So here’s the deal, I like people.  I even love some people.  On the whole I think people are interesting creatures worthy of affection.  Long story short, I am totally not a sociopath.  Just wanted to get that out there before I make some potentially sociopathic statements.  Ready?  Okay.  I simply don’t get other people.  Like I am spectacularly awful at normalcy which means that my perspective on most things is just different enough from that of the average human being that I’m sometimes left scratching my head at middle-of-the-bell-curve behavior.  For example, I emphatically do not understand people who crave shoulders to cry on when they are upset.  So confusing.  When I’m down or sad or feeling generally unwell I want to be alone, as in decidedly unequivocally alone.  I just like my own company.  I feel most myself when I am alone.  I like the feeling of my own thoughts in my own head analyzing my own experiences.  I motherfucking like myself (::cough:narcissist:cough::).

BUT, all that comfort with myself?  Completely irritating.  Because guess what?  No man is an island and all that cliched bullshit.  It’s hard for me to connect with other people and yet (ignoring all contrary evidence) I am human and as such require social relationships to maintain my (relative) mental health.  I think (absolute conjecture here) that what helps most people feel genuinely connected to others is a sense of reciprocal need, and total independence doesn’t allow for that type of reciprocity.  And so, I am trying very hard to be… different.  And that shit is not easy, yo.

In an attempt to improve on my whole “human connectedness” shtick, I’ve been trying to come up with a list of things that make me feel all warm and sweet with other people, and I’ve got to tell you I suck at this.  Do these things come naturally to you???  Because my initial list looked like this:

1. Sex

2. Sex

3. Shared passion for NPR

4. Sex

5. Naming me the godmother of your child

And I’ve got to say there are some serious flaws with that list.

1.  I think my friends are going to be totally freaked out if I try to make out with them in order to introduce intimacy into our relationships.  Just a guess.  I mean they’re almost all married with kids, and most of them are women, so you know…

2.  I have yet to meet someone as fanatically devoted to NPR as I am- total dead end.

3.  Um, hi, have you met me?  I had to slip Danielle a mickey to get her to agree to make me her son’s godmother.

Short of sleeping with someone and/or converting them to the Church of Carl Kasell, how does one go about having a deep(ish) and (kind of) meaningful relationship?  It’s a fucking emotional Rubik’s cube.  I’m totally adept at making friends, I can run that social sprint like all get out.  But the marathon of actual friendship?  Fuck, if we’re not actively sleeping together or you’re not birthing adorable children for whom I am spiritually responsible,  it’s totally possible I’ll just stop answering your calls one day and after a few months you’ll just assume I died.  And, dear person who’s calls I randomly stopped answering, just know- it’s not you, it’s me.  You are lovely and I am crazy.

In closing, I’m trying to grow and stuff.  Truly, I want to be the kind of person who turns to friends when I’ve had a hard day.  And more importantly I want to be the kind of person my loved ones can rely on consistently.  So, yeah, if I randomly start calling just to say I love you, I promise I’m not dying of cancer, I’m not in AA, and I don’t need to borrow your car- I’m just trying to connect with you.  While clothed.  Weird, right?

So last week?  I went on a business trip.  To Missouri.  Jealous?  Thought so.  While down there I was a bit on edge.  Here’s the deal, even on my best and most normal day I am clinically intense, and as soon as I am removed from my rather narrow element that intensity ratchets up to something that leaves me feeling like I’m on the sixth day of a ten day coke binge.  Not that I would know, I mean I’m pretty sure if I took uppers I’d be dead.  My resting heart rate already rivals that of a bunny rabbit, so you know…   I’m not a drug addict.  Moving on…  While down there I think I slept a total of, hmm, forty-five minutes.  Maybe.  I also ate like twice.  Now if this were a math equation you would probably imagine that it would look something like this:

no sleep + no food = death

But, hey, guess what?!?  You would be totally wrong!  Apparently you fucking suck at crazy-people math!  The correct equation looks like this:

