23

Another year older, and the only thing I've noticed that's changed is that I have way less tolerance for skinny girls who can't hold their liquor.

I turn 23 tomorrow. It seems to me the birthdays between 21 and 25 are sort of uninspiring. 21 means you can legally drink. But 23? Well... according to a Blink 182 song, Nobody likes you when you're 23. So that's something to look forward to.

This weekend, I saw my brother, saw my father, went to a haunted house in the suburbs, watched The Devil's Rejects and slept everywhere but my own bed, and hung out with an interesting mix of old skool and new skool friends. Spent a lot of time under some sort of influence.

I feel about 10x better than I did this time last year. At least that's something.

On a Scale from 1 to Bitter: vague and zombie-like
1-800-Bitterness.com Radio: Straylight Run - It's For The Best
1-800-Bitterness.com Reading List: The Fuck-Up by Arthur Nersesian

Written: June 25, 2006

While I was sitting in the South Amtrak lounge at Union Station in Chicago and waiting for my train and thinking about being 22 and having no job leads or other prospects and wondering vaguely about my worth as a human being, I had the sense that I couldn't be alone in my minute existential crisis. Lots of my other recent-college-graduate friends are unemployed, living in their parents' houses, single, and unsure how to proceed going about their lives. Not to mention the hundreds of popular literary characters who have suffered anxiety over issues of identity and momentum. Other people must have felt, or must currently feel, stalled, lost, and without direction. And yet, it is such an inherently lonely feeling.

Some people are offered any job they apply for. I am not one of those people. At 19, I couldn't get a job working at Mrs. Field’s Cookies in the mall. At 20, I was hired to cashier at Office Depot, but waited three months to start training, and by then, I had stopped waiting. I have had three jobs. Two of them I got through pure nepotism. The third lasted only one semester. This is depressing, and yet, not as depressing as my relationship history (high school boyfriend for 11 months, he broke up with me; college boyfriend for 11 months, he broke up with me; and some unofficial affairs and week-long romances in between).

I went to college, yet I have no practical or measurable skills. I will never be a doctor, or a lawyer, or an architect, or a mechanic like my brother. My abilities are vague and hard to prove or demonstrate. I'm not exceptional at anything. I'm a decent writer and a fair public speaker, I was a passable student. I'm good at proofreading, and I was one of the best copy editors at my college paper.

I'm not remotely athletic, I can barely do simple addition without a calculator, and I've forgotten 90% of what I learned from studying Spanish for five years. I am not pretty. I am more sarcastic than charming. I'm not outgoing. I'm smart, but not in a useful way. I'm just intelligent enough to be constantly frustrated with the stupidity of others, but I don't have the brainpower to figure out what to do with myself. I don't feel I can compete in the job market, and I'm almost guaranteed to spend the bulk of my life single. I can't think of any reason for someone to want to hire or date me.

On the train, two women in front of me are chatting about daytime soap operas. Across the aisle, a young couple struggles to keep their two sons amused. And I'm trying to think of things I enjoy. Good plays, good books, good movies, the occasional smart TV show. Smoking weed and eating greasy food. Writing song lyrics, writing poems and plays. Writing in my journal. Sleeping late. Intellectual discussions with like-minded, well-meaning people. Laughing until it hurts about nothing. Directing plays. None of these activities seem like a plausible career.

I think I know I've always been this person. A loser, a loner, an ugly duckling, prone to excessive introspection and prolonged grief. Yet, I can't adjust to the idea of being this unsuccessful, lonely, and pathetic forever. I keep thinking that someday I'll get in shape, someday I'll find the right job, someday I'll find a man or woman and spend my life with them. And worrying that I will never do those things is what causes all my suffering.

Why can't I just accept my defeat?

Neither Here Nor There

Some days, you just don't want to get out of bed. The kind of day where you brew the coffee onto the counter instead of into the coffee pot. The kind of day where you could have sworn that you turned off your alarm, but apparently, you hit "Snooze", because it's wailing away at you from the other side of the apartment, and as you turn it off, you mutter, "Fuck you." The kind of day where you actually feel like you could vomit at the sight of your roommate and his girlfriend, lying in bed together. Because it reminds you of a.) how fucking lonely you are, and b.) they don't have to get out of bed for another three hours.

On these days, some people might call in sick and crawl back into bed. But did I do that? No. Because I knew that tomorrow will probably be just as bad.

