Now is the time to assess what you want.
I read a really relevant quote today
on my friend, Tim Caldwells' FB wall:
“Somebody should tell us, right at the start of our lives, that we are dying. Then we might live life to the limit, every minute of every day. Do it! I say. Whatever you want to do, do it now! There are only so many tomorrows.” - Pope Paul VI
I took this to heart today!
I screamed Help! Help! Help!
and was reassured that the Universe is listening.
Death is just rebirth, and we are all dying.
Every single fucking miserable/wonderful day.
So this Spring.
Grab your life by the proverbial cock and balls
and
don't
let
go!
I've been coming to terms with the events of Friday night
all weekend long.
I don't go "out" much anymore,
and I'm fine with it.
I meet friends in bars, I go out to dinner, I visit people's abode.
I really like staying in Brooklyn.
When my girlfriend Maddy asked me to go out and see some live music on Friday night.
I said Maybe.
I say Maybe a lot, but it usually means I'm prolonging the "No"
But this was different, and Maddy felt it.
She knew I was actually considering this.
And I honestly was.
I thought, "Hell, why not?"
"I'm up for an adventure!" I told her.
Plus the fact that our friend Meghan was going
and this totally sweetened the deal.
When the 3 of us are together, it's like we're back in Sixth grade.
Even though we've known each other less than 10 years.
Just a natural and fun friendship.
I was totally in the mood for friends.
We hail gypsy cab to Williamsburg to see Javelin play.
I really like Javelin.
I am okay with Williamsburg.
We get there and there is NO ONE there.
Like, no one. Except the guy at the door and the bartenders.
Did I mention they had free wine from 9-10?
Thank. God.
(Which Meghan spilled all over the counter onto
some guys Blackberry by the by-hilarious if you
know Meghan.)
All of a sudden at about 10:30,
hipsters fill the joint.
Basically The early 90s are thriving amongst early 20 something posers and "fashionistas."
(What's the difference?)
To my right: Madonna/Jean Paul Gaultier inspired sequin frocks and recreated 20's hairdo's,
To my left: some dude who looks like the lead singer of The Spin Doctors. Just Go Ahead, Now.
We realize we'd better find a "home base" to see the show.
Meghan is a fucking pro at sitting wherever the hell she wants at a concert.
She's beautiful and nice and extremely passive aggressively convincing.
(Blink, Blink)
A true gift.
When that doesn't work, her eagle eye broadens to scope out a coveted spot to claim as her own.
No matter how drunk she is :)
The Eagle Eye Certainly Broadened in this case. in. point.
One Flight up
directly above the stage
what looks like a V.I.P. area that is clearly
up. for. grabs!
(At least to Meghan anyway)
Meghan just goes and sits there.
No questions, no regrets.
In the meantime,
I'm holding a table a few feet away
that The Spin Doctor actually gave up to Meghan a few mins ago.
With one flip of his dreds, he was out of our life.
But the table remained.
I know, right?
Bitch is good.
We have 2 prime spots in a sea of a hundred or so hipsters.
A pudgy, Brittish Kurt Cobain is finishing up his set of whine rock.
I'm half entertained and half annoyed.
Which is sort of my general consensus about life at this point anyway.
Amy arrives.
First time I've met her. I like her immediately. She seems to be no Bullshit.
We all decided to huddle in Meghan's "VIP" spot.
I pay the table forward.
This is amazing! We have room to dance and no one is in front of us!
We can see the band.
and just enjoy ourselves.
Nope.
You know what they say about, "too good to be true?"
Meghan turns to me (she's a little tipsy-read; drunk) and says,
"I think I just got pushed."
I think she's just drunk and sort of staggery.
I say, "No."
But she looks serious.
"Are we going to get into a fight tonight?" -concerned Meghan
"No! Why would you even say that!" -disregarding self.
"But do you have my back?" -serious Meghan
"Of course." -still disregarding self.
A few minutes pass,
Then I see Meghan talking to the girl next to her
amidst the hum of the 'tragically hip' I hear;
"What's your problem? Why are you pushing?" f-lustered but confident Meghan
"blah blah blah was here first!" -pushing girl #1
"Well can't we both just share the space?" -peaceful Meghan
"That cute little voice isn't gonna work with me honey." -bitchy pushing girl #1
That started it. Unintentional Fire in my diaphragm.
"What cute little voice, honey?" -"I got your back" Tracey, coming right back at her.
Bitch turns away, into the her own little corner.
