So last week I finally cut the cord on yet another shitty relationship and told my boss I'm quitting. This was very exciting, because I've essentially been playing a game of last man standing at work. Of the ten people that I started with, as of two months ago, I'm the only one left despite the betting pool putting the odds on me going first. This is because I love to hang around in a bad relationship feeling sorry for myself. Anyone who has ever seen me with a boyfriend can attest to this.

I've long compared my job to an abusive boyfriend. Or like, a really, really cute abusive boyfriend. A boyfriend that's so cute that all of your friends and family are really impressed and secretly surprised that you landed him. And they all tell you that you'd be a fool to dump him because you all suspect that you'll never do this well next time around, and you should really try and make it work and appreciate him more. But in your heart you know that he's actually a really shitty boyfriend and that being really cute isn't quite enough. And that's sort of what it's like to work for one of the top companies in the world. It's not really quite enough. And the fact is, you shouldn't live your life terrified of change--there are way cuter jobs out there.

So I told my boss (and his boss) that I'm leaving to go travel. It's weird how emotional it all feels. My job has been the one constant in my life for five years. I've lived in three countries, the boyfriends have come and gone and I've gotten one meaningless promotion after another. And even though my job is about as empty as a job can be, it was something to hold on to. Because when you are at a loss for what you are doing with your life, having a really cute job is still something.

I'm still flashpacking through Bangkok now. And they really do ping pong shows here, god love 'em. What I like about Thailand is that the Thai people seem very indifferent to me. I find this reassuring. I still have not recovered my trip from Rome where I was either given a freebie or sexually assaulted, depending on your outlook on these sorts of things. Thai men are mostly ignoring me, which I much prefer. The ladyboys, though, thank god, gave me all of the attention (and photo opportunities) that I desired, so I can't complain.

I can't decide if the word "flashpacking" really irks me or not--I just learned it today so it hasn't had time to settle in. I just read a thing about flashpacking, though, and it's sort of what I've been dreaming about and half-heartedly plotting for a while. (Check out this blog) Traveling like a backpacker, but with a computer, paying extra for single rooms or non-hostels, eating quality meals, that sort of buzz. Which is what I'm doing right now. I'm staying in a hostel but have paid for 2 to get my own room. Last night I was in a 5 star hotel. Since my meals are average about €2 per day, I think I can handle it.

I really want to stop working and go travel for a year. Finish the effing novel already. Write a new one, maybe. Eat street food all over the world. Finally go to Korea. But I'm not sure if I could cope with traveling for that long. In my heart, I think I might hate traveling. I don't like being uncomfortable or lonely or hungry or anxious or lost. These are all things that will probably happen if I try and travel for a year. So London is still in the running. Instead of backpacking, I transfer.

So I wait, and flirt, and he flirts back and wracked with guilt, I finally tell my boss. That's okay, she says, between clenched teeth. I hope you both will be very happy together. She shoots eye darts at me, and I know if this transfer doesn't happen, she will punish me for this. The thing is about me and London, we haven't even been together. Not exactly.

And now I've had my interviews, two hours of them, and I sort of feel like I've just slept with this guy but still don't know if this is what I really want. What I really want, I think, is to spend the next year traveling through Asia, not working at yet another job in what can only be considered a ridiculous career choice. And yet I can't stop myself from wondering obsessively, is he going to call? I mean, he may not be perfect, but he is pretty cute.

The good news: I now have a work permit and visa for the UK.
The bad news: The picture on my visa makes me look fat.

The good news: I now have a work permit and visa for Ireland.
More good news: Strangely, although the same picture as for the UK visa was used, I look decent on my Ireland work permit. The visa remains to be seen.

I bought a plane ticket on Friday and I'm moving to Dublin next Wednesday. And then maybe, in a while, to the UK. So many countries to conquer!

Back to frantically packing.

In a 48 time period, I'm getting to vist 4 more airports. My favorite so far is Dallas and my least favorite is Jackson. Jackson doesn't have wireless, which is why I am writing this instead of working. There's a Business Center at one end of the terminal; I went to it hopefully, praying for an internet connection. Instead I was confronted with two desks, on top of which sat two cream-colored rotary phones. The only business I could think to conduct was low-level drug deals, so I decided instead to go sulk on a very roomy seat. My first flight is now delayed 2 hours, meaning I will again be traveling for a minimum of 12 hours. I did the same thing yesterday.