On a Scale from 1 to Bitter: Exhausted
1-800-Bitterness.com Radio: Soul Asylum - Runaway Train
1-800-Bitterness.com Reading List: Lunar Park by Bret Easton Ellis

The Short-Lived Upside of Your Apathy and My Ignorance

I always thought that you were a true friend because you would never judge me.

What I didn't realize is that you never judged me because you didn't care.

On a Scale from 1 to Bitter: Hurt
1-800-Bitterness.com Radio: Liz Phair - Divorce Song
1-800-Bitterness.com Reading List: Lunar Park by Bret Easton Ellis

One Possible Explanation

Melissa: There could be a great guy right in front of me and I will go to the guy behind him who looks like someone I can't trust to treat me well... Why do I put myself through this torture with bad guys?

Me: Assholes are assholes, but at least they're upfront about it. Being hurt by the guy who seems like he's decent hurts so much more than hurting a guy who you knew all along was a douche. If you're anything like me, you're not so much afraid that a relationship will end, or someone will break up with you, you're afraid of being tricked. I don't know about you, but if I let a guy get close to me, I'm living in constant fear that one day he'll just turn to me and say, "Gotcha. Made'ya look." Being mistreated is awful, but it's nothing compared to being betrayed.

On a Scale from 1 to Bitter: Pragmatic
1-800-Bitterness.com Radio: Simon & Garfunkel - I Am a Rock
1-800-Bitterness.com Reading List: Lunar Park by Bret Easton Ellis

That I my thoughts may dim

When I met him, it was love at first words. He was wearing a fedora and a green and white striped button-up shirt. He wished he could have been alive during the 1960s. He was obssessive about music. He kissed me, and we couldn't stop.

I probably should have known it wouldn't last. I would have loved him anyway, and then maybe the end wouldn't have seemed so sudden and inexplicable. I would have married the man. (That man, with the horribly juvenile friends and the bitchy mother and the chip on his shoulder and no appreciation for poetry! Imagine!) I loved to spend time with him, doing nothing. I loved his thought process, his off-hand jokes, his bizarre comments and impressions, his unique interests and obssessions. I loved playing video games with him. I loved reading books to him. I loved to travel with him. I loved to drink with him. He always made me laugh, and he always made me feel loved. And he always made me feel wanted. He was the best kisser of my life, and the first person I had sex with. I loved to hear him breathe heavy, I lived to hear him moan. I loved to taste his skin. I'll never do those things again. I may eventually talk someone else into having sex with me, but I'll never watch his eyes turn from green to gray as he gets progressively turned on. I may scratch my nails down someone else's back, I may kiss someone else's neck like it's going out of style, but I will never make love to him again, and to be totally frank, that fucking kills me.

But I don't just miss the passion and the intimacy, the ecstacy and the comfort. I don't just miss having a lover. I miss him. I miss every aspect of his being. I miss his voice, his warmth, I miss every part of him. I would do anything to erase every memory I have of him. If I could forget him, I wouldn't have to miss him. If I had never loved him, I would never have felt this awful grief, this painful longing that never goes away.

On a Scale from 1 to Bitter: Hopeless
1-800-Bitterness.com Radio: Cake - Sad Songs and Waltzes
1-800-Bitterness.com Reading List: Lunar Park by Bret Easton Ellis

To Have Loved and Lost

Really loving someone is giving them the opportunity to ruin your life. If you have loved someone, you can be haunted by their absence for a lifetime. Every shower reminds you of the times you were slippery-wet, melting into one another. Every time you lie on a couch, watch a movie, read a book, you find yourself longing for the warm and tender being, who used to lie with you, their arms and legs entangled with yours. Your bed always feels empty. Every bed always feels empty. Every holiday, every season, every family dinner, is a gaping hole - a reminder of the one you've lost. Your whole life is the empty place on the wall where his pictures used to be. Loneliness hangs heavy in the air. You suffocate because it fills your lungs, you starve because it turns your stomach. It's a tightness in your chest that feels like cancer. It feels like it will never stop. Nothing will ever change the fact that you were happy - you were content and secure and at peace - and now, you are not. And you might never be again.

Once you've seen the light, you know how dark the darkness truly is. You know, and you cannot forget.

