Beep Beep! Vrrrrm!

So I got my hair colored last night. Yes, blog, I know that it's bad for my hair and that I'm pretty just the way I am. But see, dear blog, you don't understand what it's like to be human. You're just a blog, living in a blog world. I bet you don't even have eyes, do you blog?

I feel like I should go buy a pink convertible made of cheap plastic and drive around looking for an equally attractive male version of me, sans genitals. We can drive to Malibu and buy a condo and attempt to pick up things with our non-opposable thumbs and constantly smile because I have perfect tits and he's clearly rich.

Oh well. So is the life of a female. The things we do to look aesthetically pleasing to our culture. Someone should really try to make looking like shit be cool....wait....didn't Courtney Love try that? Yeah she did. It didn't really work out.

Three day weekend blog, my dear. I won't see you again until Monday. Maybe I will have something really interesting to tell you about my new year's eve. Don't miss me too much.

I was driving around the other night looking at Christmas lights and started thinking about how I would describe them to a blind person that has never seen light before. I thought about it for a long time, even lost a little sleep over it. You could use words like "heat" and "warmth" and "speed" I think to describe the way white light looks. I spoke with a friend about it and he told me that he would use touch to describe light. I love it. I love that. What a beautiful way to interpret something for someone. Just as a deaf person can enjoy music by seeing light dance on a screen, a blind person should be able to enjoy light and color by feeling it.

Everyone's different though. I could probably tell you how to touch me in order to make me see light, in the previous described way. But that doesn't mean that everyone would "see" it that way. You would have to know this blind person so well because different ways of touching someone's skin, will provoke different emotions, person to person.

Touch is so important. I think it's widely taken advantage of. I've been actively trying to focus on the energy I put off when I touch someone. I don't want to "blindly" touch someone. I want them to feel what I feel when I touch them, I want them to know that I'm paying attention and I'm appreciating the privilege of touch, and sight, and feelings, and...

But you wouldn't understand, would you blog? I can already safely assume that you don't have any eyes, but I KNOW you don't even have skin, let alone hands. Stupid blog. Don't judge me.

Tsk, tsk blogger. Tsk.

I'm sorry dear blog. I bet you feel used, don't you? Almost a year ago I ranted and raved to you and you listened so intently with your little bloggy ears. Then poof, I abandoned you. I apologize. It was selfish and thoughtless of me. Maybe I can take you out for dinner soon.

This Christmas was a Christmas of reflection for me. I realized it had been a year since the last one. Obviously. But the last one was different. And by different, I mean fucking terrible. Worst Christmas ever. So bad, I pretended it wasn't Christmas and didn't celebrate it.

As bad as the memory of it is, I am thankful for that memory. It made me realize how absolutely blessed I am only a year later. This Christmas was spent with new friends and old friends, family and music, gifts and food and love. It was perfect. I am so thankful for where I am now, and excited about where I feel like I can go next.

Last year I got pushed to the ground. Through the course of that year, I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and made myself better. I am proud of me.

In other news, I have a new boyfriend. Seven months and still feels like the first time we kissed. He's a good man and is treating me with this new thing....maybe you have heard of it blog? It's called "respect." Ree-spekt. Emphasis on the spekt.

I made a new friend also, his name is Ezhini. He's Indian.

I made another new friend, her name is Rachel. She's the shit.

I still love Nazgul. Duh.

I work out 5 days a week now and am very much in love with my job.

I'm still blond.

I love my life. Thanks for being patient blog. I promise I'll be a better friend to you.

Two Turn Tables and a Broken Microphone

Two topics today. Me, of course. Duh. And something else that one may say I'm being vague about, but whatever. I can do what I want. That IS the beauty of blogging right? And while we are on that topic, what the hell does blog stand for anyway? Is it an acronym? Or a name of someone? I digress.Now, back to me. I'm an idiot. So my evil plan for last night was to break up with the boyfriend. I had it all worked out. "I don't deserve to be treated this way. You treat me like shit all the time. You are not the person I fell in love with."What's that? How did it go, you say? OH IT WENT FANTASTICALLY. Yeah, you're right, I totally caved. Now, don't get me wrong, I said those things, and I stood my ground for about an hour. I did not cry, I did not yell, I stayed calm and stuck to my guns. And then the most bizarre thing happened....He did not accept my break up.
Basically he turned me down. What I mean is, we are still together, not broken up. We talked for hours about the things that make us crazy, mad, hurt, anything. We ended the conversation well, with a light at the end of the tunnel again.GREAT. GOOD JOB NIK. I failed. But maybe it's for the best? Can't I have a little faith?Until tomorrow, we shall see.
Second topic.Nazgul, Nazgul, Nazgul.You have become one of my favorite people.It is such a shame to hear you talk about how un-amazing you are, for you are one of the most amazing people that I have ever met. Maybe you aren't a master fencer, or the worlds best basket weaver. BUT you are the best at so many other things.
Here's a list of things that I think you are the best at:
1. Making my heart hurt less.
2. Making me smile when I thought it was broken.
3. I don't have proof on this one, but I am very confident there would be no argument from anyone. Making PB&J for your chickens. No one can ever make a PB&J quite like your mom can.
4. Wooby selection.
5. Calming me down.
6. You have perfect teeth.
7. You have the strength of 1000 gods inside that giant heart of yours. It inspires me.
8. Being a reliable friend.
9. Giving others hope for a better tomorrow.
10. Stopping and smelling the roses. Snowflakes. Need I say more?
11. Lasagna with medallions.
12. Oozing with sex.
13. Walking in high heels.1
4. Making a house so homey and warm.
15. Being in love with your mauw.
16. Best coffee date. Hands down.
17. Being a mother.
18. Drinking vodka with Russians.
You should be so proud of yourself. You are the most incredible person I know. I look up to you for these reasons listed above and many more.Thank you for making me laugh. Thank you for being a good person. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for being patient. Thank you for never judging me for being weak. Thank you for understanding. Thank you for taking time for me even when I know very well that you don't have many minutes to spare. Thank you for making me feel welcome in your life and your home. Thank you for sharing your beautiful children with me, they warm my heart. Thank you for smoke breaks and emails and inside jokes and dreams of our futures together. You are the best.

