half battles

thank god I scored an attivan from my mother last week.

today I was supposed to make the move into the new place and when I arrived with the first truckload of my junk, including my mattress and bed frame, I was greeted by my new room with a surprise. my new room is still somebody's old room, and they have not started packing. ahhh ha. so, I schlepped half of my belongings over and they are all piled up in the living room, and I suppose the rest will go on tuesday after my predecessor has vacated the premises. it's not really that big of a problem, but it's a bit of an inconvenience not to have a bed for two nights, and using my room as a locker with a shower attached to it. I can't say I haven't dealt with tighter spots, namely my month and a half of couch surfing I did in 2006, but god damnit, I wish that things could be a little simpler to help me get through this already jarring experience of having to mourn a relationship and a household in the most sane fashion possible. (not to say that rational behavior is a characteristic I regularly exemplify, but, a girl can dream.)

there are parties all over the city today, zoe's new abode, sloshball in the park, adachi's barbeque, and then french miami tonight at the 'burgh. I just want to sleep until tuesday, and then sit in my new claw foot tub directly adjacent to a raging sage bonfire with aromatherapy bubbles up to my neck until I'm prunier than fucking yoda and there's not a bad vibe on the block.

hanging on, hanging in there, hanging out there... hanging.

let them eat cake.

I was hoping not to have to leave angry, but I've just had it. the tipping point is nigh. I lived with the cheating, I spent a summer where my own house was equated with panic attacks and misery, and I will NOT be the other woman to the original other woman. no thanks. go sell ginger somewhere else. I have developed an allergy to beta carotine and being treated like crap.

october holds:

-painting project. I am going to paint my new room! as of yet, the idea is pink with gold trim, a la coppola's marie antoinette.

-cooking. I just packed up two giant boxes of kitchen shit that I have hardly touched the entire time I've lived here. it can't be that hard to chop suey some vegetables and bake a scrumptious casserole, and I have been eating out at least once a day for a year. that is a LOT of moolah to be frivolously dropping on designer paninis, and I want to travel this winter and next spring.

-housewarming party. it will be mid-month after I'm done with the painting and am all settled in... cupcake dresses encouraged, champagne recommended, devil-may-care attitude required.

-trip to LA with lyds and the wyfe/bad ass photoshoot at the madonna inn. zing!

-revival of the cell phone project. my goal is to have knocked out two letters a week.

-mcsweeney's. I am ending the brief hiatus on my internship. ready to rumble with the creative weirdos, again!

-digital camera. I am on the market for one, if anyone is looking to sell. otherwise I'm going to shake down on craigslist and see what I can rustle up. less hulu, more art. less bullshit, more positive thoughts.

ps. fuck mercury. does that shit EVER go out of retrograde?

you fucked with the wrong taurus.

now, I'm pissed.

already gone

why is this the hardest part?

there are no Ps and Qs for such a situation.

I've never anticipated an october more. I'm saying when.

chiquita

"then there was this law of life, so cruel and just, that we must change, or else pay more to remain the same."
-norman mailer, the deer park

tonight is one of the last nights at my treehouse. the streetlamps from the arco station are illuminating the disco ball in my window, casting a swirling mirrored mosaic, and rufus is perched tentatively in the windowsill. after spending nearly a year consistently petrified that he will indulge in a curious catlike impulse to jump, I find myself at peace. I will be the only one who is jumping, right now. my window is open and I'm almost ready.

I bought ramen out of necessity for the first time in 4 years this week, and it feels both uncomfortable and cathartic. delinquent notices and creditors are the only folks I'm receiving mail from, and I'm strangely peaceful about it. I'm present and I'm hopeful. times are tough but I am trying... giving up is not an option nor a trait that I was born with.

I am peeling the layers of unrest down off of me and I'm feeling like an undressed banana. pale and yellow, embarrassed, about to be eaten, et al. I haven't started packing but it will happen soon, getting all of my earthly possessions wrapped in newspaper and set gingerly into boxes, all part of the cyclical nature of never settling down. as it turns out, I'm better at watching people go than leaving.

the summer of masochism is over, and I imagine that I'll lick my wounds and reconfigure again. I'll remember who I was before I lived in the treehouse, and I'll realize who I am going to be. this chapter is closing, and bittersweetly at that. 23 hasn't held any guarantees, but I have not given up on the graces.

preparedness... it's such a double edged notion. a year ago, two years, three. there is no way to know how things will turn out, even despite careful planning and educated guesses. my energies are never focused on sure bets because I know that they are a pipe dream conjured up by religious fanatics. I am both infallible and shaky, at the mercy of fate and at my own. here I go, again.

basking in the warmth of burning bridges

I had the weirdest fucking nightmares last night. somehow, the tyrannical transgendered chef from the show it's always sunny in philidelphia drove me out of my new house that I'm about to move into by verbally abusing me and force feeding me msg powder from packages of ramen. (no more hulu before bed.) I woke up mildly disturbed at about 10 and watched political newscasts on cnn with rob while enjoying a giant bowl of honey bunches of oats, and my new landlord called to let me know my credit check had been approved, and also that my old landlord, leila, had nothing but kind and cheerful things to say about me in reference. I was mildly surprised to hear as such, as I've only actually met her once, but our only exchange was an evening spent downstairs at madrone that ended with me offering to spoon her. she politely declined, but it seems as if a little willingness to spoon goes a long way.