On a Scale from 1 to Bitter: 12.
1-800-Bitterness.com Radio: Jill Sobule - Now That I Don't Have You
1-800-Bitterness.com Reading List: Lunar Park by Bret Easton Ellis

Heartbreak and Petty Theft

For a year during college, I was in love with a boy who lived in Chicago. (This was the best year of my life, so far.) I was so deeply in love that I remember that year as a blur of dopamine and sex, adrenaline and cuddling and giddy laughter. Every other weekend, for a year, I would get off an Amtrak train in Union Station and hurry into the arms of my waiting lover. We would return to his dorm room and fall into bed.

After he suddenly broke up with me last August, I would still take the train into Chicago on the weekend, and even though I no longer had that promise of warmth and sensation, I would still feel my heart pounding with anticipation as the train pulled into the station. I still hurried off the train, profoundly aroused, even though I knew he wouldn't be there waiting. I knew what I had lost, but my body just couldn't learn.

Just as Pavlov's dogs learned to associate a sound with a meal, conditioning taught my body to associate Union Station with sex. It was too depressing; I had to start taking the bus instead.

The nights were also hard. I was accustomed to talking to him on the phone until I fell asleep. Sleep became as elusive as it had been in my tormented youth. After a year of pleasant dreams, I found myself an insomniac once again.

Now, I live in Chicago, so the Amtrak-back-and-forth is not so much an issue. Also, these days, I don't miss the (admittedly phenomenal) sex as much as I miss having someone to say goodnight to.

I spent another year during college studying in upstate New York. (This was the best thing that ever happened to me, so far.) I was infatuated with a few people during that year, but few turned into anything other than some flirting, in that awkward, roundabout way that makes me cringe retrospectively. The one significant romantic/sexual experience during that year happened with a guy named Rob, a roommate of a friend. We had one very memorable tryst, a month before I left for home.

At some point after I left, I inquired as to Rob's well-being, only to find out that he had stolen my friend's stereo, dropped out of college, and skipped out on the rent.

The moral of these two seemingly unrelated stories? A Chicago boy might break your heart, sure. But a New York boy might steal your stereo.

At least, the ones I'm attracted to might.

On a Scale from 1 to Bitter: AMAZED at my own BAD TASTE
1-800-Bitterness.com Radio: Alkaline Trio - Stupid Kid
1-800-Bitterness.com Reading List: Lunar Park by Bret Easton Ellis

I'm Not That Girl

These are a few things you should know about me: I find my own emotions somewhat embarassing. One of my favorite musicians once said that he equated falling in love to singing in the street - the very idea is humiliating.

Paradoxically, I'm incapable of "taking it slow" with someone, emotionally or sexually. I'm always the lover who loves more than the other. Boyfriends' mothers never like me. I hate vegetables. I can't play games. I don't - I can't flirt unless I mean it. I hate to admit it, but I like it when other people take care of me. I'm not the girl you bring home to meet your family. I'm the girl who cries and misses you for three years after you break her heart.

On a Scale from 1 to Bitter: Bitter & Lonely
1-800-Bitterness.com Radio: Suzanne Vega - Marlene on the Wall
1-800-Bitterness.com Reading List: Lunar Park by Bret Easton Ellis

Care for a Camel, Sailor?

I just finished Still Life with Woodpecker by Tom Robbins, and I can't decide if it is bitter or not. It is jaded in regard to politics, revolutions, rebellion, democracy, socialism, communism, and government. It admits, indeed, it proclaims, that it is almost impossible to "make love stay." On the other hand, it advocates listening to the tides and taking big risks and "barking at the moon." I might have to read it a few more times before I can say for sure. There is one particularly bitter passage which I would like to share:

It occurred to her that in every relationship in which she had participated, in every union older than a year that she'd observed, imbalance existed. Of a couple, one person invariably loved stronger than the other. It seemed a law of nature, a cruel law that led to tension and destruction. She was dismayed that a law so unfair, so miserable, prevailed, but since it did, since imbalance seemed inevitable, it must be easier, healthier, to be the lover who loved the least.

Certainly not a new perspective (see radio selection), but a poignant one, given that I have always been the lover who loved the most.

On a Scale from 1 to Bitter: Analytical
1-800-Bitterness.com Radio: Jill Sobule - Love Is Never Equal
1-800-Bitterness.com Reading List: Still Life with Woodpecker by Tom Robbins

You Know What's Offensive? Your Face!

"God!" he said, "You can get offended by anything!"

