Friday, July 29, 2005

Passive Agressive Blog Post

I discovered on a jaunt through parkslope that a wire which allows a person to connect a walkman, discman, IPod or the like to a stereo or any other device that has an RCA connection costs $19.99 plus 8.5% sales tax. (if living in nyc. If you live in Delaware or Oregon there is no sales tax and the base price might actually be cheaper for the cost of living in those states is less expensive.) I think if you have one at your residence and it's not yours and is someone else's--let's say mine-- you should return to it's rightful owner. Because the rightful owner might be on the unemployment and the unemployment might not exactly cover the rightful owner's rent never mind allow her (or him) to replace said item (or they could be making six figures as a corporate lawyer but have an addiction to bungee jumping which costs a lot). And rightful wire owner might take trips to Boston, MA in order to attend a going away party for her (or his) friend, Kate, (or some other person in another town named something different) who is moving to Chicago (or some other city in the US, Europe or even Asia) and would have liked to play tunes in celebration of the friend's brave move to start a new life in a new city, (or to celebrate the embracing of smoking crack everyday). But couldn't play Neutral Milk Hotel songs (or songs by Celine Dion) for everyone because she (or he) did not have the wire in his (her) possesion.

Thursday, July 28, 2005

We Know We're Out There

It's funny about the internet and blogs and site tracking programs. You can stalk your stalkers, or track the tracking of people who were tracking you. They may have only have left tracks behind in order to be tracked which increases there traffic and tracks. The internet is anything but anonymous my friends. I know you're reading and I know that you know that I know that you are reading. Unless, you don't have your own site in which case I'll know that you are reading but you won't necessarily know that I know you are reading. So to ensure yourself that I do in fact know you are reading you'll have to leave a voice mail or email message referring to something I posted but never specifically told you. Alternatively, you could try a 1950's technique and refer to a post live and in person. Then you'll see on my face that I know. And, I know that you know that I know. Of course if we dont' actually know each other than you will never know for sure that I know. But trust me I know. You're in your cubicle right now. And you, over there in your home office...hello. And you, random friend of my aunt's who's been forced to read, good evening and please feel free to ask your nephew to explain to you what the hell i'm typing about.

The only hope for most of us is a paid day job to come around and numb the soul. To elimanate the ability to care, or the impulse for egotistical curiosity. All our thoughts will then be focused on where our next drink is coming from or what is on TV. Yes, the day job is the new messiah. Well, that or going on the road where internet access is a pain. Or going on tour with a theatre company. Or a three picture deal with Mirmax or anyone really. OK, so, really the answer is a career or a career that crushes the life out of you. Either one.

Also note that if you leave a comment on someone's blog and use a psuedonym the believabilty of the psuedonym increases 100,000% if you remember to delete your url address on the little post comment form thingy.

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

Heat and Paranoia

It's funny when I visualize the Hell that those religious types yammer on about I think of it as hot but a dry heat, like Arizona but hotter. I don't think of Hell as humid. Instead those of us who have yet to die and be judged (well we've been judged by our peers and random strangers but not yet by some mythical hirer being) and live on the East and Gulf coasts have to suffer the great torture of humidity. It's too bad for the Devil that Mother Nature has patented humidity and she won't sell the rights. Right now I feel like I could stick to fire.
Yesterday I rode the subway with a big, black backpack filled with two rollerblades. Walking on the subway with this stuffed bag made me fearful. I thought some patriot would flip out and try his/her hand at heroism. One of the MTA patrons would take out the threat to peace and democracy--ME. Every person made me wonder if they were going to kick the shit out of me, or pull out a gun-- because those random bag checks don't include pat downs.

The misguided patriot is hard to profile. I didn't know who was best to sit next to. Anyone could be a threat. I didn't know who to avoid. The Puerto Rican mother with her two kids she seemed like a safe bet until I remembered mothers are always very protective. The big Italian guy might be O.K. 'cause I'm italian, but you know how territorial those guys get, and how handy with a bat they are. The dude preaching the benefits of accepting Jesus, might be alright Jesus was about love. However, frequently, Christians forget about turning the other cheek and go right for the smack down. The more paranoid thoughts ran through my mind the more nervous I became the more guilty I looked. All because I didn't have the skill or physical capacity to skate home to Brooklyn from Manhattan's Ft. Tyron Park. And if I explained myself I'm sure people would be like, "You are being physically active in this heat? What are you from the Middle East?"

