"Insanity runs in my family. It practically gallops."*

   I’m on drugs again.

   You know what I mean…the sanity kind. Not the needle or powder kinds. In case you were wondering. Or are prone to conclusion jumping. My life hasn’t torpedoed quite that drastically (yet).

   I went cold turkey on the sanity pills for two full months before I realized that I’m just not a worthwhile human being without medication. In some ways that fact makes me feel sad and inferior. But these new Steve Austin pills make me better, stronger, faster…and maybe a little bit…what’s the word?...sane? Ouisa suggested that instead of looking at it as though I’m inherently flawed and require medication, I should think of it as if I’m really great and the meds bring that out in all its beautiful nuances. She’s really nice. She should be in PR.

   So but anyways, during the in-betweens time (between being un-medicated and then medicated again), I felt like my brain was the open, abandoned farmland for a scary carnival, replete with all the things that scare me: clowns, spiders, mirrors, axes, etc. Like my brain was the perfect setting for a horror film or Stephen King novel. I drew a picture of my brain for you:

A Rorschach image of the inside of my twisted brain.

   I can’t begin to explain how much this picture is nicer than the place inside my head,

   Am I scaring you?

   Sorry.

   And I don’t want to be weird, but I keep hearing Tom Petty’s “Free Falling” every time I turn on the radio. How is that possible? I do not exaggerate when I say that I’ve heard that song at least once a day on the radio (on different stations) since I’ve been in Omaha. It can’t be pure coincidence. But then again…if the universe is sending me a sign, it’s a bit on-the-nose, don’t you think? Okay, yeah, I get it, Universe, I’m free falling. Good grief. Try to add a little mystery to the symbolism, would you?

   So, yeah, anyhow, I’m trying to put my proverbial ducks in a row and write on the regular, but when you’re busy free falling and entertaining circus folk in your brain there isn’t a butt-load of time for that kind of shit.

   But I’m gonna shoot for a more regular schedule, now that the clowns are dead.

*Arsenic and Old Lace: Frank Capra, 1944.

"Sanity and happiness are an impossible combination."*

   Good grief I’ve been lazy the last few weeks. I apologize. I’ve been in Omaha and you all know how that usually goes. See, in Omaha I have what is known by the general population as “A Social Life.” Since I don’t have much of one in Los Angeles, I have lots more time to write when I’m there. And since I don’t have much of one in Los Angeles, it is important to take full advantage of the one I have when I’m in Omaha. My life is really sad and pathetic. 

   Anyway, I’m going to ease back into blogging and not overwhelm your senses with my super insightful musings on life today. I have lots of pictures of stuff to show you from my last week in Omaha, but today I just want to share a couple from my bedroom.
   Here’s a book my parents bought me in junior high that makes me feel like laughing and sobbing at the same time. The title pretty much says it all:

   It's pretty clear that I wasn't feeling too happy in seventh grade and it's nice to know that my parents were doing what they could to cheer me up. Namely, buying me literature so I could read about how to get better. That's kind of the way we did things growing up at the Rouse House. You got a math problem? Here's a book about Algebra! You want to learn computer programming? I found a great book about DOS. You have a leg cramp? Here's a copy of Curing Your Leg Cramp for Dummies! I guess the theory is that most things can be fixed by doing the research. Thus the book on how to cure crippling sadness if seventh grade is sucking your will to live.
   But why was I so insecure? Because look: what's this bookmark?

 I'll show you what it is:

   It's my ribbon for First Honors. How could I have suffered from low self-esteem when my grades were so good? Could it have been the fact that my forehead, nose, and extremities were enormous and my hair was constantly greasy and I had gotten my period but not my boobs and there were constantly at least two zits on my chin and I could never be sure if my friends would still be my friends on any given day? I don't think that's enough to make a seventh grader sad: all junior high kids really care about is good grades, right?
   Still, it's nice to know that I read that book and all my problems were solved that very same year. (Coincidentally, this was also the year I began taking anti-depressants. But I'm pretty sure it was the book that turned things around.)
   Anyway, that's just one of the many treasures I've unearthed here in my parents' house in Omaha since I've been back. I will be updating on a more regular basis now that the holidays are essentially gone along with all my friends and my social life. 
   (Notice how much more cheerful a person I am nowadays?)

*The quote is from Mark Twain. I'm not sure what the implications are for my life...I guess I'm either insane and happy or sane and miserable? Most likely it's the former.

"I always thought the saddest feeling in life is when you're dancing in a really joyful way and then you hit your head on something."*

   I know what makes being a stripper so hard: it’s the dancing.

   Every time I see a scene in a movie or television series that takes place in a strip joint, I start watching the dancers' moves to determine what the budget was on said movie or TV show.

   If the budget is low, or it’s a half-hour comedy, the strippers will be terrible dancers. That’s because they aren’t really strippers, they’re extras who’ve agreed to get semi-nude in the hopes of one day getting their S.A.G. card.

