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.