But I know this isn't over.
This is real, and Javelin hasn't even started playing yet.
Meghan is flustered. She doesn't want to deal with this. I don't blame her. Neither do I.
But something came over me. Something I have never felt.
Complete confidence in dealing with these entitled little C__ts.
So, I trade Meghan places.
I am now right next to that stupid bitch,
on guard.
I could still see clearly at this point.
In fact, I'm smiling. And I mean it.
This is so not me. But for this moment, it fully is.
As the concert progresses,
I am getting pushed
like a son of a bitch
by these two
asshole
bully
girls.
Which I knew was going to happen, because if they wanted to throw a punch,
they never would've retreated after mouthing off to Meghan.
Total Coward Bullies.
The worst kind.
Antagonizers with no action.
I've dealt with your kind before.
And won.
It would be so much easier to fight, but
this was set up to be a game of tolerance, patience, and stamina.
And ladies, I don't think you know who you're fucking with.
I have a lot of pent up aggression that I'm just waiting to take out on someone.
If given the opportunity. Just Go Ahead, Now.
I grew up in a Steel Mill town in Southern Illinois.
A tough as nails town.
If I could make it out of High School without a fight,
we aren't ABOUT to have one here, pumpkin.
This might actually be fun.
The smile is growing.
"If you're not gonna dance, you guys should leave," -aggressive Fat Bitch
It immediately pulls me out of my daydream phase.
I realize my ass is clenched tight,
so tight I imagine it looks like as high as it did when I was 17 years old.
I just smile,
"Get out of my face." Bigger Smile, turn my head back to the band. Just Go Ahead, Now.
I dare you.
Push after push, elbow after elbow, My psyche begins to slightly weaken.
We're talking 40 minutes here.
I look over and Maddy and Meghan are dancing.
I'm a ball of rage.
I cannot enjoy a minute of this concert.
I am on guard.
Something inside of me says,
"Hey, Trace. This is a moment of truth. You're strong enough to really piss these bitches off by not giving them an ounce of attention. You can do this. Breathe."
And I started laughing. I felt another wave of confidence.
I also started mentally preparing to take a hit so I could fucking go crazy on their asses.
It's at this point that I don't really remember seeing anything but this other girls mouth.
Bitch with the gap between her teeth grabs my hand and tries to dance with me.
I push it off, "Don't you fucking touch me."
She retreats a little looking shocked.
The guys they are with are weakly holding her back.
I say weakly because it is clear she has no intention of doing anything
but being annoying.
What's wrong with these pussy bullies?!
I'll tell you, they're just entitled little beasts who want the space.
These are girls that are so used to getting what they want that they can't deal with this.
I love it!
But this
Is getting exhausting!
Finally I turn to Amy who more or less says,
"We're not leaving. We will NOT let them win, just dance and go crazy."
Ahhh-ha!
What I heard was, "I got your back."
That's when it happened.
I fucking went insane crazy.
I kicked their asses....with dance.
haha! I know but it's the honest to God only way to describe what happened.
I was punching, and going absolutely crazy,
aimless yet poignant thrashing
like my high finally kicked it.
It did.
Adrenaline.
Those bitches backed up off of me.
I wish I had a videotape of the rage that came out
in form of 8 counts.
I imagine it looked exactly like this.....
Afterwards my stomach was in knots.
Aggressive little bitches.
I almost wish I would've just turned around and punched her in her gap toothed mouth.
But this was much more entertaining.
And after that
I totally felt like myself, again.
Oh Maddy!
An adventure indeed. Just Go Ahead, Now.
Our friend Andy had this horrifically fantastical
and disgustingly unique
coffee table,
back in college.
Boasting many coats of primary green paint.
Sitting lower to the ground,
Where Feet rest atop and legs stretch below.
Painted on the surface are tiny sperm,
shooting out from the corners toward the center
where a single egg waits,
anticipating a winner.
The Sperm table.
On top of it sat a large ash tray
along with a stack of indivdual ashtrays.
Because we all smoked.
Marlboro Lights
Camel Lights
Camel Reds
No one smoked Parliaments.
Rolling Rock bottles.
The Boogie Nights Soundtrack playing in the CD Player:
"whoa, whoa,
You got the Best of My Love"
We are dancing.
Justin's painting of a woman hangs on the wall,
watching us.
Sort of like a Goddess.
Who has since retired up in Washington Heights.
The chance that
we have just gotten high
out of a bong
Is 100% probable.
