I've been hardcore wheezing for the past half hour. Two puffs of Advir (recommended dose, one ever 12 hours), 5 "rescue" inhaler puffs later, and I'm ready to head to St. Vincent's Hospital if this doesn't get better. I'd probably walk so that by the time I get there, I'm at the point of unconsciousness and they can tend to me quicker. Actually...heart attack and being unable to breathe are the two excuses that will keep you from waiting in the emergency room. Score!

Work, work, work and no play. I'm getting used to life without the play. Things are a-happening, many changes to report within the next week.

I used to use livejournal as a dependency crutch. Oh, adorable "mood icon" you defined me to my community of readers. That void, however, has been replaced by the ability to record ALL episodes of Married...With Children and watch them all day. That show always vaguely reminded me of my family, that with a pinch of Death of a Salesman. You may be filled with sadness at that thought, but I'm filled with pride knowing that I can use apply a playwriting masterpiece to my life. Although, Willy Loman is a much more depressing name than "Jeff Adler".

In other news...I've been doing the reverse commute, going back and forth between Long Beach and my apartment. I'm STILL a nanny, I DON'T have dreadlocks but I DO look like a lesbian from time to time which has its advantages, although with this short hair I'm pulling off the butch do' instead of the hot femme that I'd want to be.

I'm taking German,which may seem to some as a self-hatred thing, but I see it as a learning experience. Now, I can walk all over the streets of New York repeating Hitler's speeches and KNOW WHAT THEY MEAN for once. It's no fun mumbling something in German, having people start to cry and not even know what word caused them to do so.

Nah, I'm kidding. I'd like you to believe that, at least. Speaking of extermination of the Jews, Happy Rosh Hashana! The time of the year when Jews go to temple, never go for the rest of the year but think they've "done their service" by putting in 3 or so hours with God. L'Shana Tovah!

Last night, as part of some dream sequence, I threw myself into my dresser and smashed my ear on the corner. I remember waking up in immense pain, realizing what I did and hoping that a chuck of my ear hadn't split in two. I wake up this morning, blood all over my hands and my injured ear. I have no idea what the dream was.

School began. Due to my, reluctantly, taking a year off from Hebrew, I am completely lost in the class beyond belief. I think I'm going to start the langugage sequence over again. German is working for me.

Welllll...

Went to Europe, came back from Europe. Scotland was incredible, the Highlands were beautiful beyond any preconcieved notions I came with.

I'm shaving my head this week. The 23rd is the one year anniversary of my mom, I thought it'd be a good time to kick it off, nice and fresh, starting a new chapter in life.

I work 6 days a week. My social life has gone down the drain, but I'm dealing with it and school will be here soon, and I'll have other things to worry about.

As much as I still am a fanatic about reading other peoples' entries, I rarely have a desire to write myself. This summer is certainly not one for the ages, as life has slipped into a routine of commute, work and sleep. Long Beach is great in the summer, but I work out of a house so that kind of cancels it out, I suppose.

I'm going to Amsterdam on Thursday. From there, Scotland, and then onto Yorkshire. Seems familiar, ey? Yeah, I went to ALL THOSE PLACES in January, with Ari. However, this time I'm hitting the Scottish Highlands instead of Edinburgh, which really is a completely different trip. And Amsterdam? My father requested we go there; I had no problem complying with him on that one. And York was my idea, I'm absolutely in love with the city, and thought that he would feel the same, as well.

I'm such a travel whore, but thats the one thing that makes me unconditionally happy. Just getting...away. True, with my dad as my travel partner it won't be nearly as fun as when I was with Ari, but who knows? This I know for sure: The presence of my father will NOT deter me from getting really, really high in Amsterdam. Ooh, I hope he does too. I also love traveling to Europe because I can legally drink, something I have to wait nearly two years in the States to do. It hasn't hit me that I'm actually going, it will when I pack and all that.

