The Evolution of Revolution

"Some cause happiness wherever they go; others whenever they go."

 


Summer has hit me like a ton of bricks. When the weather changes it feels to me like the whole world changes. When the weather is suddenly hot, I begin to imagine myself an inhabitant of some prehistoric jungle with giant leaves and exaggerated flowers. Everything is beautiful and all the dinosaurs are docile. Every thing in the bright green and pink and yellow ecosystem settles and shares drinks at the nearest watering hole. Such is summer in Los Angeles. All the turmoil, all the monsters settle, and everyone spends the next three months at the beach trying to forget the tragedy that was the previous winter in a booze and hash induced haze. Everything wrong is right again and each one of us has the permission to stop all productivity and cut loose.

The sunshine inspires. There are more warm sunny hours in the day, more time to meet people, more time to create and explore, more time for drugs, more time for vacations, trips to the middle of nowhere, more time to stay up even later passing joints and singing songs with friends. When it’s hot I understand how revolutions could begin in someone’s living room.

This summer, my revolution began at a bar. Should be no surprise there, since the bars are where I spend a large majority of my time.  But maybe this evening was special. Maybe I had just had the right combination of drink and drug to feel open. Maybe I’m in love. Maybe I’m in love with him or with myself or with everyone right now. Maybe I’m just in love with being able to do whatever I want. Maybe Independence Day struck me closer to home than it normally does. Last night, Joshua and I started a revolution.

Since he and I reconnected recently, we’ve maybe hung out a handful of times, including one almost date where we cooked at my house and ended up eating dinner on the rooftop of my apartment building looking at the stars. Still no kiss, by the way.  This week, he called and invited me to his band’s show. Last night was the first in a summer series of shows, a residency, at a local music venue right in my neighborhood where Audiobahn would be playing along with a bunch of other musical guests.  I spent about 2 hours getting ready while Travis sat on the bed, smoking rip after rip on my bong and occasionally passing me cigarettes that we were sharing, watching me get dressed and undressed and dressed again. Since Mike and I broke up, I’ve been enjoying getting dressed. I can be as outrageous and unbridled as I like. Tonight I’ve chosen a handmade vintage sundress, sunny yellow with small pink and green flowers all over it, 6” pink pumps, almost all of the jewelry I own, a giant brimmed floppy straw hat and black smokey makeup. I look fabulous. Travis is wearing the standard: tattered jeans with the knees blown out, tight grey teeshirt and a shabby but well fitted flannel on top. I already tried on his clothes and decided I didn’t want to wear them tonight. He rolled us a couple of joints and said it was time to head to the show.  

The revolution began about 6 drinks later and after all the bands had broken down their equipment. With a lit joint in one hand, and a lit cigarette in the other, I’m standing outside the club with Joshua, laughing at my own expense and raving about the show. Joshua starts talking about being an artist, a starving musician, a rambler. He starts talking about his plans and his hopes and his dreams for this summer residency. I am getting sucked in. I’m talking about free spirits and love and positive energy. He mentions he wants to move out of his house, not pay rent, really go for the true artist lifestyle. Plus he needs to be closer to Hollywood. High as a kite and 3 too many drinks, everything makes sense to me. Obviously, he should move in with me! And I drunkenly grab his shoulders, shake him, tell him to move in with me and attempt to convince him that this is clearly the best idea that I’ve ever had. In shock, but brimming with what I perceived to be joy, he accepts! We speak of plans and revolution. We will network and help each other and build an artists’ commune where we all live and love for free, fuck each other, live on pancakes, all play music and act together, take mushrooms and write scripts. The fantasies of finding 20 or 30 likeminded fellows and converting a loft into a music venue, playhouse, cultural center, drug den—throbbing, thriving, living, breathing, sticky, beautiful, and powerful—begin.  So he’s moving in to my studio apartment sometime this coming weekend. I may have proclaimed that I wouldn’t fuck him while he lived in my apartment. I do seem to remember saying that last night, but today as I’m writing this, I’m thinking that vow might get ignored.

I don’t think I’ve ever been more excited in my entire life. My close friend is moving in with me, I’m free as a bird and high as a kite all day every day. I am going to help Josh work on the show. Josh already told Travis and I that we can perform at the residency if we want. I’m going to help promote and book. I’m going to introduce Josh to every musician I know. Everyone can come back to ‘our’ place after the concerts every weekend. I am going to finally have the dream… the dream apartment where everyone drops by all the time… the dream lifestyle of someone active who has a booming social life and constantly surrounded by music… the dream love life where I really can have it all, the friendship, the sex, the openness, the freedom… everything I’ve ever wanted and all because I’m allowing it to happen. I started paving a pathway for myself to be happy, and within a matter of weeks it has turned into a freeway—no, an interstate!—no, an enormous intercontinental transit web of highways just for me!

Mike always said if we broke up that I’d be the one that was fucked. Well, suck my intercontinental highway of happiness Mike. If I had known that not being with you would be this good, I would have left you a long time ago. And you know what? I am fucked. On a much more regular basis than when we were dating.

Swept Away

"One should always be in love. That is the reason one should never marry."

At a bar with Anna one night a few weeks ago, I met a man. I cozied up to the bar, ordered my standard white Russian—no, it’s not because I’m a Lebowski fan, it’s because I like them—and a handsome man starts teasing me. I watch him take a shot of whisky, a gulp down a mouthful of PBR. Oh a man's man, have we? Funny, you don't seem so manly with your perfectly sculpted but tossled hair and vaguely hidden Hollywood attitude. Making fun of a girl is the fastest way to her heart, so naturally, we struck up a conversation. He has amazing taste in music, he’s a working actor, he owns most of the Criterion collection. His name is Adam.

One afternoon last week he called.  He’s funny and he brings out a slightly wicked side of my sense of humor. It happens to be one of my favorite parts of my personality and when I find someone that lets me indulge it, I fall head over heels. We finally set a date to watch movies at his apartment. The plan was that I was going to go to his place after I got off work (we’re talking like...11pm) and watch some movies, Eyes Wide Shut in particular. That’s the most suggestive date I could imagine really. Saying to a lady, “do you want to come over at 11pm and drink wine and watch a movie,” is just shy of saying, “want some dick?” I got a wax the next morning and I never looked so fucking good at work.

I took a cheese plate from the restaurant and picked up a bottle of wine – just to make sure there was going to be enough. I call from outside the gate to his building and we have the awkward walk upstairs to his place. The walk upstairs can be a kiss of death. You feel uncomfortable saying a proper hello or hugging when you’re outside, but then it’s a little late by the time you’re in the apartment and set all the booze down. He opens the door and I’m pleasantly surprised. The apartment is furnished and very clean. Let’s face it, you can’t expect much from young bachelors these days; you’re lucky if they have a mattress and a lamp. He comes to grab the bags out of my hands and as he leans down he kisses me on the cheek and says he’s so happy that I could come over. He pours two glasses of wine, hands me one and two cds. He had burned me some compilations earlier in the day, music that he thought I’d like. It also happens to be his favorites, folk and bluegrass, banjos and steel guitars, The Avett Brothers and Sufjan Stevens. It occurred to me that if dating was really like this, then I had been seriously missing out the last few years.

We put the movie on and of course we talk over it. I’m sitting on my knees, with my left hand draped over the back of the couch, using it occasionally to muss my hair. He’s stretched out with his hands behind his head and his elbows wide against pillows and the couch corner. He has a face that puzzles you. It is difficult to tell if you want to punch it or kiss it, until he blushes and you feel like you’ve won a war. The messy hair, the adorable self-deprication, the leather jacket—I was doomed before I started.