no sleep + no food = motherfucking unrivaled productivity, bitches

Like, I should totally move to Kansas City permanently and stop eating and sleeping forever.  Oh, the work I got done!  The books I read!  The endless podcasts I listened to!  It was glorious.  Like dirty-sex-with-Stone-Philips-circa-1996 glorious.  But.  BUT, I am totally paying for that shit now.  It’s like my body suddenly realized that biological laws state humans require calories for energy and sleep for proper brain function, and now its kind of freaking out.  And yet I still can’t sleep.  I think my body forgot how.  Is that possible?  I keep trying to do things like lie down in a dark room, and listen to white noise on my iPad, and count down slowly from one hundred.  And while I’m doing all of this, my brain is simply refusing to get on board with this whole sleeping plan.  And so, here I am, decidedly not sleeping and feeling too incoherent to do anything productive.

What to do now…  Walk the dog until my legs give out and I fall into an involuntary sleep on the side of the road?  Definite possibility.  Clean the bathrooms in the house until they could all collectively double as surgical theaters?  Too late, I already did that.  Make a mental list of all the men I’ve made out and see how many names I can actually remember?  Yup, totally my backup plan if the dog walking thing doesn’t pan out.  Peruse the Internet for interesting facts about the effects of sleep deprivation on humans?  Lets just say these are all good options.

And on that note, just know that I hate all of you sleeping jackasses.

Kisses!

What follows is my litany of recently uncovered misconceptions.  You may want to skip this if you a.) have never seen Ally McBeal, or b.) value your time too much to waste it reading about 90’s dramadies.  Alright then, for those of you who are sticking around lets get started.

First off, as a high school freshman I was unaware that adult women with professional careers can’t dress like hookers with blazers when on the clock.

Pardon Me Ma'am, You Seem To Have Forgotten Your Pants

I mean I like dressing like a vagina flashing ho as much as the next girl, but I usually save those looks for my off hours.  I’m also not a lawyer, so maybe I’m missing something.  Though I do have lawyer friends and as far as I know they all wear ass covering garments to work.  I’ll have to confirm that with them to be sure…

Secondly, mental illness while hilarious in its milder forms tends to get less funny when its progressed to outright hallucinations.  The Ally McBeal character could probably have benefited from a civil commitment.  As a teenager I thought she was all romantic and whimsical, as an adult I’m afraid she might blow the building up come next episode.  I just finished the episode where the therapist tries to get her to consider taking Prozac (number one indication that this is a show from the 90’s, I mean Prozac?  How quaint!) and she’s all, “No, I’m proud I don’t fit in.  Blah, blah, blah.”  And I can’t help but think that if I went to my therapist and told her I couldn’t get through the day with out having multiple hallucinations Prozac would be the least of her recommendations.

Thirdly, Ally McBeal is a home-wrecking slut.  There I said it.

Lastly, I’m confident that the all of writers on this show were men with small penises.  I came to this conclusion after the thirtieth mention by a character that women a.) are sexual objects, b.) secretly want to be nothing more than sexual objects, c.) can’t complete professionally with men because their brains are rules by their ovaries, d.) are pathologically litigious and ruining society with their damn sexual harassment laws.

In closing, this show is fucking horrible and I yet can’t stop watching it.

P.S.  Happy Rapture Christians!! See you in Hell everyone else!!

A.)  That tiny horse I was riding up that Philippine volcano died, stranding me in a lava-filled jungle oasis from which there was no escape.

B.)  The cops located that hobo cemetery in my backyard and I was serving a prison sentence for improper disposal of  human remains (to be clear, no one could prove those hobos didn’t die of natural causes).

C.)  I joined/started a cult worshiping The One True Shopping Complex and have spent the last year camped outside of a Kohl’s recruiting white chubby middle-aged ladies who love bargains into my congregation.

D.)  All of the above.