I should have said, "You say that like it's a bad thing!"

I never think of the right thing to say until it's too late to say it.

On a Scale from 1 to Bitter: Annoyed
1-800-Bitterness.com Radio: The Promise Ring - Tell Everyone We're Dead
1-800-Bitterness.com Reading List: Still Life with Woodpecker by Tom Robbins

Ten Cent Advice, Five Dollar Headache

My father likes to give me advice. This is the guy who wouldn't let my mother leave the house before 9pm, because he refused to watch my brother and I when we were children unless we were asleep. He and my mother divorced when I was five. He didn't have a big part in raising me. Because he wasn't much of a parent, and because he was either too poor or too cheap to give me or my brother any money, he likes to give us advice - which we generally find pretty useless.

He did tell me one thing, which seemed like it might be true.

"It doesn't matter whether you work in theatre or not," he said. "Because every job is an acting job. The most important part of any job is acting like you care."

Whether I'm acting like I don't mind fetching library books or making reservations for six at Lupita's, or acting like I'm really busy, or acting like I emphathize with a client... 90% of my job is acting like a secretary. I'm not a secretary. I'm just playing at being a secretary. It is an acting job.

Of course, I didn't go to college to be an actor. Or a secretary. I went to college to be a director.

My father tried to warn me...

On a Scale from 1 to Bitter: *le sigh*
1-800-Bitterness.com Radio: Tegan and Sara - More For Me
1-800-Bitterness.com Reading List: Still Life with Woodpecker by Tom Robbins

Turning Your Bitterness Into Laughs (and Concert Tickets)

I just looked at my friends page on livejournal and saw this. It's a post from a friend from college, a chick named Donnelle, who, for most of the time I knew her, was in love with a kid named Rj. Rj was a bit of a mystery. My personal theory is that he was an asexual Andy Kaufman-wannabe. I enjoyed him, but I didn't date him. Donnelle did. One year, for Valentine's Day, she made him a candelit dinner, and he gave her a toilet brush. They broke up some time after that.

Then today, apparently, Donelle had an opportunity to tell this story for fun and profit:

So as you may or may not know, I listen to Eric and Kathy on Mix 101.9 every morning... James Blunt is performing in their studio Monday morning, so they've done a couple of little contests based around that. This morning they were talking about how men can be very un-romantic sometimes (Sweetest Day is tomorrow, that's how it came up), so they asked "Ladies, what is the most non-romantic gift you've ever received from a husband/boyfriend?" I wasn't even paying attention to what the prize was. I heard that line, and I was like A;DKLFJA;SLDKFJAS;DLFKJ I AM GONNA WIN THIS.

And she did. She won concert tickets and she got to be on the radio. And, thanks to the wonders of the Internet, there's even a tiny clip of her, telling her story. I have linked it below for your listening pleasure. Donnelle finished her entry with:

So that's the story of how the worst Valentine's Day of my life turned into one of the coolest things that has ever happened to me.

Way to turn your pain into fame, Donnelle. I am totally proud.

Update: Rj read Donnelle's post, and had this to say:

Donnelle has finally discovered a use for all those assuredly horrible memories of dating me! She's taken to the airwaves with a depressing tale of a non-romantic gift. Yes, I admit to being the man in question. Yes, it was a cry for help and like many things I do, there's no logical motive. Yes, I should stay out of all romantic entaglements with this species. But then, I also think this audio clip is hilarious and if she were to keep going I'm sure she could think of quite a few even worse things. Maybe if she approached the right radio producer she could have her own daily talk radio show to air this dirty laundry. I'd listen.

In my feeble defense, all these years later, the gift changed into free James Blunt tickets, and helped perpetuate the end that we both probably needed. But don't worry, Donnelle's the tops, as you all know, and I'm glad we dated those three years.

I can't decide... Is this passive-aggressive? Or is it just Rj?

On a Scale from 1 to Bitter: Amused, actually
1-800-Bitterness.com Radio: Donnelle - Valentine's Day
1-800-Bitterness.com Reading List: Still Life with Woodpecker by Tom Robbins

Day Job

When I moved to Chicago about six weeks ago, I looked for a way to pay the rent. I applied for anything that I thought I might be remotely qualified for. My biggest fear was running out of money.

My thinking was, I don't think I have the fortitude to be homeless and starve or freeze to death. I might as well try slow death by boredom. It is, after all, the American way.

