Log Me the F*** In

If I have to create or remember another username and a password for ONE more fricking website, I'm going to literally rip off my own head and shit down my neck.

I can't remember all of my passwords or usernames to the 50 gazillion websites I "have" to log on to on a minute-by-minute basis. Some sites require at least seven characters. Some sites require seven characters, plus a number and a sign language hand signal and the nickname for your mother's ass. Then, there are the sites that like you to mix it up and periodically change your password and/or username just so you can shuffle your brain around into one big hemorrhaging mess.

Yes, I know you are thinking, when she tries to login, why doesn't she just check the box that says "remember me?"

Oh, the "remember me" trick will only go so far. This invention thing called computers will occasionally and only remember my username, so, when I attempt to log on to my important shopping-social networking-bill paying-bank account viewing-dating-email-blogging-job hunting WEBSITES, I can't remember my password and my mind becomes jumbled and I start to hear voices in my head so I can RETRIEVE my password:

"No, no, no! This is the site where you had to tell them your favorite color, remember? But what was my favorite color at that time? I think it was purple. Yeah, purple. Wait, no. Maybe I said blue? Oh yes! Now I remember. This was the site that asked where my mother was born. Did I say the city or the state where my Mother was born? I think I said the city. Hmmmm. Wait! Maybe this was the site where I gave them my middle name and favorite number as my password and username? Or, was it the other way around? But, I have more than one favorite number. Was this the site where I had to pick a three-digit security number? I know I don't have a favorite three-digit number. I only have a favorite one-digit number or two-digit number but not a three-digit one. Who the hell has a favorite three-digit number anyway?"

By the time I figure out the "security" question answer and the computer looks back at me and says that my password and username information has been sent to my registered e-mail account for the site, I can't REMEMBER which e-mail I gave the site.

"Was it my junk e-mail address? Or did I give them my new one or the old one that I have on AOL? No I think it was the Yahoo one. But I can't remember the password anymore to my Yahoo account, so Yahoo will have to send me my password again. But what alternate e-mail did I give at my Yahoo address? Was it my AOL e-mail address? I think I gave my work address. But they just gave me a new password for my work address through Outlook so I can't access the server from home! What am I going to do? OK OK. Calm down. Breathe. You really don't need that book on different sex positions. You can figure the positions out just fine. Oh! NOW I remember. I gave my old Hotmail address to Yahoo! Yeah, the one with that old password you used to use when you lived in Italy! But wait, that password was in Italian I'm sure. And remember you have an American keyboard now so you can't put the accent mark above the letter E!"

I currently have eight different windows open on my desktop and I'm trying to buy something with PayPal but I can't remember my PayPal account information.

"Was it my credit card or debit card? If it was my debit card, which debit card was it? Was it my Citibank or Washington Mutual? Maybe I gave them the old one from Texas? But what was the security number on the back of that card? There's NO way I can remember that. I can't even remember the pin number to that card! Does my Mom maybe have it? I think the security code might be in that old wallet in that small box that I finally brought here to NY from my parent's house! But wait. Didn't I throw that box away?"

OK. Now I'm logging OUT.

For Your Oral Fixation

Again, I have no legitimate excuse for not typing my meanderings, except for the sheer fact that I haven't really wanted to face the intricate maze and tangled web of crazy happenings I've experienced over the past few weeks.

In between the glamorous parties and gallons of free drinks and cute boys and phone numbers and high heels and "you're hot, you're beautiful" and business cards and dancing and being invited to join this somewhat exclusive snobby site... I am trying to take these days to let it all absorb into my being, like a big frothy wet soaking sponge.

I'm trying to comprehend the actual point of manifesting so many men at once.

Could it be for business networking? For a new job that I keep hoping and fantasizing will land in my lap? Fun? Frivolity? Or is it a form of masochism? Am I subconsciously trying to make such a complicated mess with these men that soon I will want to pack my bags and go live in a cave for the rest of my life?

I have gotten to the point where all of the men I've met have morphed into some insane, spinning devilish beast, screaming and howling at me in my dreams to have a drink and go to dinner and come to his party or art opening.

On top of the erratic, deeply unsatisfiable boy craziness, I'm STILL continuing to see suck-my-face Kosovo Club Boy. The words "I Love You" have come out of his mouth four times.

It's really a mystery to me.

Not only has he shown up to a party and witnessed me licking an Italian boy's face, but, sometimes I don't call him back and accidentally "miss" his text messages, and I innocently flirt with other men in front of him.

And, I stood him up last week because I drunkenly got too drunk and ended up THROWING UP IN THE BACK SEAT OF A CAB.

That's right. I can now say I stupidly mixed rum and vodka and my stomach swelled to the point of explosion and I BLEW CHUNKS onto the floorboard of a cab at 4 in the morning.

I'm 27 years old.

Not that that means anything, but, I'm 27 years old. I think it was long overdue that I finally regurgitated my insides out onto moving public property.

I feel extremely ashamed and mortified, yet, so proud and accomplished.

After all of the vomit, on an oral note, I felt so guilty about the lack of attention and care that I have given sweet, precious Kosovo Club Boy that last week, I finally, finally, finally gave in and gave him oral sex out of gut wrenching guilt.

Is it just me or is oral sex a bit awkward? Embarrassing? I know, I know, there's supposedly a glorious art to it, but really, it's just a penis. How artful and creative can you get? What's next? Should I knit the thing a hat too?

I much prefer sex.

Kosovo Club Boy hugged me tight after our awkward rendezvous and looked me in the eyes and said: "Just be yourself."

WTF? Have I not been being myself this past month? Is that what he meant? And, why did he say this after...after...a blow job?

I frankly don't know where this is going with Kosovo Club Boy. He might be getting too close.

He just might see the real me and my vulnerability and my shyness and my sensitivity and my worriedness and my seriousness and my obsessive ability to question every circumstance and overlook the fact that...I have become compulsively self-centered.

I often debate the fact on whether this city has caused my self-centeredness while thinking about myself as I chain smoke on the front steps of my apartment, a sort of gathering place for all of the weirdos in my building.

One of the weirdos, a 50-something, balding 5'2" ego maniac of a man who thinks he's god's gift to women, loves to interrupt me every time I'm blissfully enjoying my nicotine.

The Old Gimp loves to tell me stories about all of the famous people he knows (which implies that he doesn't know them) and he talks like he's on speed.

I thought it was a bit odd that the day after Kosovo Club Boy came over and told me to "be myself," The Old Gimp handed me a grape-flavored Blow Pop.

Then, yesterday The Old Gimp gave me a handful of Starbursts as he muttered: "For your oral fixation."

I then suddenly remembered that I do sort of have see through curtains in my bedroom.

Maybe I should start scoping out some caves where I can hide.

Or, maybe I should really start being myself. Whatever that means.