I’m sure you guessed correctly and no further explanation of my absence is necessary.  No?  Huh, okay then.  Here’s a brief synopsis of what I’ve actually been doing over the last year:

- Working

- Moving

- Therapy

Ben got a new job (yay!) and I got a promotion at my day job (yay!) and my mother has been sick (boo!).  Hmm, what else???  Oh yeah, Ben and I were considering moving to Texas (motherfucking boo ya’ll!).  But we didn’t.  Because Texas is kind of scary in that it is nothing like New England and new things frighten me.  And there were mega churches EVERYWHERE.  Like we’d be driving along and I’d be all, “Wow, that mall does a brisk business on Sunday mornings.  Also, why does that mall have a giant cross on its roof?”  Then we’d drive another .75 miles and I’d be all, “Huh, that office park does a brisk business on Sunday mornings.  Also, why does that office park have a giant cross on its roof?”  Rinse, lather, repeat until you hit a gun show then stop and buy a gun.

In the interest of full disclosure I did kind of stopped talking to everyone I know for no reason other than I have clinical anti-social tendencies that rear up when I’m stressed.  Long story short, you are not alone Internet, unless your name is Jill’s Husband or you carried me in your uterus for nine months, we probably haven’t talked much since I returned from Asia.

Reference:  I Am a Bad Friend for more information on this phenomenon.

Where does that leave us?  Can you forgive me?  What if I promise to post a recent sex tape (tasteful, of course) that Ben and I made (of which Ben may or may not be aware)?  Two words:  pony play.  That shit was crazy.

“Hey Jill, you should totally go to this foreign country and work twelve hour days.  But hey also, we need you to stay on an eastern standard time schedule so would you mind working those twelve hours overnight?  You can totally sleep during the day.  You don’t require sunlight, right?  Good!  Thanks so much!  You’re a doll!”

Turns out they call it a graveyard shift because it makes you want to die and/or kill people.  I’ve been here for over a week and just saw the sun for the first time since leaving Japan.  Here’s photographic proof.

That’s me at the hotel.  Have I mentioned that this hotel is paradise?  That this hotel is the only thing keeping me sane?  Oh dearest hotel, I want to make sweet, sweet love to you with the lights on.  This is probably a good transition from semi-homicidal complaining about my lack of sleep to a brief list of the glorious things I’ve encountered in the Philippines.

1. The people are so unbelievably nice.  So nice.  And incredibly good looking.  It’s a country filled with people with great cheekbones, who smile all the time, and call me ma’am.  I have never had so many people smile at me in my whole life.  The kindness reaches through my perpetual haze of exhaustion and makes me want to hug the nice strangers on the street.  But I don’t.  Because I don’t want to frighten the nice Asians with my teary hugs.
2. I went to an open air market where I haggled for pearls.  I don’t think any elaboration is required.
3. The scenery and weather are a welcome change from New England.  There are palm trees and all sorts of other exotic plants everywhere.  Its hot and sticky and very tropical.  I generally hate the heat as my Irish ass does not handle it well, but since I’m only awake at night when the weather is just a hair cooler and the sun isn’t frying me I’m loving it.
4. I haven’t thrown up yet.  There have been some close calls, but so far no vomiting.  Always the hallmark of a successful trip.  I’m here for another week so there’s still a chance, but I’m feeling more confident that I’m not going to die involuntarily on this trip.

Yeah, so Ben and I are heading to a volcano soon.  Apparently there’s a lake around it.  And we’re going to ride tiny horses.  I’ll let you know how this works out.

I am obsessed with This American Life.  I want to make sweet, sweet love to Ira Glass while he tells me funny and thought provoking stories about things that seem one way but are actually another way, and after coitus I’ll look over at him and be all, “Life is so complicated.  And fascinating.  Here’s a one thousand dollar donation to public radio.”  Anywho, earlier this week I was listening to an old episode of This American Life and there was this story about funerals, and more specifically people who prior to death make video messages that will be played at their funerals.  Or something like that.  To be honest I was writing while listening to the story in the background so there’s a distinct possibility that I imagined at least a portion of that.  This story (or hallucination) totally inspired me and so I have decided to make a video message that will be played at my funeral after my inevitable travel related death.  There is just one minor problem, I have already packed my video camera.  You’re probably wondering why I packed my video camera if I plan on dying tomorrow, and the answer is simple and predictable, Ben made me pack.  Even after I explained that I’m definitely going to die on this trip.  Ira Glass would never do that.

