In college I was creative. People around campus knew of my abilities as a writer and would request copies of various prose pieces, poems, stories and other nonsense I would throw down onto the page. And I didn't appreciate just how clever I really was. But tonight I came across a blue folder. Tucked into a draw. I brought it with me when I fled from Brooklyn... from a boy -- praying to get away from that which had crushed me and left me a shell of my former self. I cursed, missing the girl I was and how she wrote.

The girl and her date sit on a bench. The cliche is so obvious it's loud. They're at the park by the beach, and she doesn't care that it's corny -- she's just happy to be out of the house. Parents become strangers when you go off to college. He is saying something nice, but she doesn't care. She knows he's too old and only interested in the body, not the mind. She's 19... he's 34... she can't blame his being human. He offers his hand, which she takes. She doesn't notice the boy. Watching. Desiring. Angry at her rejecting him.

I call him Taco. And my crush on him is enormous. It's also accidental. I didn't like him one bit, and then BAM! I was all red-cheeked and stuttery around him. Taco won't help you picture him... not one bit, but it was better than Mr. Ding-a-ling or Bell. So we have settled on Taco. I want to eat Taco. They're serving Taco down the hall... these are phrases people hurl at me like black olives and jalapenos. And while I laugh, I think they are missing the point -- the enormity of my crush on this sexy Mexican staple.

Some days I think having a roommate wouldn't be all that bad. Someone to have the occassional meal with or to go to the grocery store with. I just began my fifth year living alone. I don't have to worry about a million things having a roommate tends to bring with it, but sometimes I wouldn't mind having to: be quiet in the morning, wait for the bathroom, let someone else walk the dog. Of course at my age it's GOOD to live alone. It's important to have space where you can explore your hobbies, watch your movies, and breathe.

I love my fucking dog. I simply do. She's kickass. I didn't even WANT a female at first, but I'm glad I ended up with one. I had put my cat to sleep and Mary's dog was pregnant so she offered me pick of the litter. She called when they were born, described them: 2 black labbish looking ones, 2 blonde labbish, 2 beagles (one boy one girl). I requested the female beagle looking one. I went to go see her in February with Neil. We named her Olive. But a few days later he told me something bad so...

Her name is now Mugsy. Mugsy-Pugsy. Mugsimus. She is incredible. There is no way I could be happier. She's such a bizarre mix: beagle, lab, chihuahua, dachshund. And so she's long and short and mostly black, but has a beagle head with the CUTEST markings on her ears, and rust colored legs from the knee down and feet. Her tail is too long, she LOVES to go for walks, and she insists on humping my male cat, Spike. Hourly. Spike does not approve. Mugsy loves the car (me too!) and long walks (me too!). And she's wacky like me, too.

I have hate in my heart, and it's not what I imagined it to be. It's not huge and loud; it's not snarling and sharp. It's a small black spot. It kind of just chills out, never bothering anyone. But sometimes when I let it, it reminds me of its presence. Small and often seeming benign, I start to remember that it's there and why it's there, and that it's not going anywhere. And I fixate. And I dwell. And that's what hate is. This bad day that just hangs out. Reminding you that you have the capacity for it.

She sits in the new home and comes to realizations she wishes would go away. She's not as young, skinny, or outgoing as she once was. She's not as motivated. She'd rather do her work, watch a movie, drink too much coffee and stay locked inside. She'd rather not venture out, meet people, get hurt, and end up like this. Again. She hasn't let herself go, but she hasn't held on as tightly as she perhaps should. She's sick of trying to be pretty and witty and the girl she was. She simply wants to exist: the girl who is.

Work gets in the way of life. It's sad. Lately the only men with whom I partake in witty banter are old enough to be my dad. Or grandfather. And the ones my age are just dumb. And unmotivated. How did I end up in this town? This place where people don't understand who I am, and why I am. This place where I don't quite fit in, yet I'm comfortable in that way you are knowing that it's better to be wearing a sweater that's got a small hole in the seam, then to be wearing none at all.

She lays herself open to him. All of the places a girl is told to keep closed she opens with warm welcome. Reaching for him she forgets his sins and pulls him close. Too close. Close to where she doesn't know if she has devoured him. She holds on with fierce intensity, knowing it's all she has, knowing he is how she is measured. She has allowed it, allowed herself to believe that he is worth something. She believes he's worth something; and because of it able to judge her. She knows, though, that he is worth nothing. Yet stays.