My only consolation in Mississippi has been the food. (Clearly, based on the size of my ass, this is my consolation for most things.) I've had fried chicken drenched in a honey glaze, fried green tomatoes with crawfish, blackened green beans, red skin mashed potatoes, biscuits and gravy, crawfish eggrolls and a bananas foster bread pudding. My bag is filled with praline pecans, of both the standard and whiskey drenched variety. My lunch today was with a few locals that I was meeting for work-related reasons. As our food was arriving, one asked, "Do you mind if I bless our food?" I was struck dumb, and one of my co-workers quickly replied "we don't mind at all." I was forced to bow my head and give thanks for my lunch. Luckily, it was a lunch to be thankful for, as it consisted of a blue plate special with chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, butter beans and cornbread. Blessing things is kind of what Mississippi is like.

This was the Bible Belt. Churches dotted the landscape: Baptist, Methodist, Presbyterian. Along the side of the road people dressed in loudly striped pants and wearing shirts that proclaimed "CONVICT" picked up bits of garbage. For some reason, it's only in very religious locals that chain gangs seem like a good idea. Large signs proclaiming statements about 'The Lord' hung proudly in places of business and quickly began to make me uncomfortable.

One of my co-workers who was with me said "half-Jew? You've got it easy. At least you aren't brown." I realized he had a point as I watched him get searched at the security checkpoint at each leg of our trip.

When they finally told us that our flight out of Jackson to Dallas might be cancelled, we scrambled for flights out of Mississippi. We ran to the ticket counter, trying to beat the rush of people that were sure to follow once they heard the news. We asked to go anywhere--any major city that might allow us to get back to California. The only response we got was "Lafayette? Want to go to Lafayette?" We finally realized we weren't going anywhere unless through Dallas and worried that we'd have to spend another night there.

As we sat dejectedly at the (one) airport bar, I remembered the source of entertainment and and fried delicacies that I had seen at each major intersection in Mississippi. Finally, as my co-worker tapped furiously on his Blackberry and finished another Jack Daniels and Coke, I suggested "let's just call it a wash and go to Hooter's." And so closed my first trip to the Deep South.

On Friday, I spent the first 5 hours of work with a large wad of gum in my hair. I discovered said wad at approximately 4 am, but with no internet access, I was unable to determine an appropriate course of action. I knew that something could get it out, but as my most reliable guess was lighter fluid, I decided to stay the course and leave the gum in until I received confirmation of the best method of removal.

I had an important meeting to attend, so I managed to artfully conceal the gum and adjoining tangled hairball in a well-constructed braid and went on with my day. Not without a fair amount of bitching, mind you. Finally, Poland said to me, "Let me just cut it out for you." I looked at him aghast. A Pole offering to cut my hair?

"Yeah, and off to the "showers" next I bet," I managed to spit out. My recent weekend trip to see the list of relatives that were exterminated in Auschwitz apparently had an effect. It was his turn to look horrified.

"What is wrong with you Americans?"

This is a question I receive a lot around here. Luckily Poland's [redacted] allows me to ignore such slurs, but the abuse I take on a daily basis about my nationality never ceases to amuse. I'm still trying to push the me-as-exotic thing, but so far the response has been only lukewarm. Tonight I was told "Exotic--only if talking about your dancing career."

As it turns out, any type of oil or peanut butter will get gum out of hair. 30 minutes at home for lunch and a bottle of canola oil on my head and the gum was gone and I was ready for another raucous Friday night in Dublin.

Aimlessly wandering around the miles long parking lot in business attire and heels while being pounded by the blazing California sun makes one, even a grown woman, reflect. Being Lina, my mind drifts to the ghosts of boyfriends past. I'm not sure what it was about the situation, perhaps the large amounts of dust I was inhaling had some sort of psychotropic effect or maybe I was just so enraged with myself for losing the car that I had to take it out on someone, if only the men of the world.

So many of the boys I go out with read this site--I've often speculated that my only readers are family members and dating victims that aren't on speaking terms with me--that I often don't include what should, and would, be my best material. Of course this leaves me feeling oppressed and with a deep sense of frustration. Why shouldn't I write about the painfully awkward things these boys do? What, really, do I owe them?