Since I am cameraless at the moment I am going to instead write a farewell letter, full of wisdom and other stuff.  And here we go:

Dearest People Who Loved Me,

First off let me thank you for coming to my funeral.  You look pretty today.  Black suits you.

I want you to know that I am not in a better place.  Do not comfort yourself with lame platitudes like,

“Jill is with Jesus now.”

or

“Jill wouldn’t want you to be sad.”

or

“Jill would want you to move on.”

None of these things are true.  I have an entire blog dedicated to derisive Jesus jokes.  I am not with Jesus.  Jesus is totally punishing me right now.  Also, I want you to be sad and never move on.  I have no children, the only way I will live on is through your grief.  Everyday should begin with crying, fist shaking at the sky, and proclamations of never ending sadness.  And now that I am dead I am like Santa Claus, I see all, I know all.  I know when you are sleeping and awake, but more importantly I know if you are moving on, and so help me Jesus if you even try to move on I will totally haunt you.  Have you seen Paranormal Activity?  Because I will make that shit look like a goddamn fairy tale.  Any money you were planning on spending on therapy, you should instead spend on building a shrine.  My favorite color is a sunny yellow and I love puppies, so yellow puppies should be the a central theme to the shrine.  Also, you will see a merchandise table by the casket where you can purchase a variety of shrine-approved photos.

In closing, I love you all, but that will not stop me from ruining your life if you do not properly mourn.

Love,

Jill

Production Note: This letter should be read by someone with a rich baritone with Ginuwine’s My Pony playing softly in the background.

Also, I leave all of my earthly belongings to my new godson.  Yes, you read that correctly, my gorgeous friend Danielle and her very handsome husband Mike asked Ben and I to be godparents.  That happened.  In real life.   And, in all seriousness, we couldn’t be happier.

In conclusion, the end.

Currently I am married to this gorgeous man.

These days Valentine’s Day is a fun affair.  This year Ben bought me flowers and chocolates and he made me a lobster dinner.  But that’s not what this is about.  No, this is about one particular horrible pre-Ben Valentine’s Day.

We have all dated someone completely embarrassing, right?  Personally, I dated about 30 embarrassing guys, but I’m kind of an overachiever.  The most cringe-worthy guy I dated was a snow board instructor/local television producer.  You read that correctly, local television producer.  He was kind of a big deal.  We’ll call him Mark.

Mark was really weird and if I hadn’t been so drunk the first few times I saw him, I would have noticed this earlier.  I met Mark at a bar in Boston .  I was with one of my girlfriends and as we walked out of the bar he stopped me and asked in I knew how to ice skate.  In my buzzed state I thought this question was hilarious, so in lieu of answering I just laughed.  He persisted, and I told him that no, I did not know how to ice skate.  Mark then asked me if I wanted to learn.  I said sure, we exchanged numbers and I went on my drunken way.

Fast forward to our first date.  It was the end of January and Mark took me ice skating at Frog Pond in Boston .  I was petrified.  The thing is, I’m terribly uncoordinated even when I’m not on ice.  I didn’t see how this could possibly end well, so I did what any other reasonable 24 year old woman would do, I got just shy of drunk before our date.  Needless to say that this did not help improve my ice skating skills.

The first date had gone well enough that, despite my inebriation and lack of skating abilities, Mark asked me out again.  This time we were going out to dinner and (get ready for it) drinks, so there was no need for me to show up to this date already half in the bag.  Or so you would think.  Well, we were meeting up later in the evening on a Friday, so rather than going back to my apartment after work and then trekking back out to Back Bay to meet up with him, I decided to stay in Back Bay and grab some drinks with co-workers before my date.  Are you keeping track?  Because I’ve now seen this guy three times, none of them sober.

