The last thing I remember, I was running for the door. I had to find the passage back to the place I was before. . .

I'm going to start this entry before I go to Carrie's for dinner, and I'll finish it later, because, according to the little thing at the top of this page, there is a "scheduled outage at 4 p.m. PDT" today. I think that means Pacific time, and if that's the case, that's 7 p.m. Here Time. Which means in 20 minutes.

According to my Dashboard, March 15 was the last time I updated, and I'd mentioned a job interview. That interview went well, and I'm now a writer/ad rep for a homeowner's magazine here in town. Unfortunately, the economy being the way it is, they don't want to hire me full time, just to have to turn around and say, "Yeah, Sarah, we're tanking. We need to renegotiate." So as it stands, I get paid by the article, I get a commission for sales made, and I get paid by the hour for any other work I do there. It's not stable, but it's something, and it's not only in publishing, but in magazines. It's definitely a first step toward. . .something. I also have other little side projects that hopefully pan out for me (MK snagged me a freelancing job writing an article for a magazine, which is awesome. Get my work out of the papers and into the rags. Again, a good start.)

I've also had several long and treacherous interviews with Best Buy, which I won't get into, but it's, at this point, pretty much a 50/50 shot I'll get a job.

For those of you that have heard me complain about this already, I apologize, but since the event is tonight (as we speak, actually), this will be the last you'll hear of it. At least until next year. but maybe by next year, I'll be able to afford to attend on my own accord.

There's this event that's held here yearly that is basically a restaurant competition. All these restaurants get together and compete for prizes, and attendees basically walk around, eating all this incredible food and drinking to their heart's content. I went last year because I was reporting on the story. I didn't actually realize what a big deal the thing was until I ran into Dennis (who was photographing the event) on my way out that night and he said something to the effect of, "You're not wearing that, are you?" So I ran home and got all gussied up. The place it was held last year was yards nicer than the place they're having it this year, and it was one of my favorite nights ever (minus a minor tift I found myself having that night). I've been looking forward to this thing since I left the event last year. I even had a dress for it. It was a dress that I bought, having nowhere to wear it, and when I pointed this fact out to MK, he said, "You can wear it to this year's event!"

This was, of course, before my involuntary termination. And now I still have this gorgeous dress hanging in my closet and I will, most likely, never have anywhere to wear it.

So, literally. Looking forward to it all year. And then, a month and a half before it happens, I'm canned. I've been really, really bitter about it for the last few weeks, and when I walked by the place this afternoon (I was going for a walk because I feel utterly lethargic these days) it smelled so fucking good, and all these people were going in, all dressed up, and I got. . .sad. Not angry, but sad. It was a combination of still being sore about the firing, and having looked forward to it for so long and then having it taken away, but it was also. . .the Chamber of Commerce puts this event on, and it's one of those things all the People You Want To Know attend. When I was working at the paper, I could go to these events, no questions asked, and feel like I was important. Like I belonged around these people. But clearly, I don't. And I'm not too proud to admit how shallow I am in that respect. I like to feel like I belong around important people. I've learned in the last few weeks that I can pretty much have a conversation with anyone, and I think, at least last year, I mingled well with these people. And now? If I turned up at the door of the venue right now, they'd summarily show my the door. Me in my black sweater and jeans and one pink lacey glove. With my black nail polish and my Converse sneakers.

That's what it is, you know? When I was working there, I felt like I belonged in this town. And now I don't. Now I'm, really, no one. I went from, in Vi's words, being a minor celebrity to being. . .that girl in the dirty Converses and tattered jeans. And I really hate myself for caring, but I do. Because I'd gotten used to it.

Back after dinner.

OK, lies. Back the next day. I don't even remember what else I was going to talk about. I've got a meeting today with a guy I'm writing an article for and, hopefully, next week some of these people I'm trying to sell to will get back to me.

Hey, kid. Good morning. You look like an angel. I don't remember when we fell asleep. Better get up, kid. Cathy is waiting. . .

Went to a high school basketball game tonight.  We lost by one point, and that was. . .well, even I was screaming by the end of the game.

There was a guy behind me that. . .apparently, I always end up sitting in front of (or standing beside at football games) the loudest, most annoying redneck in the bunch.  This guy was literally screaming the en. tire. time.  It was physically hurting my ears.  He was yelling at the boys, yelling at the refs, yelling at. . .everyone.  I had my finger plugging up my right ear for most of the game.  So I was really freaking sick of him screaming in my ear, and at one particular point, he yelled really loudly, and I yelled, too.  I don't remember what I said, but it was indicative of me not being pleased with my ear being yelled in.  This guy puts his hand on my shoulder (False, sir.  Do not touch me.  I do not like being touched.) and says, "Sorry about your ear, Darlin'.  But this is why you pay the money to see the game, Baby."