The movie is over and we’re still talking, telling ghost stories and making fun of each other. At four in the morning, I’d had enough chatting. I couldn’t quite figure it out. We were having such a good time, but he still hadn’t made a move on me. I start trying to leave but it turns into 45 minutes of more stories. I start thinking that it’s actually kind of lovely that we didn’t hook up. Maybe that’s normal. Maybe he just wants to get to know me. Maybe he just wants to be a friend. I could use some new friends right now. Even with the positive outlook, the slight rejection only makes me want him more. I vow to myself that I will get what I want out of this – a good fuck and a fun drinking buddy.

We eventually pulled ourselves together and he walked me out to my car. He stopped me at the gate; the sun was coming up. The sky was gray-pink and palm trees were silhouetted against the morning haze. As I was turning to go, Adam put his hand on my cheek and kissed me. It was small and delicate and sweet. He pulled me a little closer and we breathed each other in. I smiled and asked him why he waited so long. “You’re a difficult lady to read,” he says. “From now on, I’ll be much more clear,” I promise as I throw my shoes in the back seat and climb into the car barefoot. I wasn’t able to sleep when I got home and I smiled all day that afternoon.

Is it possible I accidentally stumbled onto something great? The date appeared very suggestive, but then he was a perfect gentleman. Illusions and games? Okay, sweetheart, you’ve got my attention. I’m delightfully intrigued. He seems perfect for me. But the timing doesn’t make any sense. What is the universe trying to tell me? I am trying to remind myself that I can’t get involved in anything serious; my heart is still in shock, and I don’t believe that I could really feel anything. At the very least, I’m terrified of feeling anything again. A good fuck and a drinking buddy, I remind myself.  

Thank you for the beautiful music.

Joshua: Round 3

" One should always be in love. That is the reason one should never marry."

I’ve already talked a lot about my ladies, those near and dear to my heart lunatics that supply me love and drugs. Now it’s time to introduce some of my favorite men. When I was dating Mike, I didn’t have any guy friends – well, a gay here or there and a close girlfriend’s boyfriend. But those hardly count. I like my relationships with more uncertainty and a lot more sexual tension. Since Mike and I split, a surge of boys has exploded on to my scene – and I’m hoping they’ll all explode on my…

Nevermind.

It’d be too much information to write all in one blog, so over the next couple of days I’m going to tell stories about them all. First up, Joshua. 

Joshua and I have a decent amount of history already behind us. 3 years ago, right before I started dating Mike, I met Joshua at the birthday party of a friend. I don’t remember much about the party, except that night Lizbeth (who was my roommate at the time) started hooking up with the birthday boy – a former flame of mine – and Joshua and I got to gabbing about comic books or music or something else that proves how awesome I am. I distinctly remember being in a bedroom with other people around passing pipes and smoking stoags, and Joshua and I standing in the middle of it all ignoring everything around us and just talking. That kind of thing doesn’t happen to me very often.  Not that you can tell from how honest I am here, but I don’t open up to people in my real life very easily - especially not at parties. Even though we were having a lovely conversation, something was missing for me. I wasn’t quite attracted to him. I couldn’t put my finger on it. He was too close to my height, or I didn’t like his face. Who knows? Lizbeth and her new boyfriend - the birthday boy, my old flame and also Joshua’s best friend - pushed and pushed and really wanted to get us together. Over the next month or so, it was all she would talk about with me and a couple of times actually ambushed me with a double date. I had a boyfriend at the time, Bird; we were unhappy but I still felt like what Lizbeth was doing was weird. So nothing ever happened. It fizzled out just as abruptly as it began. That was round 1 with Joshua. Round 2 came about 6 months later when Bird and I finally did break up. If you’re following the time line of my dating history at all, you already know that Bird and I broke up because I started seeing Mike. Early in my relationship with Mike, I was adamant about not being exclusive.  In retaliation, even though it wasn’t what he wanted at all, Mike was sleeping with other girls too. Joshua suddenly appeared in my life again. I don’t even remember how. All of a sudden, he and I were hanging out together alone, and I was wearing his sweater to sleep in. Lizbeth ate every moment of this up. Despite spending a lot of time together, nothing physical ever happened. We would ride around and play each other music; we bonded over Jeff Buckley, Radiohead, Bjork, The Talking Heads. One night we ended up at a lookout point on Mulholland, looking down at the sea of lights known as “The Valley.” Very romantic. We stood there together, and if ever there was a moment to make something happen, that was it. I don’t think I got so much as a hand hold. Someday I’ll have to ask him what in the world he was thinking about that stopped him from throwing me on the ground and shoving his tongue in my face. Life is not the movies, as it turns out, and sometimes people just chicken out. I didn’t see him again after that. I decided to let it go and besides that, things with Mike were heating up to a point beyond control.

I didn’t see Joshua most of the time that Mike and I dated. He started dating a girl too. Every so often (like.. once a year), I would force Mike to come with me to see Josh’s band, Audiobahn, play. Once I wanted to go to Josh’s birthday party and had to make Mike go or else there’d be no other way I would be allowed. We fought the whole way there and when we finally arrived, there was a line to get in the bar and Mike just couldn’t stand the whole situation. We left. Apparently, Joshua’s girlfriend wasn’t super fond of me either. In my opinion, she found me threatening for no reason.  Maybe he failed to mention to her that he never really liked me enough to touch me.

Oddly enough, Joshua and his girlfriend broke up around the same time as Mike and I ended. Probably within two weeks of each other. It started as chatting on facebook, then texts and now we are hanging out again three years after Round 2 had crashed and burned. I see him all the time. We talk all the time. It feels like we're very close, like we have been this whole time and there wasn't a three year hiatus in our friendship. For a boy that doesn't like me much he sure does like to pretend otherwise. It is odd and beautiful and overwhelming. This is exactly what I wanted. This is exactly the reason Mike and I broke up – there’s a whole world of people and friends that I’ve missed out on because I wasn’t allowed to develop friendships. Having a boyfriend is ridiculous. All it does it hold you back.

I’m unencumbered this time, and time has done some good things to Joshua’s look, style, and demeanor. Suddenly he is attractive. Very. Maybe he always has been but I was distracted. Or maybe I’m just trying to conquer as many people as possible right now. Either way, I’m locked and loaded and ready for Round 3. Bring it on, Darlin.

 
I played this for you that night driving up to that lookout point. I didn't know then that it would be so true. I dedicate this to you and here's hoping it won't be true again ;)

MY PUSSY IS A DICK

Watch the Sunrise

"To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance. "

 


Two weeks ago, I had a rough week – the kind of ruthless week that just won’t quit and might even land you with the nickname Bad Week McCoy.  I lost my job, I was arrested, and on top of that, the cops confiscated my whole stash, my pipe and my bong.  Hey copper, I don’t have a job – how am I going to replace all that shit?

My point is, I survived. I made it through. I flourished even. I got a new job. I barely missed a beat. More weed appeared in my apartment.  Gotta good deal on a new pipe and bong, and maybe these are even better. I survived. And I’m thinking about this and I realize – the world is completely based on our perception. I can choose to see losing my job as devastating, depressing, or punishable – and I have in the past. But I’m liberated now. I’ve set myself free. I’m untethered and the only person left in the world to impress or satisfy is me. And here’s the kicker – I don’t give a shit that I lost my job. It clearly isn’t a big deal. In the past I would’ve beaten myself to fragments. This time, I just packed a bowl and let it ride. I listened to music and cooked myself dinner and went to the museum. I enjoyed the sunshine. I was grateful for the break. My fresh start is officially official – I’m in a new apartment, I’m starting a new job.  I choose to perceive this situation, this life, in a new way. This time, I see myself as strong and empowered, pursuing my personal legend.