Apparently I’m charming when I drink because he asked me out yet again.  For our third date, I decided to switch it up and not pregame like a Penn State frat boy.  Through the haze I always had a good time with Mark.  He was funny and cute, so I decided to actually show up to a date in my right mind.  This was a horrible idea.  I learned Mark’s funny cuteness was directly proportional to my drunkenness.  The date was going horribly.  Mark was a close talker.  And he whispered everything in a way that he seemed to think was sexy, but was actually kind of scary.  He also liked to give odd compliments, like, “You have great posture, it’s really sexy.”  I decided to remedy the situation with copious amounts of alcohol.  And sure enough, the more I drank the less he reminded me of a child molester.

But I miscalculated.  I drank too much, therefore making him too charming, therefore making me go back to his apartment, therefore resulting in this little tableau:

Mark walks into his bedroom after having gotten me a glass of water.  I am sitting on Mark’s bed.  Mark dances in front of me like a burlesque dancer.  He is totally serious.  He has his sexy face on.  Marc begins stripping his clothes off.  The dancing is now accompanied by singing.  Sexy singing.  Singing a montage of Beatle’s songs.  He gets down to his boxers which he thankfully leaves on.  He dances over to his closet where he removes black pleather pants.  Marc shimmies into the black pleather pants and starts singing an old STP song.  He continues to dance around the room, signing.  When he finally stops its to tell me that he wants to be a rock star.  Then he proceeds to show me his awesome rock star poses.  I die a little on the inside.

Before I go on, let me explain that this happened in real life.  This happened to me.  I endured this.

Right about this point I realized that there was not enough booze in the entirety of Ireland to make what had just happened sexy.  I feigned sick and left quickly.  But the story does not end here.

Fast forward to Valentine’s Day.  I walked out of my office at the end of the day and who do I find waiting for me with flowers?  Mark.  And hey, guess what else?  He smells awful.  So, yeah…  Marc walks up to me, gives me the flowers, kisses me on the cheek, and generally acts like this is completely normal.  Have you ever been in a horribly awkward situation and the awkwardness is so massive that it overwhelms and paralyzes you?  Because that is totally what happened to me.  I tried to make my brain work, screaming at it to think of a goddamned exit strategy, but all I was getting was:

What I’m trying to tell you is that I went to dinner with this guy.  After he danced in leather pants.  I did that.  And I’m not proud.  And actually it gets worse, because I kind of, sort of, kept on seeing him for a month or so after that.  And he wore the leather pants again.  On multiple occasions.  And once he asked one of my girlfriends if she had a penis.  And the smell?  Not a one time thing.

The end

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dearest Stone Phillips,

I am writing first and foremost to inform you that I received your message.  I will admit that I gave up on us a long time ago.  Once you were fired from NBC I had to come to terms with the fact that you were no longer going to visit my house, late at night, with softcore news stories about meth labs in middle America and three legged cats also in middle America and all manner of other things that happen in middle America .  I even married another man, albeit another man who bares a striking resemblance to a younger you.  In my defense, I only married Ben after he agreed to let me name our first child, regardless of gender, Stone.

But now everything is different.  Yesterday I saw a rerun of Dateline and it included a segment about your personal life, specifically about how much you love your dad and how you grew up on a ranch or something.  I know now that this particular rerun was meant to be viewed by me.  As I was watching, riveted, I heard a disembodied voice telling me that this was a message from you, a message meant only for me.  Stone, I will not disappoint you.  I will be joining you in New York in just a few short days.

I want to assure you that I completely understood the message you were trying to telepathically communicate.  The episode featured a piece about the over-prescription of medications in this country, so the first thing I did was stop taking all of my meds.  There was also a segment on automatic weapons and gun control, and I think I know what you were hinting at there.  The final segment was about child molesters, so I’m going to go ahead and kidnap Chris Hanson and bring him to you.

