2/14 woke up on Alex’s couch again, not hungover. Just tired. Tired in a lot of ways.
I wonder if it’s okay because it’s not you. I guess that will be answered if it’s answered, and if it isn’t, that’s also the answer.
How many “you’s” can there be? There are at least four people I have referenced as “you” in the last week alone. Clearly, I have been reading Clarice Lispector, too.
I am going north on La Cienega again, as I am every Saturday at this time. In three minutes or so I will pass the little behemoth that is the Beverly center * of cutting a left on 3rd I keep going north. La Cienga is my favorite street now, I am saying definitively. It proposes something: a struggle. It is flat. The hills look two-dimensional. They are the ugly painting in the ugly room. They become prettier when you are closer and decide they are prettier. This is usually on Santa Monica Boulevard. When you are here, you feel as though you might finally figure “it” out. The homes have contours now, and front doors, sometimes even two front doors together in a very fake, fancy way. You will make it to the top, which is Sunset Boulevard, and then you either have to turn left or turn right, you could go straight and go to the doctor's office parking lot, but that wouldn’t be “figuring it out”. At this point, you’re determined and hardly anything could get in your way. You’re practically drooling, too. The motels and pharmacies are there, just trying to be a distraction but you are focused so you cut a left on Highland, obviously, and then you repeat on Cahuenga. And you’re driving up the hill that is Mulholland. It is never-ending. You’re sick now, too.
The gate to the lookout is closed, so you unfortunately will never figure it out.
—
Despite not figuring it out earlier this morning, I did at dinner. Well, I did for twenty minutes.
Meaning I somehow helped create a nice meal. We made perfectly roasted broccoli, potatoes, and a filet of salmon. I didn’t touch the salmon, but I could smell it. I imagined how bouncy it would be under my finger.
I feel as though twenty minutes ago I had figured it out—all of it.
“Let’s talk about things that aren’t as negative,” Alex says, poking at the dead fish. There are not supposed to be bones in the fish, I am wondering now how they do that; extract the bones from the fish while keeping its mass intact. I am wondering why even when I am happy, I am not really. I am like a fraction happy.
——
“I can’t believe fakemink ghosted you,” I say fucking with a loose thread of cashmere
“This is such an LA conversation,” Zoë says from the floor, powdering her under eyes.
“Yeah true.” I laugh.
A little champagne drunk. Everything feels riddled with glamour. I can’t believe I have to do my makeup soon.
I don’t have to. But I wanted to look beautiful earlier, supposedly.
Wait, everyone is fighting now.
——
“Do you mind if I have one of those?” I ask a guy outside of El Prado for a cigarette. Left mine in my car which is on the west side. My car is always on the west side now.
He gives me one, he gives Zoë one.
I feel socially like I need to thank him so I am talking to him now, despite not really wanting to do so. He’s fine. He’s a kid. He’s bored. Probably like 20.
He’s fumbling really hard. Like really hard. There was never really anything to fumble to begin with; we genuinely needed cigarettes and they seemed like they would give us cigarettes.
So they gave us cigarettes.
“What’s with that?” He points to my purse which has a bouquet sticking out. Alex gave them to me last night.
“She gave them to me” I point to Alex behind me. He laughs.
“They’re limp and dead.”
I just walk away.
Zoë follows, then Alex; then Keyan. El Prado is losing its charm, it probably had to happen at some point. Maybe it’s just cause it’s Valentine’s Day.
Its packed at Fluffys. Maybe just cause it’s valentines day. Regardless, the wait is worth it because Dairy is working.
I grab zoës hand cutting the line and escort her to the bathroom because I know where it is, and maybe she doesn’t. She does now.
I lock the door behind us, and talk to her while she pees, adjusting my lipstick in the mirror. I think last time I left through this door, ████████ █████ ██ ████ ███ ███████ ███████ .
She’s talking about how annoying the kid at Prado was “yeah seriously the worst” I add. I feel like I look dull. This doesn’t upset me. But objectively ive been running on empty for the past two weeks.
No time to sit.
I worked probably 45 hours this week, which is relatively nothing. If I’m not working then I’m writing.
This is all good. I feel good. Things are getting done. Things are done. I am done. I’m figuring it out. Actually.
I am obviously pretty drunk from the four glasses of champagne I had at dinner, which at the time seemed so glamorous but now feel so pathetic. I don’t know if I even believe that or just have a predilection to be miserable.
———
I abandoned some part of myself twenty minutes ago in the lassens parking lot. They have great plums there. They also have the part of me that has a predilection for misery.
I don’t miss it at all. We’re on the 101 in Keyan’s nice BMW. The seats are blue; the kind they don’t put in cars anymore. The windows are up because it’s still January. New Order is playing over the stereo and I’m just happy I left that miserable compact woman in the Lassens parking lot.
We are going to a lot of things and nothing; we are going to a mulholland look out which I know is not open because I tried to figure it out earlier but I couldn’t, but again, this was when the miserable compact woman was there, so it’s worth a shot now.
Then we are going to the Roosevelt Hotel. Then some burger place zoë is talking about.
——
My head is on Alex’s shoulder. The uber doesn’t seem to mind that 10 minutes ago we all compared █████ █████████ ██ ████ verbally of course.
“You’re right. He has to stop doing coke” Alex says about that guy in the band who we saw last night on the screen, but also in real life.
“Yeah. He looks seriously terrible, ” I say, ripping a hangnail off. Bleeding now. “Just like fucking haggard.”
—-
Alex and I do this dance, between brushing our teeth, taking our tops off with no notice, washing our faces, putting on pajamas in the middle of a conversation, which is kind of gossip-y. I think this is fine because we both have had a hard couple of months. And are relatively harmless. Some people might argue against that.
I am thinking of █████, who said we have “dark amulet auras” which is the most retarded sentence ever. But very fun. And spiritual. I wish I were able to be spiritual so I could partake in this genuine tom foolery, the sort of therapy speak self-abolition. Cant. Would probabaly be alot happier of a person if this were the case.
I am somewhat of a happy person. I say this thought to myself in my head, nestled between alex and the kitten. We are all asleep together like a small family. One of those small families in the old german paintings.
I am somewhat of a happy person; I am somewhat of a German person.
*This sentence is made interesting by its use of an oxymoron, little / behemoth, and the overemphasis on the proper noun that we know as the Beverly Center. The Beverly Center is a proper noun because it is a place, a distinguished one too. It is empty forever. I never want to live there, which is good because I don’t think I will ever have to. The Beverly Center has been mentioned in this text an array of times, becoming what the author (me) would like to distinguish as a “ sacrosanct noun.” This is different from a proper noun. It is different because I care about it more. The Beverly Center is everyone and everywhere. The Beverly Center is so big. The Beverly Center is a big house for an astute king or something like that. The Beverly Center is God and also the Devil. The Beverly Center is if a mom could also be a dad. The Beverly Center is good to me and bad to me in the sense that I have everything and nothing to say about it. The Beverly Center has been passed an estimated 8 times (in which the sentence usually said it was passed a thousand times so technically it has been passed 8 thousand times) in the text thus far. It will be mentioned again and can be recounted if needed.
2/13 I keep saying good morning to everybody, except the lady at the smoke shop who was a bitch (she inconvenienced me which is decidedly the worst thing ever, Im aware this is too self-important):
Their yelp said they were open at 9. I sat in the parking lot. They were not open at 9. Okay. Fine.
She eventually did open, the traffic inevitably got worse. I prefer arriving to work early so I can read a chapter or so before “locking in”. This lady, due to her lateness, was threatening this.
When all was said and done: the sodas perched on the counter, the pack of cigarettes idling behind the register, she then proceeded to ID me. Fucking whatever.
Jesus Christ.
Dillon agrees, I somehow look younger now than I did two years ago. This could be from not caring about virtually anything for the past two years (not a humble brag.this is the main affliction of my life, or at least my early twenties so far) , there’s nothing to be stressed about. And if you aren’t stressed, maybe your skin retains this sort of elasticity. Maybe you become two years old, or a Xanax addict, in a spiritual sense of course.
In many ways I operate as if I am off of a perpetual downer; latent reflexes, general emotional blunting, incredulously fatigued. Sometimes I wish I were addicted to Xanax because then it would mean I was at least high. At least I would feel good sometimes, probably a lot of the time.
It just is simply; I made a decision however many years ago that I do not care about anything. Myself being the greatest offender of this virtue. Whatever. You can say that to anything.
“I’m in love with you”
“Whatever”
“You’re in love with me”
“Whatever”
“You’re fired”
“Whaever”
“You’re hired”
“Whatever”
I am somewhat better with my flippant predilections. Note the early entries from January where I decided this was a problem.
I do care about things, now at least. I do, now. But in a perverted, removed way still. Reminiscent of that email, the one;
| Sun, Apr 6, 2025, 12:00 PM | |||
|
I am not an idiot and I know I will never be a truly happy person. I can be a content person, but maybe not a happy one. We talked about this, I’m sure you remember. It was when I called you from Louisiana. I had ate some really terrible food so I was decidedly down on myself, on everything.
Who am I talking to? Who is you?
Who have i been talking to for almost a year? Why
—
Zoe seems really sad, Jason seems confused on where to sit, Dillon has been missing for 30 minutes, Alex and I are discussing the perfect bitterness a chocolate can propose before it is just disgusting.
When I walked in 20 minutes ago, I finished some last minute work, slammed my laptop closed and sat myself the table. About 5 minutes after that Jason ███████ █ ███ ██ ███████████ █████ ██ ██ ██████████ ██ ██ █████████ ███ █ ████ ███████ █████ ███ ██ █████ ███ ██ ███ █████ ██ ████████████ ███████ █████ ██ ███████ █ ███████ █████ █████ ███ ████ ████ ████ ██ ██████████ ███████ ██████████ ███ ██ ████████ ██ ███████ ██ █████ ███ ████ ██████████ █████ ████ ███████████ ███ ██ █ ███ █████
██ ██ ██████████ ████████ █ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ █ ████ █████ ██ ██████████ ██████ ██ ███ ██ █████████ ███████ ███ ██ ████ ██ ████ █ ████ █████ ██ ██████████ ████ ███ █ █████ ██ ████ █ ████ █████ █ █████ ████ ██ ██ ████ █ ████████ ███████ ████ ████ ██████ ███████████ ██ ███ █████████ ████████ ██████ ████ ███████ ████ ████ ██ ████████ ████ █ ████ ██ ████ ████ ██████ ████████ ██ ███ █ █████ ██ ████ ███████ █████
██████ █ ████ ██████ █████████ ██ ███ ████ █████ ██ ██████ █████ █ ███████ █ █████ ███ ██ ██████████ █ ██████I thought I might cry, but Im not crying.
Jason knocks, but ultimately opens the door anway - okay.
“Are you crying?” He laughs but is leftimately checking on me. I can tell my general reaction to all of this is throwing him a bit. Maybe I should cry. Maybe I would never cry again , if I just did right now.
“No.” We both just stare at each other. “Do you think its about me?”
He nods.
“Yeah.” I say.
He tries to instill some benign hope in me. I wish I could see this as charming, but its only been detrimental the last couple of weeks. Hope seems pointless to place any sort of weight in. I would be a great gambler. I’d know when to call it.
—---
Dillon, Alex, and I pop a bottle of prosecco. I didnt plan to drink but I can never deny myself champagne. Its just kind of the ultimate beverage. Its so mundane also now. As regular as a cup of coffee. Levi and I used to buy whole bottles every weekend when we were 19/20 and finish it between ourselves, makeout, so on. This was obviously when we still liked each other.
██ █████ ██ ████ ███ ███████████ ██ █████ ████ ████████ ██ ██████ ███ █████ ██ ███████ ██ ████████ ████ ██████ ███████ ██ ████ ████ ██████ █████ ██ █████ ██████ █ ████ █████████ ██ ████ ████ ████ ███████ ██████████
██████ ████ ██████ ████ █ ███ ████ ████ █████ ████ ███ ███████ ██ ██ ███ ██ █████ ████ ██ ███ ████ ██ ███ █████ ██ ███ █████ █ ███ ███████ ████ ██████ █████ ███ ███ █████ █████ ██ ██ ████ ████████ ██ ██ ██ ██ ███████ ████ ███████ █ ██████ ██ ██████████ ██ ███ ████ ███ ██████ ██ ████ ███ █ ███ ████████ ██ ███████ ██ █████ ████ ████ ██ ████ ███ █ ██████ █████████ ██ ███ ████ ████ ██ ████ ███ █████ ███ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ █████████
█ ███ ██████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ███ ██ ███ ████ ██ █ ██████ ███████████████ ████████ ███ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ███ █████████ ██ thought I wanted this too, but I think when he realized I didnt, he kept pushing. It made me uncomfortable and sad. It was the first time, really one of the only times, I had ever seen his eyes change from alcohol.
2/12 Lots of meetings today. Like a lot of meetings.
I figure I should write about things other than work, but I work a lot.
Things I do the most in their particular order: Work, Read, Write, Probably like hang out.
███ ████████ ████ ███ █████ ██ █████ █ ██████ █████████ █ █████ ██████ ███ ████ ██ █████ █████ ████ ████████ ███████ ███ ██ ████ █ ████ ██ █████ █ ███ ██████ ███ ████ ███████ █████████ █ █████ ███ ██████████ █ ████ ██ ██████ ████████ █████ █████ ███ ██ ███ █ █████ ████ ██████
█ ██ ██████ ██ ██ ██████ ████ ███████ ███████ ██████████ ██ ███ ██ █████ █████████ █████ █ ███ █████ █████████ ██████ ███ ████████ ███ █████████ ████████ ████ ████ ████ ███ I’ve never had to be in charge of anything so I dont really know how it works. I guess I have only ever had to be in charge of myself; and what do I have to show for that?
A hollow stomach yet somehow fatty hips? Greasy hair? Brittle fingernails that remind my grandfather of cracking peanuts for the blue jays in my childhood home?
My childhood home; I had two
One, I lived in until I was 6 years old. I remember it pretty vividly despite the consciousness and all missing, the way those things are missing from something so small and inexperienced. It was a pale yellow, that if slightly lowered in saturation, would have resembled butter, real butter, the kind they churn. None of that margarine bullshit. It smelt slightly of mildew, but we never cared because our backyard was unusually large due to the riverbed being posited right behind our gate. In retrospect, this maybe made it undesirable real estate-wise. I wouldnt know.
We had a small swing in the backyard. I was never allowed on it, not really, because it was in a corner covered with ivy; inhabited by spiders. The kitchen was narrow. The screen door would slam shut behind you so you could run out of it as fast as you pleased. It’d close no matter what.
The second I dont like to think of much, or ever. My family told me recently that they might sell it, or I dont know get rid of it in some way. I hold no sort of sentimental plight at the thought of never being able to go back there. Besides, I dont have a bedroom there anymore. I havent had a bedroom there in years. I dont know what goes on there now. I know what went on then, which is probably why I am fine with not knowing what goes on there now.
—-
I text zo and alex this “█ ████ █ █████ ██ █ ███”
They text “████”
I felt shy (its weird i have only felt this sensation, ‘shy’ as an adult. That my cheeks get hot only now) and stopped responding to the questions. I also felt sick with guilt, like really sick.
Upon arriving home, I made broccoli, which means I am being good about my fake and made-up rules I made for myself in my head. But I am sick from the aforementioned guilt. I’ll save some of it and bring it to work tomorrow. I think I am going straight to Alex’s apartment so I’ll just eat at my desk while I edit. I dont know, I guess thats fine. I usually dont eat until I get home. But this way I can hold true to my fake and made-up rules.
“Want fluffys TN?” Noel texts me.
I dont think Noel knows about the now thrice mentioned guilt sickness. I should tell him maybe tomorrow.
Anyway, I want to read in my room and listen to my new favorite band. Trying to find their instagram but theyre decidedly lowkey. Whatever.
2/11 Working out of the cold office today, which is exceptionally brisk. I’m shooting so this is good I guess. They like when my nipples are hard, or I don’t know, I think that they do. That’s kind of the whole thing. Or at least a big part of it.
It’s easy to model. It’s easy if you are somewhat conventionally attractive, I imagine.
I don’t think I am that. Not even in a self deprecating way, it’s realistic and honest. My face is angular and sharp I’ve been told. My under eyes are incredibly hollow and dark; this is genetic. My face is littered with freckles, which are here to stay it seems. They usually fade by November, but it’s February and they are still here showing no signs of leaving. I think this has to do with age and skin elasticity, something to do with some word like that.
Therefore; modeling is not easy for me. But I try to do it well. I try hard at pretty much everything I do. I don’t know why.
Today, modeling is very hard. My face, all put together, makes sense, I guess. Or just enough sense to where occasionally someone would like to fuck me. Maybe even attempt to photograph it earnestly.
This doesn’t usually work out. I can’t tell you how many photographers ive had scrap shoots because I failed in some sort of way, I failed in actuality. The traits mentioned, the hollow eyes, the freckles, the severe nature of it (my face) are just plainly uncooperative sometimes. Most of the time as far as a camera is concerned. I have no idea how I ended up with this being my job (kind of)
I do what you do; I pose, I pose at a 45 degree angle, I pose suggestively. My blood sugar is quite low today. I can feel the blood in my arms dancing around, glittering. My feet go numb, maybe from the briskness, maybe from the confusion my body is under.
Yeah, I’m doing it again. I’ve been doing it again. Is that what you want to hear?
It’s embarrassing and I don’t feel like it’s my responsibility to mutilate myself via adjectives such as “bad”, “guilty”, or a full-blown sentence such as “hey I’m fucking ████████ and sometimes I’m really good at it, other times I’m really bad at it. You should not do this”
There’s something wrong with me. I’m all around a normal enough person, truly. Especially given the circumstances. But this is the one thing certifiably wrong with me. I am not a bipolar, an alcoholic, I have not fallen over from alcohol, at least not in a while, I don’t have sick perverse sexual fantasies that demand themselves be front and center in order for me to finish. I don’t have definitive opinions on God that make my relatives uncomfortable. I don’t leave the cart loosely flailing in the middle of a crowded parking lot. I don’t cut myself either.
But yes. There is this one thing wrong with me.
And I would change it if I could. I’ve tried. I’ve failed. That’s kind of how things that are wrong with you work; they don’t.
No amount of shame or moral supposition can change this.
Oh, that’s nice. A Crying Nudes song I like is playing over the office speaker.
—---
I look terrible in the photos. I said I would. Im not a liar, if anything. My eyes are distinctly dark, remarkably sunken even deeper into my face which I didnt even know was possible. I dont mind this from a self esteem standpoint, merley an editing standpoint. The concept of self esteem is a bit ridiculous.
This seems right.
I also just read the DFW short story about the Lobster Festival so by all means, self esteem seems rather trivial. DFW and self esteem go hand in hand. His one quote essentially saying self hatred is just another grotesque form of narcissism masquerading as some sort of humility really changed me. Straightened my spine and all.
Unremarkable but not offensive day in all. Working out of the cold office as mentioned, so Im rather, well, cold. Cold and alone.
Not the worst thats ever happened. Just something that is happening and will continue to happen as long as I work out of this office. They are offering me some sort of assistant, I think (they are getting one person to ‘help’ me, because objectively this would be entirely beneficial and efficient to my position, so I dont know), at work so hopefully that would help and get me to speak more. I will just go hours without speaking. My voice croaks everytime I eventually run into somebody, even a measly “Hi” sounds so pathetic and desperate for any human interaction.