I just finished reading The Alchemist and the concept “Once you make a decision, the universe conspires to make it happen” repeats throughout the book. I feel very comforted by that. And weirdly, comforted for having been booted from my job. The universe is showing me a new path, opening a new door. Well, maybe it’s more of a window; it’s a way out, but it’s not the most comfortable situation it could have been. Either way, I’ve been given a gift!

The universe is trying to tell me that what I’m doing is exactly right. I’m on the right path. I finally feel like my heart and my mind are aligned with each other and the world. I am giving and receiving the energy flow of the world. I was unknowingly communicating with my energy and my actions what I truly wanted – which was to be gone from that place. It’s just a restaurant. It’s just a job. It was holding me back. It was keeping me comfortable and lazy.

Thank you universe for all that you have given me. I prosper. The world is on my side.  We are all one.

Hello, Procrastination.

"Life is far too important a thing ever to talk seriously about. "

I haven’t written anything in a while – I’m long over due for a blog post. Here’s why all the procrastination:

First, I procrastinated because I didn’t know what to write. I didn’t want to write about losing my job and every thing else seemed pretty bleak and abysmal –not great adjectives for potential writing subjects, unless of course you’re Edgar Allen Poe or Tim Burton or Bret Easton Ellis. Let’s face it though, you’re not. And I’m not. So I didn’t write.

Secondly, I further procrastinated because the deadline for a new blog was coming Apparently, I promised myself they’d come up every Thursday. And they will. If I get around to them. Otherwise, they may come up on a Monday or Tuesday, or some day of the week on which the moon and my menstrual cycle are in alignment and I can function like a normal person. I cave at deadlines. They make me cranky, anxious and stubborn. Fuck you deadline! I DARE you to actually make me do any work! .. is something I might think as a deadline approaches.

Thirdly, I procrastinated because I started to doubt myself and get insecure about my work. I thought, nobody cares if it goes up on Thursday, or next Tuesday or never because no one is really reading this. And that’s true. But I think it’s important to always challenge yourself and do things you promised you would do. My counter thingy says that 900 something people have checked out this blog. I don’t know what they’ve read – since no one seems to leave comments AHEM –  but maybe they’ll read this blog about procrastinating and they will subscribe. And I will be their favorite person ever and they will tell all their friends about me and overnight I will become a huge sensation. Or they will think about doing that and get around to it later. Like I would.

Fourthly, fourth, so on and so fourth, I got a job and then I couldn’t write because I was happy again. On top of that, I had a bunch of awesome auditions this week and a really fun weekend with some friends. So I wasn’t around to write because I was out, in the world, trying to experience my life! If I don’t experience and enjoy life, what on earth will I write about?

And fifthly (try saying that fifth times fast), I didn't write because I was high. I know what you're thinking - write WHILE you're high. Well, I usually do. I usually do everything high. I'm usually high. But this week I discovered Tostito's Creamy Spinach dip. That plus chips have been taking up both of my hands which I need to type. Blame it on God for not giving me enough hands to snack and write. 

So there. Now this is done. Can I get back to watching The Shield already? As lame as it is, at least this takes away the pressure and the guilt of being overdue for last Thursday’s blog. Now maybe the next one can be the amazingly genius blog that I want it to be. Oh fuck.. it’s Thursday again in three days.  

And also, a song. Just for funsies :D

Pothead Reflection

Jail House Crack Rock

"I think God, in creating man, somewhat overestimated his ability."

Travis and I have just rolled in from a bar down the street from my place and also we’ve been smoking joint after joint after joint. We’re fucked up, it’s 3AM, and we’re laying on the floor in my apartment, watching The Chapelle Show on dvd.

Out of nowhere there’s a lot of noise and banging. It sounds like there are people rolling around on the floor in the apartment right above me. I look at Travis, he doesn’t seem to mind so I shrug it off and reach for a cigarette. Dave Chapelle is screaming something about Coppers! and it has been about 5 minutes since the noise upstairs started. It’s still going on. I’m getting more and more worried. I start to think I can hear muffled voices like someone’s mouth being covered. I know that there are dogs that live upstairs and they make noise on occasion, chasing toys around their apartment, but this sounded different to me. After a few more minutes I convinced Travis that we have to call the police.

I call 911, I explain to the operator what I hear, she asks me how long the noise has been going on, and I tell her about “10 minutes, maybe less.” To be honest, my sense of time is a little skewed, I only know that we’re still on the same episode of The Chapelle Show. Maybe.  She says she’s going to dispatch some officers, I say thank you and hang up. Travis makes me a cup of hot chocolate and packs a bowl for us, trying to calm me down a little. An unknown amount of time passes, Travis and I have had cigarettes, a good fuck, and moved on to another episode on the dvd. The noise upstairs has long since stopped, maybe someone was killed and the struggle was over. Maybe it was just the dogs afterall. Either way, it has been long enough now that I barely remember why I cared so much about the ruckus.

I have almost forgotten that I called the police until there are suddenly heavy footsteps tromping through my apartment building. I hear them walk down my hallway first and then clamber up the stairs to the 4^th floor right above my apartment. I hear them knock, loudly. Man, these guys are not shy. Travis and I are stoned and giggling. We turn off the TV so we can hear the cops and what’s happening better. It seems like no one answered the door upstairs. See? False alarm. Thanks gents for coming to check that out!

BANG BANG BANG! Oh damn. They’re at my apartment door. Oh right.. I had to tell them who I was when I made the complaint. Wait, FUCK, what am I supposed to do now? I get up and scurry to my closet to throw on some pants and I see Travis putting the bong under the bed. I open my door, trying to stand as straight as possible – the little voice in my head is screaming DO NOT LET THEM KNOW HOW FUCKED UP YOU ARE.  My whole sobriety scam was shot when I opened the door and a huge draft of weed smoke goes billowing out the door and right in the po-pos faces. Travis is sitting on the bed and I hear him pronounce, “Hello officers!” Probably trying to appear as sober and friendly as possible, although it would’ve been more helpful if he had actually shown his face at the door.  All I can think is, "Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!"

This is where I first have the thought that I might be in trouble. The boys in blue ask me a few questions about what happened upstairs, and in my effort to persuade them that the noise was real, I suspect that I came off even more suspicious and retarded. My gaze was hazy and I honestly cannot recall what I said to the men. The next thing I knew they were asking me to step aside and coming in to my apartment. At least Travis hid the bong so everything should be fine!

Until they find the crack pipe.

OK OK, I can explain. It’s an unused crack pipe. I swear to god, I’ve never put crack in it, or coke or heroin or meth or anything like that. Anna bought me this bong-like thing as a gift one day, only the pipe part of it was oddly shaped. I attempted to put weed in it ONCE and it obviously did not work at all. Then I realized that it wasn’t a bong, that silly bitch had bought be a crack pipe. We had a good laugh about it, I replaced the insert with a piece from an old broken bong and put the crack pipe insert away in my memories box, never to be thought of again. Two weeks ago, I did a scene in my acting class where the two characters are passing a crack pipe back and forth. I happened to still have that one, so I took it out and used it for the scene – again, NO CRACK IN IT, but there were burn spots on it from holding a lighter to it. I neglected to put it away.  Also, the massive amount of weed I just bought is sitting next to it.

