I know, I know. I always do this. I get on kicks and write like crazy for a few days then I disappear for what are increasingly longer periods of time. Then, like any narcissistic lover, I return full of excuses and apologies, and completely expecting to be greeted with open arms — gratitude even — for just showing up. I totally act like dropping in with the occasional dead chicken photo in a  “What I Love About Brooklyn” post is enough to keep you hanging on. I’m such a dick.

I’m sorry baby. I promise I’ll try to be better. Don’t be mad. You know I love you.

Did I ever tell you that I once had a guy tell me, “I’m content with you, for now”? Did I confess that I loved him so much that I experienced those words as if he had just promised and delivered me the stars and the moon? Did I further confess that later in that “relationship” he came to me, announcing that he had gotten someone pregnant? And that I said, “Don’t worry. We’ll work it out” not realizing STILL that he wasn’t interested in working anything out with me?

Yeah. It was cool. Yeah, I’m still friends with him on Facebook. What of it?

Anywho … a lot of life has been happening these past few months. I’m full-time freelance and am finally able to kind of enjoy the freedom and space. I freaked out a little at first (okay, a lot at first and still a little now. moving to present tense.) I feel like anything that I want to do that isn’t producing income or looking for ways to find more income is unacceptable. Except, for some reason, online video games. Those I can play for hours and perhaps because I’m at the computer, I feel okay about it.

Actually, I don’t feel okay when I play them. The truth is, I spend the entire time thinking about how I should be doing something productive or — get this — working on my own writing. That’s right. I feel bad if I try to accomplish personal creative projects AND I feel bad for not accomplishing personal creative projects. I developed my own inner Catch 22 so I can experience self-loathing no matter whether I’m doing or not doing. That way I can feel shitty ALL THE TIME.

Going through my to-do lists (personal & professional) in my head, I pop bubbles or dinosaur eggs or clusters of coins and mentally berate myself for being such a loser. It’s like Big Money is my crack and Big Fish Games is the Jungle (2-block area of South Central LA known for crack dens, drug dealing and mad gang activity.) I’ve gotten to the point where I know I’ll never hear those bells again (euphemism for the best crack high ever). It’s not fun anymore. I want to stop going there, but I keep finding my way back.

So, no. I guess playing computer games doesn’t feel okay.

These days I’m working on allowing myself to do things for me. I’ve been getting back to the gym … not a lot, but still. I read a book. At least once a week, I get up early to take Chulo to the park for off-leash hours and listen to This America Life. I work for probably 4 hours a day then do other stuff like cooking or taking care of other household things (I actually enjoy that stuff). I also am current on Losing It with Jillian Michaels, though I watch a lot less TV than you’d expect. I plan on reading another book very soon.

I’m appreciating the value of enjoying my life and taking advantage of getting to spend my time how I want to and not having to slave away every minute of the day. (Though, let’s be honest. When I had a desk job, I spent way less time working than I do now.)

Move over George W. I’m the decider.

You know, I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to write sometimes. It’s not that I don’t have the words in me; it’s that I feel bad for letting them out. There’s some asshole in my head who tells me that writing my stuff (as opposed to clients’ stuff for money) is frivolous and I so hate that guy. And until I can get him to shut up, I’m just trying to ignore him.

Today’s the day I quit my daytime bar job.

Here’s a list of things I’ve seen and people I’ve met and stuff I’ve endured in the last six months:

• The upper class, out of work event producer who hides her alcoholism by slumming it with us. Occasionally she gets the DT’s so bad that she has to drink her first beer through a straw. But, she’s always wearing pearls so …
• The creepy guy who’s a cross between Mr. Burns and Mr. Mackey, who smells like he lives in the Atlanta Airport smoking lounge and who insists on bringing me homemade food on a regular basis.
• The young bartender cum assistant manager who regales us all with tales of cocaine and trashy girls in the office after hours. He tempers these stories with comments like, “I just can’t tell you how much my girlfriend means to me.”
• The surly, 40-something Mexican guy who has worked for years, and continues to work, as a bar back. He displays his displeasure by shoving bartenders as he passes with buckets of ice.
• The unbelievably low offer of $100 to “mess around” with the Gucci Loafer guy.
• The regular, Mr. Cellophane, who after being missing for a couple of weeks, returned to the bar. When he came in, he stopped me from pouring his usual Vodka & Pepsi (heavy on the vodka with a splash of water to cut the Pepsi) saying that he had just been released from the hospital for alcohol-induced pancreatitis. “I’ll just have wine.” And wine he had … four huge glasses, all consumed with a straw for maximum impact. Two weeks after that he showed up at noon announcing that he spent the prior night sleeping in the park on the East River after an alcohol-induced fight with his equally alcoholic wife who threw vodka in his face.
• The number one regular who drinks with me EVERY day, very heavily and then drives himself home to New Jersey. Yesterday, he drank three beers, at least four shots of Jagermeister, and one shot of Jameson before announcing that he needed to leave early to pick up his 12 year-old son to go to a baseball game.

