• My life has been revolving around work. Four-five days a week dedicated to helping pick out colored mats for watercolor portraits of an Asian kid crying, hitting baseballs in the parking lot, barely stomaching ignorance, and taking risque pictures in the bathroom. 
• Lack of attention span/ability to focus.
• Lack of inspiring reading material and/or lack of time and motivation to read them. Books littering my bed either untouched or under 100 pages read: Moll Flanders, Bobbed Hair and Bathtub Gin, Selected Poetry of William Carlos Williams. 
• Daylong fantasies involving a man with facial hair that cannot, for the sake of my ego and sanity, be converted to prose nor ever give me a night's rest. 
  • Touching the stubble that lines your cheeks, running my fingers along the nape of your neck, kissing the spot behind your ear... I'm not Danielle Steel's disciple. 
• The move into a smaller place has left me with little room of my own and absolutely no creative working space. 
• I've acquired an unhealthy obsession with Mad Men and have properly sold my soul to Comcast for the duration of the summer.

When the music is too loud, I cannot think. Unfortunately, my macbook will only go up to a certain decibel which still allows for those small nuggets of bloodcurdling thoughts to make their way into my weak, tortured consciousness. Such detrimental thoughts have prevented yours truly from writing anything that isn't related to complicated, lust-driven relationships, my never ending loneliness and pitiful view on it, fucked up family dynamics, or my lack of a social life worth bragging about. (Yeah, that girls' night with the margaritas and hot tub and softcore porn was pretty fantastic--but that was 3 weeks ago and I've since only gone out to spend money rather recklessly, looking and feeling mediocre and enduring conversations bashing men (and seeing Sex and the City 2, which was a god awful atrocity and should be shown to our POWs as a means of torture. "I Am Woman?" Get the fuck out of my face.).) 

This whole technology thing isn't really helping any dating conquests. Men are growing too soft to punch in 7 numbers and women are insulted when their attempt to communicate is ignored. Here's what baffles me: a man will flat out tell you in the beginning he isn't much of a phone person. Well, that really leaves any conversation when you're apart to text messaging, instant messaging, or emails (how old fashioned!). So, if we're replacing the whole idea of phone calls with these emotionless, hard-to-translate forms of communication shouldn't the etiquette be the same? Yeah, alright some rules can be bent. I sure as shit hope you don't expect an immediate response from me before noon. But if I were standing in front of you, modeling a new pair of undies I recently bought that say "yes please!" on the crotch I sure as shit expect some kind of god damn fucking reaction from you.

The fickleness of it all blows my mind. One week a man may be showering you with attention and devotion and the next he's sucking the toes of some other devil-haired harlot. One day he may have his fingers up your vagina and suddenly not talk to you for six months. One day he may decide you're exactly what he wants only to think maybe you're not worth all the fuss. If this is the game, I want new players and old school rules. I'll spend an hour in the kitchen cooking you a homemade meal, but you'll be the one to throw me against the wall in a heat of passion afterwards. Don't make us ladies do all the work, now. Be a gentleman.