█ ████ ████ ██ ███ ████ ██ ██ ██████████ ███████ ██ ████ ████ █████ ████ ████ ██ █████ █████████ █████ █ ████ ████ ████████ ██ █████ █ ████ █████ ███ ████ ████ ███ █████ █ ████ ████████ ████ ███ ██ ███ █████ ██████
I filled my hours by listening to the Strokes again. Sometimes its jarring, like no time has passed at all. This is probably exactly what I was doing last year to the date.
Gabby and Jo reached out to ask if I should want an AD in the latest issue of their magazine. Which is neat, real neat. I need to think of what it would look like when I get home.
—-
Broccoli. And soda. Dennis Cooper book. Willingly silent. Cant wait to send that email, because then I probably wont ever have to send one again, right? Thats how emails work?
2/10 the pace this morning is satisfying. I am converting to a morning shower kind of person rather than night.
The radio is fine this morning. They played Blondie and the Eagles; I can’t say I like either of these bands much, if at all.
But there was something nice about everything. The way traffic was moving, how my hair was happening to fall after the shower, ignoring the texts on my iPhone, and whatever else. I don’t really know what time it is, and it doesn’t matter. I’ll get to the office when I get there, I won’t be late. I’m not ever really late. I arrive wherever typically twenty minutes early simply for the fact I don’t like to feel rushed. I’ll use whatever remaining time to read, or write.
—-
Good meeting with my boss. Everyone is really alarmed by how flagrantly I handle my laptop. I show little to no regard for it, which I should change because debatably a good 80-90% of my life for the last 4 years is on that thing.
Reminder to buy an external hard drive and renew my apple care. I like the idea of my laptop having its own health insurance. If I can’t have my own health insurance at least my laptop can. Unironically this makes me feel good.
I like the idea of a doctor doing little surgeries on my laptop.Cleaning the keys one by one, removing them, as if small organs. I like the idea of another laptop being an organ donor to my laptop.
—
I might just kill my laptop. While trying to work I was bombarded with texts. Its funny how texts are always virtually about the same thing. I think it just feels this way this particular week. I then saw something that upset me so I said this to myself all honest and stuff: “Everything upsets you Ash, everything. Fucking grow up”
And it worked a bit. Bucked up. Shut up. Well until my call with Zoe where I was mildly yelling the entire 40 minute duration of the call.
2/9 I feel out of of sorts. I think I am spotting now too, which cant be indicative of prime optimal health as a 25 year old woman. In so many ways, this caeses to matter. I have no health insurance. And what am I going to do? Stop bleeding? Right.
Its more annoying than anything.
I feel off, though, practically unawake. Not conscious, so on. I cant focus. We had a meeting this morning, early, I spilt my coffee all over the table before somebody could even speak about anything.
I sat at my computer for around 2 hours, shaking. This wasnt too alarming as I’ve had an exorberent amount of typing to do today, more than usual, and the shaking was only noticeable when my hands were sedentary.
I listened to the same Strokes song on loop for an hour, starting it, stopping, restarting it. Always before it got to the good part: “I CAN DO A LOT OF THINGS THAT I CANT DO THAT”
This is perfect because I am proving to be completely incapable in just about every way possible today.
—-
I feel somewhat better after my lunch. I spent it in my small corner, reading the Dennis Cooper novel, and to my surprise I was actually able to focus on it. I feel somewhat more invested in it than I was before.
Its silent up there, in my small corner, which is nice for me. For the circumstance of my consciousness today.
█ ███████ ██████ ██ ██ █ ███████ ████████ ██ ████ █████████ ███ ███████████ ██ ██ ███████████ ██████ █ █████ ███████ ████ █ ████ ████ ████████ ███ █ ██████████ ████████ ████ ████ █████████ ████ ██████ ██████
Its really jarring thinking of being any more important than I already am. Which makes me severely worried, because I am only placidly important as of now.
Everything is weird and nothing is normal.
—
They're mad at me on Twitter again, saying they hate my body but simultaneously want to rape it.
Technically, they’re saying that they want to stick me with a ball gag, burn me over and over with cigarettes, and break my “pretty little neck” so I that I could seeing them raping me from behind. This seemed kind of stupid to write down, to then contribute to this specific sentence being written not only once but twice.. This should be shocking; I should have some reaction. Maybe its because of the Dennis Cooper novel, but it doesn't feel this way. if anything, it feels contrived and uninspired.
I felt nothing when I read these messages. It's probably not good to read these words, especially in relation to myself, but if I wanted to avoid this sentiment, I’d probably have to get off of the internet entirely. I did delete Twitter, not due to fear or disgust, but more so the opposite. They just say the most boring things to me, over and over. It feels so monotonous at a certain point. Words on a screen, ironically, have never been able to move me the way that a printed book can. Something about things being in your hands, being able to rub something between your thumbs, makes it more real. This much is obvious. But ultimately, the internet is still completely intangible, which is either acutely disappointing or greatly relieving depending on the day.
This blasé rape threat, or the twenty of them, really seem like child's play in comparison to the Cooper novel. I find myself wincing while reading some parts, my face surely contorted inward as if the tension of my muscles would somehow ease the deep-seated nausea born from his intricate details of fantasized torture.
Its exceptional in the way that it leaves you completely apathetic to the torture, the slitting of a neck is about as moving as a YA novel’s climax, the defiling of fingernails and extraction of teeth feels as expected as finding out love can save somebody all along, even the unlovable creature doomed to an eternity in a castle far above the village that beams with life. I’ll debate closing the book out of boredom, only to then have my eyes glaze over the most undignified acts a human could commit to another in the form of a paragraph that sickens me to the point of physically gagging. It's seriously just fucking rancid at certain points. Fuck: rancid, jarring, stomach turning, disturbed, would all be litoties, honest to God. I'm so excited to be done reading it, simply for the fact I will never have to read it ever again.
I kind of feel like I am doing something wrong by reading it.
I feel like an idiot for taking this long to have read him. I feel like an idiot for getting too wine drunk at that reading of his last spring. There's no way I would have talked to him anyway. Despite having never read him, I never undermined his importance because people always talk about Cooper like he's a god.
Its funny how God can just be some gay guy.
2/8 Alex, zoe and I all spent the day in Silver Lake for the most part. This involved torturing them with my new psychotic and abnormal rules: Only listening to the radio in my car and eating only broccoli (just plain) for one whole month. Under the guise of course that I am exhausted by making decisions.
We had gone to a pop-up earlier, one right near fluffys. I popped in to see if Derry was working, he wasn't. I thought we could get a soda, maybe a sundae but it was infinitely less interesting to me because of his absence.
I tried on a skirt and a dress at the pop up. Both fit me nice but Im trying to be more responsible with my money. This is difficult because I dont have a lot of money. It was made exceptionally difficult when Zoe and Alex told me how good my legs looked in the miniature skirt. Then, I walked out to grab a shirt and the workers said something about my legs which made me feel very shy. I think just cause someone noticed something. I haven't been feeling too keen on how I look lately. It feels ridiculous to say these things and admit them. To care about it.
2/7 I’m hungover.
Kind of.
It isn’t terrible. I feel kind of good.
2/6 In many ways, coffee used to make me happy; now it’s just another thing I have to do every day.
“Miss.”
I open my Dennis Cooper book and flip to my page, surely filled with the utmost grotesque adjectives and nouns (organs and limbs are basically operating as if nicknames in this novel)
“Sorry miss” oh he’s talking to me. That’s weird, that’s usually what you call old people.
Am I old?
“Yeah?” I ask, looking up confused at this kid. He has to be about 22. A striped sweater, a nice pair of jeans. Maybe Edwin, or Marithe Francois Girbuard jeans. I should get my Marithe shirt back from dillon, it fits me nice.
“Your cold brew.”
“Oh.” Right. “Thank you”
I fold my page and shove the novel into my bag with little care. It shows little to no care to fold your pages (I believe they call these little folds ‘dog ears’) anyway.
It’s just going to end up in the pile of the other ones by the time I’m done with it.
The door does this thing where it accidentally slaps my ass as it closes behind me. Or almost does, I could feel the momentum, and then suddenly another
“Hey” it’s the kid with the striped sweater.
“Hi,” I say. I stopped, and now I’m just in front of the door.
“What’s your name?”
“Ash.”
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“Cool.” I’m ash. “I’m ash”
“I know you said that”
Wow. He’s really weird. But right. I did say that. It was one of the first initial questions.
“Oh.”
“Okay. Have a good day”
Weird. Can’t stop thinking about it for some reason. Well, the reason being it was weird. It was awkward. Kind of. But it didn’t seem like it was to him. It kind of felt like he was entitled to these answers. This didn’t bother me.
Weird. I keep saying that in my head as I tap my fingers on my desk. I often feel like I am doing something wrong and will get in trouble despite being twenty-four, sorry, twenty-five years old.
Weird.
—-
Work was nice. The Lighting was good, which made shooting easy. Editing was a bitch, per usual.
I start to get really tense when I edit, so much so I audibly sigh after about 20 minutes of looking at the same photo, nitpicking it to shreds.
Denny comes upstairs, and I show him my little corner. My desk. My assortment of jellies and miniature shorts I’ve collected over the time. There's a ton of blank space. I mean, to be fair, I barely started working out of here. Maybe I’ll get a vase and some flowers. ████ ██ ███████ ██ ████ █████████ ███ █████ ███████ ████ ██ █████ ███ ███ ████████ ███ ████ █ ███████ ███ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ███ ███████ █████ ████ ████ ██ █████ █ ████ █████ ██ ████ ██ ██████ ██ ███ ██ █████ ████
Trying to keep this year simple in all and any regards.
Denny jokingly slaps my arm over and over as I explain my simple set up. Its weird how this kind of thing works, being comfortable with somebody. Especially a coworker.
When I walked back into the office last week, for the first time since my little sabbatical, Denny gazed at me as I stood in the open doorway. It felt like a really lame western film
“Miss me?” I asked. This seemed like what an over-confident cowboy with a toothpick in his mouth would say.
He rolled his eyes but smiled. I missed him.
I saw these people more than I saw any of my family, and most of my friends last year.
He keeps poking at my arm trying to convince me to stay for the party they are having at the building down the street. Apparently Mark will be photographing it.
I dont think I will stay; if I do it wont be for long.
Im supposed to meet everybody later. I need to text Zo, and Al. They might be interested in this open bar gallery opening Noel sent me earlier. When I open my phone, I see that mark has texted me, asking if Im staying for the party later. He must know that I work here. I think I told him that last I saw him, which was in Miami.
I send a response, saying Im leaving at six. Well, six thirty, but yeah.
—-
The Dennis Cooper novel is good. I am only about 50 pages in though. I am noticing the more i read the less i am reaching for my pack of cigarettes. This is probably good.
I wish there were other bad habits Id do less if it meant smoking more.
Bought a shirt meant for little boys and got in my car to drive home. I decided to listen to the radio instead of silver jews, or I dont know, whatever else it is that I listen to. It was nice. I was able to find the college radio station which was playing good enough stuff, I recognized every song. Belle and Sebastian. Obviously Radiohead.
It went static. Maybe all the college kids left. Its friday, they might want to go to a party. Or do whatever college kids do.
I think I get what college kids do. I was around but never enrolled. Or I was. And then eventually I wasnt.
I fucked with the knob until I found KROQ (106.7) and danced along to the Cure and Linkin Park. It felt silly but ultimately nice to not have to make a decision, even one as small as picking a 40-50 minute album for the commute home.
I should probably leave soon.
Yeah, that seems right.
—-
I tried to read more of the novel in the back of the Uber with my phone as a makeshift light. I don’t know why I always do this. It makes me carsick.
I rolled the window down probably five minutes ago. We’re entering Silver Lake, and I see a billboard that says “smile” with the Mona Lisa on it. I don’t know what this is for.
God, I feel really sick.
——
When I arrive at Zebulon, there is somehow a line. I’ve lived here for a long time, I think. This has never happened, ever, I think.
It’s fine. It’s interesting when I see people wear Dov’s clothes in person, how they style them.
It moves fast, which is good because if it didn’t I would have just left. A man in camouflage is now pouring me a double shot vodka soda.
The double shot was unnecessary. It tastes starkly of gasoline and some sort of burnt citrus rind.
I navigate my frame through the people. The crowd. It’s difficult to figure out what crowd this is. I don’t have to worry for long
“Ash!” Zoë beckons. She is standing next to a very tall man with brown hair, bangs, friendly eyes and a Roman nose.
“Hi” I say, confused on who this man is with my two delicate little woman friends.
“Charlie, this is ash. Ash this is Charlie. Charlie is here from France” Zoë says and tilts her head as if to watch this guy, Charlie I guess, interact with me. I get it now.
“Cool.” I say. It’s cool.
“Ash knows bit of -“
“Not really”
“Charlie’s family lives here”
“Cool.”
It’s silent for a couple of moments.
“Were you like born there?”
“Yes”
“I don’t hear an accent.”
He says something, muffled, and I can now hear his accent:
It’s silent again.
“Oh that’s neat.” I say and turn to zoë as if to ask her what the fuck is going on.
Eventually, Charlie seems to come to a nonverbal understanding with Zoë and bows out.
“He’s from France,” she whispers rather loudly; she’s drunk
“Yes, I got that, who is he though?”
“Charlie.” She smiles.
I sigh.
“He’s only here for two months Ash, he’s from the south of France, he likes wine he said, and he’d just be perfect for -”
I sigh again. But smile. She’s sweet for basically trying to set me up with this man, Charlie, I guess. I am just kind of sick and uninterested. For whatever fake and gay reason. It could be the Dennis Cooper novel, which is so grotesque that it filled me with a sense of dread I’m worried won’t leave me for the night.
It’s somehow the most grotesque novel I’ve ever read (so far) and it makes me sick to my stomach.
“Zoë that’s really sweet” we both take a seat and I grab her hand as we sit. I peer back to Charlie. He is kind of handsome. “I hate his jeans”
“What?” She exclaims loudly “his jeans are awesome”
They’re like Carhartt jeans.
“Shhh. He will hear you. You’re drunk”
“Okay. Okay. But his jeans aren’t bad ash” She’s adorable when shes drunk.
“I don’t know.” I roll my wrists and fuck with my long sleeves.
She seems to understand and drops it, only teasing me mildly about it later.
—
Charlie is missing. Somehow I don’t know a single person here. Aside from the close friend group.
Alex is on my lap, Zoë left, Ren is next to me, gossiping, and everyone keeps asking me when Dillon will arrive.
“How have you been ash?” Lucas and Aaron who are looking right at me ask.
“Good. Just busy” I sigh. This is true. But I’ve just said this for about a year. I should figure out something else to say. Even if it’s a lie, it’d have to inherently be more interesting, right? “How are you Lucas?”
“Good. Went through a bit of a dark period,” he is honest, which is refreshing.
“Same, i guess” I think I failed to realize this while it was happening. Luckily, nothing has been as bad as that one time which I always jus refer to as “when Sean was in Edinburgh for 6 months” because this is somehow the most legible way for my brain to categorize it. Nothing happened. Sean was in Edinburgh.
He called me once and asked when was the last time I left the apartment? I said two weeks ago, to take out the trash. He told me I had to take my trash outside, I had to go outside, period, end of story
I don’t think he understood I hadn’t procured enough garbage to throw away in those 14 days. I simply had a couple of cups of water by my bed. A plate for toast, I had been reusing.
It’s funny; I don’t have the luxury to get that bad again.
“I have to piss” Alex says.
“Girl threw up in the sink,” Somebody says.
“Ew” Somebody says.
“She was very apologetic,” Somebody says.
“Thats good.” I say. Its good.
—--
Alex and I grabbed our shit and left to Astros up the street. It was kind of impromptu. But we ran under the bridge, the cold air acting as a sort of chariot for energy.
We sat at the bar and ordered this a Diet Coke, one coffee, a side of fries, and two waters. By the time we left we were completely sober.
Kind of. Well fuck I forgot I did that thing earlier; I held up my phone, giggling (okay, so Im still drunk. Tipsy now.) and showed Alex that thing I did earlier.
“Ash” She laughs.
“Now what?” I ask. She starts to laugh at how little I seemingly thought about doing this. I thought about this all week, frankly, but I’d never admit that out loud because I feel embarrassed.
“Brady,” a car yells out to us.
“Who the fuck is that?”
When the passenger window is rolled down its revealed that the driver is Carmen, without thinking, we just get in.
“Can you give us a ride back?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He says. His car is awesome. This is awesome. Like we live in Los Angeles.
“Ash what the fuck did you do?” He asks not looking at me. And laughing.
“What?” my voice is a bit high pitched from the alcohol.
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I guess so.
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—--
I dont know who is djing. I don't. Does it matter?
Why is all of the Westside here?
Chobi buys me a vodka soda, which in turn reverses all of the sobering up I did at Astros. This is fine. Im working on my New Years Resolution, after all. I am doing good by it.
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“What?” Chobi and Alex say.
“Yeah.” Sometimes it just feels good to do something really fucking stupid. Like really stupid.
They dont seem to think its a good idea. But this is something i guess i decided definitively a couple of minutes ago because I feel pretty staunchily about it. Enough so that the kid inches from my face, who is making it so obvious he is in to me, has absolutely no charm, not even on the grounds of flattery. I just feel this intense boredom with every scene that could possibly play out here. Its probably mean but Im not acknowledging him at all. I wonder where Charlie went, if he is still french, and still, supposedly perfect for me.
“You don't want to stay?” Somebody asks me. Not really.
“No”
“Do you want a bump?” Another person asks
Not really. No.
“My Uber is on his way.”
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Its just selfish of me.
2/5 took the kind of shower today that makes me wonder about God. Whether he’s real or not. This was around 7 am.
feeling the cold water bead down my neck made me move quicker than usual; packing my work bag ,putting on an outfit, and walking to my car with more haste than usual. The last couple of mornings I’ve left the apartment late almost everyday which results in me feeling needlessly antsy all day.
I think I feel better today. Last night dillon came home from a business dinner in a good mood. He sprawled across the living room floor, stretching all of his limbs, almost taking up the whole space of the carpet.
He teased me about going to New York, I teased him about leaving me at the apartment alone for three weeks in anticipation for his tour in April.
I threw the blanket over his head and he got playfully angry with me. It felt nice to be playful and silly. I feel like I haven’t told a joke since I’ve been back in office. I haven’t laughed at anything.
This is not due to some sort of mild depression. I think I’m just serious most of the day now; I have to focus. There’s no room for laughing kind of. It’s also hard when you have nobody to joke with; as mentioned I have been secluded to this one corner of an office virtually no one works out of.
It’s nice; I have my things set up. My computer, the camera, the box light, an array of garments. I’m surrounded by samples so it’s hard not to feel inspired. There’s a window too which is nice. It gives me a view of the warehouse next door; I think an automotive company of some sort’s roof. All of these stray cats have some how found a way up there and they take their afternoon naps on the the black gravel top. They roll around when they need to scratch their itches, stretching their paws when the sun becomes unruly.
It’s a nice view, a nice place. But I am alone most of the time.
—--
I spent most of the morning in the main office which was good for the whole anti-social worry. Now, I am back in the other office. I will call this the cold office for clarity’s sake, because “office I work in alone a lot of the time in a designated small corner which has a view of the cats that nap on the opposing buildings roof” just doesnt have a nice ring to it.