Mugsy likes to bark at night. She barks at the house across the street, apparantly for no reason whatsoever. She sometimes will bark at nothing for quite some time, and then just as suddenly as she began, she will stop. But then a few minutes later she will seem to remember that she was barking at something, and go back to barking. At nothing. Or something. Completely freaking herself out, and me out. And the cats, don't forget them. Cats. It's annoying that she does it because I worry about my neighbors, which is foolish since they simply don't care.

I'm sick. I hate being sick. Not that anyone actually enjoys it, but right now I have the right to complain my heart out. Started at 3 a.m. Friday with a stomach virus and fever which hung around until late Friday night. Saturday the chest congestion, ridiculously high fever and aches came to visit. Last night I simply sweated the fever out, or at least tried. My misery is unparallel. Last night I couldn't really sleep so I watched the first four episodes of SVU a ton of times. It didn't help much. Slept 17 hours of the past 24.

Once, a long ways back. The fist year Neil and I were dating, we had gone into the city. We used to spend the entire weekend together and sometimes on Saturday or Sunday we would take the subway to the city and walk around. We were coming back. It was fall. We were on the D train, crossing the bridge and there were Chinese people speaking Chinese which lulled Neil to sleep. He had his head on my shoulder and he simply drifted to sleep. The sun on his face. I remember loving him fiercely at that moment, back then.

Netflix. I love Netflix. Christ there is nothing better. For 20 bucks a month I can watch anything I want as many times as I wish. I finish, mail it back, and more comes. I have rented Law and Order, Wallace and Gromit, scary movies, old favorites, anything that catches my fancy. I still haven't quite gotten the hang of staggering when I watch and return. I always seem to get stuff on the weekend and watch it like a fiend leaving nothing for the week. But I'm getting better. It just amazes me that this exists... I love Netflix.

Lately I miss New York in the summer. Walking around the lower west or upper east side in black flip flops and sunglasses, drinking iced coffee or water and looking at Swatches. Going to the movies or dinner and then walking around for hours. God, it's so much more fun to walk around New York than it is to walk around Bennington. In New York you can constantly find a new street or park or fountain you like. In Bennington all you find are new places where hooligan kids have marked their territory. Exploring Brooklyn is so much fun, also.

Beads. Beads are fascinating. At work, in a bag, I have a small ziplock filled with beads from my most recent bead shopping excursion. I should make something with them, but I simply haven't had time. Maybe over the break. Color, shape, texture. I find it all fascinating. How you can fit them together to make something beautiful. I even feel beautiful when sitting on my couch in sweats making something. My next project, the amber necklace, will make me feel like a pincess. Wearing it like a Talisman. I will make heads turn to stare at the rock candy.

Whomever it was that said women get over their body image issues after their teens was crazy. We don't. Not at all. Christ, I'm 26 and the biggest struggle I have is with my body. I'm constantly fixating on it. How to make it appear better, how to MAKE it better. How to make it so that I'm comfortable. How to make it so that I actually ENJOY walking around naked again. Even if this means subsisting on liquids, laxatives, snow peas and skim milk. Yes, I know that skim milk is a liquid. Will I ever grow up? Ever?

The little dog runs around the apartment as if she owns it. She's made it her own, as she has the world. It's at her beck and call. She brings her toy when she wants to play, jumps into the girl's lap when she wants to be petted, climbs onto the couch or chair and puts her paws on the girl's head when she wants to walk, curls up on her spot on the couch when it's time for them to sleep, peeks her head around the shower curtain with pleading eyes begging, "Don't forget I'm here, okay?" Silly, dog.

Black, black, black coffee in bed. Christ, could there be a more annoying mantra stuck in my head? No, there couldn't. I'm not even drinking black coffee. Mine has some skim milk in it, but no sweet & lo because I'm out. Which makes me think of my mother who used to put extras in her purse. Weird. I could really use some sweet & lo at the moment. I could also another few seconds of sleep to finish that dream I was having. Mmmmmmmm... it was nice. I miss the boy I dreamed. Black, black, black coffee in bed.

For some reason, the fact that my entry is the twentieth has caused me to feel like I should do something special. But since it's not the twentieth (I was a lameass this month), I will hold off on the special stuff until next month. I think for December I will try to write each day about the number day it is. I will write about 6 packs, noon, the length of a week, my age (christ, some day soon that won't appear in a month), my 2 cats, my 1 dog. But what is there to say about 17?