   If the budget is high, the dancers will probably get naked and the dancing will be phenomenal because they’ve either hired real strippers for the scene and maybe shot on location in a strip club or they hired a stripper to train a famous actress to dance convincingly: Demi Moore in Striptease or Natalie Portman in Closer are good examples. Or Jessie Spano a.k.a. Elizabeth Berkeley in Showgirls, if you like (and I know I do).

   But if you watch an actual stripper dance, you can see that they are quite good at what they do and very unselfconscious about their movements and the exposure of their body parts. Especially if there’s a stripper pole involved because good lord, that looks tough (but I heard that their shoes are magnetic, so that probably helps a little bit).

   But I don’t think the nudity is really what keeps the majority of women (or men) away from stripping. I think it’s the dancing. Taking off your clothes is easy: we all do it every day. But dancing around while you’re taking off your clothes is hard: it probably feels silly and forced. And more than that, if you’re a bad dancer, you probably worry that everyone is judging your moves rather than focusing on your exposed vagina/penis. (Though I’m pretty sure they’re doing both.)

   I would like to see a stripper that is not a dancer. And I’m not talking Gypsy Rose Lee: she had a burlesque routine going on and while it wasn’t quite dancing, it was pretty darn choreographed. But what about a stripper who just comes out onto the stage, sits on a chair, and takes her (or his) clothes off? There could still be loud music playing so it’s not totally dead in the room, but no dancing or crawling around like a tiger. Just walk in, take your clothes off, and take a bow. Maybe stand there for a minute so the crowd can soak it all in like a solemn moment at a memorial service. Then flash some jazz hands as though to say, “Ta-da” and pick up your clothes and saunter back out. Or put your clothes back on and saunter out. A reverse strip tease! Wouldn’t that be something? It could be “performed” to the song “Eye of the Tiger” or “Working for the Weekend”** to give it some real oomph.

   In other (unrelated) news, my parents both called me in regards to my previous post. I felt guilty because I thought they were worried that I was sad and that they were calling to make sure I wasn’t in need of some professional psychiatric help. Or calling to make sure I wasn’t so crazy depressed as to run out and start stripping and crying at the same time (like Coco in Fame).

   Well, they were, in fact, worried but they were only worried about my battle with the diarrhea. Ah, they know me so well. Because, you see, I’m a product of their collective gene pools and they know how I feel about regularity because they feel the exact same way. And in an odd sense, that cheered me up much more than anything else has in the last few days. You will also be relieved to know that things have cleared up in my intestines. But now I have a cold.

Here's how much my Momma loves me: she sent me a huge supply of facial tissues. To use whenever I want! Like a rich person! Unfortunately, they're currently being put to use on this cold. But look at all the extras I'll have when I'm well!

   And when I was putting away my groceries this afternoon, I dropped the grocery bag with only one item remaining in it: a bottle of red wine. It shattered into a quadrillion pieces and bled through the bag and all over the floor and crept behind the fridge to get at the power cord. And when I moved the bag to the sink, it splashed all over the counter and the cabinets. It looked like a goddamn murder scene. When I started cleaning it, I ran out of paper towels and started using kitchen towels. I decided to just throw the kitchen towels away because I have nowhere to put them until I next do laundry and I’ll be damned if my clothes hamper is going to smell like a distillery the way my kitchen does. Also my floors are incredibly sticky. But good news: I did not electrocute myself while cleaning the wine away from the refrigerator cord. AND it’s much, much cleaner under my refrigerator. It was gnarly under there, I’m not gonna lie.

   The best part: the wine was shattered inside a bag, so I didn’t end up stomping through glass and adding real, live human blood to the crime scene. The worst part: none of the wine was salvageable. 

The remains of the wine. It would've been weird if I'd taken a picture DURING the catastrophe, no matter how artistic.

   I’d like to philosophize about the wine debacle moment. I think that when I’m feeling blue I create more drama for myself through the sheer powers of negative thought. I’ve heard people say that the opposite is possible as well, but how do I begin to dig myself out of this trench of self-inflicted poopiness?

   Which leads me, albeit sloppily, back to my initial thought: I would love to see someone stripping without dancing. I think that would really make me chuckle and put my life problems into some legitimate perspective (hey, at least I'm not a stripper!). And yeah, that’s probably not going to happen, so I just gotta ride this out like the Great Shit Storm of 2006-2007,*** and know that things will eventually get better.

*The quote is Lena Dunham, my imaginary BFF. 

**Lover Boy's classic "Working for the Weekend" is also the song in a great stripping scene from S.N.L. featuring the late Chris Farley and the late Patrick Swayze. Such a good sketch. Such great actors. For serious.

***I may talk about the Great Shit Storm at some point, but suffice it to say I had a run of really bad luck during this time that lasted about 6 months. It was so bad, I almost joined the Church of Scientology.