OK OK, I can explain. I had that much weed because I got a good deal on it, I’ve been going through it a lot lately, and part of it was a gift for Travis. I was not going to sell it! My pipe and rolling papers were also on the floor by my rocking chair. This looks bad. 

Really Travis, you put THE BONG away?!

I try to explain to the cops about the crack pipe, how I only used it for weed once, and then for acting class. But the motor skills in my mouth were failing me and I don’t think my brain was communicating to my larynx especially well and all I can recall saying is, “I use it for weed. I use it for weed man! It’s not a crack pipe, dude, it’s for weeeeeed.” I don’t do well in high pressure situations.

Since I’m the one that lived there, I’m the one that “prank called” the cops, I’m the one in possession of copious amounts of drugs and paraphernalia, the Hispanic man with a crew cut and a shiny badge and the black man in the blue uniform with a billy club put me in handcuffs and walked me out of my apartment. I don’t think the handcuffs were necessary! I was too drunk really to be able to pull any kind of parkour maneuver and jump out of the third story window to freedom.

I spent the night in jail. When I sobered up, a policeman that I vaguely recognized from my apartment a few hours earlier pulled me out of the holding cell –more affectionately known as the drunk tank—and sat me down in a small office. I’m so tired, my vision is a little blurry from not having slept all night, my stomach hurts and I’m hung the fuck over like nobody’s business. But at least I’m sober enough now to have a real conversation and explain the situation again. They let me off with a $100 possession ticket, and obviously they had confiscated all my shit the night before. But no charges, no misdemeanor. Thank god I’m a cute little white girl with no prior record. 

 

This is a picture of the new bong and pipe I had to go buy. Upgrade! Still, I’m going to fucking KILL Travis.

Sex on the Beach

"Do you really think it is weakness that yields to temptation? I tell you that there are terrible temptations which it requires strength, strength and courage to yield to." 

 

Today was a beautiful summer day. Sometime around noon when I woke up, I rolled over in bed and told Travis I wanted to go to the beach. He had no reason not to go with me since he has no life, few friends, and no classes. Roll a few joints, take a shower together, grab the skateboards and we’re out the door. We load up the car I bought with my boyfriend – thanks Mike for that down payment! – and took it to the beach. A day of lounging and doing nothing, a day of sunshine and simplicity – don’t I deserve that? Clearly my life is really hard; I work 15 hours a week at a restaurant and with the other 153 hours of my week I have to figure out fun ways to pretend my life isn’t a mess. So off we go to the beach!

I don’t know what came over me when we got there. Maybe it was the families nearby, maybe it was the police patrol, maybe it was the lifeguards in clear view of us--but I started feeling really frisky. I suddenly had a desperate urge to fuck on the beach. This is not something anyone’s ever let me do before. I have always wanted to – in fact, Mike and I got into a huge fight about it once and THAT beach was totally deserted at the time. Prude. Travis, however, seemed to think that this was the best idea he’d ever heard. Did I mention that Travis is going to jail in a few months? Did I mention that we were high at the time of decision-making?

             It was so great. It felt so good and gave me such a rush. Obviously, it couldn’t go too far, so we packed up everything and decided to move the party to the car. But it was Venice, on a day that ends in Y and a time that ends in o’clock, so the streets were busy and it took about 1 second for someone to wait behind us for our parking spot. We drive. We look for a place to pull over. We stumble across the canals, which I’ve never seen before. I was a tourist for a moment and getting distracted.  The canals are soooo beautiful. I can’t believe I hadn’t seen them before. Travis shoved his hand in my crotch, gently reminding me of our purpose and eventually I found a empty street. I wonder if anyone saw the car rocking. I hope so. I’m pretty proud of myself. It’s not often you get to have sex in public places, much less two in one day. I brushed the sand out of my hair, slipped on a change of clothes and drove myself to work after that. I blamed the salty smell on the ocean.  And I’m pretty sure there’s still sand in my labia. 

The Reasons We Broke UP

Meet My Friends!

"I don't want to go to heaven. None of my friends are there."

I have a pretty small group of friends, most of them are guys. I don't know if it's because I find guys easier, more relatable, more entertaining, or if I just like the idea that I can fuck them if I want to. Maybe it's because I haven't met a lot of women that can hang with my vices. So there are three: three special ladies that I'd like to give a little shout out to right now. And for the readers, you may as well meet them because I talk about them a lot.

1. JACK. Jack is my best friend from college. Jack is a girl. Jack’s real name is Jaqueline which is obviously horrible and needed to be shortened to a more ambiguous, gender confusing name. We never call her Jackie.  Jack has been dating the same man since our Junior year. His name is Joshua. Jack and Josh. Adorable right? Joshua is not to be confused with another Joshua that I'll talk about later. Some things you should know about Jack:

A.     She smokes pot every day.

B.     She’s been clinically depressed for quite some time and is most likely on a different medicinal cocktail every time you see her.

C.     She hates everyone. Maybe including me. It’s hard to tell. But since she still calls me, I try to believe that she wants me around.

D.    It’s hard to tell if I actually enjoy her company. 

E.     She’s the kind of person that you are shocked and flattered when she calls.

F.     She’s bright, but not shiny.

G.     She’s a genius and she and Josh have started their own business. Their business is essentially the promotion of good taste and style.

H.    She works all day every day, which is impressively done with a joint hanging from her mouth.

I.      In addition to working all day, she’s incredibly domestic and is that one friend you have that has the nicest apartment and everyone is jealous. I take people that she doesn’t even know there and show it off as if it’s mine.

J.      Jealousy is a big theme in her life and in our relationship. But when you’re beautiful, smart, talented and obviously destined for great things, that tends to happen.

2. LIZBETH. Also gets called Liz, Lizzy, LB, LBoogie, LBoogz or just, “That Drunk Girl!” LB is a friend from college. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s been unpredictable from one day to the next. But she was the first person I ever reached out to about my sadness and personal issues I was having in college. She lent an ear and we will forever be close friends. She’s kind of like that crazy half sister you have that you just don’t know what to do with. On the one hand you love her because she’s your sister, but on the other hand sometimes you wish your mother had never fucked that man. Some things you should know about LB:

A.     She gets drunk every day.

B.     She’s been clinically depressed for quite some time but refuses to be on the appropriate medicinal cocktail. She was on a number of things when we were living together; now she’s living on her own and apparently has decided that she can no longer be governed by her therapist.

C.     So she self medicates now. Mushrooms, MDMA, Ecstacy, Pot, and Coke are in the medicine cabinet now.

D.    It’s hard to tell if I actually enjoy her company.

E.     She’s the kind of person that every time she calls you wonder what on god’s green earth has happened to her THIS TIME.

F.     She loves every man she meets. They’re all “The One.” She sleeps with bartenders and band guys and wonders why they aren’t ready to commit to her. She blames her chest size.

G.     LB is 5’9” and stunning. She was a swimmer in highschool and then anhorexic in college. So she’s maintained a fantastic figure. But she’s completely flat chested. Every three weeks or so she tells me that she’s looking into plastic surgery to finally “look like a woman.” She introduces this as new information every time.

H.    Lizbeth is the opposite of domesticity. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve caught her washing my dishes with liquid hand soap. We lived together a few years ago and I’m still finding pumpkin seed shells around my apartment from the trail she used to leave around our place.  (That was three apartments ago.) The good side of that was that I could always find her by just following the seeds. Or the popsicle stains on the carpet.

I.      She’s the crazy artist type that hasn’t quite found her art yet.

J.      Rejection is a big theme in her life – from her perspective. From my perspective, poor choices seems to be in a big theme in her life. This is why I love her. The hot messes like to stick together.