So, why am I leaving all of that glamour behind me? Because I’m a Writer. Capital W. Why capital W? Because, I am being paid. That’s right. I am being PAID to write. Since last August or so I’ve been working as a virtual assistant. A virtual assistant is basically a personal assistant, but online. My title? Copywriter/editor. How amazing is that? I am being PAID TO WRITE! People, I am living the dream and as of yesterday, I have enough work coming in that I am ready to commit to writing full-time.

Now, it’s freelance work and nothing in the freelance world is guaranteed. However, these past few months I’ve built confidence in my abilities, I’ve learned a wealth of information about online marketing and sales, as well as being introduced to a whole bevvy of online software programs that are essential for online businesses. I’ve become a tech-geek with mad writing skills and that’s exactly what my clients need.Thus far I have worked for:

• The holistic nutritionist who strives to make everyone she encounters healthier.
• The life coach who wants to empower women to be everything they were meant to be.
• The life coach who is teaching her clients how to run their own online businesses.
• The kinesiologist who has made a business out of helping people manage or even eliminate chronic pain.
• The reiki master who heals you … and your pets! … via the transference of energy.
• The mother who turned her quest for a private school education for her children into a business that helps other parents achieve the same goal.

No more being an active participant in people’s self-destruction. No more waiting anxiously for the drunk driver to arrive so that I know he didn’t kill himself or others on his ride back to Jersey the night before. From here on out, it’s me and the do-gooders and I couldn’t be more excited.

Today I break the news to the bar and the drunks. Wish me luck!

Guy in the bar, to his friends:

Don’t never sleep with no faggot. Them faggots will shank you in a minute.

Lookit!

My “overheard” was published on Overheard in New York!

What I saw on my walk to the train this morning.

Location: 7th Avenue from 14th Street to 9th Street.

Writing a book is a lot of work.

For example: I just spent three minutes trying to figure out which pen I was supposed to use.

[Looking at the two pens I'd pulled out of my bag] I like pink but it might draw too much attention cause I know that the lady eating yogurt next to me is just DYING to see what I’m writing. But blue is such a crappy color. What is it about blue ink? It seems non-committal for some reason. What does that even mean? But the pen’s in my hand … maybe it’s a sign?

Then, way down deep in my Superhero Supply bag I see the glint of a silver pen clip attached to a totally different pen. A SURE sign. I dropped the first two pens and grabbed for the one at the bottom of my tote and finally started writing my first sentence: Writing a book is a lot of work.

Total time spent? Seventeen minutes.

I have a book inside of me. In my head I know the stories I want to tell, the issues I want to analyze, the work I need to do. But when I think about writing it, I feel so overwhelmed. WRITING A BOOK. Such a daunting task. And it’s not just the writing. It’s the planning and the research. The scariness of re-living my story and revisiting my old injuries. And of course, the ever-present fear of, “What will they think?” raining on every aspect of the book writing parade. But I’m writing it. I’ve been writing it for over twenty years.

She lit a burner on the stove and offered me a pipe
“I thought you’d never say hello” she said
“You look like the silent type”
Then she opened up a book of poems
And handed it to me
Written by an Italian poet
From the thirteenth century
And every one of them words rang true
And glowed like burning coal
Pouring off of every page
Like it was written in my soul from me to you
Tangled up in blue

I learned on Rock Band that in concerts Bob Dylan used to introduce Tangled Up in Blue with, “This song took me ten years to live and two years to write.” 12 years for less than 600 words.

Maybe I’m right on schedule.

I have tried and tried, LJ.

