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.”