I can see out of the patio door.
I'm sure it is snowing.
On the drive home from "Gay Manor,"
Doug and I opt to take the back route
down Oak Grove:
"Oak Grove."
Say it again.
"Oak Grove."
laughter.
Say it again.
"Oak Grove."
Light another cigarette,
Radio barely audible.
The sound of a senior citizen enjoying his AM transmissions.
We may have a test in the morning,
or a paper due?
but, I suggest we stop at the Amoco and get some beer.
Courtesy of the Petrillo Family gas card.
(sorry mom)
Yum! Funyons too.
Doug will pass on those.
But he'll take a Mountain Dew.
And another pack of Marlboro Lights
I owe him this,
because I've smoked all of his.
Again.
I can taste it.
Elm Street
Campbell
Battlefield Road
Sunshine
Glenstone
Catalpa...obscure.
Fine, National.
Mexican Villa is a blur in passing.
We arrive on Walnut Street.
The Big House
top floor
mid century modern furniture
and an orange ottoman.
The night continues.
We light another cigarette,
like it's our first
of the night.
I'm there.
It's 1999.
These memories make
My stomach feel empty.
and
I can't decipher if
I'm overjoyed
or in complete
and
utter dismay.
Because,
I am not There.
and
I will never be there again.
Not like this.
A college town
Continues pulsing
Continues breathing
Continues regenerating
without you
or your friends
or your history
like it
never
even
needed you.
The phrase, "Not to be rude,"
usually ends with something you should keep to yourself.
"Not be rude, but I can't handle his essence as a human being." :)
"Not to be rude, but she is so ugly that I can't imagine her being able to glance in a mirror." :)
"Not to be rude, but he smells like expired veggie cream cheese." :)
"Not to be rude, but if I could stab you repeatedly until the blood splatters all over the wall and then I'll never have to talk with you again, I would. Fuck Prison, it's worth it." :)
Not to be rude, means I'm gonna be rude by saying whatever it is I want masked with a deflecting phrase that allows me to say whatever I want and still look like a decent person when I say it.
Chubes:
(noun) The little pieces of dry, balled up, gummy lip skin and food particles that gather in the corners of your mouth as the day progresses. They also may mysteriously appear when you wake up in the morning. They are commonly removed with the thumb and forefinger.
Use in a sentence:
Dude, smell my chubes. They are ripe!
Sometimes I wonder where my innocence went.
Not like that, you turds, get your head out of the gutter.
Sometimes I wonder where my youth went.
No.
Sometimes I wonder where my spontaneity went.
Why is it being suppressed? Why am I letting it be suppressed.
Are women still suffrage-ing?
Sometimes I wonder if Donna Mills could come over and do my makeup.
Sometimes I step into the daylight wondering if she already somehow did.
Oh Donna.
Wait! I've got it!
Sometimes I wonder when I lost that little spark of naivety.
The lush, green, reckless abandon that brought forth such unintentional BALLS!
Ahhhh, yes my big ol' unaware gonads.
I got off of the train today and walked up the steps of the A train onto Eight Avenue.
I can remember feeling like, "I'm in fucking New York City, bitch."
Now I think, "I'm in fucking New York City? bitch!"
Other times I think, "I'm in! Fucking! New York City, Bitch!"
Okay, that last one was a stretch...but you see the emotional sliding scale that comes with living here.
I just recall in the days of yonder...
waking up and getting lost on my way to temp somewhere in lower manhattan.
I was always a little bit inappropriately dressed.
But looking prehhhhhhhhhtty cute.
Then I would go out for drinks, and get drunk, and dance, and my feet would hurt.
Because my shoes were also inappropriate for living in "fucking New York City, bitch!"
I saved up for LaDuca heels and Katrinawear unitards.
I frequented the performing Arts Library at Lincoln Center.
I dreamed of being able to afford an apartment in Midtown.
And I kept training to be better so that one day I could be on The B'way.
Did I ever really believe it. That that is what "it" was? That I could attain, "it?"
I have a hard time believing.
But I had fun.
I miss fun.
Where is the fun?
I have to find the fun!
Again.
I will.
I never realized at 23,24,25 that life was at it's peak of "easiness."
I didn't have to worry about if and when to have babies.
Being an indentured servant didn't bother me it was just a day job.
It didn't occur to me that I might not "make it."
That I probably would not make it.
But I have made it.
I'm still alive.
The point of the story is.
If you want to take a bite of The Big Apple.
