sigh.

i've been feeling a little dark lately. been trying my best to keep my spirits high, cover up any mopeyness. instead, i've just been drinking myself into a series of more blackouts than i'd like to admit. making an ass out of myself. so there's highs and lows. drunk, or locked away in my closed off bedroom. ignoring calls. texts. internet. i'm starting to kinda scare myself a little bit. sometimes i can't tell the difference between my nightmares and reality. how deep, right? not really. just sort of pathetic.

i KNOW i'm the key to my happiness. i just gotta get up off my ass, out in the world outside the confinement of my bedroom walls. apply to more jobs. look for apartments. fuck, leave town for a bit. i ain't got shit here holding me for a while. i could go hop on the next megabus and trek to madison. or minneapolis. fuck, anywhere. but i don't even have the energy to entertain those ideas. instead, i sleep. i sleep probably 18 hours a day. i wish i was kidding, but i'm not. sleep is the easiest escape.

i feel like i'm steering down a slope of insanity. this is all bullshit, i'm sure, but i'm not feeling right. i can't outwardly say this to any of my friends because i get the same reaction anytime i try to hint something isn't right with me, the old "don't worry jodi it'll all be ok, you're smart and pretty things will get better." what they don't know is, my head disagrees with these generic notions. if i had healthcare, i'd more likely be back on anxiety meds in a heartbeat.

i had it "all." or at least, a good chunk of what a 27 year old's supposed to. but here i am now, irresponsible, lethargic, selfish, miserable and alone. i'm trying to write it out. find a job. pick up hobbies. get craft night/book club back up and running. join chirp. get a waitressing gig. fuck, anything, to force me out of this room. but nothing seems to work out. i just keep clinging to false premonitions, thinking time will work things out. this is just a "slump." but not to get all creepy and pity train or whatever, but i've been having some pretty scary shit running through my head lately. i just want to write it out before i self destruct.

even music isn't enough for me anymore. the only day to day contact i'm guaranteed to keep is with my cat. i always knew i'd be a crazy cat lady, but i anticipated that time to come in my spinster 40's or 50's, not late 20's. how do i continue to fake it? put on this fake smile and keep on dancing the happy life parade? i'm not trying to seek pity here, i just really need to know. how does it all work out? talking to people doesn't work. sleeping doesn't make any of the hardships disappear for more than the time of unconcsiousness. my family doesn't give a shit. i can write and write and write, but reality's still stagnant.

do i move? do i meet new people? neither of these seem a viable or realistic option given my state of mind. i just miss yesterday. or next week. or whenever the hell i'll meet someone who can make me smile. give me something to do other than sleep and hide in this bedroom. being a 27 year old unemployed single soon to be homeless person really sucks.

that is all. with this, i will either crank up the a/c and crawl back in bed despite being awake a mere hour and a half or put on a pair of pants.

i'm telling you all now. . . .

don't waste your time with chuck palhiniuk's latest novel, tell all. i kinda had a hunch i would yet again fail to be wowed with his newest release, given that i hadn't heard the slightest buzz about a new book period, but then again after the weak terrorist pygmy and even weaker pornstar smut snuff, i'm not surprised. and to think, with such genius reads as choke, invisible monsters, haunted, lullaby, hell even survivor and diary, (although ironically while fight club tops my fave movie list, it's the only novel i couldn't even finish of his). i don't know, he used to easily be my favorite author. but now, it seems dude's more set on pushing out a new book every year like clockwork. as a result, he's just clinging to his whole kitsch, off-beat if-you-don't-get-it-then-you're-just-not-understanding-my-hip-art whateverness and is overproducing shitty reads.

who knows, if you're a die hard palhiniuk fan, maybe you will dig tell all, but i know i didn't. then again, i need to remind myself why did i just spend my entire sunny summer friday locked in my bedroom, holed up under the covers with the a/c blasting reading this 179 page number front to back in one sitting? because i'm unemployed. and bored. and hopeful. was hoping it would at least turn into something worthwhile. but really, once you're halfway into this tale, you know the ending/twist. it's so palihiniuk formula predictable. narrator isn't who she/he says she/he is. turns out to be what you would NEVER (or i guess now, what your first guess would be) guess they would turn out to be. HOW SHOCKING. oh, and throw in a bunch of annoying narrative tools where homeboy describes any conversation other than what the narrator (the maid) is conversing as animal sounds. *cluck, moo, growl* annoying and unneccesary.