I'm not talking about anything big. The things that bother me most about the men that I date are the tiny, painful instances of awkwardness that make me release a grimace of a smile, like a dog baring its teeth, in my attempts not to openly cringe. I usually close my eye for a second and try to compose myself. I open them again, stare blankly ahead, and adopt a fake smile as quickly as possible. I can't say anything, after all; I'm too critical. Seriously stupid behavior doesn't bother me as much as these small acts of pretension gone awry that make my skin prickle and my fists clench.

Recently, I went on a date to see the newest Lindsey Lohan movie. The movie is about how this girl has good luck and some dude has bad luck and when they make out, they trade and their luck switches. Typical teen fare. I hadn't yet formed any strong feelings about the fellow sitting next to me until he started making grunts of derision at the film. "That would so never happen," he declared in a loud whisper more than one. "That's not realistic," he claimed while Lindsay frantically tried to reclaim her good luck. It was so painful as to be unbearable. Of course it was unrealistic, it was an effing Lindsay Lohan movie for gods sake. Finally, I leaned over and hissed, "Suspend your fucking disbelief, could you?"

My tolerance for pretension of any kind is shockingly low. Art is often a catalyst. I've never been so embarrassed as to hear these boys that I generally (or at least sometimes) respect talk about art, especially their own. I used to have a boyfriend who was as pretentious as he was low-class. He bought an expensive camera and began taking pictures, mainly of his friends, which I approved of, and of his shoes, artfully formed rocks, and people's eyelashes, which I did not. He bought an expensive journal cum photo album and began pasting his more creative works in it. He then cut letters out of the metrosexual magazines he subscribed to and embossed the cover of his album, in the style of a ransom note, with the words, 'Fuck you it's art!'

My reaction was visceral. I vomited a small amount into my mouth, swallowed it again, and closed my eyes. A moment later I opened them, flashed some teeth and artificial smile and said, "Good idea. Can we go out to dinner now?"

...
Interview #2

"So, Lina, what do you think you will need to do to prepare yourself for this new position?"

I think for a minute. This is, after all, an interview with my boss's boss. "Well," I say finally, "I think I'm going to need to work on my alcohol tolerance."

...
Meeting with my new boss

"So what else am I going to need to know before I start this new job?" I ask, in all seriousness. I've been voraciously devouring Powerpoint documents and studying reports as if my life depended on it.

"You're going to have to start watching cricket."
"What?" I asked, confused. "I was being serious."
"So was I," he replied. "You're really going to have to learn about cricket."

...
Around midnight, at a club. After running into one of the men that interviewed me the day before, I begin to merrily harass him about how he would rate my interviewing skills.

He considers me for a moment and then said, "Lina, I think you are going to fit in well in our office."

"How's that?" I ask, pie-eyed.

"Well, you're double-fisting your drinks, and you just tried to kiss me on the mouth.*"

Well played Lina, well played.

...
*Just to state the obvious, I did not actually try to kiss my boss's boss on the mouth. I think he may have tried to do some strange European custom of kissing my cheek as a greeting, and like a frightened American deer, I turned my head at the wrong moment.

Therefore, I'm constantly surprised that I'm asked about my plans for the anniversary of the birth of Christ. It's happened so many times at work this week, that I've gotten my routine down.

Coworker: So, what are you doing for Christmas?
Me (snidely): Being Jewish.
Coworker (flustered): Oh, yeah, oops, sorry!
What are you doing for, um, Hanukkah?
Me (sporting a shit-eating grin): Hey, don't worry about it! I hate the Jews as much as anyone else!

Uncomfortable silence. End scene.

I was re-reading one of my favorite books this week'Of Human Bondage--and I was struck by the plight of the main character. After being left by the woman he passionately loved, he found that curiously, he did not miss her. 'He did not think of her with wrath,' Maugham wrote, 'but with an overwhelming sense of boredom.'

I too, feel overwhelmed by boredom when contemplating most of my exes. For fun, sometimes, I try to determine what, if anything, I have gotten out of these particular relationships. The psychic scars are clear; the emotional damage is decided and diagnosable.