This is my life now. A year ago at this time, my life was as I had known it to be since I was born. Mother, Father, Brother and me. Almost a year has gone by since her death, and a year later my father and I travel to Scotland. Me and him. Not him and my mother, or him and me with my mother waiting home for us. When we leave the house, we'll be the ones who unlock the doors in a week. I'm dreading the one-year anniversary. Things have gotten easier, though. Not that I don't think about her, but I've adapted to this new life, coming home to just my father, making my own money and paying for my education without any assistance.

I'm definitely looking forward to this trip. I think my father has begun dating which, as much as I'm not thrilled about it, knew that this was an inevitable step in the process of death. Sure, I'm an adult and won't have to call her 'mom' but it's still going to suck seeing someone else on the arm of my father. Ack, this trip cannot come sooner.

Fucking A.

Another reason why I cannot wait to flee to Europe: the drinking age. Of course, I'll be 21 by the time I graduate, thus making this argument irrelevant, but the principle remains: the Europeans have it right. Really, what is the point of having the drinking age be 21? It's not like on your last night of being 20, you're an irresponsible delinquent, and then when the clock strikes midnight you're a responsible member of society.

How did this argument come to be? I was rejected from two bars. I have a real ID; it's not mine, but its genuine through and through, only the height is 5'5. Anybody who knows me knows that I can't even clear five feet. Not that I was rejected, but bouncers have a thrill out of completely humiliating you. I was with Meghan and her friend, and ended up telling them to go without me, as I was the weakest link. I came up to my apartment in tears. I didn't want to drink that bad, but nobody likes that experience of being turned away from a bar,walking away feeling slightly exposed and vulnerable to the world.

It kills me that in December, when I was in Europe, I could drink to my heart's content -- and I didn't end up murdering someone, or causing a heinous crime. I feel horrible for people who come FROM Europe who are under 21 and end up not being able to drink when their OWN GOVERNMENT allows them to drink. I remember when I was in Europe, I wanted to spit in an officials face and say "See,THEY trust me".

This country is so backwards. I really don't know how we're the most powerful. Respected, not at all. Powerful, absolutely. Now I'm going to sulk on the futon until I get a joint going,at which point I will laugh at this entire situation.

This is a promise,though: I'm never going to NYC bars on a Saturday night until I am 21. It was stupid of me, being that I can go any other night and won't have to face intimidating bouncers that guard the places as if they are God's hangout.

While I'm complaining about age, one more rant. I HATE how people assume I'm 14. Today, when I was buying cigarettes I decided to not have my ID out like I always do (I'm used to them asking at this point). This guy not only rolls his eyes, but actually looks at me and says "Pleaaase" as if to say "I know you're 14 years old, like I'm going to fall for that." Usually, I don't mind because I have an ID, but the rudeness is not needed, and I'm starting to get sick of people looking and treating me like I'm a baby. Ever since I got the dreads, my supposed age has lowered and lowered, which is weird because I've never known a 14 year old to have dreads...I'm getting really fed up with this.

My dad, for the second night in a row, had to be carried up the stairs. Tonight I came downstairs to see him passed out on the couch, burning cigarette loosely clinging to his fingers.

I'm getting the same feeling I had before my mom died. He takes so many painkillers; I don't know what to do. What if he was in his bedroom, and dropped his cigarette on the carpet or bed? I feel so powerless, but I feel like I'm going to lose him.

It feels like a repeat of history. Walking a parent up the stairs, the slurring, me being the parent. I'm just very frightened, and I'm wondering if these ARE his last days, if I should be spending every second with him to savor those moments. You always wish that you knew, so you can make the most out of the time left.

It's crazy that whenever I approach his sleeping body, part of me prepares for finding a corpse who'd gone in his sleep.

I feel a tightness in my gut, I hate this.

I'm scared to go to the unveiling tomorrow. I'm still in the city because going home would solidify the purpose for doing so. I don't want to smoke, or change my mood via illicit substance. However, I'm not content with remaining this...numb. This is how I felt for the first few weeks after my mother died, and it's so frustrating.

Tomorrow will be quick and painless. It really is only 15 minutes, but the effects will clearly span the entire day, possibly longer. I wish I were somewhere else, in another time.