3. ANNA. Anna is a relatively new friend in my life. I don’t really have that many friends, to be honest. Most of the people that are close to me are pals I met in college. But Anna is the exception to that rule. In fact, I’ve only been really hanging out with her for less than 6 months. But there’s just something about her. She’s incredibly special and one of the bleedingest hearts I’ve ever met.  Some things you should know about Anna:

A.     She smokes pot every day.

B.     She’s been clinically depressed for quite some time and is on some kind of medicinal cocktail that she’s mentioned several times but since I’m a pot smoker also, I can never remember it.

C.     She loves everyone. I’ve never seen Anna uncomfortable in a situation and I’ve certainly never seen anyone that didn’t immediately adore Anna upon meeting her.

D.    Several months after meeting her, most people get tired of her effervescence and need to take break from her. This happened in our relationship as well; but damn is that girl pervasive! And she wiggled her way back into my life and now we use each other to feed our codependences.

E.     She brakes for animals. And then she spends the rest of the day trying to find that animal a good home.

F.     She’s always that girl that knocks over the bong, breaks a glass, or tips over your aunt’s priceless Ming Dynasty vase while she’s looking for her cell phone in her giant purse. To be fair, if it’s that damn important or expensive, it shouldn’t be placed about all willy nilly like in the living room. So while it’s horrible to watch Anna do things like this, I often think afterwards, “that vase had it coming.”

G.     Women don’t generally like Anna. Anna is very outgoing and sexual and hasn’t seemed to have any problems getting the men she wants.  Anna has purple hair and wears a D cup. It’s hard not to notice her. Thank God I’m wasting my time on a little twerp of a man or there might be a lot of competition between us when we go out together.

H.    Failed relationships are a big theme in Anna’s life. Whether it’s men or women, her connections with other people have a hard time getting off the ground. I love that about her; it reminds me that there’s something special about our friendship. When we lay in my bed together, getting stoned and watching Lord of the Rings, I am reminded of the late great Britney Murphy in Clueless, “Shit you guys! I’ve never had straight friends before.”

Good Lovin!

"Everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power."

      Yeah, I’ve started sleeping with the boy that basically was responsible for my break up. Well, there’s a whole list of other reasons I broke up with Mike. And don’t get me wrong, those are true; but when I say that I was basically cheating on him, I am talking about Travis.
      Even with the non-stop sex, Travis and I are going to stay just friends. Well, Travis is in love with me. This is probably the most attractive thing about him. He fawns over me. He picks me flowers every day on his walk to work. Did I mention that he doesn’t have a car because he wrapped a corvette around a tree a year earlier and was consequently gifted a DUI? He skateboards everywhere or walks. Did I mention also that he’s 22 and still in college? And by college I mean a trade school. Did I mention that he is a busser at the restaurant I’ve been working in for 5 months? Did I mention that he is the WORST busser at said restaurant? This is starting to sound bad, huh? It’s only going to get worse, so let’s move on.
     The second most attractive thing about Travis is that he has very little responsibilities. He is constantly rambling on about “living in the moment;” and he’s a good salesman for hedonism, too. I’ve totally bought it. The small print on this purchase mentions something about a 6 month forced vacation from reason and productivity. But who reads small print? We smoke a lot of weed together. [side note: Drug users stick together. This is not because we are a ‘different breed of people.’ This is not because ‘sober people suck.’ This is solely because those that smoke weed all day are intimidated by those who can get through their day completely sober. On some pretty-obvious-and-not-at-all-deeper level, it reminds us that we are incapable of doing so. This makes us feel bad about ourselves. I guess in that way, sober people do suck.] Embracing the pothead lifestyle, I’ve started sleeping later and later, and I do very little with my days except spend money at restaurants and play in the sunshine. I’ve stopped washing my hair and started listening to a lot of Creedence Clearwater Revival. It’s the 70s again and I am on top of the world.
     For the most part, Travis is terrible in bed. His penis is too small and I’m 4’11” and weigh 90lbs. But more than that, he has no idea what he is doing because he’s never slept with any girl more than once. I’m still not convinced that he’s slept with any girl ever besides me. No one can either confirm or deny that he has. Did I mention that he’s never had a girlfriend? Did I mention that he is 5’1” and has a handlebar mustache? Did I mention that he’s been cutting his own hair for years because he couldn’t afford haircuts? He can afford pot though. Miraculously, we both can. I’ve started cutting my own hair. I’m off track. Back to the sex. Travis can’t cum. He goes soft. His little tiny penis shrivels and gets even tinier. This is also probably because of the weed. This is not the first time this has happened to me. When I was 17 I briefly dated a boy with the same issue: too much pot smoking and therefore too little penile activity. The difference is, when I was 17 I had more self-esteem and left that boy for a more virile adult man after only 2 attempts at sex. I am 26 now and have lost all that naïve self respect. When Travis goes soft, I light a cigarette or a joint and pretend it didn’t happen. We’ll try again later.
     Naturally, with all of these great things going for him, I have fallen for him. Seeing him makes me smile. I look forward to our work shifts together. I spend most of my free time with him and we are inseparable. People say we look cute together and we get so much attention when we go out together. He likes to dance. Mike hated to dance. We go to a jazz bar and drink ourselves retarded on a regular basis. We get so much attention everywhere we go. We are stars and we are going to take over the world. I’ve started drinking caffeine again to offset the marijuana. I smoke more cigarettes than I ever have before to keep the high going. I’ve been dressing more and more like a hobo. Travis even calls me that as a term of endearment: “My Little Hobo.” Adorable. I’ve never had so much fun in my entire life. He makes me feel open and powerful and beautiful and creative (which I attribute to being obviously smarter than him). Seriously, though, he is very calm and supportive. He lets me do whatever I want, judgement free. And right now, I want to fuck, drink, smoke pot and get a tan. This is shaping up to be the best summer ever.

Moving In.

Free Bird

"I am the only person in the world I should like to know thoroughly."   

I found an apartment! Actually, I found it almost a week ago, but since I’ve moved out of my old place my access to internet has been a little spotty. After my experience living in a hole in New York, I swore I’d never live in a studio again. But this one is special. It just had the best energy. It gets good light, it has a spacious living area and a big eat-in kitchen, walk in closet and cute little bathroom. It has these awesome built in shelves that I can’t wait to decorate. Most importantly, it’s mine. It won’t be ready until the first, so until then I’m free wheelin’ and loving life.

I am staying at a friend’s house while she’s out of the country. I’m barely staying there really, as I mostly just pass out wherever I am.  All of my furniture and household belongings are in storage and it’s quite liberating to be without them. All of my clothes are with me. I couldn’t bare to be without them. They are piled in the spare bedroom of my friend’s apartment and in my car. My shoes are in a bag in my trunk. Do I think I’ll need my Sigerson Morrison red suede pumps this time of year? Probably not. But you never know. Those babies are sticking with me.

My point is, not having anything except my clothes and my car has been kind of awesome. It really frees up that need to come home and be a responsible, respectable citizen. If I have no home, then I can’t be a homebody. It occurs to me that homeless people are always asking for money for booze not because they are alcoholics, but because they don’t HAVE to function in the same way other people do. If you could drink all day, wouldn’t you?! It’s as if I’ve seen the Holy Grail or personally cracked the code of the Rosetta Stone. It all makes so much sense to me now. Since I’ve been homeless I’ve been doing done some extra damage at the bars, 4am has become the new bedtime, and I haven’t stopped smoking weed. I can’t quite remember the last time I was sober. Is that what they mean when they say pot smoking affects your memory?