Be prepared to endure a little bit of food poisoning.
Although, like all things.
It's bound to pass.
(emotionally and through your butthole.)
Wants.
Weird but necessary.
Want.
I want it.
I don't want it.
Or
do
I?
I have a very hard time defining what I want.
Because, I want it all.
Everything.
I want it.
Sometimes I lie about what I want,
or "not knowing" what I want but the truth is simple.
I want it all.
Is that so bad?
I want a rock solid career and recognition as a performer.
I want to have kids and a house.
I want to be my own boss.
I want to get up whenever the shit I want.
The whole time,
LOOKING
AMAZING.
I want everything I want to no longer be "want."
I don't want you to tell me that having all of this simultaneously is impossible.
It isn't.
It is not.
I will prove you wrong.
As soon as I prove it to myself that it's insanely possible.
Because it is.
And I'm about to get up on top of that shit!
As soon as I get up off the couch.
But hey, it's what I want to do right now.
So eat shit.
Or don't.
If you don't want to.
I'm officially working on a solo show.
It's really helping me tame the voices within.
It's so much more psychological than I ever could've imagined.
In fact, it's therapy.
My process in discovering these characters is something I learned about through an amazing Solo Show Class here in New York City with Matt Hoverman (www.createyourownsoloshow.com) cheesy name, brilliant man. Sort of pricey, but not really. If you are interested in creating one, TAKE HIS CLASS.
There is no doubt what I wanted to do was less personal and more theatrical.
Shocking.
Me? Want to entertain? Go figgggguh!
FOCUS, Tracey.
Back to the Process! (See why it's hard for me to write?)
This is from an article Eric Bogosian wrote about how he creates,
I stole it and modified it for myself.
I take a digital voice recorder and walk around as the character speaking.
THEN I write out everything I have said that I found useful (up to when I'm taking a breath.)
THEN I must erase all excess bullshit afterwards so I don't go revisit and get muddled in my intentions.
(Again, which as you can see can be very choppy and all over the place!)
So, In the midst of this talky-talkiness walking around like a former (present?) diva of the stage,
I dropped in.
Hard.
I found her.
She is a part of me disguised as an old woman.
She is me.
I snap out of it.
Here's what I said directly after I broke.....(laughing)
"I am schizophrenic, definitely. Oh, (realizing) yeah. (sigh) Is this what they think crazy people are like? Am I crazy? (realizing) yeahhh."
This is from my old Blog on Friendster. I totally remember this!
Cutting and pasting at it's finest, too.
Upstate Acting Exercise
This past weekend I attended an acting workshop in Chelsea. I know, you picture a bunch of film hopefuls sitting around a black box theatre weeping through a scene of “Agnes of God.” Methodically digging up personal skeletons of rape, abandonment, and lack of parental love of the past in order to really get in touch with character. Ah, the drama. Let me tell you that it was NOTHING like this. It was actually incredible, but that’s really beside the point. Allow me to introduce you to Danny.
Upon entering the bright acting studio (and I’m nervous mind you, I totally fear the unknown. Do not get this confused with unable to accept the unknown.) it’s painted all white, and is actually covered in windows whose view entails a lovely church, I see something that startles me. In the corner, a tall and lanky slender, older man stands. In all black and grey In dress slacks and shoes In a calf length black leather jacket Boasting a killer orange self tan.
“Hi I’m Danny, what’s your name?” (shit he’s one of those) “I’m Tracey” (in an octave higher than my normal spoken tone) “Do you live here in the city?” (Is this guy my equal in the class or is he an assistant?? I’m confused.) “yeah, in midtown.” (help) “Oh I’m from upstate and the city makes me nervous. Good for you, TRACE.” (Its official, I’m done.)
I proceed to hear him chat with everyone in the class as they enter. Its mostly about upstate and how he lives off highway such and such. I don’t know where that is. I can barely distinguish the state of new york on a blank map of the U.S. I jot down in my notebook “OH MY GOD. WHO IS THIS GUY?” I figure I’ve got 2 days with him, so I should sit as far away from his as possible. Done, good job Trace–the high road.
Sande (our instructor) starts handing out scenes. Now mind you, I was instructed to bring a Female/Female scene which I did. Legally Blonde. Funny. But before I know it she’s paired everyone and my brain is working overtime and I come to the chilling conclusion…. I’m paired with Dan the Tan Man??? The answer to my jotted down question became “He’s your partner, you bitch.” OH SHIT!!!