First of all, no.  I do not spend money to see basketball games to yell at the refs.  (I actually don't spend money to see them at all, because I have a press pass.)  Secondly, if you have never had a conversation with me and do not know my name, do.  Not.  call me Baby.  I am not your baby.  You have not earned the right to call me by anything except my name.  

Up until the point I was a. . .junior in high school, I hated it when ANYONE called me Baby or any derivative thereof.  Baby, Babe, Babydoll, whatever.  I hated it.  I hated it with a fiery vengeance.  And because I was friends with a bunch of douchebags, as soon as my guy friends found that out, that's what they called me.  My name ceased being Sarah and I was from that point on known as Baby.

As in, walking down the hall, "Hey, Baby!  You have the Algebra notes?"  "Where do you want to go to lunch today, Baby?"  "That history test is a killer, Baby!"

You get the picture.

They did it so much, I just got accustomed to it.  And by the time I started dating Richard junior year and that's how he generally referred to me, I found I rather liked it.  It's affectionate and cute, I think. 

However.  I was not dating this redneck behind me.  So it irked me that he touched me (strike one) and then called me by a cutesy nickname.

I need to go to the rec center tomorrow.  I really need to.  I just. . .it's hard to motivate myself.  Especially when I have a house that badly needs to be cleaned and work that badly needs to be done.  (Because of Christmas Sunday.  Yes, Christmas.  No, I don't want to talk about it.)

I also really need to write.  I've got this novel in my head.  It's an entire story, from beginning to end, but I don't have the time to sit down and write it.  I don't have the time and ENERGY to sit down and write it.  But I want to.  I need to get it down.

I'm going to see The Last 5 Years tomorrow.  I'm going by myself which. . .sucks a little, but I really want to see it, so it's OK.  I'd asked MK to come with me, but he already had something else he was doing.  And I can't go Sunday, because of Christmas.  I listened to the soundtrack on the way to the basketball game and I cried the entire way.  

Remember the thing I wrote about how, when I was younger, I used to watch the saddest part of "Follow That Bird," and just cry and cry?  And my mother worried she was raising a masochist?  These days, I keep doing that to myself.  I'm especially bad for it watching Grey's Anatomy and listening to The Last 5 Years soundtrack.  I've been really emotional lately for. . .a myriad of reasons, really.  

Actually, I'm wondering if I should even go to the show.  I love it, but I'll be there alone, and I'll probably cry through the show and all the way home, and most likely when I get home, too.  I don't know if I need to do that to myself at this particular point in time.  

I have. . .a lot of stuff going on at the moment.  I'm not talking about it because I just don't even know myself where I am in it all.  (No, that's not true.  I talked to KentuckyNicholas the other night because I was about to lose my mind and I needed to talk to SOMEONE who wasn't involved in the problems I'm having and who was a completely unbiased point of view.  It made me feel better to talk about it, but I didn't actually come to any grand conclusions, which led to the first part of my day being really sad.

As for now, though, I'm going to finish watching "Halloween" and go to bed.  And try to sleep.  Which actually probably won't happen.  

I should add that it's at the part of the movie that the two characters just had, apparently, a lot of sex, and that just brings to light the fact that I'm going to be. . .well, I'm probably going to be spending my Friday nights exactly like I am right now, alone watching other people get it on in scary movies, indefinitely.  That's. . .it's just a little sad to me is all.

I guess it's some consolation that everyone who gets lucky in this movie is killed.

I'll be there for you (when the rain starts to fall)

I went to this writing Web site I used to be a member of, years ago this evening. Back in the day, I was a "preferred member," of the site. I had a portfolio of a couple dozen short stories that people told me were really good, they got 4- and 5-star ratings consistently, and they were probably decent.

I let the site lapse for a year or two, and when I returned in 2005, I found that my portfolio had been deleted. I, of course, typed these stories straight into the site, and I have no record of them anywhere.

When I returned back then, in 2005, I wrote three things. Upon signing in this evening, I found that they're still there. The three things I wrote four years ago. I was 20 years old, a sophomore in college, writing short stories because that's what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to be a writer.

Now, four years later, I find these stories again, and I wonder where it all went. Where did the ideas for short stories go? Where did that drive go that I used to have, when I wrote short stories all the time? Now I try to write long, involved novellas that I lose steam on halfway (or a quarter of the way) through that never go anywhere. Maybe my short stories weren't Pulitzer Prize-winning, and maybe I was writing about things I had no idea about, but they were mine.

I'm going to put the shorter of the two on here. I don't know where the idea for this came from. I'm going to put it straight in as-is, so there may be typos or whatever. But when I read this, I wondered where this person went.

I don't think I'm going to leave a note.

That's what everyone does, you know? Whenever someone kills themselves, there's usually a note. It tells whoever is unlucky enough to find the body why they did it, who they're blaming, and sometimes what is supposed to happen to their stuff. "Give all my money to charity" or "I want my sister Joyce to have my puppy" or even "I leave you all with the guilt of knowing that you drove me to this."