Case of the blah's

I don't really have much to say. I feel completely empty. Drained. It was this weekend that did it to me. A weekend full of thinking "I know what's coming. Oh well, fuck it, let's pretend a little while longer." I watched this stupid movie about this chick who gets pregnant and her boyfriend is freaked out and treats her like crap for the first few months. She leaves him just in time for him to realize what a jerk he has been, blah blah blah everything turns out hunky dory. It made me realize that I've been lying to myself. I do not want children NOW, but yes, I do want them someday. I can't ignore that.He's way to selfish to be a dad.He's way to selfish to be a good boyfriend.We have fun together but that's where it stops.Another one bites the dust. Another brick in the wall. Whatever.

Destined to Be a Cat Lady

I need at least 15 cats and some puff paint ASAP.
Misshapen, over sized sweat pants, preferably purple, bright purple.
Bright red, 3 inch pumps.
Torn panty hose.
Old, pink sweatshirt with one of those horrible iron-on pictures of a cat, poorly traced with silver puff paint.
Unlit cigarette hanging out of brightly painted lips.
Walmart.
Shopping cart containing: cat food, fingernail polish, ash tray, (because one of the cats broke my other one, of course.) ding dongs, ben and jerrys, granny panties, the latest Britney Spears CD, (because the cats LOVE her, of course.) One bottle of Old Spice cologne, nag champa incense, new panty hose, and the latest issue of Cosmo.
Men.....Who needs men when you have 15 cats, right?
I don't understand them, and ya know, at this point, I don't even want to.
There has to be more to life and love than this.
I tried to read last night.
Impossible.
I can't even read because my head is so full of fast moving thoughts.
It's spinning. My little robotic heart needs and oil change and a fluids check.
I worked out last night for the first time in ages.
Nothing too involved. But it felt good, nonetheless. I figured that keeping my outer shell healthy couldn't hurt since it feels like my insides packed up their shit and quit. They didn't even give me a two week's notice!Well Mr. Blog, here's to another day, another dollar. Thanks for listening.

Dear Tequila

Dear Juarez Tequila,

You are a bastard.

Love,
Nikki

Beep, beep, beep, beep. The alarm clock grew louder and louder next to my booze-filled head. I practically punched the snooze button thinking to myself, "Oh hell, just a few more minutes."

I woke up last night several times to run to the kitchen and chug orange juice, water, cranberry juice, whatever liquid I could get my hands on. It's incredible, the rate at which I can drink something when I'm dehydrated from a night of drinking too much. You'd think I had been stranded in the desert for weeks.

Now I'm sitting here at my desk, at work, toting a very large orange Gatorade and a bottle of aspirin (which isn't helping at all, by the way.)

I still don't like my boyfriend.
I ruined my diet last night by drunk eating most of a large pizza.
It's not you, it's me.

Robots Do Not Use Contractions

I should have been born a robot. Although that is quite unrealistic, for robots are not born, they are made. I feel like I've been made though. Through these trials and tribulations, my warm, loving, blood pumping heart has become something similar to the little hand that screws on the tooth paste cap and the tooth paste factory. You know, the one that used to be done by a little old man? Now he's packed up his things and left, because why pay a person, when you can make a robot do the same thing, for free?
It feels like my heart is made of metal. Like my brain fired the little person who used to run it, who used to feel things, cry for it, fix it and care about its condition, and hired a robot look-a-like.
I'm living a lie. It's amazing how I can screw on that beautifully crafted smile when I'm near him. "Oh no, nothing is wrong, I'm just tired." "I love you too. Of course I still love you." "Still get married? I'd love to!"
Lies.
He doesn't love me either. He can say it all he wants, but no one is buying it. It's like the shitty elephant in the room. We both know it's there, but neither of us have the balls to acknowledge it. Someday we'll get sick of walking around it, but sheesh. Who knows for how long?
I don't hate him, of course not. I couldn't.
I wish so badly for change. For a revolution. An awakening. I am hanging on to this tiny little thread of hope. Past the handles, past the rope, past the knot. It's the loose, frayed end of this rope that I've sunken my nails into. I'm hoping that he will wake up and say to himself "Holy crap! I'm not treating this person like she should be treated!" And love me like I should be loved.
But I think we all know how silly that is. People change, yes, I think so. I hope so. But not THAT much. If he can't treat me like I'd like to be treated now, then when?
How long should I wait?
Until I can't look at myself in the mirror anymore?
It's getting close to that.
I know that I have not left him yet, because I am scared to be alone. I am scared to see how much the silence of a place called home can hurt my ears. I am scared to see if I can really do this, or if I'll be faking it forever. The real me, the real monster. I long for freedom from it. I want to trust myself, to believe in me.
I want to. I'm really scared to try. And scared to find out how wrong I am.
I apologize to you, dear reader, for this disgusting display of weakness, indulgence, selfishness, fear, and self-loathing. This is not me. This is the robot me.