Im waiting for my model to show up. I get along with him well enough so it should go relatively smoothly. He made fun of me, a couple of days ago, because I was reading a book on my lunch break, he made some comment about how I was being performative and “aura farming.”
“This is my fifth book this month.” I sputtered, without thinking about how much of an asshole this made me look. Its the truth I guess.
We have developed a friendly repertoire as a result, him teasing asking which book I am reading currently, him feigning interest despite the fact I know he does not care.
The corner is not as cold today, the 81 degrees and all. No cats are napping on the opposing roof.
Some guy is working at a desk further up, I can hear him on a call ████ ████ █ █████ █████ ███████ █████ ██████ ███ ██ █████████ ████ ████████ █████ ████████ ██████████ ████████
The model is here now, and a kitten is perched against an air conditioning unit; perfect.
Everyone texts me about La Poubelle
“Is this hoodie okay to wear with these shorts?””
“No.”
they dont match at all.
—--
The model left. I am sat on the couch now, editing the photos of said model. The photos came out well. So it isn't too cumbersome to edit.
Noel texts me “La poubelle tonight?”
“Maybe” I text back, I probably wont go but the idea amuses me for a minute or two. I like la poubelle, i think. Noel mentions something about free drinks.
After pondering for a minute, I text “probably not”:
He is now saying he won't come to Zebulon on friday. But I want him to go. Im going to jokingly text him that I will kill myself if he doesnt come.
—-
My empty threat serves nothing, Noel says he still isnt coming tomorrow. I feel compelled to hang out with him, I had hoped he’d bring Jake. Jake makes me laugh really hard. At the Chanel Beads show I’d look over at him, he’d say something ridiculous, and I’d giggle.
I love to giggle and would like to do more of that; giggling.
Whether they come tomorrow or not, it has become an accidental affair. Seems like everyone is “pregaming” at our apartment.
I’ll probably sit this out as I black out easily, and in the vein of staying true to my New Year's Resolution: I’d like to not scare anybody, or scare myself. If possible.
This is conflicting with my other New Years Resolution: to drink more, go out as often as I can manage without fucking up my professional life.
I did it last summer, I can do it again.
I have this realization every New Year: I am not getting any younger. I should wear the short dress, go out. Be stupid, I guess. Until it loses its charm.
—-
The main office was desolate as I returned to write my end-of-day email. A sleep has fallen over the remaining soldiers, who loafed at their desks, barely acknowledging my walking in.
I called Dillon, Sean. Sean calls Dillon. I am home now, so in a way he is calling both of us.
Sean makes a stupid joke: “I heard matter baby is playing.”
“Who is matter baby?”
I clutch my stomach over this reallllllllly stupid joke.
“Ash, come” Sean refers to my absenteeism from La Poubelle,
“Im going to catch up on reading” Its true, my copy of the Sluts by Dennis Cooper arrived in the mail today.
“Lame. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
-----
I am in bed, supposed to be reading but I am writing, Im writing thinking of virtually all of my friends at La Poubelle wine drunk and red faced. I am fucking up my new years resolutions. Already.
Maybe the issue is that I dont really believe in them generally. I’d like to be the kind of person to believe in anything, but Im not.
02/04 Alone in the office again. I feel like I am barely speaking.
I want to call dillon but he’s ████ ████ ███ ███ ██████ ███████ █████ ███ In some ways, acknowledging this has made my life easier, and I imagine for him, more stressful.
Everyone is going to Zebulon on Friday. I feel excited. Mostly because it feels low stakes. The night will go as follows;
I’ll arrive, have one to two drinks, feel social (enough), talk to people I see only every so often, retreat back to my closest friends, grow bored, leave.
It’s predictable and because of this I will enjoy it. Or loathe it. I am leaning towards loathing in anticipation of the night.
There’s a feeling within me of intensity. It’s hard to feel that things are now settled. I am back at the office, █ ██ ███████ █ ██████████ ██ ███ ██ ████████ ███████ ███ ██ ██████ ██ ██████████. These are all good things.
I think they feel lackluster in comparison to the anticipation of these things. ███████ ██ ███ ███ █████ ██████ ██ █████ ███ ████ ██ ███ ███████ ███ ██ ███████ ██ ████████████ ██████ ███ ███████ ██ ███ ██████████ ███ ████████ ███ ███ ███████ ███ ███ ██ ███ ████ ███ ████████ ██ ███ ████ These are such sharp, poignant moments.
And now, I am left with nothing but the acute feeling of boredom. I feel like somebody should say something, somebody should do something. Something should be inserted, or erased. A drink should be poured. A wall should be demolished. Somebody should get really drunk and make a terrible mistake. A car crash should happen, somewhere, anywhere, India, or Arizona, just as long as it happens.
I don’t want to be the person to lead any of this. I’m not sure why I feel this way, but I do again; I don’t want to be an active participant in my life. In life.
December, January, all of my writing dealt with how detrimental that feeling and therefore execution of whatever fucked up fake philosophy this is left me. I thought it might be gone for good.
That I was going to be very friendly. I was going to be beautiful. I was going to be interesting, kind. Sharp. Modern. I’d be a fully actualized person basically.
I think I have been for the last month; I have made friends, I’ve been an astute employee, I’ve been a roommate, I made dinners with ingredients. I’m lost on why this feeling isn’t translating, that I’m actually actualized.
I put my cigarette out and decide to end my pity party. I have to go shoot again, in the cold warehouse.
I am trying to think of happy things as I go up the stairs; going to New York in March. Being there. Being there with Alex.
Maybe I’ll ██████ █████ ███ ███████ ██ ████ █ ███████ ███ ████ ███ ██ █████
—-
Work today feels borderline impossible. I texted Holly to make an appointment. I did this in the hopes that she will have a really good sentence, maybe two, fuck, three even, that might help me. It will fix everything. I vary on the sentiment that a sentence can either fix everything or that a sentence virtually means nothing.
I don’t know if I need help. Everyone keeps saying how great I am at this, how brave. Whatever. Again, these are the kinds of things people say to cancer patients. I’m not a cancer patient.
Something about the phone call that took place on Monday is bothering me, making me feel like I have an impossible itch to scratch, one idling underneath my skin, swimming around my veins, threatening to extrude.
I hope this feeling can go away. I’m worried it never will. (EDITING: it will)
I created a Goodreads account; I must be bored. Painfully.
—-
I reeled myself back in the latter half of the day, I think, because I was working on a group effort, my mood improved. I dropped the dramatics.
As I gathered my things and began to pack up, my boss said we had to have a meeting tomorrow. Sure.
I am not sure what this could be about. It could really be about anything.
Sean was able to reel me back in during our phone call. He asked, and I answered very honestly.
I was going to write this: I was starkly honest because I feel as though I have nothing to lose.
That could be dangerous. Felt that way in October, virtually lost everything. Is it still a loss if it was my choice? Yeah, probably.
Tired of sinking my teeth into things, begging them to stay, to work out. I was tired then too. Eventually, in a mellow dramatic fashion, I metaphorically fell to my knees and just said, to something imaginary, imaginary but big “just take it”
The red light on Beverly is taunting me, I have to piss so terribly.
“So you’ll come friday?” I ask Sean, begging for a distraction.
“Yeah. Sounds fun.” He mumbles.
“Cool.”
I think I will wear jeans and a black shirt.
2/1 Alex and I skip Fig and go straight to Skylight. We both finished our books and need to read something new.
I haven’t finished my Guy Debord book yet; trying to be patient with myself but it’s wordy. It’s maybe the least word-y of a structuralist philosophy book, it’s honestly very digestible but I find myself to be less inclined towards it. Sometimes I can sift through it with ease, other times it’s rather boring to me.
I picked up some Maggie Nelson essay, I can’t remember the name, it’s in my purse, but I believe it’s likening Taylor swift to Sylvia Plath. I figured I had to get it because there quite possibly aren't two nouns together I like less.
From online reviews people seem really pissed about the book. Or essay. It reminds me of Didions essay on Martha Stewart, so we’ll see.
Alex got a copy of the Sluts by Dennis Cooper which I wanted but there was only one copy.
A younger boy approached us, well really Alex, and asked for our Instagrams. This is the second time this has happened to us now, at this particular bookstore.
It always reads to me as somebody who just looked up “how to get a girlfriend” “how to socialize with girls your age” Its sweet in theory; horrible to be a recipent.
Typically, this wouldn’t bother me. I don’t think it ever truly bothers anybody to be desired, especially sexually. Sometimes, a catcall is how I assure myself I am not fat or old. They’re good in that way; a never-needed but never shunned reassurance.
But I think I don’t care to be desired right now. Objectively, I never cared enough to try to be desired. The last time that happened was probably high school. It’s a ridiculous idea; men will desire absolutely anything. Desiring machines.
Desire just feels utterly retarded when it isn’t from the one particular person I desperately want it from.
“Here ash” Alex points to the collections of essays I haphazardly mentioned I wanted.
“Thanks”
The idea that I’d find my next boyfriend at a bookstore is so stupid. That would never happen.
I don’t want that.
1/31 For three girls who are quite slender we ordered a lot of food. I dont know why. I think- I know we are all desperately hungover.
We saunter through the conversations that have been the utmost critical the last couple of weeks; New York, and Coachella.
We review the drunken night and decide it’s sweet I kept ahold of Alex’s head because she kept hitting it on nearly everything, Zoë and I say the McDonald’s fries were the best we had ever had. Perfectly salted. Alex and I say we are going to probably going to go to Ren’s show despite knowing we probably aren’t.
—-
The sun hits my arm in a way that reminds me of everything that has happened. Because it’s so hot it’s burning my skin a little.
This is made to be fine, because there’s a slight breeze which graces my skin. My hand is idling out of my car window on La Cienega which I’m coming to learn might be my favorite street in all of LA. It lacks congestion, which makes it easy to speed down. You pass the Beverly Center if you’re heading north. It has a pretty view of the Cahuenga pass.
I used to think the Cahuenha pass was mine. I don’t know why I thought this, it’s pretty pompous. I think I just lived really far from everyone, and everything. It greeted me every morning on my old commute to work. I’d acknowledge the small crucifix on the mountain as I merged onto the 101 every morning.
I still feel sentimental about it. It’s Wikipedia says it’s the lowest pass of the Santa Monica mountains. I’ve always liked the underdog I guess. I think everyone always likes the underdog.
For being so literally small, it has some sort of huge bloated metaphorical impact on me. It reminds me of home, the first place I ever felt that way about, the apartment on Franklin. Now, as I am driving and purveying its craters, it feels as though a shield between the valley and I.
I have little experience in the valley. I’ve never really needed to go. But I am reminded of the time I last drove back into the city from Palo Alto. I always knew I was back home, basically, when I hit the valley. By all accounts I should have felt terrible, in some contrived far away account, I did feel terrible. But I mostly felt relieved to be back in the city. I told myself I never had to leave again if I didn’t want to. That I never had to go back.
—-
I spent the rest of the day sleeping, after dillon and I got home from Highland Park. We had a conversation in the car about something that went like this:
“I thought it might hurt your feelings” he said, he is always randomly thoughtful.
“Oh, no.” I sighed. “Yeah no that wouldn’t make me sad. I think if anything that would make me happy”
“Oh okay. That’s good to know.” He assured me he’d do it without telling me he’d do it.
I fell asleep rather quickly upon arriving home. I wish I had done something with my day. Caught up on reading, or writing. Called my grandmother. Done something.
But I slept for a total of around 18 hours. Whenever I do this I’m stunned by my ability to sleep for so long. It typically only happens as a result of depression or a severe hangover. I didn’t feel that hungover but my gnawing migraine I received around 5pm confirmed that I was in fact severely hungover.
My skin felt hot, so I sat on the couch, looked out the window at mostly nothing. My squirrel is missing today, and now that I think of it most days I can’t find him now. He probably is here, I’m just never home anymore. I really only come back here to sleep now.
1/30 “im sorry to hear about-”
“Its fine” I cut ren off. Really, its fine. Im fine. Im just tired of repeating myself at this point.
“Yeah. Im sorry” he says. He asks what I want to listen to, which makes me grateful for the topic change and the opportunity to switch the Ee album that I love but have some sort of weird reaction to, which is playing over the TV.
Jaida, his roommate’s cat crawls into my lap. Ren tells me the cat is eighteen years old, and in great shape for his age, despite pissing on the carpet.
“Thats fine. Hes old” I say patting his head. I run my hand down his back gently, feeling his spine. Its sad how when cats age they become so lissome. You’re aware of their small skeletons underneath them. So fragile, always.
I pat the couch for Alex to come sit next to me, and she obliges. I introduce her to the cat who has decidedly become my best friend for the night.
—-
“is this the restroom?” A west side kid, probably a UCLA student asks Chobi, Alex, Zoë, Ren and I. We are stood like a little army outside of the restroom door at tenants.
“Yes” Chobi says, her boyfriend works here as the head bartender so we come here every once in a while and get free drinks. She acts as a sort of referee on the rare occasion we make it here.
“So this is the line for the bathroom?” The kid asks again. Is he fucking stupid?
No. Probably not. He won’t leave us alone though. He just keeps asking us over and over if we are in line for the bathroom.
Eventually I tilt my head over my shoulder, just now making eye contact with him trying to figure out what his deal is. He’s asked about eight times, it’s starting to get really annoying
“Yes dude. This is the line for the bathroom. It starts back there” Alex says.
I wonder if he thinks we have a bag or something. Even then, I don’t see why he would think we would share it with him.
Out of everybody here, we are probably the only set of people who don’t in fact have a small bag in the back of one of our wallets or jacket pockets. Tenants is now overrun by UCLA kids like I mentioned. It’s totally try hard. I think they saw that Charli XCX had her birthday party here however many months ago and decided this was the new “spot” which is funny given the history of tenants.
Any given corner in the club will have some girl taking a digital camera photo trying to look like she’s having a fun time. But not too much fun. Just enough fun.
There are a ton of gay guys around, not even the fun kind.
We eventually find ourselves in some secluded in the corner, sufficiently drunk from the free drinks. We dance.
Alex keeps slamming her head against things on accident, Ren starts fucking with the UCLA kids.
“You’ve got like the coolest thing,-” Some kid motions for me to lower my sunglasses, which i do. And he begins to speak again as if it was not possible to converse with my sunglasses on “going on here. Just so cool”
“Thanks, I think” I smile and put my sunglasses back. I cant be saying everyone is a try hard while I have my sunglasses on at tenants of the trees. I’d be an utter hypocrite. To be honest, Im very tired. Im very tired and I dont like my makeup.
—-
Back at Ren’s i find myself lying in his bed with the cat. He cradles himself underneath my chin, I rub and ben his ears which he seems to like because is eliciting a small but persistent pur. I feel myself falling asleep, exhausted by the debauchery from earlier.
People keep coming in and out, for the obvious reason. Alex and I idle not wanting to uber back to the westside. She’s asleep with the cat and I. It feels like we are a small family of ragamuffins. I think the next couple of months will feel like this.
I can hear the rustling of the eager party go-ers outside, and since I am decidedly a friendly and normal person now, I decide to leave the cave.
Im met with Dillon, Sean, some random guy I see everywhere but dont actually know, and Tiff.
I give Tiff a hug and say hi to the boys who seem surprised to see me here. I dont know why. Didnt they get the memo that I am now normal and leaving the house again?
“Hi”
“Hey”
“How was tenants?”
“Good, should’ve come”
“Hell no”
“Okay”
“You had fun?” Dillon asks in disbelief
“Yeah. Free drinks” I shrug.
He seems weirdly tired and aloof.
“Im gonna go home now, or well, to alex’s apartment”
“Okay” He says.
01/29 Laya arrives and we smoke a cigarette near my car, which she says is cute and fits my personality. I’ve never thought about it.
My old car, the 99 cherokee felt more like me, maybe. If this matters at all.
Laya’s face brings me a lot of comfort for some reason.
—-
The shoot with Laya goes well. I am being celebrated since being back at the office; everyone loves how the photos came out and the ideas I have in mind.
“I’m not trying to scare you, but the pressure is on” my boss says in our impromptu meeting.
I nod as if to say I understand. I think I can handle it. Genuinely.
3 months ago I couldn’t. But 3 months ago was 3 months ago. Nothing more than that.
I’m surprised by how settled I feel. How easy I’ve leaned back into everything.
—-
Dillon doesn’t ask me how it is to be back at the office . I don’t know if I care about this or not; him asking, or not asking I mean.
He tells me about these things that have happened. Things that feel really far away at this point. I can only hope that they get further and further away.
01/28 I feel like I am becoming friendlier. More friendly? I am becoming more friendly.
I got to the office earlier today with the intention of editing some writing and emailing questions for my first interview of February, but had trouble focusing because I kept talking to Lila.
She is here from New York, says she knows Jack. Any friend of Jack’s is a friend of mine. We talked about random things, people we both know in New York, Bard, she asked me what book I was reading on the couch yesterday
I tried my best at pronouncing ‘Guy Debord’ properly, almost saying it phonetically, piece by piece. GHEE- DU- BOARD. Im probably still wrong.
I have noticed a shift within me, maybe a lack of nerves. I didnt realize I was so nervous before. Or maybe I didnt realize that I was quite awkward before. I dont know, it just feels easier to talk these days.
This is probably due to not constantly wearing headphones and listening to Slint on full blast. I think, in retrospect, that would depress or agitate anybody.
I gathered my stuff and went to the warehouse nextdoor, which I would be shooting at. This warehouse is new to me. I never had the privilege of going before.
It is absolutely stunning
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EDITING: this goes without saying, on the very slim chance anybody would care to publish post-humously for me- dont. I have made sentences that are too embarrassing to ever see the light of day, that is why they remain unpublished. My death shouldnt transmute this belief.
“Maybe we shouldnt read that”
01/27 I should write. Is a thought I keep telling myself.
Tomorrow, I am shooting at work. I havent done that in a very long time. All in all, this will be fine.
I should write. I should say something about the various things that have happened in the last 72 hours since I last sat down to write, I should write, but I wont, I will bulletpoint:
-Called Alex multiple times
-read Guy Debord, (running out of reading time, I guess reading time can cut into sleeping time, but then sleeping time would cut into coffee time for tomorrow time)
- Saw Ella at the market, said these exact words: “I thought you were in France”
-I have committed to going to New York city, which I always say every couple of months, but alex is going with me, so now I will actually go. I think part of me is scared because of last time
-toured a warehouse filled with architectural and industrial design gems. I always thought it would be good, but it is infact great. Tubular chairs, arrays of magazines, angular lamps. He practically has an entire library upstairs, I had to stop myself from pawing through the various magazine copies which are littered on random shelves, side tables, etc, and forced myself to work diligently on my laptop
-met work colleagues from New York
-got blisters from my heels, wore heels to work again the next day
-gave a presentation (i think I did okay, I stuttered a bit, but I expected this to happen only on the notion of being realistic with myself. I think I stuttered less than I would have six months ago)
-signed up for another volunteer shift to see mary and matilda (who I miss dearly)
-booked Laya for a thursday shoot
-scheduled a lunch for saturday
-discussed tentative weekend plans with Alex
-Blocked ██ ██████s phone number again. Had to use bad words. Felt pretty terrible. I guess I didnt have to.