Thankfully, I made it out of the subway unscathed. When I walked out of the subway station my mind was so preoccupied with my ordeal I stepped out into traffic and almost got hit by a van.

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

Thomas Pain is rolling rolling rolling

What ever happened to "Live free or Die?" Now, it's live with rationalizations and die with a false sense of security.

Family television

There was a time before Jack when I thought I'd be romantically involved with Gabriel Bryne. (He's acted in such movies as Stigmata, Usual Suspects, The Keep etc.) My father disapproved of our love because my father is a bigot and doesn't like the Irish. He told me to avoid the Irish because they suffer from the Irish curse. Then my father held up his index finger and thumb to show how small the Irish curse really is. Here's the thing: what was my father doing talking to me about penis sizes? I mean, I guess, he just wants the best for his little girl. But how do I tell my father a small penis is all I can handle right now? Where was that special episode of Growing Pains when Carol comes home and talks to Dr. Seaver.
"Dad, a small penis is all I can handle right now."
"Carol, all you need is a little lube."
"But won't boys think I want anal?"
"What boy would think a bottle of astro glide means that?
"I don't know. I heard boys think that."
"Perhaps a boy in special ed, and you should stay clear of them."
"So lube would allow me a larger dating pool?"
"Yes. Plus, you can more easily have protected sex and have sex for longer periods of time."
"Wow, dad you're the best."
"And now you can be too, honey."

and scene.

Monday, July 25, 2005

Randy Newman can shove off

Once, as I walked by the first Synagague ever built in the US (located in Newport, Rhode Island) a friend asked why the synagague was so small. "Because Jews are short." I said loudly just as a Rabbi walked out of the small door. "Rachael!" I was reprimanded. "What?"
"Don't say that."
Why shouldn't I have said that? Jews in general are short compared to other types of white people, and compared to other Americans. Should the corn fed Nebraskans feel injured when called tall? The fact that my friend thought "short" was an insult I found offensive. What's the problem with short? It's just another state of being. Why do people feel the need to use euphemisms such as "vertically challenged?" I feel no challenge regarding my height. And couldn't a person over 6ft 3inches also be considered vertically challenged? They're they ones who have to live all the way up there. The poor bastards unable to bend down and tie their shoes or sit cross legged to play jax. Constantly bumping their heads on door ways and other things that are probably up there like weather balloons and construction cranes.

My point is short is not a some racial slur, and some ethnicities are shorter than others. Remember short people live longer so if you mess with us we'll wind up folding your body up into cheaper smaller coffin when you die.

Friday, July 22, 2005

Part of my Fall

I once fell three stories breaking my ankle. This is true. Shortly after I fell I found myself in the ER. While I lay in a hospital bed I remembered that I still had tampon in me. I freaked out. I said to myself. "I can't believe I survived a thirty foot fall only to die of toxic shock!"

An ER doctor finally made his way to my bed to figure out what was wrong with me. I explained my fall, and then told him about my growing toxic shock danger. He then asks me, "Are you pregnant?" Dude, did you go to medical school? And then I wanted to cry. It wasn't bad enough that my ankle felt like it was ablaze under my skin, but now you have to mock my sex life. Did I really need a reminder that (at that point in time) the last time I had had sex was three years ago. And I wasn't even sure if that had actually been intercourse. But it had to be. Otherwise, oh god. No it was. We're counting that awkward 2o seconds on the living room floor, people.

The men reading this blog are looking at my picture saying, "Come on, you could have had tons of sex in your early twenties. Just look at you. You're....Female."
I think i lack endings to my stories.

Thursday, July 21, 2005

a Joke and Zelda

quick joke: I was watching a Collin Farrell movie with this gay friend of mine. He says to me, "Girfriend, Collin Farrell is sooo hot. Give me one hour with Collin Farrell and I'll turn him gay like that [two snaps]!" I said, "Please, give me five minutes with Collin Farrell and I'll turn him gay like that! [one little weak snap]"
Roommate Good's girlfriend was visiting again from Colorado this past week. She is a sweet, well-meaning nut job. I wouldn't go so far as to compare her to Zelda Fitgerald, but that is only because I never met Zelda. For the purposes of this blog post let us call my roommate's girlfriend Michelle, because that is her name and well... I'm lazy.