But, fuck organic peanut butter.

Fuck it in its oily, mucky, sugarless ear.

I’m working at a new bar. Five days a week - 11AM to 6PM. For those of you who have never visited a bar that functions solely as a bar between the hours of 11AM the traditional 5PM cocktail hour, allow me to give you a glimpse of the world I am living in.

One distinctive quality about my new life is the odor. Bars that function solely as bars tend to smell. A lot. It’s a particular “bar smell” that can only be replicated by years of congealing layers of semi-evaporated beer slime and the foul funk of alcoholism and clinical depression. Eventually I will become immune to the odor, but since I’ve only been working here two weeks, I’m still quite sensitive to it. Yummy.

A fun fact about the new bar is that it doesn’t function soley as a bar all day. At night they serve food! As an employee who has seen the kitchen, my suggestion would be not to eat it.

Now, as you know, bartenders rely on tips for their living. I get a nominal shift pay and then I depend on the generosity of my customers to make money. Being a daytime bartender during the work week, the customers I depend on are problem drinkers. Sure, from time to time there’s the tourist who’s on vacation or the local who’s got the day off, but in general, my clientele are — and I say this without judgment — drunks.

There are the guys who work for the plant around the corner. One drops by on his lunch break two or three times a week. He has three beers (Bud draft) (I charge him for two), tips me $5 and goes back to work. The other shows up around 12:30. Everyday. Every. Day. He comes in by 1PM and leaves sometime after my shift is over. Every. Day. He brings in his laptop sometimes. Mostly he does his work over the phone. Apparently he’s been “working” from the bar for about five years. He’s currently under investigation by his company for drinking on the job.

His drink of choice is Bud draft with a shot of Jameson. Times six. At least. And no matter where he is in the process, he takes his business calls. He runs to the sound system, turns the TV volume down and heads to the back bar. “Mr. M! How can I help you?” He fancies himself a big shot. Especially on the rare occasion we get some girls in. “Lemme get these girls a drink, Susan!” He lies and says that he’s the owner. He hands out pitchers of beer and shots of tequila and then at the end of the night I get the talk.

Him: Susan. Commere. What’s wit dis bill? You gotta start chargin’ me less.

Me: Then you gotta start ordering less. Your bill’s only $45. You should be paying $75

Him: No. You can’t pay no attention to the retail pricin’. I need you to cut it in half.

Then he tips me $10. Five hours, 12+ drinks, a 40% discount and he tips me $10. How DARE he ask for more of a discount. It makes me want to call his boss.”Oh yeah, he’s here. He’s alllllways here. Come get his cheap, drunk ass.”

Then last Wednesday there was C. C came in talking of how he had been with some Iraq War Vets earlier that day.

A Vietnam vet himself, C (pint-sized Bloody Mary) spends a lot of time at the VA Hospital. He walks with a cane, he has scars from bullet wounds and he has no teeth. None. Not one. Well, he had some … in his pocket. After vodka number two he told me how he had to wait four months to get his new dentures which is why he was sitting there with no teeth. After vodka four he showed me his upper plate. He didn’t like wearing it because it hurt. I told him he looked fine without it. Then around vodka six …

You know. I had a psychotic break.

Sweet.

In addition to the whole denture thing, C spent quite a bit of time telling me stories about being in Vietnam. Early on his stories were sad, vague accounts of how hard war is and how so much of the struggle happens once you come back home. Circa vodka number three, details became more graphic and horrific and I heard things I never wanted to know about what war is like up close. Horrendous, macabre details I wish I could un-hear and accounts I will never repeat. These stories were what led C to tell me about his psychotic break.

I don’t know. I was a fucking kid. You understand? But I couldn’t stop seeing the faces. I could see every one of them. And I had to make them go away. You understand? It was just so fucking horrible. The children. The women. All of them … but you had to … you didn’t know … you couldn’t fucking trust anyone. You understand? And so I had to burn it off. You see? Here. Look.

He stretches the neck of his dirty sweatshirt down to reveal a scarred shoulder.

See that? I had a tattoo marking all of them. I had the count. You understand? Of all of them. My kills. And I kept hearing them. And seeing them. You understand?  I thought if I got rid of it, I could make it stop. So I burned it off with an iron.

He pushes his empty glass towards me.

I’ll take another.