It only gets worse, “Go sit with your partners.” I cringe. He motions for me to come over and I (being me) shake my head and say, “why don’t you come over here.” The whole while he’s callling me TRACE. TRACE. Now, I love to be called Trace. By anyone but this guy. As the workshop goes on I supress his retardation of clapping after scenes, telling me good job when I sit down from my monologue help, and telling me he’s sorry when he flubs a line. I pretty much ignore him and answer in one word sentences. ie
“Ok” “Sure” “Uh, yeah.”
Then, I start thinking. He’s probably a lonely old man who is still looking for himself at 60. Its probably a huge step for him to come to the city and do something like this. His idiosyncrocies are just a way of dealing with anxiety. In a positive way. Positively annoying. But positively.
I start to smile and reached for a sip of water. As I lowered the bottle from my mouth I notice that something tastes sweet. I’m totally confused. Until I look down and see a mirror replica POLAND SPRINGS bottle to my left right by my bag, the same type I’m holding in my hand right now. It hits me. This is Danny’s water-bottle and the sweet taste has to be DAN THE TAN MANS self tan!!! I tasted the tanning lotion from his fucking lips. I’m gagging. I’m trying to breathe.
Have you ever hated someone without really knowing them.
Or speaking to them.
Or even ever been in their presence?
I do.
Well, hate is a strong word.
It's more like,
extreme disdain.
Because in case you didn't know, I'm psychic.
In case
you didn't
know.
(Some people call it judgemental, but I know the truth, it's psychic ability)
I'm pretty good at sizing up a human existence/spirit in a series of pictures.
Facebook has only added fuel to my judgemental, er, psychic fire.
I may not like someone for a number of reasons!
1. Weird face*
2. The essence of stupidity
3. We're nothing alike
4. We're too much alike
5. I know who you are just by seeing how you pose for photos.
6. You dress like a whore
7. You dress like a turd
8. You are a whore
9. You are a turd
10. You are a whorey turd
*was that really my #1 reason??
But I am usually pretty right about people.
I need to stop being so vague.
Another day.
Maybe next year.
I am at war with myself.
Constantly.
Constantly.
My knee-jerk reactions are being suppressed by this new "adult" consciousness living inside of me.
I call her Alice.
I hate her. But, I respect the fact that she keeps it civil.
Confused?
EXAMPLE: Walking onto the train at rush hour, I see a woman with dried out, fried, frizzy hair and a pock marked nose running for the last seat. She is hunched and scowling with no regard for anyone else around her. Scowling, Running, Pushing for the only open seat.
Tracey says: Jesus! This old witch, with an ate up nose needs to chill the fuck out, rude. Rude!
Alice says: Tracey, (she uses my name), She can't help that. Take it easy. Take a breath. Who cares, anyway? You didn't even want that seat. You're getting off at the next stop.
They say that artists are prone to schizophrenia.
EXAMPLE #2: Two people are speaking another language, loudly, at a rapid rate.
Tracey Says: wa wa wa wa, dat dat dat dat dat dat, SHUT UP!
Alice Says: Tracey, They are merely communicating in the language with which they feel comfortable! Just because you don't understand it, doesn't mean that you have a right to judge it. Take it easy. Take a Breath. Who cares, anyway? Are they REALLY bothering you? You've got headphones, use them.
I'm beginning to hate Alice.
I'm beginning to believe she's trying to tame the beast in me.
I'm beginning to wonder if now is the time in my life that this said beast requires taming?
What a pickle.
EXAMPLE #3: Now.
Tracey says: Fuck New York. My life is crazy. Sometimes I don't know whether to laugh or sob. Or kill. Maybe I just wanna have kids and be "normal" do something where I'm my own boss. Give up trying to BE something, someone, anyone!
Alice Says: Tracey, whoa. You'd be much more unhappy by accepting unhappiness and giving up on what you want. Take it easy. Take a Breath. Who cares, anyway? You're doing just fine. Now pour yourself a glass of wine, watch some of the amazing videos you've done with Candy Slice, or go out to dinner with your husband, or with your friends. You've got options, kid. You've still got options.
Then again,
Sometimes I'm glad Alice is around. Thank You.
I don't know if you know this, but there's a Troll living in our basement, The Troll Under the Stairs!
Allow me to set the scene:
I am dreaming of four sets of shoes being placed in a quad cubby by our "dream" front door.
As I put the fourth pair in, ankle boots, I hear knocking.
Pounding.