I still am waking up every morning feeling like I've been hit by a truck, but I've got hope. 9 days left. speaking of trucks, does anyone know someone who has one?



anything big enough to move a twin mattress would rule my world.

decisions, decisions

bottle in front of me vs. frontal lobotomy?

I fell down the spiral staircase from the third floor on thursday night and busted the inside of my lower lip. on the bright side, it's like free collagen for a couple of days, and I can put my eucalyptus plumping gloss on the shelf. on the other hand, I have a busted lip and a sprained nose. (it feels that way.) I spoke to rob about it and inquired as to whether he'd heard the commotion, and he replied, "oh, the other night around 3 when it sounded like someone pushed a water heater down the stairs?"

"ahh-ha. that would have been--"

he pointed at my bruised arm.

"me. yes."

rob continued, "yeah, I wasn't sure if it was an intruder or something so I just leaned over and locked my door. as if that dinky little hardware store lock was going to deter an intruder. maybe just keep them busy long enough to get my rocket ship fired up."

"yes, erstwhile I could've been lying in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairwell with a broken neck."

"it could've been an intruder. but I'm glad you didn't break your neck."

"me too."

experiments and truth, and consequences

okay. so this whole Spending Time With Me thing is progressing, and it seems to be grounding me a little. (no panic attacks today! huzzah!) I found out this morning that I got the room at the mcallister spot, so I gave my notice and I suppose that is just that. aside from having to worry about coming up with deposit money, of course. it's been too long a time coming for theatrics, but I will grieve the loss of my barbie dream house, this house that was in theory my very salvation from the last quarter life crisis. ironic that it only brought on another one rather prematurely. it's unbelievable... another era's end in less than a year.

in one of our countless hater's quarrels, jon had shouted that, "not everything had to be a god damn novel". I think that is where he's wrong. every day I write the book.

diamonds

I went to bed at three and woke up just before six, chest tight, eyes wide, muscles tensed, heart pounding. my room looks cumbersomely huge and empty, and the traffic on fell street is just beginning to take on its frenetic pace that usually stands between me and slumber in the dawn hours these days. after the bar closed I departed from my friends and went to the corner store, picking up a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of champagne, but when I went home I set them on the bedside table unopened and draped myself across my freshly fabric softened duvet, turning away from them apathetically. I read an article in the new vanity fair that depicted marilyn's last days and mysterious remaining personal effects, including filing cabinets of love letters and the 15 bottles of prescription pills that they found with her. I suppose that my fascination with her was a seed planted by my parents, and as a child I would fantasize more about growing up to be like ms. monroe than other little girls were dreaming of picket fences and a prince charming. I don't own a single diamond and I'm already too long in the tooth to make it to hollywood, so it turns out all we have in common is blonde hair, epic boobs and insomnia.

I know that things will get better, (they have to), but being at peace with being alone is incredibly hard for me right now. I hate that this blanket of discontent has landed so squarely. I'm at a loss for ideas. my words are even backed up, writing feels strained and unnatural to me, as alien as voluntarily eating vegetables or wearing sneakers. I've got a hunger to get myself out of this hole but not enough energy to do it. I'm tired, I'm tired, I'm tired. and I can't sleep.

this photo of marilyn has been my favorite since I first saw it.



it was part of the reason that I became enamored with the vaguely out of reach fantasy of living in a big city. there's something so organically grand and simple about gazing off of rooftops surrounded by tall buildings at a city whom you love despite its trespasses who loves you back in spite of yours. that look that she has is like a freeze frame of falling in love, but resignedly so. I saw the same expression on jorge's face years ago on a different rooftop, 26 floors above sutter street, with his soft cuban tresses being tossed by the wind from the bay. it had unnerved and elated me to witness such childlike wonder overtake an old soul, to see a full grown man humbled and reverent to a skyline. I miss him terribly, and in times of such duress, I constantly wish that there was some way that I could pick up a phone and hear his voice on the other end, calming in such an unbelievable capacity, regardless of what was being said. the loss is heavy and palpable, and I'm frustrated with its seemingly vengeful flare up. it leads me to wonder, will it ever get better? two and a half years later and I'm still feeling like there's a gaping hole in my life, and nothing can fill it. is this the same gaping hole that killed him?

even if fate had dealt a different hand, we'd either have had a catastrophic supernova of a heart shattering break up, or have eloped to morocco. in any case, he'd have been my best friend for the rest of my life. so, I've had this band-aid on an exit wound. every time I feel this way I numb myself, either with substances or just by a calculated method of distraction. maybe it is time to sit with it. and then, this way, maybe it will be easier to get back up and keep going.

