Today as well. Whatever, I know it’s probably bullshit, but I like the idea of being pegged.

Taurus (April 20-May 20): You are a creature of habit, which is why today will have its uncomfortable moments. Things will settle down in due course.

I think that the LA Times’ astrologer is creepy sometimes. Like today!

Taurus (April 20-May 20): You can remember who you were before you met the person you love. But old memories never crackle like the present. Celebrate who you are now with your favorite person.

What is “crackle” supposed to mean?

I’m glad that’s over. And sorry, too. I think they’re both appropriate emotions.

First off, I need to stop talking to other people with the purpose of seeking approval.

Second, I should definitely not talk to my coworkers. Especially the particular coworker. I barely trust her judgment in everyday work situations, so why should I question her about something that might actually mean something to me outside the realm of the office?

Third, her relationship — and any relationship, for that matter — is not my relationship. I believe I acted correctly, and in the best interests of those parties involved. If not correctly, then with what I perceived to be justified actions that would spare the significant other from unnecessary and unwarranted torment. To compare myself to others and find myself unworthy is already something I do on my own on an everyday basis, thank you very much. I don’t need help in finding fault in myself and my actions, however misguided.

Fourth, clearly the only problem is my guilt, and if the above stands, then I should have none. But as anyone who knows me could tell you, to ask me to let go of guilt is a pointless endeavor. The only solution is for memory to take its course and drop the non-incident from its records. I’ll put in a request.

For the moment. Surely not for long. Soon I’ll embarrass myself and regret it. You just wait and see.

It would be nice if I wasn’t always threatening your security in some way.

Okay, I realize that last year I wrote a blog post called Self-medicating criticizing the medical marijuana movement, particularly those poor saps that come up with bullshit reasons to get scrips for medical marijuana.

I became one of those saps last September.

Well, here’s the thing. I really like smoking weed. A lot. And certain circumstances arose that seemed to make applying for a prescription look like a good option. I think I was mostly bothered that I was getting my weed illegally (like almost all of America gets theirs) and thought that if I could get a prescription, then hey, good for me. So I prepped for the appointment. Don’t mention smoking it, doctors don’t take you seriously if you say you want to unhealthily smoke a substance. Ask questions. Look concerned. Come up with a good fucking reason. I did all of these things. And I got into that office, and hey, I suddenly needed this scrip because I was stressed out at work.

In fact, I was stressed out. My job was killing me. Of course, I could have just gotten out of the industry I work in and found another, less-stressful job. I could have spoken with my actual doctor about the whole thing. I could have even heeded my boss’ always-right suggestions to do yoga and get more exercise (ha!). But you know, that doctor sat there and talked to me for 30 minutes about my job and my past history and his past history and why pot worked for him. I was so enthused that he was so enthused about my drug use that I actually walked out of the office with my completed paperwork, up to my car on Westwood Boulevard that was in the process of getting a parking ticket, and was so nice and understanding to the parking cop that he shook my hand and told me to not worry about the ticket. My appreciation for African-Americans increased 20% that day (it fluctuates).

Well, that day was a good day. And most days after were great days, because I got hella stoned every fucking day. And boy, did I spend my money. I think I made more bad financial decisions just because I wanted to buy Diablo or True OG instead of the cheaper stuff, and ran up quite the debt to my petty cash float because I never had cash on me. Beautiful days, all of them. And then I got a cough.

Well, the cough sucked. And it was incredibly persistent. It had been bad enough before I got the prescription, but with the much more frequent smoking, it got a lot worse. I started to cough up resin, which was at once a sobering and very fascinating development. But I didn’t want to go a day without it.

My boyfriend started to get heart palpitations when we smoked, and to be honest I’m not sure if it was the weed that caused it, but it was enough to scare him. A few weeks ago, he swore off the stuff. And as the girlfriend, I complied. I guess it was good that it was sudden, because I didn’t really want to know which bowl was my last bowl. And you know what? It’s probably the best possible thing that could have happened. The show I was working on finished up right about then, and I didn’t have another job coming up for several weeks, so from a financial standpoint, the timing couldn’t be better. We went from completely anti-social to going out and having a good time. I’m finding ways to fill the time. And hey, I can actually breathe again. The cough that I’d harbored for eighteen months is almost completely gone.

Pot-free for thirteen days and counting. I aim to keep it clean until I get another steady job, and I’m resolved to never get back to the unhealthy point again. I’m looking forward to being a casual pot smoker again, and I don’t intend to get my prescription renewed this September. I’m hoping limiting my access to easy pot will make it more difficult for me to spend my hard-earned cash. So I guess I’ve gone full-circle. I still think most people getting these prescriptions are, like me, completely fooling themselves, either knowingly or unknowingly. But it’s nice to be truthful with myself. I know that when I smoke now, I’m doing it just to smoke, and I can enjoy myself. And for the stress, well… I have two unlimited weeks of yoga to try out.