A couple of Saturdays ago I entered my apartment around 3am. As I was preparing myself for bed, Michelle came bounding out of her man's room. "Ooo, Rachael you're up." If only I had thought to pretend I was sleep walking. We entered into a discourse where she lectured me on how women don't need to have men or children and I nodded my head. Then she suggested we become a writing team. To write what exactly, I'm not sure but I nodded my head. Then she quickly went to the kitchen, came back with a mug of white wine, and made herself a comfy seat on my bed as I sat in a chair. Poor Jack. It was if she didn't even notice him sleeping in the bed. At some point in our conversation she decided to give me a psychic reading.

She took my hand into both her hands, which I have to admit was kind of nice. She asked "You have a brother?"
"You're father has a brother?"
"Has he passed?"
"Well, he's a sounding board for your father."
"Is that what you call arguing?"
"Shhh. Shhh."
And so it went until 5:30 in the morning.

Now, I feel I might have screwed up this reading, which I never asked for, right from the begining. Michelle asked if I had a brother. And technically I don't have a brother. Technically, a brother is a flesh and blood male that one's parents also raised. I do not have one of those. However, my parents did invent a son, Stephen, about four or five years ago. They said they wanted to know what it felt like to have a successful child. Supposedly, he's a business consultant in London. (They continue to talk about him despite Edward Albee sending my parents a cease and desist order.) So my answer "no" was not completely accurate which I'm sure threw her whole reading off. Because if my parents can have conversations with Stephen, why not a drunken girlfriend of my roommate at 5 in the morning? I bet you my brother Stephen had some great pearls of wisdom to offer me too because according to my parents he is just the most amazing person ever. Oh well.

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

"I'll get those hooks out of me..."

God, I'm laughing to myself and at myself right now. Bush's "Glycerine" just began to play on Launchcast. My friend Kate and I used to listen to this song all the time our freshman year in College. We were heartbroken and found that Gavin Rosedale expressed our heartbreak with complete accuracy with his noncoherent lyric of "Glycerine." For me it makes perfect sense why a song that makes no sense spoke so profoundly to my heartache. I hadn't actually broken up with anyone yet, and I wasn't pining after anyone. In fact at that point as far as I knew I was still dating the biggest Jonathan Richman fan to ever walk the earth, and I don't just mean his gerth. Come to think of it we never actually broke up- he should be calling any day now.

Kate and I spent many an evening singing at the top of our lungs, "Couldn't love you more you have a beautiful taste." as we guzzled vodka while sitting in the near dark on the floor of our suite**. (I mixed my vodka with orange juice as to avoid scurvy while I caught my buzz. Kate would drink vodka and Mt. Dew--she was light years ahead of the Red Bull folks.) But that's the thing, he didn't have a beautiful taste, he smoked. Perhaps Kate's ex-boyfriend type, also known as Pissy Face, tasted beautiful. You'll have to ask her.

Sometimes we'd mix it up and throw on Tracy Chapman's "Fast Car" in between Glycerine and yet another play of Glycerine. And we would sing that lyric with as much passion as we would Gavin's words. And why wouldn't we? Of course we related to the dissappointment and heartache of Tracy's impoverished protaganist working at a grocery store. We were white, middle-class college kids enrolled at private college. But the chick in Tracy's song was hurt and angry and so were we god damn it! Except, I had nothing to be heartbroken about yet. Sure the day would come when I'd walk him out of the dorm kind of awkardly hug him good-bye (I really hated PDA back then) and say, "See ya later." and then not see him later. In fact never see him again. But that hadn't happened yet! I prematurely heartbroke.