-I asked over and over “are you okay”
-i said over and over “its a yes or no question”
-I packed my work bag
-I ate a terrible vegetable wrap I got at the market
-I showed restraint at the market by buying vegetables, pre-made soup, and yogurt instead of the dutch wafer cookies I have been inhaling like a pig
-I wrote a bulletpoint list
-I thought to myself that I should write
1/26 I slept for five, maybe six hours. I don’t know, I think it’s from my period.
It will make me a weak low-grade insomniac.
Everyone has been asking me for the past month: “are you nervous?”
This seemed stupid to me. There was nothing to be nervous about. In some way, maybe in every way, I got what I asked for, probably even more than I asked for. It made no sense to be nervous, it didn’t seem like the logical emotional response.
Last night I couldn’t sleep at all. I woke up nearly every hour, writhing in annoyance. There’s a particular annoyance that can only come from lack of sleep.
I typically have no issue with falling asleep due to my cocktail I have had for the past year: 20 oz of alcohol free sleeping time liquid, if I run out of that, NyQuil and 20 mg of melatonin.
I have to sleep. It’s the only thing I refuse to compromise on. This is for my sake, but also everybody around me. I am the worst version of myself when I am sleep deprived.
1/25 Alex, perfume, kitties, deep anxiety, no sleep.
01/24 I am invited to a diner where Jason, Alex, and Keyan are rectifying their hangovers.
I pass, I don’t even respond. I wasn’t able to sleep until around two in the morning.
I have my last shift at my part-time job I took in November after my mellow, dramatic mental breakdown. It seemed like the right thing; I needed money. Picking slowly at my savings was starting to ignite a panic within me.
“My mellow dramatic mental breakdown,” what a mouthful. It felt anything but. It truly was mellow dramatic. At least it felt so.
I didn’t even register it as a some sort of break in psyche, honestly, I don’t think many people around me did either. I figured that these kinds of things look like they do in movies, big, tearful, ardently asserting themselves and shattering life itself as we know it.
It was boring but confusing, mostly. Everyone would talk to me as if I had some sort of cancer. They would start talking about my future, their complete and utter faith in my ability to produce a life worthwhile in the end. This always made me feel like I was in a horrible position, these are the kind of things people say to you when they assume your situation to be precarious.
They called me things they call the bald children who appear in the commercials with needlessly somber music in the background: “brave”, “courageous,”, “a fighter.”
This made me feel like I had fundamentally fucked up my life forever. I spent a lot of time wondering if this were true. A lot of time. Mostly in my bed. Sometimes at the outside table feeding the birds and the squirrel who became my friend. They were the most loving friends because they didn’t speak, at least not my language, they couldn’t say words like “brave” or “courageous” (have you ever noticed that these words are only ever said in the face of fear? That these words fail to exist outside of the context of fear? No one is brave just because. There has never been a soldier without a war)
I concluded that if I these decisions I made, or was going to make, did fundamentally fuck up my life forever, I didn’t have much of a life to begin with.
Slowly but surely, I made some sort of progress. I began taking walks outside. Getting my coffee from Andante despite knowing I could make it at home for a fraction of the price, because some part of my brain felt it necessary to talk to another human being. I walked for miles every day on my fractured rib because I felt I could gain some life from doing this.
At times I thought my little equation I had made for myself was stupid. You can’t find life from just wondering around. There’s no meaning. Other times it felt hopeful. Like if I walked far enough, past the Beverly center, to the streets of whose names I did not know, would inspire some sort of curiosity and bespoken hope. That there was something left to figure out.
I vary between these two cyclical places.
My part-time job at the outdoor shopping mall, most of the time, made me hopeful. This sounds like the opposite of my point, which maybe proves it, but I realized (which I do every 6 months) there was no point. I sat at that counter for 8 hours nearly every day. I talked to old Armenian women who had brats for children for the sake of it. I told them their skin looked nice and hydrated just because. I wrote down every vegetarian restaurant that my kind boss recommended to me, despite knowing I would never raise a fork to my lips at any of them. I asked my assistant manager what bleach she uses to touch her roots despite knowing that information would serve absolutely nothing.
There was something about it that was so enjoyable though. There didn’t have to be this big concocted meaning; there was no lesson to be learned.
I didn’t have to do anything miraculous. I didn’t have to do anything, really.
Something about this calmed my mellow ,dramatic freak out. It confirmed my already solidified philosophy that nothing matters.
For the first time in however long this doesn’t frighten me, or make me work extremely hard, as if to prove to myself that I’m wrong; things do matter.
01/23 I feel vaguely suicidal, which always means my period is coming.
This gives me hope. What an oxymoron.
I have no appetite either, which is a pretty good sign that my period will probably come either tonight or tomorrow morning.
I also think of how soft I felt last night, needlessly soft. This could also be an indicator.
The big boss is here today so I cannot read my book bent over the counter which makes me want to hang myself in a fitting room; but I will not do that. It’s just so fucking boring.
I have taken to not speaking today, to really anybody; Customers, my boss, my assistant manager. I don’t really care. I have nothing to say, I feel as though I would if I went to the restroom and had the relief of seeing the stark red blood. I am wearing black underwear today, lace, so there would be no contrast, no solider in the snow.
I still haven’t gotten it, but I feel hopeful given how horrible I feel physically and the extreme emotional blunting.
—-
I finished my book, I think it is my fifth this month (I’m getting faster, this is good), on my lunch break. My second to last lunch break here.
I will insert a quote I liked here, the only quote I liked;
It was a decent book. Not long. I didn’t much care for it.
I think really important part of life is to interact with things you don’t care about.
This made no sense to me last year. Seeing as I didn’t care about really anything.
But I much liked reading this benign book for that one quote. It’s really exemplary of this sensation; for if I hadn’t roughed it out, instead picked up a favorite book of mine to reread for the simple fact I know it,, I love it, care about it, I wouldn’t have found this one thought that I have never truly been able to lucidly describe.
Trying to discover something (constantly), is not only unrewarding, forever disappointing, it’s fucking exhausting. Things do not have to be so stark in life.
Things can be mild; and mild is not bad.
I thought I accepted this. Not every night
—-
When I arrived everybody was drunk. This was not surprising to find; given Alex texted me that everyone was drunk.
I saw this when I was already on my way, I just sighed. Sometimes when I am around drunk people I just feel like dying. Or like I am a really weird person.
This sounds fucking retarded because I drink, I snort. Whatever. But every once in a while; I’ll catch a glimpse of someone’s face, an inebriated face, and it throws me. It causes me to lose focus for the entire night.
It’s usually upsetting because I typically will know the face well, it will be my best friend, or a boyfriend. Whoever. But I don’t recognize them at all. Their voice will be up a couple octaves, their eyes will become so unforgivingly droopy.
It isn’t an emotional thing, it’s a disassociative thing. maybe these are one in the same; I thought I was over this, that this was only a problem when I was teenager, I thought I was fine from it until Dillon had mentioned it one night. I realized I had been staring at my pile of books in the corner, only that I didn’t know how long I had been looking at them.
Maybe Its fine and won’t be as bad as when I was a teenager. Maybe it won’t be a problem at all.
Keyan is slumped over my passenger seat. I’ve never seen him this drunk. He asks me if I am wearing baggy jeans, remarking that he has never seen me wearing baggy jeans. I guess they’re baggy. They’re 501s that are a two waist sizes too big. Sure. What does this matter?
“What are you guys even drinking?” I ask, throwing my purse and my overnight bag I had packed over my shoulder.
“Shitty pre-made cocktails from 7/11” He laughs, and motions his hand to ask if I need help carrying my things.
“Its okay,” I flippantly raise my hand “Jesus thats a bit dark, no?”
“Its a dark vibe.” He laughs.
We briefly catch up on the walk over to Alex’s.
When we walk in everybody in a drunken stupor greets me.
“Hi.”
“Ash, you need to catch up” Jason points to Alex’s coffee table which is littered with beer cans, and the shitty 7/11 premade cocktails.
“Im okay, Im not going to drink tonight.” I set my bag down, and laze to the fridge, grabbing a coke.
“You have to get on our level bug,” Somebody says.
I hold my coke up, refusing to restate the sentiment I aired not even 3 minutes ago.
I eye kismet asleep on the couch, nesting himself in Zoe’s cardigan. His fluffy torso rises with so much violence, reminding me that small animals have organs. This seems magnificent to me usually, a sentiment that always amazes me, but for some reason has no charm tonight.
I get up and sit next to the cat nonetheless. It calms me running my palm against his tiny back. I know that he is getting bigger, aging, because I can no longer feel his spine.
“We are drinking and listening to emotional music because everybody is going through some shit, the same shit” Zoe says holding her can up.
I know what this is alluding to. Everyone knows what this is alluding to.
Its really bizarre that just about everybody decided to break up with their boyfriend or girlfriend within a month. That not that long ago we all shared a christmas dinner, everyone holding hands under the table.
That dinner must have been fucking cursed.
I know I am addressed in this explicit assembly. It doesnt feel accurate somehow. I dont know why, its true.
“We are listening to emotional music, processinggggg, because its good for everybody. Its good for everybody to express themselves. To let it out” She says, and while she is one of my best friends, I feel as though I dont know her at all in this moment. Or at the very least, that she doesnt know me at all.
This is objectively untrue. She knows me better than my own mother.
I just cant think of something I’d rather do less than listen to radiohead, and talk about the saddest shit ever. To be fair, I have a couple weeks on everyone. Almost a month. Im doing a lot better than I thought. And generally, I am doing a lot better than I have in the past 6 months.
I dont know. I dont have anything to say. At least not about my “situation” which feels less and less like a “situation” every day.
I would talk to my friends who can suddenly relate, but they dont seem like they want to talk about their “situations” either. This makes sense. Im trying to find the charm in us all being drunk, dancing to the Violent Femmes, I really am.
I am trying to tune out Gordan Gano’s high pitched voice, a voice that narrated much of my senior year of high school, a voice that solidified itself as the soundtrack of my eighteenth summer, but I cant.
I want to do this but I can’t
In every way I am fucking failing miserably. Everybody looks at me from time to time, all one by one trying to ensure visually that I am okay. I pet the cat, because I love cats and everybody knows this, I figured this would be enough to get everybody off of my back, but I was wrong. I try to talk to Jason about how his time was in New York, but he asks me something about work which I more or less shrug off. I try to drink my soda, because everybody knows i love soda. I tug at my jeans loose threads. I rub my exposed collarbone. I cross my legs. I try to act in a way that calms them, because I know I’m acting weird. I try to win the most normal woman ever challenge.
“Stop being sad” Jason says in a sweet but playful manner. I dont think Im sad. Im not happy, or okay, but I dont know whats wrong.
I just dont feel good. Occasionally, one of the cocktail cans will send a bokeh to my eye, clouding my view. It doesn’t bother me because I dont feel as though im missing much, if anything.
“Im just tired” This seems like something someone would say that people would believe.
“Okay.” He smiles as if to acknowledge that he knows I want to be left alone on the matter.
Alex sits next to me briefly, and tells me a funny story about Keyan, which I genuinely laugh at. But that relief disapiates quickly.
I’m leaving
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I remember my palm stayed open for a while.
I have never really enjoyed any holiday.
01/22 i finished my Sontag book earlier this morning, cradling myself in between my sheets.
To ensure I will be somewhat normal and not incredibly jaded, I am now reading a short novel about a woman who lost her cat. Which is both somber, yet enjoyable as I love cats. It’s fun to read about them when they are written with such care.
Mary is probably wondering where I am. However moody, and disturbed she appears to be I know deep down she likes me. She likes the treats I give to her. Usually an hour into the visit, she also decides that she likes when I scratch right under her ear. I have an appointment to volunteer on Sunday afternoon, but I’d be lying if I didn’t express my disappointment with not seeing her sooner. And Milly. Milly’s real name, given to her by the shelter, is Alani.
This name does not fit her at all so I have taken to renaming her. Which is pompous of me. But, Milly has the saddest eyes I have ever seen in my life. They are perpetually downturned, starkly large. She is more trusting than Mary; often planting herself and her sad eyes at my ankles. Begging for treats, but also for me to talk to her.
She likes when I talk to her.
She sits and listens intently. I couldn’t tell you, from memory, what I say to her. It’s like talking to a baby, it’s not real English.
My voice goes up about 5 octaves when talking to the cats, the cats with cancer, my new friends.
I am gentle around them.
Milly is a much better name for her. She is named after my dead aunt, who was the saddest person I had ever seen, and I hope will be the saddest person I ever have to see.
I remember being a child, put off by her. There was this weight, not on her literally, part of the reason she was so sad is that she was a terminal anorexic, but the weight was around her, suffocating her slowly and mercilessly.
She point-blank asked me, when nobody was around, “When is it my turn to die?” After her father had passed.
It was one of my first memories of life; such a volatile one.
I was mad at her, I remember. I did not want her to die. I thought she was saying this to be mean. I told my mother, as if to get her in trouble. my mother just sighed, defeated. On one hand she was angry Milly said this to a child, a toddler. On the other she knew Milly was next.
There was no funeral.
—-
Sufficiently anxious now. This is all feels dramatic, and unwarranted. I had hoped Alex’s voice would bring me some comfort. It can to a certain extent; this situation is just a bit ridiculous.
Context is important.
—-
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██ █████ ███████ ██ ████ as if to help me, because I am performing so terribly. ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ███ ████ ██ ██ ███ ███
“████ ██████ ████ ██ ████ ███ ███ ███ ████████████ ███ ███ █ █████.”
“I know.” ██ █████ ███████ ████ █ ████████ ███ ██████ ███ ██ ██████ ████ █ ███ ██████ ██ ███ ███ ██████ ██ ████ ███ ███ ██ █ ███ ███████ ███████ ████ █████████ ██████████████ ███ ████ ███
This is hardly revelatory.
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I don’t want to write about this. ███ ███ ████████████ ██ █████ ███████ ███████ ███████ ██ █████████
I’m not going to attempt to.
01/21 Still no period. Starting to become annoyed.
even anxious.
Probably the worst time ever for this to happen. But then again when is there really a good time for anything bad to happen? Wars havent been waged because the weather was good. That doesnt really make sense.
Its 4:07 in the morning. I woke up maybe an hour ago, now I am unable to fall back asleep. Just spent the last hour thinking of everything I dont have anymore.
Mainly my period. Part of me thought I’d be happy if I ever lost my period. When I was really sick, however many years ago, it was a sign you were doing everything right. My body offered me a lot of reassurance back then, now I find that it cant even service me in the basic sense.
How does my period just … go away? Where did it go.
I am eating. I am finally eating. Maybe even too much. It feels like some sick joke that my period is hypothetically gone now. After everything I have put my body through, it was two weeks of lackluster starvation that resulted in this? Really?
Whatever. I give up on trying to understand myself in any anatomical sense. It has only destroyed me trying to better understand my tangibility, anyway.
Im heating a pot of water, heating a pot of water to pour into a mug. A mug full of water to drink; yes!
I want to sleep and menstruate. I’d give anything to menstruate.
—-
Laya and I hardly work during the last hours of our shift. So much so that I planted my ass on the counter with my back facing the wall. She assured me she would let me know if any customers came in; sure.
We talked about many things. War. Makeup. Boyfriends who make music. Ex boyfriends who make music. My high school ex boyfriend who wrote a very hateful song about me. Her high school ex boyfriend who wrote a song about her. The fires from last year. Which concealer i should get. How many pages I have left in my book. Our relationships with our parents. Her family tree (which is infinitely interesting.)
Still no period.
I have kind of come to accept that every time I go pee, I won’t be met with it. It won’t resemble a photograph of a solider in the snow. There will be no stark contrast between the 80% cotton white Victoria secret underwear , met with blood therefore; proving my tangibility.
Maybe this is a latent consequence from last years, my enduring and strategic efforts I took to trying to make myself not real.
—-
Alex texts me something, I reread it to ensure I understood. I without thinking called her.
I wasnt sure if she would answer, if she’d be in the mood to talk. I didn’t know if she was in the mood to be real.
She answers on the second ring.
01/20 still no period.
listening to Bruce Springsteen and reading my Susan Sontag book at some table. It’s quite warm out today, uncomfortably so.
Skin feels sticky, it’s January.
–
I had the right amount of coffee today. Its slow enough, reading in between customers, but on a PDF on the computer as the big manager is here today. He abruptly asked me what my favorite color was
“Um, black.”
“Really? I would not have guess that.” He pondered about me, in front of me.
“Really? I kind of only really wear black.” and I guess sometimes white.
“I would have guessed pink.”
“Why?”
“I dont know.”
I cant think of why this would be. Why it would matter.
He is sweet, always sending me vegetarian restaurants to try. I will probably never try them, but its a sweet thought.
I am basically done with the sontag book. Its only like 100 pages. because of this I have been texting Lizzie all afternoon trying to gather her thoughts on war photography , its contemporary implications; its an interesting thing.
I keep cracking my knuckles between scrolling through the pages of the PDF; this makes me slightly sad for whatever reason.
For literally no reason at all.
——-
Dillon jumps when I reach for the handle of his door “thanks for picking me up” I smile, he seems put off by how cheery I am.
“Yeah, no worries.” He tries to collect himself after being noticeably startled.
Still no period. I really hope it comes tomorrow.
01/19 Its funny how my laziness works. If I dont want to clean; I will write. If I dont want to write; I will clean. If I dont want to edit the weeks interview; I will write here. If I dont want to run; I will read. This eventually results in the completion of every task. In a round about way.
I have my french press just loafing near my bed, and a henry miller book on my lap. And now I am writing here. I wish I had adderall.
Everyone is home from Miami, I think.
—-
I finished almost everything. But have done nothing. Confusing, really weird day.
I switched my Henry Miller book to my Susan Sontag essay on war photography. I texted Lizzie to talk about it. I worked vaguely on the interview with Victoria, by this I mean I did a really shitty write up. I think I have the right idea, but inability to execute it right now. It will come in the following days.
I noticed a million typos on here. I kept waiting all day anxiously for something to happen; to no avail. I tried to nap, instead steamed broccoli. I wasn’t even hungry.
The only thing that felt right today was showering. Bought some Dr Bronners soap at Whole Foods yesterday, forgot that you have to dilute it. My hand skips over my thigh because my skin is so devoid of moisture now.
I washed my hair diligently, scrubbing for what felt like 10 minutes. Shaved my legs. I texted Zoë that I’m worried about my period. She says I’m fine.
My period is four days late. I thought I had started it a couple of days ago, but in hindsight I was just spotting, or something, which is abnormal for me. There’s kind of no way I can be pregnant, so all in all I am not sick with worry, it’s more so a basal worry. I understand why it’s happening; I have not really had a normal diet since probably the last week of December.
It’s not fun to eat with a fractured rib, anxiety, so on. It’s not fun to eat when you’re happy. It’s really just all around, usually not fun to eat.
It’s become such a thing; and that phrase “a thing” is never used in a positive connotation. Your friend fought with her boyfriend drunk outside of a bar, that was “a thing”, your boss got mad at you for the KPIs being too low, “a thing ”. Your oil change appointment got moved around and fucked up your day, it was a “whole thing”
You forgot to eat for almost a month, resulting in your body being under so much stress that you potentially might’ve lost your period, that’s a thing.
This wasn’t intentional. But then again it kind of never is. But I’ll notice things in the mirror, like today, coming out of the shower, I stared at my body and its new yet familiar contours. It makes everything seem so subtle yet glaringly obvious.
I hadn’t realized how bad, I guess, this was. I have mainly had soup and olives for weeks. It’s what I had, so I just ate it. It wasn’t “a thing”, it was easy, and quick.