I have gained something from these failed relationships besides psychological disorders, however. Each boyfriend that passes through my life leaves a definite impression on one vital part of me'my music collection.

My first boyfriend insisted on wooing me to the strains of The Ramones and The Circle Jerks. When he was feeling particularly amorous, he would slip in a cassette of G.G. Allin, lyricist of such thoughtful songs as 'Scars on My Body, Scabs on My Dick' and 'Needle Up My Cock.'

Boyfriend #1 had been in a punk band of his own, a fact that never failed to impress me. One of his few releases, titled 'Hell Bent For Rehab' featured lyrics about older men seducing teenage girls for kicks. 'Dude, that's not, like, autobiographical,' he would claim, as he told me to wait in the car so he could buy us the cigarettes and lottery tickets that I was not legally allowed to purchase.

And much as my mother expected and my father prayed for, Boyfriend #1 left my life, into the arms of a waiting stripper. The stain of his musical taste, however, was not so easily lifted. Listening to Iggy Pop still makes me quiver with delight, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't think some of Fang's lyrics didn't affect in a way that no one else has since been able to replicate'the song 'Everybody Makes Me Want to Barf' really speaks to me.

The next 'boyfriend' was the only one with any actual musical taste. An actual DJ, his taste ranged from Kiss to Olivia Newton-John, but new wave and 80's classics were his true calling. The floor of our apartment buckled under the weight of his records, and he would often stay hours after closing at his record store job, looking for disco classics or ultra-rare Sigue Sigue Sputnik remixes. #2 shaped my musical taste beyond compare'each time he infuriated me, which was many times daily, he brought me reconciliation gifts of records and cds. 'You like Tiffany?' he'd ask, and reappear with all of her b-sides and five other teenage girl artists that I was sure to like as much or more. He still sends me packages of cds occasionally, and is my lifeline into the world of pop music.

Boyfriend #3, despite being a self-proclaimed music aficionado, took much more from me musically than he gave, which was representative of much of the relationship. Notwithstanding his refusal to meet or acknowledge the existence of #2, he was content copying all of #2's music from my collection, and adopting it as his own. He would DJ entire parties with songs that were, essentially, sloppy seconds from my previous love.

I came out of that relationship with less positive additions to my musical collection, but a definitive idea of what I didn't want. Namely, emo-core bands with limited talent and a decided focus on their hairstyles, much like their dedicated fans. And sometimes, learning what you don't want, emotionally or musically, is all you can expect to get out of a relationship.

And now, working in an office with dozens of handsome young men with the 'Sharing' box on their ITunes checked, I've found that rather than deal with their personalities or problems, I'm content to scroll through their playlists, and imagine how my life could change if I downloaded them to my collection.

So I came to New York to take a little mental health break, and oddly enough, it seems to be working. Perhaps it's just my love of smuggling (see "The Heat of the Meat"), because I smuggled a sugar glider into New York in order to give up my last vestiges of responsibility in life. I'm going to have to write more about that later though, because I don't have all the proper documentation on hand at the moment.

All things considered, my life is going rather well and seems to be on the upswing. I got a job at the best company in the world, and if you knew where you would be impressed. I won $11 playing blackjack in Atlantic City and I got some new pink earrings that make me look like a whore. Really, I don't know what else a girl could ask for.

Getting a job should make this page liven up a bit. I never have any material any more. I've already told all of my interesting anecdotes, and even my mediocre ones are getting stale. So perhaps working will bring the standards around here back to comedy gold. Actually, I have a good one right now. In an interview recently, a prospective employer asked me to talk about a time I had a problem with a co-worker and employer and what I did to solve it. So of course, I bust out with the time my morbidly obese boss with a flesh eating disease (necrotizing fasciitis) called me over to his desk to tell me that he had been having dreams about me naked. The interviewer looked at me with horror, and I spent the next twenty minutes furiously trying to backpedal over the truth. But I got a job offer anyway, so I guess the flesh eating bacteria didn't scare them too much. I mean seriously though, what kind of problem with a co-worker are you supposed to talk about? When I worked at this one dot com, we had these little cards printed out with the company logo, that were called "Rock Ons" and we were supposed to give them to our fellow employees as a vehicle to tell them how much we appreciated them. To get us to actually fill it out, the company entered both the Rocker and the Rockee in a drawing to win something retarded. Anyway, one time I gave my bosses boss, Stacie, a Rock On that said "I loathe you." She cried, I think. What was so stupid about it was that I didn't even loathe her, I was just bored. But that story sure wasn't going to get me a job.