I resigned myself to a life of 9-5, Starbucks, dress shoes, and consumerism. I work in an office. It doesn't matter what I do there. I mean that in every possible sense of the phrase: It does not matter.

I told myself that I would still write in my spare times, in the evenings. That I could do revisions of my new play this winter, then have auditions in the spring, and I'd have some money and health insurance, until something better comes along.

I'm not worried about starving/freezing to death anymore. Now I just worry that I could be stuck in this "day job" forever. I might never accomplish anything as a writer, as a director, as a theatre artist. I might do nothing for the next five, ten, twenty years.

I think if I were really bitter, I couldn't be this afraid.

On a Scale from 1 to Bitter: Scared
1-800-Bitterness.com Radio: The Gin Blossoms - Day Job
1-800-Bitterness.com Reading List: Still Life with Woodpecker by Tom Robbins

The vast difference between wanting and expecting

A friend wrote that in her psych class, the professor had the students write down, anonymously, how many sexual partners they wanted in their lifetimes.

I started thinking about it. I have slept with three people. (I know, some of you might want to dispute that, so I will add that I attempted to have sex with two other individuals, but I don't count them in the number of people I have slept with, which is three.)

And you know how many sexual partners I want in my lifetime? Four. Because ideally, I want to meet someone, and only have sex with them, for the rest of my life.

I know what you might be thinking - the "romance-is-hopeless, chivalry-is-dead" girl dreams of monogamy? Yes, yes I do. I was built for it. In fact, if it had been up to me, I would have only slept with sexual partner #1 for the rest of my life. I didn't get my way, hence sexual partners #2 and #3.)

Ideally, I only want one more partner. I want a partner for life.

I may be bitter, but I never said that lifelong romantic partnerships don't exist. I do however, think that my chances of achieving such a feat are slim to nil.

Therefore, the answer is more likely to be 10 - six more partners, spread out, over the next 30 years, before I give up and embrace inevitable celibacy.

The knowledge that it will probably be 2-3 years before I get laid again - or even get to kiss someone again - could make anyone bitter.

On a Scale from 1 to Bitter: Sexually Frustrated
1-800-Bitterness.com Radio: Liz Phair - Fuck & Run
1-800-Bitterness.com Reading List: Still Life with Woodpecker by Tom Robbins

The Grass That's Always Greener

With enough suffering, you can be nostalgic for anything.

You can miss times in your life when you weren't particularly happy, places that made you miserable, people who were indifferent, or even cruel.

Right now, I find myself missing one of the worst years of my life. I'm able to overlook all the suffering I experienced that year, and just miss getting stoned and going to Denny's.

On a Scale from 1 to Bitter: Wistful
1-800-Bitterness.com Radio: Running From Right - I Didn't Used to Like Apple Juice
1-800-Bitterness.com Reading List: Choke by Chuck Palahniuk

Self-Awareness is kind of a bitch sometimes

This is my fourth post, and I am reconsidering the title of this project.

The title came from my friend Erin, who recently visited me in the city. She came up with the phrase "1-800-Bitterness.com" as a suggestion for my personal tag line.

(Lots of our friends have these slogans. For example, I came up with this gem to describe my current roommate: "Josh: More offensive, but also, more accurate.")

I thought it was hilarious that she used "1-800" and ".com", which was probably overkill.

But I'm starting to think about the point of view that no one who was really bitter would describe themselves as bitter. (I think Chuck Klosterman wrote that no one who is a pessimist is aware that they are a pessimist - they would just consider themselves realistic or maybe pragmatic. This seems reasonable, but it also seems a little like the argument that no one who says they are suicidal is actually suicidal, because if they really wanted to kill themselves, they would have killed themselves, instead of telling someone they are suicidal, which actually means they want to be talked out of killing themselves. Thus, you are either A. depressed, but seeking help, 2. plotting suicide secretly, or D. dead.)

I feel like I can label myself as "bitter" because so many other people label me as bitter. Knowing that your feelings are illogically pessimistic does not make those illogical pessimistic feelings go away.

On a Scale from 1 to Bitter: Smart-Ass Bitter
1-800-Bitterness.com Radio: Eve 6 - Open Road Song
1-800-Bitterness.com Reading List: Choke by Chuck Palahniuk

What People Like Me Get Out of Therapy

A therapist once told me that I was a fatalist.