**Definition of Suite. At Emerson we not only had rooms and roommates but we had suites. Some of the dorm rooms were clustered - 3 to 6 rooms- in suites where 4, 5, 0r 6 would share a bathroom, living room and something resembling a kitchen--though of course there were no actual cooking or fire instruments in the kitchen section of the suite. There were people on the planet who didn't even have G.E.Ds renting houses and cooking meals on gas stoves over actual fire, but not us. The college felt we were adult enough to begin accruing thousands upon thousands of dollars of debt but not yet old enough to cook.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

Love might mean murder

Why do people think that love is some all powerful force on Earth? If two people love each other all negative emotions cease to exist between the two people. Let's put it this way. I love my mother but that doesn't mean she doesn't anger me all the time. And I'm sure I piss her off. Like for my birthday when I wanted to go to Bishoff's for ice cream. She said no, we're going to Luzy's for dinner. Not only does Luzy's not have ice cream they are nowhere near Bishoff's. I said, "It's my birthday god damn it! Today shouldn't I get what I want?"
"You're getting a free dinner, be grateful," She retorted. "Yeah, but I want ice cream and frisbee."
"Well, you're getting a nice dinner and cordoroy pants."
"But's it 90 degrees out and 120% humidity."
"What? You're going to run all over the park chasing a frisbee in this weather?"
"Well, not in cordoroy pants."
"So what the hell do you need a frisbee for?"
"If you hadn't lost my shorts."
"Oh don't start that again."
"Happy Birtday and you'll like it."
"Yeah, love you too."
"Good, i'm your mother."

See that's the crazy thing about love, I wanted to shoot her but at the same time take the bullet for her.

Sunday, July 17, 2005

I love you but....

Jack has yet to move out of my place and find his own place. He has yet to find a job. He has yet to decide what he wants to do for a job now that he has retired from nomadic do-gooding. I love him, but it's going to be 90% humidity all week--too muggy to live in sin with my boyfriend. Also, I don't know how long my roommates are going to put up with his freeloading. Frankly, I don't care about Roommate Bad's feelings--as he put a completely empty Britta back into the fridge. I went to pour myself a glass of water and not a drop escaped from the white plastic spout.--Yeah, he can go screw. However, Roommate Good must have reached his limit. Roommate Good swears he didn't even know anyone else was staying here until I told him, but Roommate Good is overly giving and doesn't like conflict.

Roommate feelings are really secondary. Jack's presence in my apartment combined with my current unemployment status has made me complacent. Instead of writing and rehearsing comedy Jack and I sit in my room and debate Coehler's "The Alchemist" or other such nonsense until about 5pm when we remember we need to eat and watch reruns of the Sabrina, The Teenage Witch. He doesn't research apartments, I check my email constantly, and nothing gets done--except each other of course. He brings up the idea of him starting a blog, but I really don't have it in me, not now. Then he tells me stories not of his extensive travels but of his days with the Steelers. How he saw this kid at Leighigh University throw for 420 yards in single game. This Junior (non-redshirted) was only 5ft 2in.--shorter than Doug Floutie. "Only one inch taller than you, Rachael! Isn't that amazing! And then he didn't sign with us. He thought it'd be safer to play arena football."
"What do you expect from someone who plays football for Leighigh?"
"Oh you had to see him play."

Basically, he needs to get out of my place, we need maybe to miss each other a little bit again.

Friday, July 15, 2005

Life is Pain Your Highness...

This week has been a sort of bust for this blog and its funny. I think emotional pain is much more humorous to read than physical pain. Physical pain really shines in the visual, i.e. man slipping on a bananna peel and falling ear first into a sword--hysterical, trust me if you were to see it you'd be laugh laugh laughing. But emotional pain is much more versatile it works even in brail.
This evening a gentleman told me I was dressed like I should be working on the Love Boat. I naturally, responded by telling him to go fuck himself. He retorted with, "No, you look alive." Which made me think that this gentleman thinks I usually don't look alive. So, again I told him to go fuck himself. "All I'm trying to say is that you look good." He said through his 11th beer.
"Oh. OK. Well, thanks." Then I gave him the finger.

Thursday, July 14, 2005

Spray this

I still have a wicked sore throat. I realized yesterday after hearing the news reports about Judge Renquist that I am a pussy. The man has cancer and a fever and is 120 years old and he is still going to work. What did I do with my swollen glands? I tried to sleep myself back to health--no luck.
This morning I went out and bought that numbing spray for sore throats. I thought about buying the lozengers but, usually they sit in my mouth numbing the inside of my cheek instead of relieving my throat pain. So I bought the spray. Only problem is I can't get the spray onto the sore part of my throat. Now, my lips are numb, part of my tongue the roof of my mouth. Everywhere but my actual throat. I put the nozzle thing outside of my mouth, inside my mouth, inside and sideways. Missing everytime.
I am now 28 years old and can not take care of my own sore throat.