My health, in this stark realization, is starting to feel like anything but.
I wrote somewhere on here that my New Years Resolution was to not scare or worry anybody, mainly myself. I hope that I just end up getting my period within the next couple of days so I can make good on that promise.
—-
Nothing has happened, it’s 4pm and nothing has happened.
I call Jason; nothing.
I called Alex, she had to go; nothing
Zoë texted me before my nap, I might’ve scared her with my vague texts about my health; nothing
I don’t know where Dillon is; nothing
—-
Houellebecq had a good couple of lines about boredom in Whatever, I’ll insert them here: (editing; too lazy to find)
My main issue with my boredom is how self involved it seems. I don’t want to write for my blog, I don’t want to do my write up for this weeks interview, I don’t want to email my questions to the following subject, I don’t want to scroll on my tumblr. I don’t want to look at clothing websites to see what clothes I might eventually buy (it was a button down Marc Jacobs slip dress)
The only time I do not feel completely nauseated by myself is when im reading, I’m out, or seeing Mary and all of her friends (the cats with cancer). This makes sense.
Volunteering, objectively, is seen as a very selfless act. But it as just as rewarding for me to play with the cats. To feed the cats. To hold them like they are small human babies and imagine them in bjorns which are color matched aptly to their personalities.
In many ways they probably don’t even care that I am there. (This isn’t true. Mary would be upset if I didn’t show up. Stripes, who is an all black cat with very sad eyes but a perky personality, would probably be sad as well)
I don’t think it’s that I can’t be alone; I think it’s something else. If anything I require several hours alone a day to be happy. I have been marked at work for “not being a team player” at nearly every job I’ve had. This trait, I’ve always felt, has been talismanic to never having played sports as a child.
I think I just feel this deep worry that nothing will ever happen again.
Like ever.
Babies won’t laugh after a match of peek-a-boo, cars won’t turn on their blinkers, crosswalks won’t repudiate pedestrians, my friends and I won’t all be sat around chess table at some random bar on any given Friday or Saturday; the faucet with freeze.
My malaligned sense of urgency, I think is this issue.
I am fine if I have something to look forward to. But when I have nothing on my calendar I start to spazz. There needs to be an appointment, a meeting, maybe even an appointment to schedule a meeting. And vice versa.
—-
Sean sits on my couch. He has kind of become the third roommate; the way I was kind of the 20th roommate at his old Victorian mansion he stayed at for his undergraduate program at USC.
I knew where the cups were, the forks. I knew how long it took to walk to the corner store nearby.
Dillon is home now too. He tells me about the wedding, and what he ate. He tells me a long story. Which requires context, and self- abdication
01/18 Disoriented. Thought it was Monday.
I throw my coat on over my pajamas, a pair of small black shorts, and a severely faded Smashing Pumpkins shirt. Dillon and I used to fight over this shirt. I don't know why.
I walk to andante, my coat grazing my bare thigh, my sunglasses are making this agitating sound as they clash against my headphones. Im not even hungover, I didnt drink at all (What happened to my supposed debaucherous night?) Im just in a horrible mood from lack of sleep.
When I reach to grab my wallet at Andante my finger accidentally abrades the spine of the houellebecq novel. Great. I forgot I finished it last night.
Something about finishing a book is positively relieving, but then you just have to pick a new book. I have undoubtedly given more thought to what book I will read next than to some of my bigger life decisions. I remember signing the lease to my first apartment, the way the ink smelt reminded me vaguely of the sour smell of menudo soup, and I decided then that it was imperative that I get soup the second I left the leasing office.
The approval to the apartment was less than crucial, the soup, however, it was vital to me that I obtained some sort of vegetarian soup closest to menudo the second I hit the pavement. (This was difficult, menduo is made of cow intestine, I only have one real memory of eating it, at Hailey’s christmas party, her family was kind enough to gift me a juicy couture shirt. It looked like something Hailey would have worn I said ‘thanks’ . I was twelve. I wore the shirt once or twice.)
I got approved for the apartment despite no real credit history, or really anything to show for my name.
—-
I’ll laze on over to des pair later today. Grab a book. Maybe visit friend at work.
Im sick with nostalgia thinking of being on that street last. Being sat at a bus stop with Tom. With no real intention of taking the bus.
A girl from his undergrad program invited us to a party, I think, and he tried to introduce me but he didnt know how to. I guess we arrive at the same problem now.
Or really its all rather simple; Im his ex girlfriend. Its that simple.
It feels quite stupid to be sad over a decision I chose to make. This is my second least favorite emotion to feel, agonizing over something thats my doing. Second only to not getting what I want. How spoiled am I that I get to experience both at the same time?
It sounds so selfish, it kind of is. I want him. I have never not wanted him, since the day I met him. I could nauseate myself with the sweet memories. I could tell you what we talked about at that table, and then the other one. I could tell you how he smells. The way he held his fork. The way the chlorine in the nearby pool smelled as I read a magazine on the chaise lounge chair in his parents' backyard. Or how it felt to wake up next to him and the agony I felt waiting until he finally wake up (which was usually around an hour after I had) I wont. Its terrible to think that these things are all now sealed away in an intangible folder.. That no part of this equation could move, talk, breathe, fuck. This ‘thing’ has no fingernails, no loose sweater threads to tug at when you’re nervous, no earwax, nothing to slip your fingers in, no knuckles to crack. You could look at it under a microscope; you wouldn't find anything. Nothing swims with or against each other. Nothing inhales, nothing oxidizes.
I'm both incredibly happy and irrevocably sad. It has really surprised me that these two moods can co-exist in perfect harmony.
Its terrible to feel like you’re not capable at something. To admit that something is too hard to do. It feels shitty to not get what you want, it's really that simple.
its scary to be honest just for the sake of it.
—
I was trying purchase my vegetables at Whole Foods today and my linen dress kept flying up, revealing my lissome body to everybody in the ever-growing line behind me, as if I were some sort of lackluster, an all around worse for wear Marilyn. I worked up a sweat due to anxiety, I felt like a certified loser.
Now, everybody knows I have a birthmark shaped like California on my butt.
01/17 this morning is slow, but not in an aggravating way. I flip through my Houellebecq book, bent over, hiding my face behind the computer cash register. I can’t believe I have only one week left of working here.
It’s odd, I have only worked here for one month. It’s been enjoyable, I can’t think of any other time I will be paid to read cynical, disillusioned French authors so I'm trying to savor it. They also have an espresso machine, which has been great. I find myself annoyed when I’m not working if anything, because I can’t make my typical americano.
I’ve also befriended all of the girls that work here. It’s a really nice sort of camaraderie, one I haven’t known in a while. We talk about makeup, shoes, clothes. All of the things. It’s really quite nice.
I feel completely unimportant. in a satisfying way.
Maggie doesn’t mind that I read, I don’t mind that she watches TikTok’s. It all moves in this synchronicity that is almost preordained:
I walk over from the apartment
I smoke one cigarette
I arrive 20 minutes early, I sit at a nearby table and read whatever book
I clock in, someone says they like my outfit, I say I like their outfit
We talk about a video someone saw on their phone.
We debate whatever video and add anecdotal comments
We wonder what we should get for lunch
We get lunch
We get soup usually, sometimes Ella will get a salad
We complain about how much time we have left
We clock out
I smoke one cigarette and walk home
I leave every night content with how little I matter. I could die tomorrow, and it probably would only result in a slight disorder in the typical milieu of the next day.
It’s perfect.
Both things are true: I am utterly pleased with how little I matter at this part-time job in which I have one week left of actual employment at, but I simultaneously am eager to go back to the old office and demand more of myself creatively. Everything feels easy, nothing feels hard.
I’m sure some of this has to do also with a complete abolition of ego. I’m not afraid to admit when I fuck up, I never really have been. I operate most of the time, if anything, as if I already have. I am always one sentence away from an apology.
I fucked up in November, I fucked up in October, I fucked up in September, so on. I don’t know, I haven’t figured all of it out yet; but I know this to be true.
█ ███ █████████ ████ ██ ███████ ██ ██ ███ ████ ███ ████████ ██ ████ █ ████████ ████ ██ ████ █████████████ █████ █ ████ ██ ██ ████ █████████ ████ ███ █████████ ███ █████ ███ ███ █████ ███ █ ███ ███████ I don’t know why I thought myself to be so slick that I could hide it.
I was not sleeping, not eating, I was taking a pill to stay up, and some sort of liquid that helped me sleep. I started to ████ ██ █████ █ ███████ ██ █████ ███ ██████ ██ █████ █████ I looked horrible. I don’t believe in fate or that things happen for some special reason, but maybe it had to happen this way. I don’t know, maybe they didn’t.
—-
“Je parle français ?” A woman asks, instinctively, I whip my head up, pulling it away from the novel.
“No.”
“No?” She asks in a French accent. Clearly, I understood her enough to respond to her question.
I am racking my brain trying to figure out how to respond. I know I know how to, but it would take me forever to actually respond with such a simple sentence; I only know a bit of French. (Editing: Je parle petit un francais? That can't be right.) I know probably kindergarten- level french.
She keeps speaking to me in french which starts to agitate me, only slightly.
She believes its a fun game, only I feel retarded today. I don't know why this is. I slept well, am not hungover, etc. It might be from reading Houellebecq that I'm slightly jaded and not interested in playing..
After all, I am supposed to think less this year. Things are supposed to be simple; easy.
She speaks slow enough that I can make out what shes trying to say. Shes asking me if I speak any French, at all, she asks if I have been to France. She says in a sentence that I look French, “petite femme aux cheveux noirs” but she says half of this in French, half in English.
I shrug. “ Je ne parles no pas francias”
She eventually tires herself out. Thank God.
I wonder if I will go to La Poubelle tonight. Tonight could be the night; I don't have work tomorrow. I should probably partake in debauchery before re-entering corporate America.
Je ne devrais pas?
It is kind of tempting to work on my French, to better myself until legibility, and then perhaps write on here solely in French. No one would really understand, maybe like 2.5% of whoever reads this. Then I could speak as freely as I wish. There'd be little to no ramifications, not socially. Nobody here, in New York, really any of these places I turn up, hardly anybody speaks French. It’d be complete bliss. I could call ██████ a bitch freely, I could be honest about the true circumstances of the last 8 months. I could hypothetically violate NDAs. I doubt anyone would care enough to translate.
It seems so nice to never have to answer for yourself; perhaps bettering my French is the answer.
—-
Upon arriving home, I realize that my nose is bleeding.
“Ah” I take off my coat and set my purse down. I haven’t had a nosebleed since childhood. Well, no, I got one last night.
I can’t figure out why this is happening. It’s annoying.
I tilt my head back, which is something I read one should do when their nose is bleeding. I feel odd. My vision feels like it’s narrowing, and everything in my peripheral is becoming dark.
If I faint right now I’m going to be so pissed off. I’m supposed to have a debaucherous night. Well as debaucherous as my tepid personality will allot for.
The pantry door hits its opposing wall, I violently pull a piece of bread out, taking a large bite before placing it on the open flame of the stove. I’m not fainting, that’s stupid.
-----
After calming myself down, I feel kind of odd still. Can’t figure out why.
I think it has to do with the Hiuellebexq book. Which I have 6 pages left of.
He’s just the worst.
I thoroughly enjoy his writing. I much enjoyed Platform, which I read in the fall. He’s kind of a one-trick pony, it seems. Sex, sex tourism, lack of sex, nihilism, hope, only to be met with the prior (and correct) sense of disillusionment.
from online accounts, it seems his other books are mainly about these themes as well. It’s all boring after a certain point. Sometimes you just wonder why he hasn’t killed himself yet, if this is truly how he feels about the world. I’m sure he asks himself this question every day.
His Wikipedia states that he has a Chinese wife who is several years his junior. Maybe she keeps him happy. Everybody has a Chinese wife who is several years their junior. They must be awesome if everybody is getting one.
I don’t even want to finish the last six pages. It’s all just so grim. Which coming from me says a lot.
But I seem happier lately. This is probably due to thinking less.
----
“Ugh can’t we like go to the Chanel beads show and then go to the MGMT dj set after?” I whine to Sean. “I sound like an asshole”
“I’ve never listened to Chanel beads before” Sean says, I can hear him drying his hair off with a towel.
“Pleaseeeee. They’re great. Please please please.” I beg unapologetically. “We can go to the Andrew thing later. It’ll be great.”
He says he will talk to Emma.
—-
In the uber I finish Whatever by Houellebecq. It was fine enough. I feel sick despite this. I read the last few pages with my phone flashlight.
Blue and white mosaics cloud my eyes; I put the pieces together rather fast.
A motorcyclist is on the ground. But he seemingly can’t get up. A cop is kneeling next to him, and a fellow cyclist. The man is on his side. I look for chest movement, I think he’s alive. I don’t think whatever happened is good.
I start to wonder if he’s dead. Or dying. As the uber is stopped at the red light, i instinctively start to suck on my thumb out of nervousness. This was never a habit of mine, not even as child. I don’t know what else to do with my hands. I don’t know whether that man is dead.
—
“Do you ever get afraid?” Joseph, a new friend asks me over the DJ set that’s transpiring in a woodland esque highland park backyard.
“Sometimes. Yes, lately. I was very afraid when I was younger, but it went away. Now it’s back.” I yell. “It makes sense I guess”
Does it? I didn’t elaborate at all why it should make sense. Context doesn’t matter, it’s useless trying to scream over the crowd. I’m shoulder to shoulder between Noel, and a nice girl I met only moments ago, named Hazel.
Noel is shoulder to shoulder with my ex boyfriend. ███ ██ ██████████ ███ ██ ███ ███ █ █████ ███ ███ ████ █████ ████ ██ ██ ███ █ ██████ ████ ████ ████ █ █████ ████ █████ ██████ ██ ███
███ ████ ████ ██ ██████ ██████ █ █████ █ ███ █████████ ██ ████ ███████████ ██ ███ █ ███████████ █████ ███████ ████ ██ █████ ████████ ██ █████ █████ █████ ██ █████ ████ ██ ███ ██ ███████ ██ ████ ██ ███
█ ████ ██ ███ ███ ██████████ ███ ██████ ██ ██ ████ ████ ████ ███ █ █████ ███ ████ ███████ ██████ ███████ █████ ███████ ████ █████████ ██████ ████
Writing this, it feels like I need to excuse a lot of this. Or make it seem less dramatic. Make it seem like it was normal because I was 21 or however old.
I don’t think a single thing about that situation was normal.
“Yeah. I only get scared sometimes.” I say to Joseph, again, only louder. I was scared 20 minutes ago when I didn’t know if that man was dead or alive
—-
Noel hoists me up on his shoulders so I can see the band. I feel as though I will remember this forever. Everyone is singing and actually dancing, a rarity for any Los Angeles gathering. I smile dubiously, sometimes singing the wrong lyrics.
There is a lining of trees on the perimeter of the backyard, all dead. A few sparse patterns of leaves. They occasionally become illuminated by a camera flash. It looks navy blue, it all looks dark.
I wave to Maria who is sat in a tree, it’s really all so picturesque.
Noel keeps me on his shoulders for the whole song, and I tap him to let me down, worried that I’m too heavy. He insists that I see. He’s a good friend.
He’s always trying to get me to come out, and I never do. I don’t know why. I can’t think of a single reason right now.
Everyone is smiling, shoulder to shoulder. Like small soldiers. Some are bigger, aligned neatly on the steps overlooking. Everything is easy, and nothing is hard.
—-
At some taqueria in Highland Park, sat outside with Noel and his friends. They are nice and we get along well enough so maybe they will be my loose friends one day.
The fluorescent lighting reminds me of the cop earlier, his flash light beaming into the cyclist face. How the cyclist was on his left side, which is good for digestion. I wonder whast the most dignified position to die in. Maybe your back againt the gravel. Surely, gravel would still freckle itself into your back, but this must be somewhat more comfortable than gravel sliding between the folds of your body, where your calf meets your knee, where your knee meets your calf.
“I dont think I want to go to Homage anymore.” Homage is some club (?) or bar in chinatown. Andrew from MGMT is djing there tonight, its where all of my friends are. Its where andrew, from MGMT (On the phone earlier Sean noted that Andrew was the ‘hot’ one from MGMT. This makes no difference to me.)Homeage is a club I dont want to go to.
“Yeah. We can just go to La Poubelle.” Noel says.
“Im down for that.” Jake slides my clear, abnormally large cup of diet coke towards him. This doesnt bother me.
Only a few minutes ago, we all noted how crispy it was, and how refreshing the radishes they gift you as a side at the taqueria are.
I guess I was right, I am going to La Poubelle.
01/16 I received a text that renders me unable to focus on the Houellebecq book. It isn’t helping that he’s using words like “telecommunication”, “globalization”, and “neural networks”. It’s all necessary to his narrative, but my God, it’s a bit clunky.
The text makes me feel as though I am in trouble. Maybe I am.
“I heard you ███ ███”
Yes, I did.
█ ███ ██ █████ ██ ████ ████████ █████ ███ ██ █ █████████ ██ ███████ ███████ ██ ███ █████ █████ ███ █ ██████████ ████ ████████ █████ ███ █ ████ ███ ███████ ███ ██████ ████ ███ ███ ████ █████ ████ ████████ ██ ████ ██████ █ ███████ ████ ████████ The night carried on in an unspectacular fashion. I called Jack on the drive home and fell asleep almost immediately.
█ ████ ████ ███████ ████ ██ ███ ███████ ██ ███████ ███ ██ █████████ ██ ███ ███ ███████ █ ████████ ███ █████ ██ ██ ███ █████ █ ███████ █ ██████ █████ ███ ██ ██ ██████ This seemed like the right thing to do, but now I am not so sure.
I feel like I am in trouble, or something. I offer what little reassurance I can. I don’t know. My reassurance doesn’t seem to mean much. I feel like people don’t often believe me, on anything.
I can grossly overstate myself, yet I always find that i have to repeat myself.
“Are you ok?” Yes, fine, if I wasn’t it’d be obvious as I’m not good at concealing anything, I’m not much of a liar either. I find that it requires effort in which I don’t have any to spare.
“Are you hungry?” No, if I was, you’d know because I would be bitching about it, and generally very unpleasant to be around
“Are you sure you want to go?” Yes, if I didn’t want to go, I wouldn’t go.
I’ve made an effort to be the most concise person I could. It doesn’t seem to translate for whatever reason.
I’m sitting at table, kind of sitting like a boy. With my crotch kind of out, but I’m wearing a long pleated skirt. So it’s at least still kind of polite.
—-
I’m sat on this patch of grass now, in the middle of a bustling outdoor shopping mall. It doesn’t matter which one. It really doesn’t.
A bride and groom are sat across from me, eating a wetzel pretzel lady and the tramp style. The groom pulls his phone out, maybe to survey whatever game is happening. I’m sure ███ would know whatever sport, whatever team was playing.
Something about seeing a groom holding an iPhone is jarring. Outside of the obvious, it’s kind of sad to go on your phone on the day of your wedding. Maybe at all. Shouldn’t everything you need be within reach? Your friends, your family? Your fiancé and subsequent wife?
I don’t understand. I also don’t think I would come to an outdoor shopping mall after being married. I don’t really know what I would do after getting married. Maybe have sex.
Maybe wake up the next day and feel like there’s nothing left to do. Aside from going on a cruise in my 50s. And taking a lot of horizontal iphone pictures on said cruise. I’d adjust my phone to have larger text. I’d eat things like oatmeal. Wear loose fitting shirts.