In therapy, as in the rest of my life, I often express the viewpoint that it doesn't matter what I do, and that everything is awful, and there is nothing I can do to change the fact that everything is awful.

Now, I realize that fatalism is actually way more complicated than that. Fatalism actually seems to be related to determinism, and ideas about fate vs. free will. But the important thing, to me, is feeling/knowing that nothing you do matters.

The way I think about it is this: The optimist sees a glass of water and says that it is half full. The pessimist sees the same glass of water and says that it is half empty. And the fatalist sees that fucking glass and immediately knows that the water inside contains ground-up bits of glass.

On a Scale from 1 to Bitter: Fatalistic.
1-800-Bitterness.com Radio: The Rolling Stones - Paint It Black
1-800-Bitterness.com Reading List: Choke by Chuck Palahniuk

"Be the Change"

I told Seth that I had lost my benevolence toward humankind.

He told me that human beings can only recognize things in the world that they already have inside themselves.

Which makes sense. Obviously you can recognize an object, like a chair, or something, that you don't have inside you, but you have to experience an emotion like jealousy or rage before you can recognize it in others.

And obviously the scale is different, and it's more vague - I can be upset about the war in Iraq, obviously the war in Iraq is not inside me. But Seth's line of thinking would assert that the reasons the war in Iraq upsets me so much is because there's something about it, or the reasons for it, that exists inside me, for example: illogical violence, pre-emptive retaliation, et cetera.

The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. I think about people I've hated, and realize that I hated them because they had traits that I knew I had, or feared I had, but couldn't deal with. I hate people for thinking, talking and behaving the ways that I secretly fear I think, talk, and behave.

Stupidity, hypocrisy, and weakness are traits that bother me in anyone, and I know that I have a propensity for all of them. The things that disgust and discourage me about human beings - violence, hatred, prejudice, even rape - these all exist, on some level, within me.

Obviously, I fight against exhibiting these traits. But I know they're in there, somewhere. I know that I sometimes take joy in other's misery - I am cruel. I know that I sometimes fantasize about getting revenge on people who have hurt me.

This line of thinking has made me confront the fact that my heart is, in fact, black and shrivelled. This is hard to reconcile with my raging self-righteousness.

I used to feel like I wasn't doing enough for the world - I wasn't politically active enough, I wasn't globally aware enough, I wasn't doing my part to persuade or at least piss off the Religious Right, I wasn't fighting hard enough.

And now, instead of feeling vaguely guilty for things which I ultimately can't control (i.e. the war in Iraq, AIDS in Africa, genocide, FGM, the death penalty, South Dakota), I feel supremely guilty for things that I'm actually responsible for: my own thoughts, feelings, and actions.

I have realized that I am everything I hate about the world.

After being introduced to this line of thinking, it took me only 36 hours to realize that the only way for me to make the world a better place would be to remove myself - and my rage, hate, and prejudice - from the world, as soon as possible.

The conclusion is simple: The only answer is suicide.

On a Scale from 1 to Bitter: Bitter & Depressed.
1-800-Bitterness.com Radio: The Smiths - Asleep
1-800-Bitterness.com Reading List: Choke by Chuck Palahniuk

Blame the pancakes?

A few days ago, I was eating breakfast when I suddenly became aware of the fact that I could no longer feel my benevolence toward humankind.

Everyone else was talking, and I was searching my insides for any trace of what other people might think of as their soul. And I couldn't find it. I couldn't feel it. It had vanished or evaporated or shriveled and died.

I think most people have some benevolence toward humankind. You might not be aware of it all the time, but we all have that internal (infernal?) Anne Frank in our heads saying, "In spite of everything, I really do believe that people are good at heart!"

Maybe you think of it as the angel on your shoulder, your optimism, your hope for the future. I know that it used to be there. When I got disgusted with the horrors of the world, my benevolence would show up. It told me not to think about all the terrible atrocities human beings visit upon one another, and concentrate instead on the warm and wonderful individuals who populate my life. It allowed me to find joy in a world that inspires disgust, disappointment, and yes, bitterness.

And I can't find it, and I can't figure out where it went.

On a Scale from 1 to Bitter: Pretty Goddamned Bitter.
1-800-Bitterness.com Radio: Bright Eyes - Waste of Paint
1-800-Bitterness.com Reading List: Choke by Chuck Palahniuk