Wednesday, July 13, 2005


I'd just like to point out that this blog post is being written under less than ideal circumstances. All I can think of doing is ripping out the back of my sand marinated throat. It feels like someone is using my throat instead of marshmellows for their smores. And instead of charcoals to roast my throat they're using lit jet fuel. It's moments like these that I wonder what my heart was ever complaining about. "Oooo, poor little heart feels alone and isolated. Poor baby. what some friend decided that their mom and pop business was more important than you, Boo hoo hooo. Buck up, Heart. At least you don't feel like you were a certain kind of intimate with the dude from Hell Raiser. At least when you ache you can go to the bar and have a drink. Try drinking anything when it feels like hot tar as just been applied to you. "

Tuesday, July 12, 2005

Birthday presents will be Accepted All Month

That's right people it's my birthday. I am now officially 28 years old, for the last couple of weeks I've been responding to the question "how are old are you?" with "I'm almost 28." Now, I can respond simply, "28." Today, I'm one year closer to death. Yippee!

Also, I must say I woke up this morning feeling older and more mature. Yesterday, I had only been able to rent a car for 3 years, but now I've been able to rent one for four whole years. It's crazy how time flies. And in just a few short years I'll be too old for the draft. If you haven't sent me a birthday gift yet, don't worry I'll be accepting presents for the rest of the month. If you somehow lost my mailing address just email me at For my birthday I'm becoming a non-profit corporation so all gifts especially of the financial sort will be tax deductable. If you want a receipt just request that in the card under "Happy Birthday!!!"

How will I be spending the big day? Well, I was thinking of doing something special with my man Jack. I thought we could get checked for stds who the hell knows what that man picked up in the exotic locales he's been living in. I know we are such hopeless romantics. It nauseates some people.

Monday, July 11, 2005

Alcohol and You Perfect Together!

Newly pregnant ladies! If you have trepidation about the pain of giving birth. Well, you can make the 9lb 11 inch baby a thing of the past. By merely imbibing large amounts of alcohol you can reduce the size of your newborn making childbirth a cinch. Also alcohol has the added benefit of assuages fears of childbirth, motherhood, and bringing a child into this violent, sometimes hateful, and polluted world. But you must start drinking now before you reach your third trimester and the baby has grown to large. If you have mated with a tall man, or with a fat man or tall fat man and are thinking, "Oh god what have I gotten myself into!!!!" You might want to up your birthsize medication to Crack/Cocaine. Crack (as it is called for short) is a smoked medication that has been around for more than 20 years. At first crack was used to keep city folks from worrying about finding jobs and having families. Relatively recently, doctors have found it highly effective in maintaining fetus size to tiny tiny. If you smoke crack 3-4 times a day starting at the begining of your pregnancy and continue consumption until the day your water breaks you may need a microscope to find your child. Isn't that exciting. Plus, crack is a great pain reliever for natural childbirth as well as for c-sections.

Friday, July 08, 2005

Interview skills

I had two interviews yesterday for jobs that I really don't want but desperately need.

"Do you think you would want to work here?"-interviewer
"Do your checks bounce?"- me
"Cool. And you are near central park that'll be nice for lunch."

"Do you have any questions for us?"
"Do you have internet access? and is it restricted? How about freecell and solitaire is that loaded on the computer I'll be using? Is messenger already loaded or will i have to do that myself? I was also wondering if i'd have access to your stamps and fedex supplies? I have mailings to do once in while. Oh and do you have an endless supply of copy paper to print drafts of my anarchist treatise? I'll also need paper for the one woman show I plan to write while I'm answering the phone. And about that is it important I answer all the calls when they come in? Or if i'm really involved in the latest Kundera novel can I put the ringer on silent. I figure if it's important they'll call back. Plus you've got voice mail, right? Eventually I'll finish the novel."

Thursday, July 07, 2005

Oh the days of the Lumberjack

I once dated a dude my friends and I had nicknamed the lumberjack--which had nothing to do with his disproportionately small hands. This is a brief tale of one of our dates.

The story:

The Lumberjack and I went to Teaneck, NJ to get ice cream at Bishoff's. As we walked up Cedar Lane the Lumberjack asked me if Teaneck was an Asian town. I said, "Oh it might be now- a -days, I think it used to be pretty jewish, but neighborhoods change. Why do you ask?" I asked that question because I didn't see any people on the street-- Asian or otherwise. He points up to a building we were passing and says, "Becauase of the writing on the buildings. I look up. "That's Hebrew."