This isn't going to be a particularly optimistic entry. I have tons of projects due in the upcoming week in addition to an oral midterm tomorrow morning.

My body is being consumed in hives. Yesterday morning they adorned only my arms; now, they are spreading all over my body. My feet are covered in itchy hives. I've picked up dry cough. Wet coughs are wonderful in comparison because it doesn't feel like someone is poking you in the throat when you go through gagging fits. Dry coughs are extremely painful, even if you're merely clearing your throat.

The cherry on my sundae of bad happenings is my Mother's unveiling on Sunday. It is SUPPOSED to occur a year after her death, on July 23. For some reason, though, my father insisted we have it on May 3rd, to "bring closure sooner than later". In my mind, it's very creepy knowing that a year ago, she was still alive and if only we had known that in a year from now I'd be staring into her grave, knowing that I am standing on what used to be the physical shell of my mother. Sometimes I think about what that physical shell looks like now, almost a year into the ground - surely nothing like what I remember her as. I don't know why I think those things, perhaps to think of the worst scenario before looking toward better things.

The crazy part is that whatever image is coming to my mind is probably the reality. It's not as if I am thinking about her body and I can call her and feel better knowing that she is far from being in that place. Before the images get to grotesque, I usually put a blockage on going any further and think of milder things.

I took a few cough suppressants, and although the cough is not as horrible, I am walking around in a narcotic-induced haze that I very much wish would cease to be. I would rather be focused now, doing my work, there is so much to get done.

This summer is going to be so hard. I'm already prepping myself for her anniversary, although all the preparation in the world will mean nothing when the morning of the 23rd comes back to me and maybe then it will hit me that she really is dead. I still cry, more than in the first few months of her death. I tend to cry in public places, although its not purposely. Thoughts hit me when I'm walking in the street, on the subway, waiting for class to begin. I've gotten used to the stares that are given to a person in tears.

Let's hope there will be better days ahead. At the most, next week will be more promising.

This is really hard.

It's not like my life has been uneventful.
I've just been too lazy to document it.

Dan came over last night; I think that when I see any friends from home, my old ways return and I pass out wayy too early. When him and I go down to DC for the NORML convention, I'll prove to him that I've changed my ways. I CAN STAY AWAKE. I also blame it on my dog. When he wakes up, that means I wake up. We're talking 6:30am to praise him for taking a shit.

If only all our bowel movements were treated with such enthusiasm. I'd definitely eat more fiber and whole-grain products, just for the self-esteem boost.

I did have ideas to jot down, but now all I want to do is make pudding and take a nap, in that order.

Where to begin.

I've died and gone to hell, and its code name is: Fort Lauderdale.

My aunt has just picked me up in her *mercedes*, drove me around her *multi-million* dollar housing community, and showed me her *pool* and *guest-house*.

I asterisked the important things in life.

Well, important to her.

Forget about asking me how I am, because I know SHE thinks about my mom every day. The poor thing, thats probably why she gets a face
lift every month, to help her forget that her favorite relative is no more. And by favorite I mean that the first thing she did when she got off the plane (after mom died) was ask for a drink, and told me I should get a haircut, make myself up all nice.

Honestly, Fran did not hear a WORD I was saying while I was in the car, unless it was a question geared toward her. In typical **ADLER** fashion, she promptly cut off every sentence of mine in an attempt to exploit another aspect of her FABULOUS, WONDERFUL life.

Oh, and she didn't miss ONE opportunity to insult New York, and how "dirty" and "cluttered" it is.

She likes the flowers.
Well, except her own. I think she lost HER flower when she was 12, and hasn't crossed her legs since.

I wish I could call my mom and we can talk about how vain Fran is and mom can confirm my feelings of hatred - and half pity - for the Adler family. My dad looks up to Fran as if she is God.

It's sad, really.

I told myself that I would come home and send my resume to every post on Craig's List. For some reason, I don't have the energy to click "attach file" but I have energy to write on live journal. See, you guys mean more to me than, oh say, making a steady income.