I’m a bit of a packrat. I still have stuff hanging on my walls from high school, and I keep it around out of guilt (my motivation for all things in life). I don’t need it, and the sentimentality is gone, but still the shit stays. There eventually comes a time when I think logically, and say to myself, “Self, why the hell are you keeping that stupid ad you cut out of a magazine taped to the refrigerator? Sure, you were into all things Scottish at a point in time (10 years ago), but why keep that silly Dewars ad?” And then I trash it.

Inevitably, after it’s been thrown away, never again to be seen, I have pangs of guilt. WHY?! Why the guilt? So stupid. Ads don’t have feelings, and I don’t have a particular nostalgia for my teens. I just need a moment of cold, callous logic to actually pry the thing from the fridge, or the wall (Oh, the walls–I have far too many movie posters that don’t belong in my bedroom. I only ever saw Trainspotting once, dammit.),  because I know that I’ll end up regretting it at some point, and it’s better for it to be thrown away than stashed in a Doc Martens shoebox underneath my bed. Or on my walls or fridge, for that matter.

I should probably also take this time to note that I can scarcely throw a pen or pencil away without a brief yet intense moral dilemma about whether or not I should get rid of it. Will I use it? What if it’s disappointed in me? What if it never finds another home?

Meh, this is how it goes. Eventually I hope to be rid of my emotions entirely, especially when dealing with bric-a-brac. There’s no room for love in decorating.

Breakups are like a violent return to yourself. When someone else breaks up with you, obviously. Because when you break up with whoever you’re with, it’s not at all the same as when they break up with you. I know we all know that, but I thought for clarity’s sake I would just set the record straight, lest I be misunderstood and have to argue my point. I’m not a giant fan of that sort of thing.

Personally, when I think back to previous breakups, they’re classically bittersweet moments. I’m a mental masochist, so part of me is always yearning for something awful to happen, and breakups really satisfy that fucked-up need for chaos and depression. But that said, they’re still kind of beautiful, in a way. Which brings me back to my first observation before clarification: the violent return to yourself.

In the millisecond before the axe falls, suddenly a flurry of activity from a brain once dulled by love and the aching to be loved back. A million thoughts at once, a thousand feelings, and the intense need to explode and be nothing. Be everywhere. You want to drive, you want to run, you want to scream. Incredible feelings, all of them. But the best part is that it’s all you, unmasked, unloved. This is how you were before the compromise and the acting, before you second-guessed every little movement, word, kiss, and orgasm. Well, fake orgasm. You’re really that person. At least, I am. I’m pissed off and violent, angry and alone, but deeply at peace. In the moment, you accept yourself tearfully — This is it. It’s just me. This is how it will be forever. You may mourn, but honestly, why? Why, when you feel more free and full of potential than you ever had in the months, weeks, or years before this great collapse of your security and the betrayal of what you had feared or not expected? All at once, you want to go to the gym, get a haircut, finally get your library card and move to another city. You want to deprive yourself, punish yourself, better yourself.

The moment passes. Was it a second or a day? The real sadness here is that what you lose afterward is that impetus, the burning fury in your mind that probably could have helped you really be happy with yourself, alone. It yields to other things too easily, I guess. For some reason, the opposite happens, or tends to. You don’t run, you don’t drive, you don’t cut and color. Your address will be the same for the next ten years. For a second there, you weren’t stuck, and anything was possible. You missed the window.

But you were alive for a day, you know.

I’d like to test the scope of this blog through this post by exploring not only hating, but acting on your hate. Let’s begin.

I know a lot of people who would opt for a gun in a one-on-one conflict with a hostile person, animal, or immobile object. I see their point. Guns kill things. They’re small enough to be able to carry them in a concealed manner. Some guns are pretty nice looking, too. But for me, a gun is simply not satisfying enough. No, not at all.

People who know me or who have been around me for some period of time lasting more than 72 hours have already heard me speak on this subject and are fully aware of my preferences when it comes to weaponry. It seems to me that nary a week goes by that I don’t remind myself that I really do need to buy me one of these and keep it in my car. And not two seconds after I say this aloud, my boss inevitably says, “I really think you shouldn’t.” I believe she’s worried for the people that I might choose to practice on.

What is this weapon, you ask? Well, I’d love a cricket bat. Just because cricket does seem a little more obscure and European, not quite as everyday as a baseball bat. Although a nice, aluminum baseball bat would also be pretty great.

I think that very little would be more satisfying than having some asshole come up to you in a threatening manner, actually threaten you, essentially open the door to a beating, and give you cause to reach into your back seat for a large piece of shaped wood you affectionately call Nigel, whereby you can either threaten the ruffian back, or you can go ahead and take a swing. Just think of how completely delightful it would feel! It would make the most sickening THWACK! I also sort-of like that you can keep going to town without killing them in an instant, and that a bat doesn’t need reloading.

I really must get me one of those.