I know what you’re thinking. “This girl smokes weed all day every day ANYWAY. What’s the big change?” The difference is I used to have a home. I used to have a home where I stayed inside and smoked weed all day, with an occasional trip to the grocery store. Now I don’t have that. All my habits are outside, out in the world, out in the open for others to see and for me to own. I don’t have to hide anymore. I can hang out with whoever I want. I can hang out with myself - FINALLY. I can spend some time getting to know ole' Angie. Don't I deserve that? Don't I deserve being out from under the watchful eye of the ever present boyfriend? There’s no one in my life that makes me feel guilty about who I am anymore. I'm free. Being temporarily homeless is awesome. 

Did I hear someone yell Free Bird? 

 

In The Bedroom

"A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal."

 

The last thing I have to do before I move out is paint the bedroom back to white. A few days ago, I taped off the baseboards and the trim around the doors and windows. I couldn’t spend any more time in the room after that, so I left the priming for another time. I know that I still have time to get this done, technically, but I don’t think I can sleep in this apartment anymore. I need to get out of here. I need to get some fresh air. A friend is out of town and offered me her home to crash in until I can move into a new place. Before I move out, this has to get done. I consider leaving it as is, but in the back of my mind I know I have to send Mike his half of the deposit. I don’t want him to be disappointed with his amount. I want him to know that I have not fallen apart; I’m responsible and am not in fact “fucked” as he predicted I would be. 

I’ve been to Home Depot; I have everything I need. It’s all piled on the floor in the empty bedroom with dark royal blue walls. This used to be my favorite room in our apartment. Dark blue walls, with a California King sized bed draped in bright white sheets and down comforter, all the furniture was rustic, honey colored wood, mismatched and pieced together from various flea markets. There used to be a bronze antique tree, with a tree house in it and a small boy climbing up the ladder, hanging on the wall between the closet doors. My trunk, sold to some excited Craigslister, was under the windows and held pillows and extra linens. Garnishing the windows, balancing on top of the wooden blinds, were some beautiful dried flowers that Jack brought to me one day. In one corner used to be a very tall, thin bookcase, where Mike and I stored all of our favorite books – the special ones that we wouldn’t loan to people. The room was both refreshing and cozy. It was romantic. It was perfect. 

You would think that removing all of those things from the room would make it feel different. But it doesn’t. Or it hasn’t.  The wall color remains and the blue makes the room feel unchanging—solid; the color is like a fortress, built to protect all the memories and keep me from invading.  It makes me sick to my stomach. And it has been impossible to muster the courage to repaint the walls. I’ve called for backup.

When Travis shows up, he arrives with snacks and weed and another pack of cigarettes for me—all my coping mechanisms brought to me in the pockets of my biggest vice of all. He forgot to bring clothes to paint in. He’s wearing his one and only good pair of pants. I toss him a pair of sweatpants that I stole from some exboyfriend long before this one. They’re huge on me but they’re my favorite. I have to roll the waistline three or four times just to get them to stay on me. Travis does too. We may have been painting for 20 minutes before I decide I can’t be in there anymore. I step outside, smoke, and order a pizza. I’m sitting on the steps where Mike and I have smoked together every night for a year and a half. I was in my sweatpants and wrapped up in a blanket. He was beat boxing and telling me a silly anecdote about his day. We talked about where in the world we wanted to be if anywhere was an option. Lost or Battlestar paused on the tv, waiting for us to come back to the couch and cuddle. I think about this as I’m smoking now. I think I’m romanticizing it. It’s hard to remember now. Travis steps out to see what I’m doing. Only fair, I guess, since I did leave him in my apartment to paint my bedroom that I shared with my exboyfriend. He puts his arm around me and kisses me on the mouth. I hold it for a moment, politely, and then pull away. I’m too sad right now to be interested in that. It seems like a bullshit consolation prize. He takes a drag or three off my cigarette. He looks content. I told him I ordered a pizza. Pepperoni with green peppers, extra large. The pizza is going to be about 45 minutes. He suggests I try to get some more painting done in the mean time.

I sigh and stand up, pull the screen door open and shuffle back to the bedroom. Travis has sprawled “TRAVIS <3 ANGIE” in primer across the dark blue wall where the antique tree used to hang. I stare at it for a moment. I start to cry and then I feel nauseous. There is a stabbing pain in my stomach. I run to the bathroom, fall to my knees and puke.

An Exercise in Euphoria

"Illusion is the first of all pleasures."

Every day, save the day directly after, since the break up has been an exercise in euphoria. I spent a good deal of time alone the first week, packing the apartment, coping, working as much as possible, smoking a lot of weed and drinking alone. Then something broke. A wall came down and suddenly I am in a different Los Angeles. This is now a city that belongs to me. I own it and I control it. I get to say what I want to do with my time and who I want to be with. I want to see my friends. I want to be around people that I can call family. Freedom and complete abandonment has washed over me. I see flowers everywhere I walk and the trees seem greener, stronger and more beautiful than ever before. No more repression; no more oppression; no more jealousy; no more hiding; no more lying. This feeling is what I’ve been searching for my whole life. I feel complete. If my heart broke, it broke open and is now available for the world to see. I’m more creative than I have ever been before.

This is my apartment now. I know I have only a short time left here, but this empty space is the only thing I can call my own for now. I haven’t found a new apartment yet, and to be honest, it doesn’t seem all that important. Everything, in time, will present itself when necessary. For now, I’m living the life I’ve been wanting to live for so long—the life I traded my boyfriend and my security for. Nothing has ever felt so right. I’ve cleared everything out. My trunk, my dining table and 6 chairs—purchased to have dinner parties I was never allowed to have, my dishes, glassware, all the extra sheets for the bed that left with Mike, the entertainment center, everything we had together has been sold or donated. Gone to eager Craigslisters starting their lives in LA. I even found someone to rent this place, a charming girl that not only took my apartment, but she’s also keeping my couches and offered me a job at her restaurant. Everything in its right place.

Travis came over the other night. I had some cleaning to do so I had to stay in. He came by to keep me company. We were listening to Sam Cooke and Bobby Womack and other greats—dancing around my empty living room. I giggled with joy as I twisted my little heart out. We danced so much I broke into a sweat. “You Send Me” came on the shuffle. Travis grabbed my hands and suddenly I was in the arms of the boy that changed my world so completely that I gave up everything.  He rested his head on my shoulder and I put mine on his. I realized I’d never danced with anyone so close to my height. I’ve always been with tall men; all of my boyfriends have been 6 feet and taller. Shorter men have always been unappealing to me. But in that moment, I felt his breath on my neck, and I’d never felt anything like it before. So comfortable. So sexy. I melted. I finally was enjoying myself, tapping into something I wasn’t allowed to feel for so long. I gave in. His massive eyes looked right at me and he kissed me. This moment was bound to come, building up since last fall. As he kissed me, the words, “this has nothing to do with Travis” blazed through my memory, like a falling star that you only see for a moment and then it’s gone. Maybe you weren’t sure you saw it at all. I could’ve succumbed to sadness; but it wouldn’t have been true. I didn’t really feel sad. I felt great. We stood in what used to be my dining room, the room where Mike and I broke up, holding each other and kissing.

We spent the night on my living room floor. We made a makeshift bed out of pillows, comforters and sheets. And in the morning, Travis was like a child waking up to Christmas morning. I felt happy. I felt warm. I felt loved. I felt guilty. I felt like getting stoned.  I lazily stood up and stretched. I packed my pipe. With the ease of someone that hasn’t a care in the world, I looked at Travis and said, “Let’s go to the beach.”