I'm in Jersey today, with some family taking care of some business. Not corpse in the river business, but the kind that allows me access to the computer and NOTHING BETTER TO DO. So dear fans, thank the state of New Jersey for this update and I will try and be a good girl and update more often.

I got this Lina balloon for my birthday.

I don't know what is wrong with me lately, I just hate updating. Much has happened since my last update. I think the last time I really posted was my birthday; I said I was getting sick. Turned out that I had bronchitis--this was the second year in a row I've had bronchitis on my birthday. Nonetheless, I went to see Mamma Mia and had a wonderful time. I also had a roller-skating party which was pretty rad. I'm not a great skater but what I lack in skill I make up for in spirit. We ate cupcakes at said party--chocolate with pink frosting.

Then, on my spring break, I went to New York for a week. I got to hang out with Frances see the fam, and shop at H&M. Pretty much all the things I ask for in life. I also saw my friend Iris, and she gave me the wonderful "Second Base" shirt that you see below. Do you remember our debate on the bases?

Me and Iris at Beavher.

Some other exciting things are happening in Lina land. The thing is, these things aren't particularly amusing or interesting, which is probably why I haven't updated lately. I'm almost done with college. Shocking, really, since I started nine years ago. My family practically begged me, so I won't be attending the graduation ceremonies. Apparently none of my fair-skinned relatives relish the thought of sitting in a folding chair for three hours and getting a sunburn. If you are interested in my academic life (and you should be) check out my content page; I added three newish papers there.

I got a part time job doing investigative work which I hope will facilitate me becoming a better stalker. I think things can only get better from here. I've been trying to facilitate a possible trip to Paris. While thinking about it, I tried to figure out if I could communicate in French. I realized that the only words I know how to say in French are, "I love you," and "yes." I think I'll get along in France just fine.

Last night I went to go see Ian's band play. You know, maybe I am just getting old, but it has become rather painful to see shows now. Even though I really liked the music, and it was the perfect level of emo for me, I kept thinking, "why is this so loud?" But Ian is a rock star.

Also, there were scores of boys/men there, and it made me nervous. I can't seem to function in their presence. I am pathetic, yes. Of course the lovely Tracy was also there. Tracy used to be a financial analyst. Now I am not one to point fingers (or wiggle them for that matter), but the word 'analyst' clearly features the word anal. Appropriately enough, I suppose. Speaking of which, PLEASE, go read the last letter in Savage Love this week. I peed myself laughing.

Today, as a form of birth control, I hung out with my friend Christy's three children, and two of my buddies from the North Bay. This little excursion has encouraged me to stay celibate for at least another 20 years, even though I probably would have anyway, by default. As far as small boys go, these ones are pretty f'in cool. But I am too tired to do that at a full-time level, yaknowwhatimean?

Love me.

This is clearly an evil sugar glider.

Well, it's past my bedtime but since I had the first urge to update in a while, I thought I would roll with it.

The other day I heard a guy compare eating refined sugar to having sex with a prostitute. Believe it or not, I am not exaggerating in the least. He was ranting on and on about how bad it is for you to eat refined sugar, and then he said, "You know, one of my friends once said, 'It's like having sex with a prostitute--it feels good, but then it hurts later.'"

You heard it here first, folks, refined sugar is just as bad as a Tijuana whore!

Speaking of perverse, I tried to apply for a job today. I'm really no good at this process. I like to think of myself as a fairly capable individual, so applying for a job that requires 4 brain cells and 12 IQ points is slightly depressing. I saw a baby clothes store that was hiring and I walked in to apply, but the two current employees were talking to each other in Spanish, so I decided it was a lingual conspiracy and quickly left.

Then I went to the local burger shack to apply, but it smelled like, well, burgers. I filled out my application and turned it in. They told me to memorize the menu and come back, so I went home and cried instead. I'm really making progress here. I can tell that I will be gainfully employed in no time!