The sun is in my eyes, a child wears a backpack too big for her frame; which is cute. Behind her: two Chinese businessmen, in suits. They are stepping on the grass patch as if to test its durability. Which is weak. I can’t think of a single reason this would be necessary.
One is having his photograph taken now. The strokes mope in my headphones. Julian acts like a dick. He is a dick. I realize that I’m probably him in this particular context. I would be him if he cried more, which makes me more lame than I already was for identifying with the problemed- narcissstic- 20- year- old- fucker indie- rock- guy.
I don’t relate to him that much. It’s really just that one line “oh no my feelings are more important than yours”
I wonder what team is winning. I wonder if my team is winning. And by my team I mean your team.
—
My coworkers and I take turns sharing our individual Beck stories, which seemingly every girl in Los Angeles has. Mine is the most boring of the three; he just looked my body up and down in Los Feliz outside of Fred 62.
I was smoking a cigarette, waiting for Alex to finish using the restroom, and thought ‘that guy looks like Beck’ and when I swung my neck around, and realized his eyes were glued to my ass, that it was in fact him.
My one coworker says they partied at the Chateau together once, which makes me jealous because there’s nothing more interesting to me than the two nouns; Beck, and the Chateau Marmont.
My other coworker says they matched on Hinge and played board games at his expensive house. I am not that jealous of this one because I would surely throw up out of nervousness, and I don’t quite like board games.
It’s funny how everybody has a story. I remember when I first moved here, I was basically threatened with the fact that one day, I would too.
“He would love you. He likes his girls petite.” My coworker and surveys my frame. I’m petite? I guess. I don’t know, I think I’m average height.
I remember █████ talking to me about this, we were hunched over my old kitchen table, a copy of “LAST NIGHT A DJ SAVED MY LIFE” asserted itself, flaccidly. She made sure to tell me every detail, she tells me this story every time I see her.
I realistically never want to talk to him. We can keep it to the mere act of his eyes scanning my body. I don’t have anything to say to him, at least not anything that wouldn't be annoyingly flattering. I like his music too much to ever be in a refined, real room with him.
I’d like to know Beck is around, and that he might potentially love me, for my body or otherwise, but this should never come to fruition. I’d never be able to listen to Mellow Gold again.
—--
Laya and I stumbled into an Armani event. It seemed expensive, and I almost didn't believe her when she told me that they just gift you a free bottle of foundation. I wondered what the catch was.
There was no catch: I have a 40-dollar foundation in my purse now.
Initially; I didnt care much. I dont wear foundation. But it was more so the excitement of potentiallyrunning through the outdoor shopping mall with a new friend that encouraged me to go.
I find myself to be less jaded lately.
01/15 Seriously stupid of it to be January 15th. I wipe the corner of my mouth with my tucked thumb, ensuring to rid my face of any toothpaste. I just threw up and while doing so, instead of registering the pain, I only felt annoyed that it was January 15th. It feels like it should be March. Or June. I dont know, just not January 15th. I said it outloud while washing my mouth out, all muffled, “January 15th” just to see if it sounds as stupid outloud as it does in my head; it does.
—
The third street promenade is ghost town. I already knew this. Everyone knows this.
It was at one point, sprawling. It had a brandy melville, an american apparel across from that, this vague “health” cafe that wasnt quite on the water, but close enough that you could smell the salt. The promenade was once cool, but now it isnt.
I think of this as I walk aimlessly around it, sometimes bumping into tourist, physically, with my new purse. I say sorry but theyre all german and dont care.
“Hi” I say to Jason who is on my phone, through my headphones, but he is actually in Brooklyn.
We talk vaguely about my new purse, and how much I hate it. Or love it. I cant decide if I hate it or not. I cant decide if I simply dislike it because it isnt my old purse which I have some weird sort of sentimental attachment to. Its lambskin, has this cute fringe hanging off one of the flaps, and fits most things. Its been with me basically everywhere, New York, Alabama, Louisiana, Florida, Palo Alto so on. It feels weird that it isnt my bag anymore, like it is, but its falling apart. Theres flight tickets in there, tubes of lipstick Im sure I forgot about, I think I have my social security card in it. I should check on that. That seems important.
“I’ve been meaning to ask, how do you feel about ███ ███████?” Jason cuts off my whining about the purse. I stopped walking because the question threw me off
“Oh um… fine I guess.” I do feel fine, maybe just feel some sort of persistent disappointment.
“Fine?”
“Yeah. I have been reading and writing a lot, so thats always good” That isnt what he asked.
“Yay. I dont know know I just have been meaning to ask you-” He says, it doesnt sound loud wherever hes staying, it doesnt sound like New York.
“Where are you staying in New York?” I interrupt.
“Ridgewood.”
“Oh that makes sense.” It makes sense. Brooklyn always felt uncomfortably quiet to me. Dillon and I were once staying in an apartment above Nublu in Manhattan, every night was numbingly loud. I felt the floor vibrating once when I had a case of strep throat, which caused me to vomit nearly everything I ate the prior week.
“It is good you’re writing and reading,” He says.
Yeah, I guess.
—-
Aimlessly drove down PCH, which is lush right now from all the rain. Everyone online is saying it looks like Hawaii, it doesnt. Its pretty but it doesnt look like Hawaii. Because it isnt Hawaii.
Everyone also has been posting videos about this hiking trail in the Palisades that opened for the first time since the fires last year, and everyone always makes some spiritual comment on how this one specific tree remained intact. Everyone refers to this tree as their favorite tree. Not everybody can have same favorite tree.
Or maybe they can. I dont know, it doesnt really matter but it bothers me. I think maybe because it means the other trees arent ever claimed as a favorite. Its also a painfully obvious beautiful, picturesque tree. It resides on the peak of the trail, overlooking the santa monica pier, and if it isnt too overcast, Im sure if you looked north you could see Point Dume, and maybe even Catalina across the pacific. It just feels obvious.
My hand is out the window, and my sunglasses are on. I think about smoking but that feels insenstive. I mean everyone just got their favorite tree back. It’d be really horrible of me to start a fire.
The guy from the killers whines over my stereo system. My sub woofer, or whatever its called. I thought driving down here would make me happy, or at least not bored. I brought a Houellebecq book to start. I brought headphones. I feel just as aimless as I did in my bedroom. The post-rain oversaturation of the hills also is bringing on a migraine.
I am blazing through every light, wondering why everybody is driving so slow. Its PCH, you’re meant to drive fast. I am going probably 80 for no reason other than boredom. It seems like the faster I drive, like it’ll mean something's going on, or I dont know. Or that I’ll reach a part of the coast that makes sense, that it will be less understimulating. Something.
—-
My drive back into the city was by all accounts fine, despite my horrible mood, or maybe more so lack of mood. I went pee after the 2 hour long drive, and I started my period. Which accounts for the horrible/lack of mood. I smile.
Its a confirmation of many things: That I am not actually unhappy, I just was PMSing. That Im not preganant. That my bodys working.
I didnt need the confirmation that I wasnt preganant. I dont really know how I could be.
I fall asleep with my Houellebecq book planted on my chest; which by all accounts is fine so far.
My nap starts by thinking these thoughts: In a perfect world Mary and I would lay on the couch together, while I read. In a perfect world I would talk to her all of the time with a high pitched voice, and she would not have cancer. In a perfect world Mary would somehow be able to get pregnant despite being very frail and sick (from the cancer) and she would have ten million little baby Mary cats. And they would be so great. There would Mary one (her), Orson two (her first born), Mary three (her second born) and so on. I would feed her and her mineratures. Some would be black, sone would be white, some could be both. It really would all make me so happy.
-----
The nap, the shower: fine.
My Houellebecq book however is superb. Its great. I am about 20 pages in. This was intentional.
I am operating like an anorexic however, with the book that is (I am not in other sense). I am rationing it, is what Im trying to say. In a long winded way, thats what I was trying to say..
The book is only around 150 pages, by which I could realistically finish it tonight. Only I dont want to. I have taken to bringing a book to work everyday, and reading it on my breaks, and during the slow hours. There is usually only one “busy” hour anyway.
I dont know what I will do if I finish my book. Surely Ill be uneqovically bored. Which seems to be the main problem in my life right now; the boredom.
I suppose I could just reread something I already have, but I dont want to do that. I might have to.
Writing is fine, its going, but it isnt necessarily interesting to me, at least not right now. It tends to go that way, the more I read the less I write, and vice versa. I dont feel compelled to write about myself right now, which Im sure is a factor.
I feel happy. The happiest I’ve been in a while. Im just bored.
01/14 Keyan, Alex and I walk through Fairfax. They are trying to motivate me to manufacture Analog of thought into an actual book by myself, to skip a publisher entirely.
To divide analog of thought into three separate books, instead of one large book. I guess this makes sense.
I suppose this should happen, probably this year.
When we reach Andante, I start to grow tired of talking about myself. Its really my least favorite thing to talk or think about. And it sucks that I have created this blog that perhaps makes it my job to talk about it.
We then start talking about Megan Boyles book which you could buy on amazon for one hundred dollars because so few copies were made.
—--
After a late lunch I find myself unable to produce anything mildly interesting in matter of conversation. Keyan heads home, along with Alex. I fall asleep around 4pm which is jarring.
Its dark when I wake up which sucks.
01/13 It’s all fine. And the sun is out. Which is good.
This thing keeps happening to me: I keep lighting cigarettes and I forget that I am smoking, the ember dies and I have to relight the cigarette. Something about this is weird to me. I can’t figure out how I would be so distracted to the point that I forgot that I was smoking a cigarette. The actual act takes probably 4 minutes. Whatever.
I relight the cigarette, and nestle my phone between my shoulder and ear.
“I’m… happy.” I say with a smile. “Obviously I don’t mean it in… well you know. But I don’t know. I just feel happy.”
“That’s really good to hear.” He says.
I think he is happy too. I think he said something like that. He at least seems less stressed.
“It’s hard sometimes. In obvious ways.” I am sure my voice quivered as I said that. I don’t think I will cry. It’s just an astute disappointment, the kind you have to just accept. It makes you feel flaccid as a human being, realizing you have even less control in your life than the already perceived little amount every human being somewhat functions off the fantasy of. No amount of trying will matter. Sometimes things just are terribly sad.
█ █████ █ ████ ████████ ████ ████████ ██ ████████ ███ █████ ████ ███ ███ ████ ██ ██ █████ ████ ████████ ████ ███ ██ ████ ███████ ███ ███ ███ ████ ██ ██ █████ ████ ███████ ██████████ ███████ ████ ███████ ████ ██ █ █████ ██ ████ ███ █ ██████████ ██████ ██ █████ ████ ██ ███████ ████ █████████
But it’s just not the reality. At least not right now. I try not to think those 5 words.
—-
The ladies at the animal shelter are amused by my outfit: Marc Jacobs’ heels, white tights, a black tennis skirt, and a knit pullover. Maybe it’s just the heels. I don’t know.
We are all heading to Cafe Triste around 8, and I wanted to look nice. I look ok. I wanted to look nice, but I just look ok. Which I guess is better than “bad”.
Tina, the woman who runs the shelter, has me sign a waiver and date it.
“Do you know the date? Is it the thirteenth?”
“It’s the twelfth.” She says.
I had already checked my phone, it is the thirteenth. It’s awkward as I write “13” on the line, but ceases to matter.
“Right through here” she opens the door for me and extends her ankle to stop any of the cats, the cats with cancer, from running out. I hear a symphony of vague cat sounds, nails digging into scratching boards, kibble being chomped down, and an occasional hiss. She tells me there 140 cats who live here. Some have it okay, and by okay I mean that they can be blind or deaf, that is the “okay” here. Some have Down syndrome. Some have cancer.
“This is Orson, and Missy” She points to the cats in the corner who are amused by me, as I am a new character, or more so treat-giver to them.
“And try not to give them too many treats” right. They have cancer, I am going to give them whatever they want. That seems like what you should do when something has cancer.
You should take them to Disneyland, or let them meet their favorite NBA star who is much larger than them. You should let them go on a singing TV show and give them 10-15 minutes of airtime and a golden buzzer.
.
“That is Mary. She’s kind of shy.” Tina points to a small bulbous black ball in the corner. She, Mary, is facing the wall. She is missing half of her tail, which I think to myself ‘must’ve been from the cancer’ but I don’t really think that’s how it works.
—-
Mary is not friendly. She’s actually very mean and disturbed. I played with some of the other cats, Orson, Missy, this other one I never got the name of, but I kept ending up with Mary.
In her designated corner, she has a pink blanke,t which I’m sure agitates her beyond belief. It does not match her sordid personality or circumstance at all. She sits with herself neatly wrapped up, her tail guarding her torso. Around 20 minutes ago, I gave her some treats. She licked the dusty residue
off my finger, for scraps, and then proceeded to bite me. She is very difficult, and as I mentioned, seriously disturbed.
We played a game, where I gave her a treat, she ate it, and got inch by inch closer to me.
—
I am needlessly bored at Cafe Triste. I paw at some chips, and occasionally perk up when someone says something interesting, but this is few and far between, as the boys are talking about guitar stuff again.
Occasionally, Alex will look over and ask me something, and I’ll shrug.
I don't perk up until we all start talking about a hypothetical trip to Vegas, which we all know we will never go on, but talk about anyway.
—
Im not sure why, but my rib always hurts worse at Keyan's apartment. We sit on the floor around his coffee table, the boys are drinking beer, and now the girls are talking about going to New York.
“Alex has never been outside of the context of work” I say.
“Yeah.” She seconds.
“I want to go see Jack.” I add, which I dont think anybody cares about.
—--
A man had cornered Alex and I her small car, he’s jacking off, but all the while not really meeting our eyes. We aren't paying much mind to him, which might be concerning. But we genuinely just do not care. We talk about a lot of things. Things that are infinitely more interesting than the homeless man with his dick in his hands.
I wonder how it feels to try to scare somebody only for them to not care. Probably demoralizing. A complete lack of motivation I imagine, would have eventually been met, but he just stays.
“I would bring you on tour again” Alex says. Which is nice.
I cant even imagine. It would be fun, but theres a part of me that is exhausted from the past 6-8 months. I think I can manage to go to New York for maybe a week or two , I could tend to fake las vegas plans, but I should probably stay in Los Angeles. At least for a little while.
Things just started to get good again, or at least not bad.
01/12 got a hojicha from andante today instead of a coffee. Had this morning and tried to write, to no avail.
I don’t know why.
I wondered if it was because I have been happy, in some sense of the word, the past couple of days. I disregarded that thought, I feel as though statistically I have proven to write more when happy. Just maybe don’t have anything to say
I still haven’t submitted to that magazine, and though they like me and have extended the deadline I’m sure I’m well over at this point. Maybe I’ll try on some of my off days.
Keyan has texted about going to Triste on Friday, but everyone essentially told him we have to go tomorrow. Which is fine. I don’t really want to go to Triste on a Friday.
I suppose it doesn’t really matter what I want because it’s not my birthday tomorrow, it’s Keyan’s. I was supposed to make him brownies, but the gas is still off.
We cannot go to Triste on Friday because everybody will be in Miami this weekend, he just forgot. I will not be in Miami because I don’t know the people getting married well, or at all really, also because Miami is nearly my least favorite place on earth.
Sometimes I feel like everyone is looking at me, I can’t figure out why.
—-
My book is dragging on horribly. There’s less than a hundred pages left but my fucking god it feels like there’s 500 pages or something.
I haven’t taken to reading it on my breaks, which I would usually do. Instead █ ██ ████ █████████ ██ ████ ███ ████ ███ ███ ██████████ █████ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██████████
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I need to turn off the song. It’s weirdly apt. I don’t like thinking of all of this, there’s really not much to think about. At a certain point it just becomes sulking.
I’m going to text Noel about coffee tomorrow.
—-
Noel texts “yes, ma”
I finish the last 60 pages my book bent over the counter at the store, I only have two more weeks to do this.
My manager left, however long ago, my assistant manager doesn’t mind if I read, so long as nobody is in the store. I’m lucky in that way.
When I gave my boss my two weeks notice yesterday he responded with ease. Which made me in turn respond with ease. I didn’t know what would happen, you always hear of someone trying to quit and them in turn getting fired or “terminated” (how is terminated so much more severe of a word. It offers a death that the word fired does not carry)
I have never given a two weeks notice in person, but I was trying to do the right thing. I think I did the right thing. ███████ █ ████████ ████ ████ ███ █ █████ █████ ████████ ███ █████ ████ ██ █████ █████
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This is nice though too. Reading my book at the counter. Thinking of which soup to get from Whole Foods after I am off. I don’t feel important which makes me feel at ease.
I hope I can handle my supposed importance in life. Inevitably.
01/12 Should Jack actually come to Los Angeles I would be the happiest person. I got the call last night, I shuffled my belongings around and put my headphones in, passing kiosk after kiosk in Nordstrom. Chanel, one ring, Mac, another, by the time I had passed the loubition heels jack had answered.
“So I might be flying to Los Angeles tomorrow.” I stopped near the red bottomed heels.
“Shut the fuck up”
“Yeah.” He said.
I practically started jumping up and down. I squealed, even.
“Are you fucking serious?” I gleemed recieving looks from the older armenian women across the expanse, rolling smudges of perfume on their wrists.
I cant help it, I am so thrilled.
I spend the next hour on the phone with him, completely amused by our hypothetical plans. We say we will obviously go to malibu despite the fact that we are in the dead of winter, we will shop on melrose, split a sundae at fluffys, and so on. We are completely engrossed by the time I had walked back to apartment. I set my things down while Jack tumbled on about the hipster aesthetic, its formation, legacy, etc.
01/11 I wake up curled on Alex’s couch, wrapped neatly in two blankets. She doesnt have any curtains, which I have always appreciated. I must have been cold because my knees are practically up to my chin, fetal-style.
I gather my things, and slip out locking the door behind me.
Something happened last night: Every single person remembered that I existed.
I was bombarded with texts, texts to come out, texts asking to call me (which I am sure if I answered wouldve just resulted in a call to come out)
Something about this felt succinctly lackluster. Like there would be hardly anything worthwhile if I did put on my coat and go out to wherever. Probably La Poubelle. Everyone seems to care about La Poubelle lately. It felt lackluster in the sense that I was yet again afforded something I perceptively wanted that only left me feeling vacant. Disinterested. Maybe even overwhelmed.
Two days ago I could have argued that this was exactly what I wanted. I figured the world should have known by now that I am somewhat happy, and somewhat interested in participating in it again. (I have done nothing though realistically, to give anybody this impression).
Instead I found myself not drinking a vodka soda at La Poubelle (does La Poubelle have liquor, or only wine?)
01/9 ██████ texted me. Weird.
I dont think I will respond. I dont necessarily care.
But I am curious as to why. I suppose it doesnt really matter.
I wish he would ignore me, not that I even said anything to begin with, but just more so my presence generally. It usually causes just a headache. Sometimes it really feels like a curse to be remembered. But then again its a curse to not. I just dont know if I will ever be pleased in any sense of the word.
A melodramatic calamity: I believe the world has forgotten I exist. Which is fine. This kind of thing tends to happen to me every couple of months or so. It feels like I couldnt pay somebody to care about my life. Half of the time I dont really care about my life, last year being a prime example of this, so really I cant fault anyone.