World Turning

“The basis of optimism is sheer terror.”

           Last week, I came home to what looked like the disaster debris a tornado left behind after ripping through my apartment. Mike has left, all of his things have been liberated from our apartment. He also left me a note, which I did not find until the next day. It read, “I love you. I don’t ever want to see you again.” It crushed me for a moment, when I finally did come across it, and I think I even started to cry. I cut that off very quickly and drown my sorrows in a nice huge bong rip and bought a Hulu subscription. Mike took the TV and I’m not really in the mood to escape into some reading right now. Thank god my couches are still here.
          Early this morning, I wake up and go for a walk around the neighborhood. The weather is perfect. It’s in the high seventies and sunnier than it has been in months. I end up at Whole Foods thinking I should get a snack but I buy a bottle of whisky instead. Same difference. I also bought a bouquet of yellow snap dragons. They made me smile. On my way back, I run across a stack of broken down boxes sitting outside of the vet clinic on my block. I figure I’ll be needing those soon, so I bring the car back and put the pile of cardboard in my trunk. I lug everything into the apartment and drop the cardboard in the middle of the living room where our coffee table used to be. The apartment looks like shit. There is an empty pizza box, greasy and open, sitting on the floor. Trash and a roll of garbage bags have been abandoned and left for dead on the dining room table. Chairs are askew. There are blankets, strewn and messy, on the couch. I sleep there now since the bed is gone. I could pull out the queen size bed hiding underneath the cushions, but honestly that’s too much work. Besides, sleeping against the back of the couch makes me feel like I’m sleeping against another warm body. Also, it’s easier to put a small bucket or trashcan on the side of the couch if it’s folded in.
           I managed to go to work the last couple of days. I barely remember it though. Since no one is around to judge me and I have the car to myself, I’ve been rolling joints to smoke on the way to the restaurant each morning. It’s been actually lovely to get to work, stoned as fuck, and then make myself a sweet and frothy cappuccino. When I’m there, I watch The Office on Netflix and sit on Twitter, not tweeting but just watching other people ramble about Rihanna and other banalities. I don’t have much to say. I guess I should be thankful that I have a really mellow day job answering phones at a restaurant that’s not even open during the day. Perfect job for a pothead. There’s also a bar with which I am now closely acquainted. Did you know that you can mix any alcohol with any other alcohol and it will still get you drunk? Little known cocktail fact.
          Today I have the day off. I look around, taking in the bullshit that is now my life and my apartment. Actually, this room looks a lot better without that hideous computer desk junking up the back corner. I always wanted to bookcase to be there. I move the large rustic bookcase over to its rightful place. It’s a lot easier to move now that it’s missing 75% of its books. It almost looks nice in its new home. The only problem is, the couches are weird now. They’re still in an L-shape facing the now empty entertainment center. This room would really open up more if they faced each other instead. The next thing I know, I’m smoking my third joint of the day--at noon--Fleetwood Mac is blasting and I’m rearranging all the furniture. It feels good to sweat. It feels good to reclaim this space. I start to think that I’m not actually sad at all. I made the right decision and I don’t even miss him. I am euphoric.
         I heave and waddle the trunk from the bedroom and put it between the couches, now sitting on opposite sides of the room facing each other. See, I don’t even need your stupid coffee table. Dick. I place the flowers on the brightly tiled trunk and while it’s still “our apartment,” it is starting to feel a lot better. There is nothing in the bedroom now except all of my clothing and my coats and my shoes that I have also moved in there. A giant walk in closet – every girl’s dream! I walk around in heels just to hear the sound they make on the hardwood floors. I’m stoned and I’m smoking cigarettes in the apartment. Mike and I both smoke but I was very strict about us only smoking outside. Every cigarette I have inside now feels like one exhale closer to freedom. Fleetwood Mac makes me feel like singing. Being in my own space makes me feel like dancing. I swing around with an air tambourine doing my best Stevie impression. Later tonight, I’ll start putting the furniture on craigslist. Maybe I’ll even start packing up the kitchen. No reason to sit around and wallow. This is the best thing I’ve ever done for myself!

I'm Not Half What I Wish I Was

"The heart was made to be broken."

           

It’s a little after 2pm and I’ve just gotten off work. I pull the black exterior with black leather interior Mazda 3—the car Mike and I bought together just a few months ago in January—into the single parking space of our apartment. We live in a building with only 7 other apartments; our apartment is in the back on the bottom. Our parking space is right between our front door and the dumpster. As soon as I put the car in park, I can see that something is different. There’s a bag of trash carelessly strewn next to the dumpster which is unusual. I grab my purse and my work things and start walking to our front door. The screen door is ripped in the center and the door is partially unhinged. How long has this rip been here? This damn thing—it never did close right. Behind the screen door, the apartment door isn’t quite closed all the way. I push it open. Did I forget to close it this morning before I left?

            And then I see. All at once, what has happened here becomes very apparent and tremendously devastating. My eyes well up with tears and my stomach flops over. The television is gone. The speakers are gone. The amp is gone. Mike’s computer desk and all of its contents plus his laptop are missing. There is debris on the floor. Our refrigerator is gone. A garbage bag full of the former contents of our freezer is sitting on my dining room table, creating a puddle and ruining the paint on the table. The food was bagged and left for dead what looks like several hours ago. I’m weeping. I sit on my couch for a moment, and take in what’s left. There’s a flokati rug still here, the now empty entertainment center left behind, my dining room table and chairs, my couch and my loveseat. The coat closet door is wide open and half its inhabitants are gone. There are coat hangers askew on the floor. I put my head between my knees and bellow. Suddenly, I remember there’s another room and I feel like I can’t breathe.  Our bedroom.  I don’t remember standing up and now it feels like I’m floating towards the back of our apartment. The bathroom looks largely untouched; just like in most relationships, most of the shit in the bathroom belongs to the girl. I turn to the right and see that the bedroom door has been reverently closed. You bastard. It feels like he did it on purpose, to make me have to open it myself. I stand in front of the door for what feels like 30 minutes but was probably only one before I turn the knob. I don’t enter the room, I just open and swing the door wide.  I’m sobbing so loudly at this point that I lose control of whatever the fuck my vocal cords are doing and let out something that must’ve sounded like a scream. My neighbor will mention this sound to me later and I will say that I stubbed my toe while I was packing. Our bed is gone. His bed. He left behind the sheets I bought last month, in one giant disheveled pile in the middle of the floor, and the frame, dismantled and standing in pieces in the corner. He also took the nightstand that I bought for him when we first moved into this place. For a brief moment, anger relieves me from my hysteria. I wanted that nightstand. Of course, his half of the closet is empty and he took his dresser too. We had painted the bedroom a dark royal blue when we moved in. We left the trim and crown molding white and I had wrapped dried flowers around the top of the big window. They’re still hanging there, the only thing left on the walls. I’m struck by how beautiful this color is and I also realize that I’m going to have to paint it back to white. Other than the now lonely flowers and my clothes, this room is empty except for the smell of us and a trunk I bought when I first moved to Los Angeles.

            Last night when I got home from work, I went to the kitchen to start heating up some leftover enchiladas. I wasn’t especially sad or angry; I don’t remember feeling anything in particular. I had no idea what was going to happen next. Mike came home and I heated a plate up for him too. We sat across from each other at the dining room table, not cattycorner like we usually do so that we can be closer. We were directly across from each other, like opponents. Like we were about to play Battleship. The silence between us made me start to cry. His fork dropped heavy to his plate and made a loud PUNG that rang out over my whimpering. I looked up at him and he was looking at me, sternly and sadly.