No, definitely no note. I don't think that anyone would really understand it. A note would make things worse.

You're probably asking yourself at this point why I would do it. Why a pretty, popular 18-year-old cheerleader would be sitting at a table with a bottle of vodka and ten codeine pills in front of her.

You want the truth?

Truth is, I'm bored. I'm just tired of living.

I'm not depressed. I've never been raped, beaten, treated badly, or even dumped. I just don't feel like there's anything left for me to do.

One pill. A swig of the vodka.

I'm supposed to graduate next month. And then do what? Go to college. I got a full ride to the State college for cheerleading. I didn't even know schools did that. But there she was, that cheering scout wearing way too much eyeshadow (it was blue for Chrissakes) and that big, blonde hair teased within an inch of its life. That was probably the style back when she was a cheerleader. In the 60's.

So my college is paid for. But I don't actually want to go to college. Try telling my mom that.

"For God's sake, Trinity. You'll never meet a man if you don't go to college."

She doesn't care what I do, really. And I'm not saying that in a, "Oh, my parents don't love me, guess I'll kill myself" sort of way. I just mean that she really doesn't care what I do. I've been drinking since I was 14. I've been smoking since I could drive. I got a car for my 16th birthday. I've been fucking guys, sometimes in mom and dad's bed, for. . .How many years? I've lost track.

I've basically got the parents that are every high schooler's wet dream. They sign the report cards, come to the games when I'm cheering. . .do all the good parent stuff. Mom even makes my lunches. Usually bologna, or peanut butter and strawberry jelly. Sometimes she'll make nachos. I bet you didn't know they were good cold.

Pill number two. Two shots.

Seriously, though. I'm done. There's nothing left for me. Seems to me that dying is the only way to erase the boredom. I'm never going to go anywhere. Never going to do anything.

It's not like I'm Natalie Keys. She's known since she was, like, 5 that she wanted to be a doctor. Got a scholarship to fucking Princeton. She turned down offers from Yale and Duke University in North Carolina. That girl's going places.

It's not like I'm Radeesha Jones. She wants to be the next Oprah. She's been hosting our school's gay little morning talk show that lasts maybe 15 minutes since we were freshmen. She's got the look and the personality for it. All she needs is the millions.

It's not even like I'm Jenny Figler. She had to drop out in January because she had her kid, Emily. Beautiful baby girl. I went to her baby shower and gave her a pink blanket, made out of the softest fleece I'd ever felt. She's living with her boyfriend, this guy she met over the internet named Ted. They're getting married in the fall. She says this is all she's ever wanted. To be a young mother and to get married.

I've never wanted anything like that. I've never wanted. . .anything.

Pills three and four. Two more shots.

I guess it's a good thing mom had these painkillers left over from her knee surgery. Because otherwise, it would have been a bitch to find something that worked. We don't keep any kid of medication in the house, except for aspirin. And I wasn't going to use a gun. Too nasty. And I wouldn't hang myself. Too dramatic. I'm just gonna fade away.

That's what I'd do anyway, you know. Fade away. Once I got to college? Just fade away. Sure, I'd be a cheerleader. But what would I do once there was nothing to cheer for? Once all the uniforms were all hung up, and I had just my academics to look forward to.

I don't want to do anything. I don't want to be anything.

I'm kind of a waste of space. Shit, I'm getting dizzy.

Five, six, seven. One, two, three.

I've never actually liked the taste of vodka. Nasty stuff. Tastes like rubbing alcohol. But that's what people are drinking these days, I guess.

I wonder if I'm dying now. It sure feels like it. It's like my eyelids are twitching, and there's this weird roaring in my ears.

It sounds like that time I almost drowned at the beach when I was 4. All I can remember about that was trying to cry, but instead, getting a mouthful of salty water. I think i swallowed a little fish. But that sound. I could never forget that sound. It was like everything was caving in on me.

This is all I have left.

Eight, nine, ten. One big gulp.

I certainly feel like I'm dying now. I've never been so dizzy in my life. Even when I fell off of that pyramid. Sydney wanted to be on the top, but I insisted. I guess she'll be able to be on the top now.

Maybe I should have written a note. I hope someone takes care of my fish. And that someone knows how valuable my CD collection is.

But most of all, I hope they know I wasn't unhappy. Not really.

I was just bored.

And now I'm just tired.

So I'm going to lay my head down on the table.

Good night.

So there's that. It's. . .it's kind of morbid, and it's cynical and it's. . .how I used to write. Why can't I still do that? Sure, it's angsty, but it was. . .I don't know.

I'm not even entirely sure why I'm putting this here. I don't tend to like to share my fiction writing.

I don't know. I miss fiction.