I am admittedly mum lately. I had nothing to say in december. I do now. I have a plethora of things to say, if somebody would so listen.
These things arent new, or even necessarily interesting. maybe I will find a clever, bespoken way to say them, in some weeks or months. I dont have it in me to try to convince people to care about my life though. I havent really ever been good at this, in anyway, when I am given the attention (the attention i am clearly vying for now) I freeze up, and defer, when its withheld from me I dont do anything to regain it, I just wonder why these things work the way they do.
It has done me no service to try to figure it out, I stopped trying a while ago. I thought it had to do with the way I look, or what I had to say. These things, I am realizing, dont play much of a part in it. Its beyond me.
So I wont figure it out. I have also proven myself to speak, even if nobody is listening.
I am just going to go to bed. Which feels like something that should happen.
(EDIT: I have signed up to volunteer with cats who have Feline Leukemia on tuesday afternoon. This seemed better than sleeping. That much is to be determined. I am worried they will pay me no mind also. If they do this I will simply lose my mind. I am not sure this is good because I will surely want to take them home, especially because they have feline leukemia. Dillon would never let me get a cat, much less one who has cat cancer. I might just be signing myself up to be sad. But there are worse things, I guess. Like being a cat who has cancer. )
01/8 I feel kind of fine. Like I was being dramatic yesterday, and besides I think I have figured out why I felt so terrible: I really need to wash my hair.
Bad.
Its quite greasy, unkept. I have too much hair at this point. I realize I need to text my hairdresser.
Above all else I need to wash my hair. And get a coffee. But I should wash my hair first.
My grandma was always weird about that kind of thing, going in public with wet hair. I never really understood this. She is kind of dead so I cant really ask her why this was so important to her. It obviously has something to do with manners
—
I am frozen in place, yet again. I think I am looking at the hills but that much isnt clear to me. I dont feel like I am here, I know that I dont want to be.
He is raising his voice, steadily. Gripping the steering wheel, really pulling out all the stops. I wont look at him, mainly because I am crying. I am not even sure why, it happened very quickly. Maybe because he is yelling and cursing at me. I thought we could get a coffee, how stupid of me. It was always going to end like this.
“Can you just please be nice to me, I am having a very hard t-” I start
“You’re always having a hard time.” Ouch.
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I start to get nauseous, and the hills in my eye sight thin out, becoming two dimensional, flat. The air gets warm, and viscous. I need to fucking get out of this car.
“Let me out.”
“At least let me drop you off”
“No, I said let me out” I get out of the car, and stifle my cries until I unlock the apartment, and collapse on my bed.
He has followed me in, and tells me to get some rest. I say something like “yeah”, or “sure” My face is in the pillow the way a childs is when they are having a tantrum, or when youre having great sex. I guess I would be the child having a tantrum.
He left at some point, and told me again, to rest. I dont know how I can.
----
Instead of resting I walked 3 miles to a whole foods. Why is it eight dollars for a loaf of bread?
I think of just shoving it in my bag really quick, but its a loaf of bread. Its quite large. Also something about this makes me feel like a peasant. Like comically so. The age old debate of would you steal bread for your starving family, except its just me. Maybe Dillon. But I assume Dillon wont want any of my multigrain bread.
I grab a thing of coffee, and really feel like a peasant. Coffee and bread. Hold on.
Out of the corner of my eye I see a girl who really looks like
██████ ███████, when I see the balenciaga city bag crutched on her elbow, I realize it is her. I have never seen her in the daytime. I wonder if she lives nearby. I live kind of near here, well more so three miles away.
She always wears sunglasses at nightime, which I cant even fault her for because I have done the same. I do find it ironic that she isnt wearing them now, on santa monica boulevard in the wake of the sun after a dreary rain-y week. She is draped in some bright pink shirt, and then maybe some rick owens pants, paired with some avant shoes I dont understand, and i dont feel necessarily inclined to try to understand.
She gets a phone call and answers it with “Yo” and upon eavesdropping, I realize for the first time ever that I have never heard her speak an actual word. She has a total valley girl accent.
How funny, I was just thinking of Victoria. I should text her.
01/7 Had horrible dreams all night. I dont even really remember what happened, or what upset me. In my half lucid state I figured turning over would help. And then to the right.
I think █████ weirdly, was in my dream. It was supposed to be this ceremonious, homecoming or something. He came to rescue and save me from some sort of fair that was taking place near my childhood home. I remember not saying much of anything, I remember he was so happy to see me. He looked the exact same. But smiled more than usual. I remember in the dream, thinking I should have been happier, how significant it all was. I still do think it is a bit weird I havent seen him in almost a year, or that I havent at least bumped into him.
He drove me in my own car. I did not have a phone, or a book, so I just looked out the window I think. He started to really annoy me because he wouldnt stop talking. He thought ██ █████ ███ ████ █████████ which I thought was utterly retarded, but for some reason I was completely drained of energy so I could only manage to shake my head no. This did not seem to phase him at all, and if anything only motivated him to bug me about it some more. How funny, a nightmare is being annoyed.
I cant figure out what about this was so scary to me. Realistically I was just mildly annoyed and found his flagrant nature to be a bit pervasive.
I had another dream I dont want to write about. That one happened on my left side, I remember turning to the right.
—--
“I like your outfit” The man behind the counter says. He watched me eye the menu for some 15 minutes. I knew I wanted the vegetarian sandwich, the only vegetarian sandwich they offered, the perplexity came from trying to decide what to get dillon. His palette is confusing.
My outfit is odd. I rolled out of bed, restless, and agitated , simply threw on random articles of clothing. I figured it matched since everything I own is black, white, or a drab shade of gray so dark it might as well be black. In hindisght, my pompous little equation for clothing did not work today. I am sporting my raincoat, a striped shirt, a silk skirt (which is so sheer you can see my teal lace underwear through, which apparently has a hole or two through the lace now, which apparently really upsets me because when I noticed I muttered some sorry-for-self phrase outloud, but slid them over my legs nonetheless), my ballet flats, and a pair of knee high socks. I guess all of my socks are dirty except for obnoxious ones.
Its really quite a bizarre outfit.
“Oh, thank you. I think I am ready now.”
He smiles too brightly.
“Great!” Jesus.
I order my food, stumbling a few times.Here is what I settled on for Dillon: a chicken caprese with no tomato, no balsamic. I basically got rid of everything that make a caprese good.
“And can I get a name for your order?”
“Ash.”
“Wow, you even have a cool name” He practically exclaims to the point that the other patrons in this small restaurant are all staring at us now. Jesus fuck.
Hes nice, hes inoffensive. I just wanted to be the observer today. I wanted to speak as little as humanly possible, I wanted to be a completely neutral person in the grand scheme of things. Move without motion, or something.
I say all of this with an acute awareness that this discredits what I wrote only like 2 or 3 days ago. I rebuked the sentiment I carried all last year: that I wanted to be an observer in my life, that the thought of being an active participant in it was merely too cumbersome.
It hasnt proven to be fruitful, or even easier really.
I still do mean this though. That I dont want to be so passive and blase about everything. I am realistic enough to acknowledge this cant be “fixed” in a mere matter of days. Maybe even weeks, or months. I kind of just have to try until I dont think of it, or something. I havent figured it out entirely. Or if I am right. Only that whatever I was doing last year, it was probably wrong. Maybe even harmful. I dont know. Maybe it wasnt. I was kind of happy for parts of it.
This is all to be determined at some point. I dont know when, but at some point.
But, today, while being earnest in my will to change, I had no true desire to do so. I felt this acute panic upon waking up, and the thought of sitting with myself made me want to shoot myself, or hang myself. Hyperbole. It just felt pretty unbearable for whatever reason. Not from a depreciation standpoint, I think from a fear standpoint. I find myself afraid majority of the time now. Which is foreign, and quite uncomfortable.
I cant cope with this, so I just start walking or running until I eventually dont feel as terrible. This has proven to work for me.
I have gotten very familiar with the geography of my new neighborhood (not really new at this point, I guess) and can direct myself virtually anywhere in the city. Or at least within 5 miles.
This is what I did today: I walked to andante, I got a coffee, I walked to the perfume store, I smelled perfumes and tried to keep my head down, I walked back to the coffee shop, I bought a water, I sat down for 2-3 minutes until I felt that sort of discomfort rise in my torso again, I exited the coffee shop, I stumbled into a store probably a mile from the coffee shop, I talked to one person, the security guard, and I said the word ‘thanks’ because he let me set my coffee down, I looked at things I did not care about like band t-shirts, vinyl records, and kitschy keychains, I walked to another store, I tried on a dress, and then another, I bought nothing, I walked to a table, I sat down, and then I felt uncomfortable again, so I left, and then I walked into this sandwich shop because I worked up an appetite after walking 5 miles for seemingly no reason other than being nervous.
Now, this man thinks im his wife or something. I dont know. Maybe he just has exceptional customer service. It does not matter to me, at all, whether he is nice to me or not, whether he truly likes my outfit, whether he can see my teal underwear through my skirt. I feel agitated and like I want to go home, but home is now about 2.5, maybe even 3 miles away at this point. But this isnt his fault, I have nobody to blame but myself.
01/06 Alex calls me to read me some headlines. One about rent in Los Angeles.
I tell her Doug LaMalfa has died. She updates me on Venezuela.
We then start talking about mini skirts. And sewing. And my stomach.
“You’re kurt,” She jokes. “Just dont kill yourself”
“I’d have to make like three really good albums to do that, which I have no desire to do” I respond flatly to her joke, I am joking as well though my tone might not read that way. I think she gets it, she knows me well enough.
Realistically all three albums arent that good. One is exceptional (In Utero, majority of the credit going to Steve Albini), One is a great pop record, Nevermind, and one is frankly forgettable, Bleach. I’d have no allegiance to that first Nirvana record if not for having listened to it repeatedly in high school. Its a run of the mill proto grunge album, real sludgy, wack production. Nothing special. But good for what it is, I guess.
Dillon and I debated purchasing a nice turntable for our living room. I thought about what albums I’d get. I can mainly only thinking of Terror Twlight by Pavement, maybe a Sun Kil Moon record. I dont know, it just seems nice to be able to listen to a record and read on the couch.
I dont think we’d really buy a turntable for some months, so I have time to think about it I guess.
Logged lots of things into my calender while Alex mused to me on the phone about her kitten. Smoked one cigarette and drank one small cup of coffee at the table outside. The sun is out. I think the rain is done, which is kind of sad. Theres nothing I could really do about it though.
As I admired the makeshift bamboo wall I thought about making an appointment with Holly. I thought only of it for a couple of seconds. I miss the sound of her voice, and wish I could call her just to call her. I dont really feel like I need to go to therapy though. Maybe like ever again. Unless someone died or something.
I dont think I see any purpose. I dont know when but apparently at some point I decided self reflection, and thinking of myself was pretty malignant in nature. It just seems useless. I feel like I understand myself entirely, maybe to a detriment, but at the same time I find myself to be utterly hypcryctical and full of anomalies. What use is there in figuring this out?
I think Im kind, earnest. Maybe a bit distrusting and cynical. But I’d argue virtually everybody feels this way about themselves.
Theres a part of me that feels like I should go. I think of how Alex layed it all out for me the other night, just how much has happened in the last 6 months. How the concrete under my thighs suddenly felt more cold, sharp underneath me. How I didnt feel like the person that all happened to. That I was some spectator in all of it.
I wish I could call Holly and just talk about smoothies. We used to do that when I was a teenager and didnt have anything to talk about, or more so anything I wanted to talk about. We’d talk about our favorite coffee shops, what vegetables are the best in the winter versus the summer, what goes best in a smoothie.
Sometimes she’d force me to talk about things, she’d interrupt my smoothie list and randomly ask how my mother and I were doing, or if I at all felt anxious. It always annoyed me, terribly. I wanted to talk about smoothies, and music. Fun things.
I really didnt much like the feeling of our in person visits when she write something on her notepad. It was always something obvious too, always right after I’d mention how ____ upsrts me, or startled me. I felt like I could really control the situation or more so the “outcome” of our sessions, to my benefit or detriment. I didnt really care to do that though.
I just hated feeling like a patient. Its kind of the worst label you can have.
It reminds me of that David Foster Wallace short story, Good Old Neon. Which opens with “My whole life I’ve felt like a fraud”
It really marked something in me, made me laugh when he made the point of trying to essentially ‘win’ his psychoanalysis sessions. I’ve always felt that way, like I could outsmart whoever, my doctors, my friends, whoever. What a ridiculously bloated, self important thought.
I dont think I feel this way as an adult. Or maybe I do. I just understand now that nobody else suffers from this except for me.
Sean is en route to get me, take me to a cafe, where I’ll probably whine some more self important thoughts despite my supposed predilection not to.
—
“Do you have any good band names?” Sean queries.
“Im not sure. I havent thought of it since high school I suppose,” I close my book of essays and sit it next to me on the couch. “Do you?”
“Maybe alliance”
I shake my head. “It sounds like marvel-y” I cant think of why i dislike it other than that.
“What about entent?”
I nod emphatically. “Much better.” Its true.
“Its french for like mutual understanding.”
“Oh, thats nice.”
I know more french than I remember. I was talking to these two french women the other day, a casual conversation, obviously, but I remembered a lot more than I had initially believed. I zone out a bit.
“And I walked out at this party, hes talking to these girls, and he has a thick valley accent” Sean laughs.
“So he isnt french?” I wonder.
“No. I dont know. He is french.”
“Cool.”
A comically happy New Order song starts as Dillon walks out a plate of waffles and bacon for them. The boys seem happy, which is always good.
01/4 Apparently, everyone is on ketamine, except for me. They wear it much better, I guess. They dont look, like strung out.
“What did you do New Years?” Everyone keeps asking me.
“Went to my friend Zoe’s”
Its mellow, but kind of odd knowing basically everyone is on ketamine. Its jarring for some reason, maybe because its a sunday, maybe because its raining.
The weather app says it will rain all week, meaning the ground will glitter for one more week, and then Los Angeles will cease to glitter until summer. And even in the summer, it only glitters at night, or if you’re near the ocean in the daytime. These are all obvious, fifth grade level observations.
Everyone keeps offering to give me ride home, but I dont know most of these people, and frankly I cant keep track of who is on ketamine, and who isnt.
I’d prefer to not drive home with someone who is on ketamine. I dont think ███████ is on ketamine, but I dont know my stomach kind of hurts.
01/3 “large strike in Venezuela” i text Alex. “this does not seem good.”
To say the least. (hours later I read about Maduro)
She says she heard. It’s the first thing I read when I woke up today, which didn’t aid the out of breath slightly panicked feeling that encompassed my entire body.
“Maybe we should only send good news.” She knows she ███ ████ ██ ███ ████ ████ █████ █████ █████████ ██████████ ██ ████████ ████ ██ ████████
God, who do I think I am?
---
Keyans new place is engulfed by warm ambient lighting, making the concrete flooring, and lack of furniture inconsequential.
We sit on the floor, each a soda in hand, which was supposed to be beer, though it is clear no one is quite in the mood to drink. I think Keyan is sad, or at least disoriented. Alex seems tired, Dillon is nervous, and I don’t appear to be in any mood, which is my common modality.
Keyan rubs his hand over a table that he made. He didn’t say this, that he made it, I only assume because he is telling me what it is made of. Concrete and various fibers. It’s gorgeous. It’s gorgeous, and because of its composition, you don’t need to use coasters, which makes it stunning.
Alex and I end up laying our backs flat on the concrete floor, looking at the industrial ceiling. It reminds me of when I went to Keyan's first apartment, remarking how grown up we all had become, or it felt like we were about to become.
It’s funny how you never figure these things out, growing up, living, anything like that, you just always feel like you’re about to figure it out.
“You have such a strong sense of self, I think that’s what is so remarkable about you” Dillon says, nibbling off a piece of the cookie Alex plated for me.
I realize he is speaking to me. The others nod in agreement. I mean sure, I guess.
There is some truth to this statement; I have known who I was from a young age I guess. Or rather what was important to me. And this was made obvious through stubborn displays, pompous declarations. It doesn’t feel this way right now.
The past 6 months of my life have happened to me. I have played no sort of role in deciding anything.
Objectively this is entirely untrue. I have made every single decision I am now paying the consequences of, I am reaping what I sowed. But I don’t remember making any of these decisions. Alex told me everything that had happened to me in the past six months, and I went “wow that’s a lot” as if I was not the person it happened to.
I don’t feel like the person that lived these experiences, I don’t. I do not feel I was an active participant in my life.
I used to wish for this. I wanted to stop making decisions, in hindsight I can acknowledge how juvenile this is, how completely unrealistic this is. I wanted to be a friend, a subordinate, a peer, a love interest, an enemy, a leader, I wanted to occupy roles without actually being a person. I don’t know why. Maybe sometime ago I decided in my head that it was too painful or cumbersome to be a tangible real thing. I wanted to be a passive participant in the duration of my life.
This has worked, clearly. I haven’t felt any true ramifications of anything until utter desperation to cling onto the things that I have just remembered are important to me. Writing, Dillon, Alex, I like to bake, I forgot I liked to bake.
I am now hugging people, which I always disliked before. I am taking notes in my books again, just to remember what page to turn to, I am picking egg shells out stainless steel bowls, wiggling my fingers throughout an array of flour and baking powder.
I have been intangible for however long. I was not stupid, I realized a human, myself, would always be tangible, I’d be filled with lipids, blood cells, tiny tiny atoms whether I liked it or not. I knew, much to my own dismay, that I would have to take up space in the world. It was realistic, and honest, but it disappointed me entirely. My goal since I was probably twenty years old was to take up as little space as possible. I wanted to experience the world without getting my nails dirty. I did not want to be a player in it. Just an observer. I figured observers knew peace, they knew serenity.
I unfortunately realize now that serenity is the mere precursor to death. Or defeat. Which sucks.
I can now feel Alex’s heartbeat as I hug her goodbye, it is so small and gentle which is surprising. I startled myself when I went to unlock the steel doorknob, because it was so cold against my palm.
It has probably always been this cold.
01/2 Alex and I have started a new game where we call each other every morning and read news headlines to each other. I think this is her way of forcing me to speak.
This is all I really want to talk about anyway.
“40 dead in a Swiss fire” I’ll rattle with my phone pressed to my ear.
“TSU is misalocating funds” She’ll bite back.
She forces me to have an opinion on the articles. I think this is her way of forcing me to care about things.
My opinions are not as definitive as they once were, which was always something people had really hated about me, but an aspect of myself that I enjoyed. My opinions as of now are are synonymous with those of a child; black and white. Lacking nuance entirely.
Most headlines can be sundered into two neatly sanctioned categories, luckily. Good or bad. 40 dead in swiss fire; bad. TSU misalocating funds; bad.
Somethings are a bit harder to box. Like this headline from the NYT, “This Diminuntive Reptile Plays Rock-Paper-Scissors”, Cute. But I am not sure this is really a headline.. It reminded me of how great of a word diminutive is. So I guess good.
1/1 Off to a good start. The first thing I have done this year, with my hands is brush my teeth, and then move a spider outside. Dillon always tells me to kill them and I never can.
----
I have taken to reading reviews of Play it as it lays by didion. I have always known why I liked the book so I have never felt inclined to do this. Its interesting, and infuriating how subjective literature and really any art can be. I suppose it doesnt matter in any real way, and it doesnt derive any pleasure I obtain.