            “Do you want to talk about it?” He asked me earnestly. 

            “I just.. I feel like.. I just.. “

            “What? C’mon. COME ON. WHAT?” It was a mild threat, but it did the trick. Time to spit it out. It’s time to say something, anything.

            “Things have been great between us in the last few months and I’m still not happy. I think that means something.” I blurt out at last.

            He looked at me expectantly. That was all I had really wanted to say. Nothing else was planned. I did not know that last night was going to be the night I was going to finally say, “I can’t be with you anymore.”

            “It’s over?” He confirms with a stoic stare and a very reserved tone of voice, considering.

            “This has nothing to do with Travis. I swear. I don’t know why I’m not happy. I’d like to take some time and be with myself and figure it out.”

            He patiently and quietly looked right at me with soft eyes and said, “I know. I know you better than you think.” His gentleness in that moment was heartbreaking. Where was this man when we were fighting a few months ago?

            “I’ve never been alone. I really need that right now. I’m sorry. I love you. This has nothing to do with anything, I just.. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

            “There is really nothing left to explain. I had a feeling this was coming, I just didn’t realize it was going to be so soon. I’m going to my parents’ house right now. I don’t know when I’m coming back to get my things. We’ve already paid rent for April so you might as well take the next month and figure out what you’re going to do with yourself.”

            And with that, he walked out the front door. He left the car behind. I can’t imagine what that hour-long bus ride to Culver City where his family lives was like. As for me, I wept on the couch and called Anna over to hold me while I sobbed. It all happened so fast. I was instantly upset but not convinced that it was real. We will talk about this more tomorrow, I thought. I didn’t really mean to break up with him, I thought. I slept on the couch because I didn’t want to smell his side of the bed.  Anna slept on the loveseat. She was still there when I got up to go to work this morning, but I know she left shortly after me. If she had stayed a little longer, she would’ve seen Mike pulling up in a U-Haul with 4 or 5 of his closest friends, ransacking the house to move all of his belongings out as fast as possible. Like pulling a band-aid, Mike ripped everything out of our home and just like that, he became my ex-boyfriend.

The Psychic

"Work is the curse of the drinking classes."

It’s Monday so obviously it’s a good day to be drunk all day. I went to brunch with Anna and other friends and made sure to get my money’s worth of bottomless mimosas. The best thing about mimosas is that you have no idea how drunk you are until you find yourself trying to exit out of the window. Why don’t people do that more often? Everyone is so conventional these days, using front doors and what not.  The restaurant staff didn’t think our stunts were too funny. One friend made the jump from the window with ease, quickness and precision. He wasn’t drinking, he’s just really into parkour right now. My drunk ass wasn’t so smooth. I almost fell out of the window and Anna had to climb up on the banquette to drag me back inside. When the waiter came over to find out what in God’s name was going on at our table, the only thing I could think to do was order another drink. “Oh Jesus Christ,” Anna exclaimed and grabbed my arm to pull me out of the restaurant. Everyone was waiting for us outside already. I said my goodbyes to some friends (maybe, honestly it’s a little fuzzy) and then there were only three: Anna, myself, and our hyper-spiritual friend, Rich. Rich works with us at the restaurant and is Travis’ roommate and close friend. I am not allowed to spend time with Travis anymore, so I hang out with everyone he knows to try to fill that void. Spending time with Rich is like spending time with a Bartlett’s Quote Book of Spirituality. He’s our guru; he’s always ready to lend and ear and tell you that you need to refocus your energy. Sometimes it’s just what you need to feel inspired and rejuvenated. Also, he has a vaporizer.

Rich has imbibed a bit himself, making us a trio of hot messes – and of course we were all also stoned. He suggested we go get a psychic reading done at a place nearby that he likes. I have always wanted to get a reading. As soon as he suggested it, I leapt in the air and shouted “Yeah!” like a 7 year old who was just told that recess was coming early today. I have no idea why I hadn’t had one done before – maybe I just haven’t been drunk on a Monday afternoon with nothing to do before.

Rich went in first while Anna and I smoked cigarettes outside of the attached bookstore.  She started asking me about Mike and what was going on with us. I confess that while things are going well, something just hasn’t healed properly. Everything in our relationship is perfect, but I’m still thinking about getting out. And then I tell her, for the first time openly admitting, that I have been wondering what it would be like to kiss Travis. “Ew,” she says. “I’ve been there. It’s not great.” News to me. I look at her, mouth agape, and somehow manage to get out, “What? You’ve never told me that! When? Why? How? What?!” I found this really funny and begged for the dirt. My favorite thing in the world is making fun of Travis. She told me he put the moves on her too when she first started hanging out.  She said it’s hard to tell if he genuinely has feelings for girls or if he just goes after whatever comes his way. 

I’m drunk and emotional from talking about the boys and the ever-constant turmoil in my life; and now it’s my turn to go in. Rich strolls out looking refreshed and calm. “Next,” he says smiling at me.  He and Anna take a walk down to a coffee shop close by. I watched them walk down the sidewalk for a moment, took a deep breath, and opened the gated door to the psychic’s room. It was a man; I wasn’t expecting that. And he doesn’t look like a lunatic.  I pick my seven cards with carelessness and hopefulness.

            He turns the first card over and the first thing he said to me was, “Happiness is something that you struggle with. You’re never sure if you’re feeling it or what the word Happy even means.” And then there I was. Suddenly very aware of where I was sitting and extremely present with this stranger that told me something I didn’t think anyone knew about me. I went from happy-go-lucky-drunken-bruncher to a somber and struggling, confused girl with tears welling up in her eyes. One sentence destroyed me and I wept for the rest of my session.  He told me that there was a big decision that I had to make soon, and I should choose the path that will lead me to Happiness. He told me it was time to embrace my full potential and there was something in my life that was holding me back. He told me he felt like I was on a precipice and this big upcoming decision was going to change my life forever – but for the better.  He told me that I was an artist, a true artist, and that I’ve been fighting it and stifling it. “It’s time to let go,” he said, and then my session was over. Devestated, I wobbled out of the gated door, still drunk and weeping. Anna and Rich were sitting on a small brick wall that lined the garden outside.  Anna gave me a warm hug and didn’t even need to ask me what happened. She went in for her turn. Rich and I took a long walk around the neighborhood, grabbed some frozen yogurt and laid in the grass. I told him everything that was said and my interpretation of it. The reader knew that I’ve been feeling trapped, suppressed and oppressed in this relationship that feels like it is going nowhere. This decision that is coming up has to be made, and I have to choose myself and my personal pursuit of happiness.

Mike came home from work tonight to find me stoned out of my mind, still drunk, curled up in a ball on the couch. Something stupid was on television. I don’t even remember what it was because I wasn’t watching it.  He asked me if I was okay and I told him that I didn’t really want to talk about it.  When he finally pried it out of me, I confessed that I saw a psychic this afternoon. I admitted that I was feeling really uneasy about the conversation I had with him and I didn’t want to talk about it. Mike is not a fan of secrets and after more prodding I released enough information to get him off my back. I told him that the psychic had some things to say about my acting career and my art and being stifled. Mike must’ve caught the subtext in those thoughts and finally heard in my voice that my visit to the psychic brought up relationship issues. Sometimes, he’s incredibly perceptive. He didn’t ask me anything else about it. He had been working all day and was tired. He kissed me on the forehead and told me to let him know if I needed anything. He went to our bedroom to take a nap.

I don’t know what’s happened. Everything feels different now. I think the hangover is setting in a little early. I’m just going to take some Advil and pass out myself now. Today was a long day.