people's buttons.
I like inciting a reaction, a laugh, an ohmygawd did she really just do that?
But not from everyone.
Some attention I dislike.
'Tis a fine line between a fan and a stalker.

A woman can only handle so many stalkers....

So this kid from my past, let's call him Lenny, had been blowing up my Facebook as of late.
Most of the time when people like or comment on your status' it makes you feel loved.
But Lenny's comments were beginning to make me uncomfortable and question why he suddenly felt the need to comment on EVERYTHING I posted.

Didn't he have a wife he could talk to?

And Lenny and I used to work together a million moons ago (Yes, it was at Starbucks, who once again is responsible for my love/stalker life) and he had a thing for me then but some flames are not reciprocated.
Some are met with icy indifference.
But I guess some flames burn a hell of a lot longer than others.
And I was getting the sinking suspicion that I gave Lenny the big pants.
Lucky me.

So one day, reaching the end of my tolerance rope, it now fraying after incessant inappropriate comments, I wrote a status in hopes of getting my message across.

To whom it may concern, I don't want to DO you so kindly fuck off. I'd do your wife before I'd do you. And no, you couldn't watch.

Now, I thought, if the lewd harassment is all in my crazy lil' head then it will be a moot status and merely prompt a few snickers from my fans (not stalkers).
But to my horror (who ever wants to be right about these things?) Lenny commented on it almost immediately.

Good thing cuz I don't want to do you either.

Holystalkingschizo.
I wasn't a paranoid android.
The fucker did have his married eye on me.
And me calling him out on it bent his needle dick out of shape.

I promptly unfriended the fucktard and he sent me three messages.

Did you hear that?  That was the sound of my skin crawling across the floor.

Shudder.

One even read MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!  YOU DELETED ME!  AHAHAHAHAHA!

Wow.
Really?
I'm sorry, but REALLY?

Passive aggressive never looked so damn frightening.

If it had been anyone else I would have just written it off as being another random douchefuck.
But this kid used to be my friend, he's friends with my friends, he goes to church every damn Sunday.
Cough. Of course he does.

It felt extra gross coming from a former fellow Starbucks Barista.
But hey, at least it'll make another swell chapter in my book.

Geez, Lenny.
Lay off the goddamn tequila.
And lay off the Resa.

Any guy who loves Eraserhead is definitely too demented to be my Facebook friend.
Tell the wife I said HI.

Haiku for him

HAIKU FOR HIM
~RESA STYLE~

......................
your words align not
with all your eyes pour in mine
thwart not such passion

.......................

you fucking fucktard

I'd trade a rock for PC

I wanted it to be him.

I'll give you three guesses how that turned out.
But you only need one.

He doesn't read my writing anymore.
You may not be either.

But I assume you are.
My assumptions are deceiving me.

I have terrible taste.
No, correction, destructive taste.
Which no one ever believes.

He told me he was so numb he didn't know what if any of his words or actions were genuine.
Can you imagine what that sounds like to a woman?
I don't know what's real.

Hmm.

Then I guess there was the answer to my question.
I hadn't even asked anything was the funny part.
Funny.
Like life.

I should have been there tonight.
Fucking SHOULD.

I don't want a man to say he'll try to be there next time.
I want a man to be there.
Am I asking for the moon?

Don't I deserve that?

Surely the man that would meet me in a pyramid to hold my hand would agree.

But fuck.
It's my heart.
And I could love anyone.
I could love a rock.

I'm simply that amazing.

And the word was truth.

I'm not really sure what prompted me to do it but I started reading through old Facebook messages.

I learned a lot.

I learned some folks had deleted their Facebook accounts.
Some had deleted me as a friend.
Some were conversations I'd forgotten I'd had.

And then I found a message I'd sent years ago that sent a shiver up and down my skin.
When I'd read the hate dripping from Narcissus' words I wrote him back this.

I still don't know how I was able to write what I did.
And it's pretty incredible to possess the capability to surprise yourself.



Coming from you, darling, that is the most beautiful truth that shall set me free. I'm glad to know the true character of your heart, habibi, as well as the other men in your life. Despite your obvious efforts to hurt me, you unfortunately, are powerless in affecting my heart. I have not felt more at peace in the longest time.....so I thank you.


I will forever hold the truth of your vulnerability, your need for love and respect, despite your mantra of "I don't need anyone" because I saw how broken you were after your falling out with your friend. But that's ok....you keep working hard at pretending you don't care and aren't affected and I will keep your secret safe.


And I will also continue to pray for you, to wish you the very best, though I know with all your talents and intellect you will continually find success. I know that you are a good man, despite all this toxic, venomous hatred.
I am getting to see first hand, your "flogging tongue" as you described yourself having years ago.
Remember when we went to Bella one Sunday evening in December? And you were so encouraging about my talents and gifts and how I should pursue them and not let anything hold me back? And you said to me, "you are so talented. I don't have talent like that." But you do. You have many wonderful gifts. Some are powers you choose to use to try and cause pain. And some are talents you possess to do the most incredible, brilliant things.


I know you will eventually see that, as I see and know the qualities to be there. And one day you will understand, why I am able to forgive you for all the foolish things you try to do to hurt me.

The Reese Zone

I put clean sheets on my bed.
I don't think you understand what an accomplishment this is for me.
I'm a lazy bitch.
And if there is a way to do something that involves less energy I will always take that route.
Why do today what you can put off indefinitely?

I think I'm the antithesis of OCD.
I like things better a little messy and chaotic.
If things are too orderly it makes me afraid to do anything.
I'll just sit there.  Aware of how tidy the room is.

I feel the same way about rooms that are too quiet.
Like the library in college that was so silent I could hear a page turning.
I could never study there.
I'd have to go to a Starbucks and probably get distracted eyeing the latte boy.
It's a wonder I graduated at all.


I've decided I have a gift when it comes to men.
All women bring something to the table: beauty, charm, mystery, an ability to become a baby factory.
I possess the skills to make men utterly confused.
Not just uncertain or doubting or questioning.
But overwhelmingly, stumbling home in a drunken stupor confused.

I've yet to pinpoint what exactly it is about me that leaves men so hazy but I refuse to take it as anything less than a compliment.
Surely only a most profound goddess could move someone to the point of question marks floating above their head.

"I have to prepare myself before seeing you.  I have to get in the Resa zone," Charlie told me.
I'm still not even sure what the hell he meant by that except that he said he didn't have to get into a zone with any other girl.
So I think he meant it as a compliment.
And I guess that's nice.
He even said he wanted us to get together once a month and share our writing.
Of course, this was a couple months ago and I haven't heard from him since.

The Reese cloud of confusion looms once again.

Or maybe he was just too lazy to get in the Resa zone.
It sounded like a lot of work.
Poor bastard.

Why do I always make men confused?
I'll never know.
But surely there will be some who have exclamation points floating over their heads when they look at me.

And those gents won't mind I'm a little unruly.
Maybe they'll even revel in such confusion.
And be craving anything but the ordinary.