Let's talk more about the theme month I will do. I could do one thing that happened at each age. I could do one thing that starts with each letter. The letter that starts the day, not the freaking alphabet. This might get confusing and I am very easily confused. So far each of my sentences has had ten words. This sentence also has ten words in it, count them! Wow, I am in the mood be irritating today, eh? Don't even say that "eh" isn't a word, you jerk! Someone should take me outside and shoot me right now.

R---, upstairs, is the most sad existance I know at the moment. There's GOT to be a story there... I think there's a son somewhere. Boston? He sells cars (used?) somewhere over the border in Mass., probably Pittsfield. He often gets very drunk and VERY noisy, confusing my apartment with his and banging frantically on my door while using his key. Yet he gets pissed when I have people over. The first summer I saw him at Carmody's often. But I went there less this summer, and maybe he did, too. Did I mention that he deals from his apartment?

I remember that night so well, shame it was so pointless. I was wearing the prettiest purple and black skirt and looking amazing and he helped me put my watch on. I was taking him to Smith and Wollensky to celebrate his black belt, and in my mind, to salvage the relationship. The relationship I would have killed for. I loved him more than anything at that point, and I wasn't beautiful that night because of the skirt or shoes but because I was so radiant with joy. Christ, it amazed me how much effort went into that one night.

I think I have to go GeoCaching this weekend. I don't know when, but I seriously feel the need. It has been a ridiculously long time and I might as well since I get so bored there, anyway. I'm leaving straight from school tomorrow. We have a half day. I suppose that means I need to get my car packed this afternoon. What a pain. I have to pack so much extra shit for the dog it's not even funny. But she's funny. God, I love her. I have to remember to feed the cats. And leave them water. Hmmm.

Wow. It's the 25th. I just wrote starting with 20. I've been bad this month, it almost feels weird to be all caught up. I mean I have slacked and slacked that it's kind of sad to catch up. I do enjoy the occassional fit of slacking. My cough is nasty and gross and goes all the way down to my belly. How am I ever going to find the energy to drive all the way home? Oh well, at least I'll get a change of scenery. Do grades, go shopping. Play my piano. Sigh. I miss my piano terribly.

I ventured back to work today. Almost did yesterday but I was still too sick. I went in for the half day and was shocked at how few people asked how I was, and instead asked if I could do this, or that, or the other. It's good to be important. No, it's really not. It sucks. I just want people to miss me when I'm gone, smile at me when I'm there and stop expecting me to be superman. I've become the person they seek out to fix the troubles that their irresponsibility and incompetence has caused for themselves.

Driving south on seven, close to where Mass. becomes Connecticut I saw the cop driving north. Immediately I was aware of the fact that one headlight was out (the right), I wasn't wearing my seatbelt and I was going a teeny bit over the speed limit. He immediately turned around and began to follow me. And I kept cursing at him in my rearview (just pull me over, mother fucker). But nooooooo... he followed me for nearly two miles before pulling me over. What's the rush? Where am I going? Am I aware that I'm going 75 in a 55?

After driving through the rain and fog we come upon Frost Mill Road and I remember it from the directions. We go a ways (so this is what the other side of the lake looks like - I've wondered since I was a kid) and come upon the preserve. It's closed on Fridays. So, we park illegally across the street. Then we hop the fence. There's a big sign proclaiming no dogs to where Mugsy immediately runs after I undo her leash. She takes a huge poo right there. I chuckle. It's true! You can take the girl out of Brooklyn...

The voice on the machine takes me by surprise - I really didn't expect to hear from him. "Please call"... "Things to say". The pit of my stomach defines itself... moreso as I dial. It will be sad. he's realized it's never going to work. I call. Leave a message. He calls back; leaves a message. I call, we are awkward. He DOES want to try - he DID have a problem letting go of her - stopped him from being mine completely. The best part? Not the words, not the promise of no secrets, of normalcy. The best part? His laugh.

Over the long weekend my mother and I played a ridiculous amount of Scrabble. I can't remember the last time we got along so well. A time when we both weren't completely high strung. She tried to pass off words like savy (savvy) and hoer (one who hoes) while we listened to "Into the Woods" (which she doesn't appreciate as much as she should) and John Denver and the muppets Rocky Mountain Christmas -- of which we'll never tire. I even made her play with me during coffee yesterday morning before packing the car, coming back to Vermont. She won.