I went to Brookstone and got Tempur Pedic slippers. SO NICE only I overestimated my foot size and got a Medium. Even though it clearly said the Small is for sizes 6-9. I thought that my foot was better than a small. It isn't and now I have half a sole sticking out from under my jeans.

Viv came by yesterday afternoon. We smoked - and keep in mind, I've never seen Viv smoke - out of my king bong (still untitled) and spoke and Viv used my futon to her advantage and took cat naps while I...hmm...I think I was online. What a surprise.

That night, Meghan, Adam and Laura came by and watched What Women Want. Actually, I don't think any of us were actively watching it, but we were reluctant to change the channel. Being that I was in post-Passion mode, it fascinated me that the same man who made a story about Jesus dons stockings and waxes his legs "to see" what a woman goes through. I don't think the bible allows cross-dressing, ay? And I'm POSITIVE he wouldn't be too happy watching the scene where a Marissa Tomei calls Mel a "sex god". But then again, it IS Marissa Tomei, and they did have prostitution in the old days, so he's not so far off.

Not that she's a whore, but...


I mainly associate her with My Cousin Vinny, and she didn't exactly play frigid in The Slums of Beverly Hills.

Moved in!

After a long two days, the apartment is pretty much in place, sans furniture to be delivered on Wednesday. Including the mattresses, which has made for an uncomfortable few nights for me, but great for my back.

Every time I walk outside its surreal where I live. This is seriously a fantasy I've harbored since I was 14. Now I just have to lose a bunch of weight, invest in many a bustier and my fantasy of being a vamp stripper will be as good as reality. A vamp JEWISH stripper. I'll pioneer the way for all those yids who want to trade in their wigs and long skirts for thigh-high boots and fedoras. Hey, at least the knees will be covered.

In other news, I christened the apartment by - no, not having sex in every room of the house. The patch has yet another week to take effect (thank my dad in not getting the patch to me by the time I needed it. He knew.) I bought a beautiful $650 Jerome Baker Design. Let me just say, I wasn't out to specifically get a piece by JB, thats just who the designer happened to be. With a gecko gracing the base and colors-a-plenty adorning the shaft, I invite everyone to come and try it out.

I think I MIGHT get tickets for Barnum & Bailey. I haven't seen a circus perform since...well, since my dad eerily surprised me and Laura by taking us to one a few years back. But, for now, key reproduction, here I come!

So, Hunter College dorms, we have come to the end of our bitter fight. Y'know, through it all, I've loved you. You and your rastafarian guards who bang on my door accusing the hallway of "reeking like MAD weed" and pointing to MY dreadlocks and posters as "the tipoff". The dirty looks. The going into my room without permission because I "look" like I'm high. I love you when you get angry.

However, it has come, the time for us to part ways. As of Saturday, my belongings will not be under the roof of 425 E. 25th Street, but of 124 MacDougal Street, Apartment 17.

NO MORE walking four avenues to the closest subway station. NO MORE having to pay for a cab ride back from a night of drinking because I'm too sick to walk. NO MORE being on the BORING FAR-EAST SIDE. I am now a resident of the West Village, zip code 10012.

And so I leave you now. I would have ended with something poetic and pretentious, but I'm crazy tired and want to go smoke a bowl.

Smoke. Till the waters turn grey and melt into the heavens.

That sounded good, eh? EH? No idea what I meant with that...umm...what I meant to say was, what do YOU think it means?

sAY NO MORE.

I didn't see Passion of The Christ again.

(ok, I did, but don't tell Jesus about it. He may think I want to follow him or something).

I LOVE that movie. Dan and I saw it on Sunday, which went along with us smoking in the parking lot of Lynbrook, a move that any godly figure would praise. I might actually buy it when it comes out on video.

No, it's not because Jesus looked HOT. Although, you didn't hear me say it. And the man was so CALM. HOWEVER, it did make Jews look like horrible people. Although, they were wearing nice threads..wher