1,2,3,4....1,2,3,4....1,2,3,4....1,2,3.
Repeat.
I can't get the ankle boots in the cubby fast enough!
The shoes begin to fade into a slow, fuzzy, hypnosis like swirl and everything becomes black.
I open my eyes. The pounding? Was that real? I glance at my phone and it's 8:16 am.
Surely, the Troll has nothing to say to me this early?
Yet I know.
I know, the rhythm of the rapid, anxious, poundings, produced only by The Troll Under the Stairs
A little backstory:
Our apartment building is for sale.
A sign was hastily placed in front of our house, or is it in front of the abandoned building next door?
Yesterday, I had an afternoon visit from The Troll saying realtors would be coming by to show my apartment, followed by the troll-speak "you be here 4 o'clock?"
Oh you tricky little Troll!
Guess who else is tricky?
"What realtors?" I asked. Coyness is a blessing of mine when used for good and not evil (or improv)
"For deee house! Dey Comeen tomoddow." screamed Troll as she waved her arms and slapped the sides of her hips, as she often punctuates her sentences.
So at least then I had answers.
UNDERSTAND THIS: The Troll Under the Stairs can be offhandedly nice at times. Sometimes she even smiles. It's like spinning the Wheel of fortune with each interaction. But the congeniality is a rarity. A rarity, indeed. One I believe to be induced only with the proper medication.
Present day:
We last left Tracey laying in bed, anxiety rising faster than smoke from a fire.
I look over at Lewie, he's asleep. Damn. Typical.
I roll over and breathe deep. I even start a visualization exercise to calm the demons of craziness.
I'm almost there, one voice sealed, two voices sealed, quiet, heaviness, subconscious visions......
1,2,3,4....1,2,3,4....1,2,3,4....1,2,3.
It's 8:30 am.
Mother. Fuck.
(In my head) "I've already told that Troll that people can see the place at 4pm! I will not allow this!"
(What came out) "Lewie, did you hear knocking"
Coy. I told you.
Lewie: Yeah. I'm not getting up though.
Me (outloud): Yeah.
(In my head) : I'm freaking out and need to get up to see if there's a note on the door, which is a very common weekly occurence here.
We can't go back to sleep and it's inevitable that the knocking pattern will continue.
We rise at 8:52 am, anticipating the heavy tread of The Troll Under the Stairs.
Similar to menstruating each month, you know it's going to happen, and you just have to wait it out.
I pee. 9:02 am.
Just as I'm about to flush,
1,2,3,4....1,2,3,4...1,2-
I throw open our front door.
"What is it?" I ask standing in my pink robe, sleep still in my eyes, ready to fight.
I am face to face with the Troll.
Orange bowl cut hair in disarray, black eyes beaming, robust nostrils flaring,
"Listen to me, (which is always perfectly comprehendable) I get up and is all over dee basement. Gonna calla dee plumba. Catsheet. You are deee on a leee one. All over dee basemeh. Catsheet."
My heart is racing like I've just done 3 lines of blow followed by a pot of coffee and a redbull, sugarfree.
It is then I notice she is holding large, white putty knife.
On the putty knife, is a mess of greyish matter.
This is starting to make sense.
There is shit all over the basement, her coven, and she thinks it's from our cat??!!
"What is that?" (coy)
She comes closer. With the gunk.
"Catsheet. You dee only one dat hassa cat. You clogga toyleh. You no flush it! Nesstime you gonna pay for dee plumber." One arm flailing, smaking the outer hip while the other holds the mess.
I'm about to lose it.
"No," I say (in my head)
"No," I yell (outloud)
We don't flush kitty litter, and don't sit here and accuse us*
(*To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure this was comprehendable. All I could hear was the pulsing in my head. She spoke in Troll code and I continued to respond, totally comprehendable and calm I'm certain.)
The Troll started in again, "I not gonna pay for dees again, No cat. No more cat again."
Then I did something I've been wanting to do since the day this horrible Troll wouldn't assist me with my cable needs,
I shut. The door.
The screaming heightened.
"No close ah dee door! Growl, drool, thud, ROAR!"
Followed by a fading thud, thud, thud, thud, thud. SLAM!
I stood up to the Troll. For the first time.
I looked at Lewie, shaking with rage, and I started crying:
1. Because I hate confrontation and the release of conflict, no matter who "wins" evokes this reaction
2. Because I hadn't had coffee yet- not a drop
and most importantly
3. Because I knew she'd be back, eventually.