I can only assume that we’re having some sort of bacchanalia which will feature a Chris Hanson sacrifice.  Am I, right?  Wait, don’t tell me.  I want it to be a surprise.

Much Love and Devotion,

Jillian Pilgrim

P.S.  I made a little something for you.  I hope you like it.

Let me give you the haiku version first.  Still crazy in head.  Pharmaceuticals help some.  Jesus Banana.

Now for the slightly longer, but still appropriate blog length, version:

I no longer see the sun.  I leave for work and its dark.  I come home from work and its dark.  This is a problem as I require sunlight in order to function/remain not dangerously crazy.  So, my body is rebelling.  How? you ask.  Well, its decided it no longer requires sleep.  This is never a good sign.  Not sleeping is a precursor to stabbing people totally legal activities.  Another bad sign?  Not eating.  Of course not eating has another, less violent, side effect… sweet, sweet, weight loss.  Primarily in my breasts.  And there’s nothing a girl wants more than smaller breasts!

Here’s the thing about having an anxiety disorder, it sucks.  I wake up with my heart pounding, my muscles cramped, my jaw sore from grinding my teeth.  Lame.  BUT, don’t despair for me, there is an upside!  And here it is, I am so fucking productive when I’m anxious.  Maybe productive isn’t the right word.  What’s it called when you accomplish lots of shit that doesn’t actually need to be accomplished?  That’s what I do when I’m in a particularly panicky state.  Its truly scary.  See, when a person wakes up in the middle of the night and is in the throes of a panic attack she will not be falling back to sleep for an extended period of time.  Fact:  There is nothing good on television at 2:00 in the morning.  So, what is a girl to do?  Well, obviously the logical thing is to read all sorts of obscure and random stuff so that she can shock her husband with her awesome useless knowledge.  For example, today Ben and I had the following conversation:

Ben: How was your day?

Jill: Did you know that a coyote in Maine was found to be 89% wolf?

Ben: Huh.  Okay.

Jill: And 22% of coyotes in Maine are part wolf?

Ben: Oh.

Jill: And 90% of Maine is forested?

Ben: Lets just say you know more about Maine than I do.

Jill: And wolves.  And coyotes.

And then Ben cried because I am so much more awesome than he is.  So, I made him this to cheer him up.

And that is why being crazy is awesome. Except for the smaller breasts. You can’t win them all.

My brain hurts,  so I’m going to do something a little different today.  I’m going to share lots of random thoughts.  None of which are related.  Well, they are related in the sense that they originated in my brain parts, but that’s it.  Essentially, I’m too lazy to work any smooth transitions into this post.  My blogging skills are pretty much unmatched.

Random Thought #1

Today I walked into a public restroom that smelled just like peppermint and cupcakes.  It was like this bathroom had once been a bakery.  What made it smell this way?  Its an olfactory mystery.  I found it very disconcerting.

Random Thought #2

Hustler Magazine pays like $1000.00  for stories about kinky sexual sub-cultures.  This information both depresses and inspires me.

Random Thought #3

If I were a hamster I would be so pissed.  Its like your only choice is to live in a glass cage, among your own feces, with a goddamn wheel.  Until your 6 year old owner decides to “hug” you, which really means “squeeze you until your insides rupture.”  Like there are no wild hamsters.  If you are a hamster you’re only option is to toil away in an aquarium, abused and eventually murdered by a child.

Random Thought #4

I would murder a homeless guy for some Fudgie The Whale Cake right now.  Like gunned down in the street for sea mammal ice cream cake.

Random Thought #5

I would sleep with Jason Bateman before George Clooney.  And Stone Philips before Jason Bateman.  And the corpse of Stalin before anyone on the Jersey Shore.  Oh, and Ben before everyone.  Except for Jesus.  Because I’m a Christian for Christ’s sake.

Random Thought #6

The end.

Love,

Jill Pilgrim