Protestants you can't live with them you can't take them to Teaneck.

just being friends joke

What is the matter with my generation and the need to be friends with the people we've dated? You want to be my friend? Do you know what I do with my friends? I bitch about my relationships. OK then...let's be friends. We'll get coffee and talk about what a loser you are. God, I hate those people who exclaim how emotionally evolved they are. That they can be friend with all they're exes. They can surpress their emotions until they're...British! Friends. Yeah that's a great idea. Let's spend tons of time together and then not have sex! You know what else would be a great idea if I could become a diabetic and walk around with a cheesecake hanging from my neck!!!! That's be awesome too!

Wednesday, July 06, 2005

So precious

July 2nd I was heckled by a 10 year old girl--they grow up so fast. I ripped her a new asshole, I don't care if it was "family-oriented" party. I figured if she's old enough to heckle she's old enough to have a new asshole, I'm sure her college boyfriend will thank me in a decade. She wanted to gong me. I could tell she was threatened by my talent. She had performed earlier in this pool-side gong show. I believe she recited the alaphabet or performed quantum physics. Whatever it was she didn't stand a chance against my joke about dating a guy named Ross and she should have just accepted my superiority.

In the end no one won. The show went on too long and by the time it was over everyone was too drunk to remember any of the acts never mind award a winner. I thought about burying the hatchet with the kid--splitting an ice pop or something, but when I found her she was already on her 4th tequilla and there was no talking to her. Which was fine I really didn't want to share my ice pop. Maybe if I smoked cigars we could have bonded.

Tuesday, July 05, 2005

Get it?

The only way to get what you want is to not care if you get what you want. However, if you really don't care then you must not really want it. Therefore, what you wind up getting is not what you want, nor what you don't want (though it could be what you don't want), it is just what you get. And when you get it you'll probably take it for granted or barely notice that you've gotten it.

Supposedly, the way we humans behave when we want something or someone is the exact opposite we are to behave in order to get that something or someone. So to get what you what you want you have to pretend that you don't actually want it. This pretense of course makes us old before our time because WE DO actually WANT it. Deep down we yearn. We spend our time on doing other things then pursuing what we want. And if we don't do anything to get what we want then how are we to get it? We also waste our energies surpressing our yearning. Which makes us old before our time. And if we are old before our time we most likely will die before we get what we want. Basically, if we want it we can't have it. Instead we have to make do with what we are given, which we never cared about getting. Meaning, at some point we have to step back and realize we've gotten things.

This of course does not apply to ice cream which we frequently want and frequently can get. However, it does still apply to onion bagels--especially if in the city of Boston, MA.

Friday, July 01, 2005

Jack and I Dating

Happy 4th of July. I guess it's time to roast marshmellows over flaming British Flags. And gorge ourselves on french fries in honor of the French who made it possible for us to be independent.
Right now both Jack and I are out of work so things are little tight financially, unemployment is not what it used to be, actually it is more than it used to be as I worked more hours before collecting this time, but I digress.

In our current economic situation Jack and I find ourselves more open to experience new things. For example, last night we went for a bike ride to Coney Island with a nice british guy. I had met the British fellow after a show I did at Galapagos a couple of weeks ago. We hit it off and the Brit asked me to accompany him on a bike ride. I was about to turn down the invite because there was a strong possiblity it was a date, and I can't go on dates as I am living with (even if only temporarily) the man that I love. When I told Jack the story he said, "No, totally go! Actually, I'll come with you and maybe he'll buy us both hotdogs at Nathan's." So that's what we did. Last night Jack and I went on a date with a british gentleman to Coney Island where he did indeed buy both of us hotdogs. Not only that but neither Jack or I was asked to put out, it seems our British suitor is taking it slow. We're fine with that and are excited to see him again after the 4th of July.
Thinking back on past relationships I realize you loose things with each break up. When you forget something a person's place you think you're going to see them again and you can get it back. But no. I've lost a toothbrush, a little stereo adapter thingy, and a t-shirt--friggin frustrating, and you can't get those things back because you're not talking to them anymore. Though thankfully I haven't lost my ability to open up and be vulnerable. I can't loose something I never possesed.