basic premise is: aging out of limelight movie star. she has a live-in maid/friend/caretaker, whatever. a slew of ex-husbands ('was-bands'). she hasn't had any relevant work in a while. meets some hot-to-trot younger dude who romances her. blah blah blah. the beau writes a novel about her, exploiting actress and plots her death, with a new revision every few days of a new twist of death. actress gets work in a broadway type play. successful. looks like her psycho killer boyfriend is bringing her back to life with her fear. and then oh my god guess what????? (SPOILER ALERT). boyfriend never wrote book. maid/friend did. and then she kills them both so it looks like he did it. maid/friend writes her own book claiming it an autobiography. success. oh, how sneaky palhiniuk, you totally had me foiled there.

goddamn it all to hell. why didn't i just go to the beach? even missed salt n pepa at taste of chicago. that's it, i'm never reading another book EVER AGAIN.

ummm. . . .

setting: in line at the cardinal liquor store. young sexy girl (me) lifts a 6 pack of orangey bottled beer and 6 pack of high life on counter. non-english speaking new employee who doesn't recognize our heroine asks for her identification and begins ringing her up. old friendly looking man with silver mustache and trucker's cap stands behind sexy girl in line.

old friendly looking man: "them new?"
young sexy girl: "huh?:
oflm: "tattoos, on yer feet"
ysg: "oh, no" (awkward chuckle, turns away to pay with credit card)
oflm: "say, what's that one?"
ysg: "what's that?"
oflm: "the black thingies on yer foot, what is that?"
ysg: "oh, umm, a cat skull."
oflm: (blank look at ysg) "what's below it der?"
ysg: (awkward smile) "crossbones, a cat skull with crossbones"
oflm: (blank confused stare, no response)
ysg: (turns away, signs credit card receipt and runs away)

yap, this about sums up my social interaction for the day.

i need to move to canada, probably.

maybe it's the rain storm. maybe it's my quarter life hump of what-the-fuck-am-i-doing-with-my-life-and-why-doesn't-anyone-love-me crisis. maybe it's because i'm rocking a denim jumper. or shouldn't be drinking red wine alone. or perhaps it's most simply, because i have a vagina.

whatever it is, i'm totally feeling tegan and sara right now. i think my fave record of theirs has to be 'if it was you,' their older one that rocks 'living room,' 'monday, monday' and 'time running.' 2002, it was. although i didn't really feel it til 2004 or so. god. such simple little dykey indie jams. lesbian canuck twin sisters with obscure haircuts. they make me feel so. . . .something. wishful to be a lezbot maybe? i dunno.

i think that everyone should have to listen to this album at least once. but that's just me. i wish my roommate wasn't home right now. because then i could strip off all my clothes and scream my guts out, dancing my ass off to my cat. well, i guess i can always wait until she goes to work tomorrow, or just do this in my room instead of the entire apartment hallway. but where's the fun in that?

can any of ya'll tell it's been a few days since i've been social? stupid weather. . . i should just move to canada and live with the quinn sisters. make them let me join their band. give me a job. run away from all the lame staleness surrounding me. and then i could impress them with how i know all the words to 'so jealous,' 'the con' and 'if it was you.' (but not 'sainthood,' cuz that record kinda sucks).

i luv this pretty baby.

she makes me never want a job ever again. miss molly is my lyfe.

men i want to date : sean daley

it's been a few days since i've rambled about a dream crush. i guess i've been too lazy to daydream or masturbate or something. flipping through my itunes,  i just got done rocking some andrew bird, and scrolling down, boom. it hits me. atmosphere. how many years have i been crushing on mr. daley now anyway? like 7? fuck man, ever since my pal burnt me a copy of god loves ugly, i've been smitten with slug's rhymes and beats. midwest represent, ya'lllllll.

reasons i want to date sean daley/slug/atmosphere:

1. he is so super nice it's fucking ridiculous.
2. after i wrote a review of his show at the vic a few years back, he found me on myspace and messaged me thanking me for such a nice review, closing out the msg "stay safe jodester". JODESTER. i nearly died. any man who calls me jodester is a-ok in my heart (and panties.) *minus any childhood friends or relatives, of course.
3. his live shows are some of the best performances i've ever seen
4. he could introduce me to p.o.s (another future man jodi would like to date)
5. i could crash at his place whenever i visit my friends in mpls instead of having to call 5 diff people and impose on their sofas
6. free entrance to first ave, duh
7. i could have him rap that hidden track on seven's travels where he shouts out to oshkosh, wisconsin, and we could talk about how we both lived there
8. no reason to lie, i've had a lot of lovers, but in my reality it's impossible to avoid it.
9. GOD LOVES UGLY.
10. he's hot. (even with the acne scars).

the funemployment continues. . .

ugh. so i guess even though my resume was straight forward, homeboy didn't want to hire me today. OH WELL. things could be worse. there's still a small (as in 1/1,000,000) chance i might get hooked up with some sort of employment if he doesn't find anyone better within the week, but i'm pretty sure dude just told me to email him next week so he didn't completely squash my dreams/day/life. whatever, i'm over it.

i have a suntan. a bitchin' curly side pony tail. got my writings done today without too much hassle. have an appointment to check a pretty rad apartment tomorrow. am getting hooked up to work a promo/press gig for some local band (who omg get this, WANT TO PAY ME). shit's aight. i'll get a job. at least now i don't have to worry about asking time off right away for p4k and arlo-visits-jodi-best-day-of-her-life-july-8-2010.

AND, i'm listening to andrew bird. who i haven't listened to in quite some time. andrew bird & the mysterious production of eggs is a fantastic record that i continuously overlook, forgetting how the simple delicate whistlin ditties can make me feel a-ok. i like feeling a-ok, makes me swivel around in my denim jumper and meow loudly to my cat. she likes this.

optimism. that's my newest goal. even when shit reeks stronger than portapotty row at lollapalooza on a 90 degree day, just fucking breathe through your mouth. eat the shit particles. then it don't smell so bad. and you can just smile you a fool, skip down the lane and pretend it's ok.

sooner or later, it eventually is again anyway.

like gravy train, i'm hella hella hella nervous.

omg. my tummy is hurting. my palms are sweaty. i gots more jitters than a first date. i'm bout to go to my jobby interview in an hour. eek! i don't wanna get too worked up about it, cuz i'll just be bummed if i dont get it. but if i do, expect a brand new and improved HAPPY jodi robin root. eeeeeek!!!!!!!

xo.

it's 12:30 am. friday night. 'stead of boozing it up somewheres, i'm hiding in my room, a/c blasting, sunburnt, dirty, wet. had a long day of battling mother nature, nearly got killed by some flying street tents and roadblock signs. fucking crazy. tired. but not sleepy. that's a contradictory statement, ain't it? it's really dreary. rainy, grey, humid, shitastic. normally i lurv me the rain, but not when i put on an additional ten pounds of water weight and i gotta walk hella far in squishy sponge sneakers. so i tried to listen to an appropriate soundtrack on my el ride home. tried steve miller band. too argyle and upbeat. tried postal service. too quirky and depressing. tried the xx, again, c'mon can we get any more cliche jodi?

got home, peeled off the wet clothing. threw on a comfy lil' black nightgown. hopped on my laptop. skimmed through the itunes, elliott smith, per chance? too depressing. . . well, maybe not. spun the ole' xo. good choice, i must say. i always overlook how genius this album really is. i haven't been able to find my figure 8 in god knows how long, basement/hill is def too depressing, the others while awesome, still bummertown usa. not trying to get all dark here, just listen to an appropriate mood setter. turns out xo is it.

from the opening chords of 'sweet adeline' to the sorrow nostalgic yet bittersweet 'waltz #2,' this 44 minute, 14 track collection is a beautiful stray from the e.smith norm. (aka, i dont feel like slitting my wrists or climbing into a dark hole). 'baby britain,' 'bottle up and explode,' man. i love this album. it's really good. i think that everyone should listen to this when they're sitting in on a friday night, overcoming a shitty waste of a day. it makes it ok, you know?

i wish elliott never would have died. so much sadness. sometimes you can't win 'em all.

jodi gets an email : job interview edition.

don't wanna jinx it, but i got a response to a job inquiry email sent yesterday this evening.

it's for like, a really dope place. doing really kewl stuff. and it's kinda my perfect temporary solution.

if i'm kewl enough. we'll see. here's to hoping!!