I love you, jorge. I still can't believe you're not here.

it keeps coming 'til the day it stops

I can't stop with the god damned crying. this had better go away with the full moon.

oh no, not another learning experience!

my cat makes the funniest faces when he's taking a shit. is that juvenile of me to say?

so far in 2008, I've learned that nothing is quite as it seems and free will is an unfunny joke. good intentions are well and fine, but they're often different than what people actually do. I am guilty but my bleeding heart is good, for all intensive purposes. all of this life inventory brouhaha is something I usually save for the new year, but I can't wait that long to feel better. my anxiety has bled into my dreams, previously the only time I had free from it, and now the resulting nightmares have me exhausted and looking like a zombie and all the chainsmoking leaving my vocal chords sharing a charming intonation with jennifer tilly and then perhaps next week, satan. I'm shaky and unsure, and being startled by opening my front door to find myself vis a vis with constance and jon in an accidental mexican standoff yesterday morning made me realize that I am in no way okay, and thus obviously not over it. I literally felt my heart seize up and shrink in my ribcage as I passed her in the doorway and she looked me right in the eye with a snide smirk turning up only one corner of her mouth. (she sure does have an startlingly aggressive glare for a boring jezebel who is half my size.) I really wish I didn't care... and I am fairly certain that I would care a whole lot less if I didn't feel like my home environment was a war zone. jennifer aniston and vince vaughn made it moderately funny in that shitty straight to dvd movie. well guess what, vinny. it's not fucking funny. it fucking sucks. and there's not going to be a happy song in the credits to my movie. it's going to be "famous blue raincoat" or "pitseleh" or fucking... I don't know... a medley of the entire album "exile in guyville"! it's my movie, but I'm not crying because I want to. you might cry too if it happened to you.



I've got this giant novelty eraser that says "BIG mistake" on it that I bought as a gag gift for some e-tard jamboree hotel party from days of yore, and I today I wish it worked like that children's book, harold and his purple crayon. I need an "undo" button for life. a mulligan magic wand. I want a do over. this was not the summer of love I had planned. I've got to report to work in 15 minutes and every time I go in wearing jeans I get asked repeatedly if everything is alright. the funny part is, it's usually not.

leaving, well alone

I'm not sure if my summer cold is a manifestation of all of the shit clogged up in my head, or a hangover, or both. likely F, all of the above. at any rate, I just went down the street to thai place for some tom kha soup to cheer myself up and just ended up burning the shit out of my tongue. things at home are terse, the boys are on no uncertain annoyed terms with me for reasons I am too anxious to analyze and almost every time I see jon I am unable to resist the urge to pick a fight. why? I suppose it must be for the adrenaline rush of emotion, a testing-testing one two three of whether or not he cares enough to engage in such juvenile silliness with me. we are not friends, we are not lovers, and all of the good memories haunt the hallways, eerie intangible remnants that send me spiraling into aching reveries with daily frequency. I'm addicted to beating myself up and jon is my favorite battering ram.

it's hard for me to be alone... there's always something stimulating me, keeping me from examining myself. a tv, a phone, a stupid social networking site, a bar, many bars, boys, work, etc. jon was my main distraction for 6 months, and when we finally made the real break (after a lot of waffling around and waking up in the wrong bedroom more often than I woke up in my own), I filled that space with more impertinent, inconsequential crap. here's the rub: I need to learn to be by myself, sometimes. not all the time, just some of the time. I never write anymore, I hardly read, all of the things I used to enjoy feel bothersome as taking the trash out to that piss scented crack alley behind the bar below. (christ, I sound like that rolling egg prozac commercial, but it's true.) I feel like I need a soul enema.

to be single is one thing, to be alone is quite another. I have no romantic prospects for the first time in years. jon cited one of his main problems with me as an inability to trust because he knew that before I had made a career out of juggling a collection of love interests, an art I perfected after my first nuclear heartbreak. well, there I was, a reformed woman. I was most certainly on the shelf. nowadays, hookups don't make me feel liberated or fulfilled, but rather empty, sad and skanky. next time I am tempted, I am going to remember that feeling, put down the jaeger bomb and go rent a movie and paint my nails with zebra stripes.

I am twenty-three and I have no idea what the hell I am doing. I went to AA and just ended up hitting on a gay guy and returning with some pastel pamphlets that I hid deep in the recesses of my dresser. I've been waiting for someone to get me outta here, already, turn me around, show me the light, put some fire beneath my arse. I just figured out that that person is me.