I am referring mainly to one review which labels Maria as “fatalistic” … which is beyond me. Really, I cant understand how they would ever possibly read that character as fatalistic. I would never even think to put Didions name, muchless this specific work of hers near the word fatalistic.
Marias main affliction, Didions main affliction, really the affliction of nearly all of her work is the plague of existential misery. There is no answer, order, logic in anything, especially in Play it as it lays… Now that word is just irritating me; fatalistic. The fucking woman drives herself in circles around Los Angeles, through the mojave, trying to constantly stay in motion to cope with this.
Its no wonder this is my favorite book. Well up there. It feels kind of embarrassing to love Didion so much, its like saying ACDC is your favorite band or something. But I do love her, I think this much is obvious to anyone. I must be really bored because I am getting mad at strangers on the internet which seems like something a really bored person would do.
Its fine. (For now, for today) Max is coming over tomorrow, hes in town from London. If this were eight months ago I probably would have begged him for some of his adderall. I dont really feel the need to do that anymore. If he dropped it in my lap, I obviously wouldnt mind. But i feel indifferent towards trying.
12/31 It figures I’d start the last day of the year the same way I started the first day of the year: reading the Frank O Hara poem:
1
My heart’s aflutter;
I am standing in the bath tub
crying. Mother, mother
who am I? If he
will just come back once
and kiss me on the face
his coarse hair brush
my temple, it’s throbbing
then I can put on my clothes
I guess, and walk the streets.
2
I love you. I love you,
but I’m turning to my verses
and my heart is closing
like a fist.
Words! be
sick as I am sick, swoon,
roll back your eyes, a pool,
and I’ll stare down
at my wounded beauty
which at best is only a talent
for poetry.
Cannot please, cannot charm or win
what a poet!
and the clear water is thick
with bloody blows on its head.
I embrace a cloud,
but when I soared
it rained.
3
That’s funny! there’s blood on my chest
oh yes, I’ve been carrying bricks
what a funny place to rupture.
and now it is raining on the ailanthus
as I step out onto the window ledge
the tracks below me are smoky and
glistening with a passion for running
I leap into the leaves, green like the sea
4
Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.
The country is grey and
brown and white in trees,
snows and skies of laughter
always diminishing, less funny
not just darker, not just grey.
It may be the coldest day of
the year, what does he think of
that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,
perhaps I am myself again.
I changed a lot of his punctuation because I found it to be quite gay and stupid. Gay in the literal sense; its quite cheery when in reality its a rather somber poem. Maybe liberating. Depends when you read it I suppose.
I find myself sucking the top of my glass Mountain Spring water bottle, staring at my laptop, re-reading the first 3 stanzas. I always only cared about the fourth and neglected the rest. Its quite good, but like I said, the punctation is gay. Its always taken me out of it. That was a thing poets were doing in the 50s though, liberally using exclamation marks. I cant think of a single time I have ever used an exlclimaton mark earnestly.
I made a list of everything I read this year:
—-
I put my coat on over my pajamas, its quite weird looking. Im wearing a matching linen pajama set . A camisole and a tiny pair of shorts. Its raining out, I turn on my windshield wipers. I left my phone on my bed because everyone is texting me about New Years Plans which makes me incredibly anxious for some reason. Well there are obvious reasons.
At this specific 7/11 they always play classical music outside of it, through speakers. I thought initially I was hearing things because I couldnt locate the actual speaker. I found it one day and felt relieved but ultimately confused. Why would any 7/11 possinly need to play music outside of it? Let alone Bach? (edit: anti-homeless architecture. Its always anti-homeless architecture)
It makes me think of that David Foster Wallace quote on silence, or more so the lack of it. The simulacrum of ambiance. I dont think he said it that way but I have always interrupted it this way.
“Can I get a pack of 27 shorts?” I put a 50 dollar bill down on the counter. The lady who runs this 7/11 is a very stern indian woman, I sometimes come and buy soda here. And I always forget about the classical music.
She looks confused, I point to them behind her.
“ID?” She asks.
I am surprised she asks this because I look quite horrible right now. I am depleted of any sort of pigment in my face. I’ve gotten really pale from never going outside when I had the flu. I havent been able to stomach anything since like Saturday. I had a pseudo panic attack 10 minutes ago; which is why I am here… buying the cigarettes. Its my first actual pack in a month. This makes me happy.
I look like a fucking idiot in my ID, with bright red hair.
I decide that I will text everyone back about New Years Eve at 1pm. I cant do it right now. I dont want to do it right now.
—
Its raining in Los Angeles, which means it looks like theres glitter everywhere, but I might just have astigmatism. By the time I leave its dark out. And I forgot how it looks out here when its dark. Or in the rain. I hear the whirring of the machine next door, I did not forget that it soothes me. The archetype of ambiance.
The hard thing about a simulacrum, and I guess the point is maybe that there is no true antonym to the word, just as there is no true starting point. I think at one point it may have been true that a starting point was something not so far off base, but I dont think that can ring true now.
I light a cigarette in my car and feel better than I did two hours ago.
—
Dillon is hesitant, but I wonder if he has ever been desperate. Maybe he would understand if he has been desperate. Regardless, he seems happy for me despite not really approving. I dont really want Dillon to experience desperation if he does not have to.
Everyone is happy for me, they keep saying it, and meaning it. I keep thanking them and meaning it.
I’ve been thrown a bone when I most needed it. Im just so happy I could cry. But I dont. I just kind of listen to everyone talk at the table. They are talking about interesting, happy stuff, and I wonder to myself if they have always been doing this.
I tell Reed he looks tan after his trip to Puerto Rico, he rolls his eyes, he tells everyone that Zoe learned how to surf. Dillon is sat next to me, eating something from the picturesque cheeseboard zoe has set up. It looks like something grown-ups would like, I like it. I nibble goats cheese on crackers, and small pieces of toast with fancy European butter. I get scared because its the first real meal I have had in days, but sometimes saying this outloud can be alarming. Obviously. And for the fact it isnt really a meal at all. I almost threw up on the 10 earlier, I debated pulling off into the safety lane or whatever they call that.
New Year's Resolution: not to scare or worry anybody. Especially myself.
Seeing Dillon's face as he drove me to the hospital made me feel bad, like I had scarred him for life or something. I was just moaning in pain and whimpering profanities. He had told me to stop talking, because I think I was scaring him, and also because I remarked how painful it was to breathe let alone speak.
I would also like to throw up less. It seems like I will be getting health insurance this year so this doesnt feel far off.
I think about what Tom said, that I should have an easy year. Essentially that I should think less. I agree. I hope I can figure a way out to do this. I really really want to do this.
I am exhausted. Which is good, because it will be a New Year in around 30 minutes. Too much has happened this year. I cant believe I used to beg for things to happen to me, practically pray for it. I thought boredom was the worst fate a human could face. I dont think I could ever truly appreciate boredom, but I’d like to at least be comfortable with it, stomach it.
Maybe this is the year I learn what to do with my hands. They're resting on my steering wheel now, I just passed the Beverly Center a thousand times.
12/30 I feel panicked in the morning. I think I had a bad dream; I know I had a bad dream.
I get that thing where you wake up out of breath. Why does that always happen after?
I grab the bottle of extra-strength ibuprofen that I stole from my family for my fractured, or bruised rib. It doesnt really matter if its bruised or fractured; it just fucking sucks.
“Ah” I mutter, somehow making the noise a two-syllable word as I place one on my tongue and down it with lukewarm water I had poured myself the night before. Yum, a giant pill. No, literally yum, this is all I’ve had to eat in the last couple of days. I am trying to remind myself that eventually, that nausea feeling goes away. Eventually.
—
I listen to the My Bloody Valentine songs where nobody sings on my way over to Zoe’s apartment, passing the Beverly Center with some wall of sound thing Kevin Shields made as my background music.
It sucks that My Bloody Valentine isn't really cool anymore. Or really that anything isnt cool anymore. I'm listening and its so great. But ultimately, it just feels immature at this point. I wonder if I will ever feel mature. Or like I can trust myself at least. To do the right thing, say the right thing, feed myself the right things, dress myself the right way.
Rain starts to plummet onto my dashboard. I dont turn on the windshield wipers, I dont know why. I just let the rain roll down and bead off horizontally. I thought I’d be crying but Im not. Im just kind of looking at nothing.
—
“I feel like a dog you’re going to put down” I laugh in Zoe’s car. I do. She has taken me to Brandy Melville, bought me a shirt, and is now taking me to McDonald's. I told her I am not that hungry, but she tells me I can get a soda, that I love soda, I tell her ok. She also adds that she wants to stop by a gas station to get a lighter so that I can smoke a cigarette in her car on the way home from the shopping plaza in Brentwood. At any second, someone could pull out a gun and kill me, I wouldnt be surprised. I’d just shrug.
She plays happy music. She gleams about how great her recent trip to Puerto Rico was, and muses about work drama. Which I am always eager to hear.
She tells me that we could watch the Kardashians, my favorite shitty reality TV show, to take my mind off thigns. I want to tell her that it wont work that way, that I kind of just have to think about it. And that that is fine. But I tell her I am going to Alex’s apartment to see Alex and her kitten.
—-
Alex and I spend a good chunk of the night making AI images of us together, well us together in middle school. Which is humoring. For some reason it keeps making me Middle Eastern. And it gives Alex botox. Her kitten falls asleep on my lap. His chest moves up and down and up and down, indicative of how deeply he is asleep. He is so tired.
I give him small kisses on his head which is soft, foible. Like it isnt fully formed yet. I remark the height at which his chest rises to with each breath, wondering how his tiny lungs can do this. Or how his minuscule heart is pumping blood throughout him. I wonder if his stomach is still hurting.
Alex says he will not have kibble tonight, only wet food. I think they call that pate.
Should probably read that Frank O Hara poem in the morning.
12/29 “I miss my old job, I love you and I just broke up with you, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing” I say in between gasps.
“Hey, ash, breathe” Tom says and combs my hair. He’s really great. I’m the worst. But I’m trying to not be the worst. Or something like that. Something that isn’t so fucking bad.
My room is dark. Too dark. I suppose that’s fine. I probably look terrible right now anyway. I tried to put a bit of makeup on only a couple of hours ago, to try to make myself look healthier.
That seems so stupid right now.
Every time I look up at him I just start crying again. I realize what a mess I’ve made.
He gets me tissues, and rubs my back. I lay down onto him. He says nice things. We repeat this cycle for an hour and a half because we know we won’t see each other after this. I move, and feel sick. I feel sick and then I move. He says he should probably go and I say ok.
In front of his car I can’t look him in the eye. I feel like a coward, and the truth is that I am a coward. I feel terrified of my life. Of life. Not even because I just broke up with him, obviously that is part of it, but partly because I feel like nothing makes sense anymore.
I loved my job, I quit, I loved my boyfriend, I broke up with him. I don’t fucking know what is wrong with me.
I claim all the time that nothing fucking matters, I am a broken record. The most bratty and privileged broken record ever. I had a job that I loved. That mattered. I had a boyfriend I love dearly; that mattered. I have these exceptional friends that I love and need desperately; that matters.
I have a mother who sat at in the emergency room parking lot for 8 hours because I’m such a fucking weird bitch that I told her to wait outside; that matters.
I don’t know how to interact with things that matter to me. Is what I think is the issue. I treat them so blasé.
That email was right; I poke at things but touch nothing.
12/21 I keep saying things to Tom, who has his back partially turned towards me; it kind of makes me wish it was just fully turned.
He and Dillon are screaming at each other, I don’t know what about.
Alex and Greg are making out, or something really close to that. Jason just stares at me and doesn’t say anything.
Sean is all the way down the table, but I don’t think it’d matter much if he were further up next to me. Occasionally, Alex and I will lock into conversation but then I assume Greg will say something. I don’t really know.
I don’t know where to look, which is an odd sensation to feel in your own apartment. I’m eating, kind of, so my hands have something to do.
I only clarify that I am kind of eating because I cooked all day, and that tends to kill my appetite entirely for some reason; I feel like the only reason I am eating is to try the food I made. It’s fine.
I want to get another glass of wine, but I am too lazy to grab it. I’m too lazy to ask someone to pass it to me. Wow.
Can I seriously not enjoy myself at a party I willingly threw? At my apartment? That I cooked all day for? Guess not.
It’s not even that I’m not enjoying it; I think I’m just bored, there’s simultaneously nothing and everything happening. Everyone is screaming, kind of. Despite it not being necessary.
Everyone keeps doing this thing where they notice that I am upset, which makes me feel worse, maybe even just upset generally, because I wasn’t even upset to begin with, but now I am because it’s being made into a big deal. Everyone is talking about entirely different topics. I feel overwhelmed and like none of this really matters.
“Do you want to go to your room?” Tom asks.
“Not really” I really do.
12/18 I have clearly lost sight as far as Analog of thought extends. Think this is due to my general disinterest in life, and myself. I dont know how this got worse when it was already pretty bad before.
This sounds depressing. Maybe it is. I dont know it doesnt feel that bad though, it doesnt really feel like much. I didnt realize the extent or lack of until last night.
Tom and I were laying in my bed, or I was laying and he was sitting over me holding my face.
“I dont want you to feel like I dont want to hear about your life” He caressed my cheek and then cupped it.
“I dont feel that way” I didnt- I dont.
“I know I just feel like I talked about myself all night” He said despite realizing this was a nonissue. I know by saying this he only meant that I did not talk much, so:
“I didnt have much to say today.” It was true. I dont know why but it was true.
This somehow led into a conversation about an affliction I am sure is boring to everybody by now: my complete indifference towards everything. And how I feel that is being regurgiated back to me by my friends, random babies who used to wave at me on the street, the man at the corner store who I buy sodas from, my mother, myself, God, whoever and whatever.
Indifference is so blissful and yet so agitating when its redirected back to me, which Im aware is a bratty, self important sentiment. I dont operate that I should receive this sort of attention for simply nothing, I just have gotten it. I guess.
Im aware thats a really pompous sentence. Its true though. Objectively I have received the most attention in my life the past year and a half. It hasnt felt deserved most of the time. Its felt ridiculous. Curiosity provoking sometimes. I started to wonder why people feel compelled to do things, and why I usually dont. I cant remember one thing I felt deeply compelled to do this year. Like really really compelled to do. I’ve been handed things, or fallen into things. But I feel like i havent worked for anything, or any sort of minimal success that might be so classified as ‘mine’
Hyperbole. I have worked really hard at some things, but in a way it renders itself useless because I try very hard at almost everything. I dont do this under the guise of craving success or personal fulfillment, those are superfluous rewards, I think I mainly do it because I dont know what else to do, and I feel pretty worthless if I am not doing anything. I dont care about how things end up, I have never felt any true satisfaction, or refractory period at the end of a project. I just think about what I will do next. Its pretty fucking stupid. And only adds to a sense of never being truly content.
It results in a sort of boredom I can never escape. Its a cycle of boredom and distraction.
I fell asleep almost instantly after the conversation with Tom. I think mainly because it is the most i have exerted myself in the last 2-2.5 weeks. Its the most i have said by far.
I was sick, but when am I not sick. I drank a lot of syrup medicine which is just so gross. But I am so attuned to it now. It doesnt even leave that synthetic berry aftertaste anymore. My mind might have tricked myself into believing it is real, its made of real fruit they mashed together in some factory in China.
I worried that I had obtained scurvy from my poor diet, and lack of going outside. Jason visited me once during the tail end of the illness and smoked a cigarette in front of me which was unfair. I just stared at him. But we sat outside in the sun, which I told myself was good for the hypothesized scurvy. When I started to feel better, or at least able, I began to eat vegetables again, and I bought a small bottle of orange juice from whole foods which I told myself the vitamin D from would eradicate any possible indication of scurvy. I still feel really fatigued. I dont think its from a hypothetical case of scurvy anymore, more so:
Recovering from flu, or strep, whatever I had
Onset symptoms of premenstrual syndrome
Maybe some sort of low grade anxiety disorder
I am hoping this weekend will rectify all of these fake problems I have created for myself. I dont have the luxury to be agoraphobic at this point, not anymore. Dillon has an improv drum set tonight at the gallery, I need to prep my mise en place for the Christmas party on sunday, I told Alex I could meet her new kitten, I have plans with the Her New Knife kids while they’re here from Philly, I need to write a piece for a magazine and submit it by the end of next week, I have to write out the next interview questions, and I need to pretend to care about christmas.
I dont care about Christmas anymore, at least not outside of the dinner party. I dont have any plans that day. I could maybe go to my familys house but I dont feel necessarily compelled to go other than seeing the cats. I cant eat anything they make. I’ll text my mom that I am not going.
I only really care about going to see a Die Hard screening at the new beverly cinema. And probably listening to a beach boys christmas album. Or an Ella Fitzgerald christmas album which I used to do with my mother on our way to the family christmas party, that always took place on Christmas eve.
I realistically would care about Christmas if I knew that I wanted something specific, but I dont. I dont really want anything. If anything I want to get rid of a lot of what I own. I would maybe care about Christmas if my great-grandmother were still alive, and I were still young enough to be amused by playing ‘dolls’ with her porcelain nativity scene members. I always made Joseph and Mary kiss. And then the animals were my favorite. The sheep in particular.
Maybe I’ll feel less jaded after the weekend and seeing peoples faces. Like they’ll be real again or something. I’ll gain something.
—
Im going to try to write more before the end of the year. I just cant keep that promise because I feel like I cant trust myself at all. That thought repeated this morning while I cleaned my coffee I spilt all over my bedroom floor, “I cant trust myself at all, I cant trust myself at all, I cant trust myself at all” I wondered how people who live this way feel. How old they get. If thats the kind of thing one can fix. Or if everyone feels that.
And also because its frankly so fucking boring to write about yourself and your own thoughts all day.
12/7 December seventh. How ridiculous of it to be December 7th.
The longer time goes on, I keep hoping I will have something to write about. This hasnt proven to be fruitful in any way.
Here is my routine:
I wake up around 8am, I make myself a cup of tea. (You know I am doing bad… or at least not good when I have tea rather than coffee)
When I am feeling okay, I go for a run around the block. I have not been feeling okay so I have not been doing this.
I email 2 billion people
I wonder if I am the only person for whom email exists. This seems to be the only logical conclusion, otherwise I would surely have had some emails back by now.
Around 11am I wonder if I have ruined my life
By 11:30 I decide if that was all it took to ruin my life; I didnt have much of a life to begin with.
I simmer down around 1, and email some more.
I plan dinner
I sometimes will wash my hair, even if its very clean; I will wash my hair
I lay on the couch and read
I make dinner
I listen to Pablo Salas.
I try to write; I ultimately dont.
There are many reasons I am not writing right now. None are that interesting, or are even as debilitating as I have made them to be in my head.
Mostly, I figure most will have to be censored.
12/5 Seeing as it is Joan Didions birthday, I reread some of her essays.
12/4 The living room is pale. Its asleep.
I wish I slept in here.
—
Startling thought: I have nothing to do with anything anymore. That feels quite scary.
There are some obvious reasons this has transpired. Some are less obvious. And I only say this from the small smart part of my brain that can assume things without seeing them. I assume there are less obvious reasons. I’d be stupid not to.
In my early twenties I viewed my life simply as a corollary. These things are happening, because this happened in this month, during this year, at this place, with these people. It made sense this way. I am reserved because my mother was not. Or I am better at reading because my brother was better at soccer. Everything was to move in this predated sequence, and I had little to nothing to do with this. I could not interfer. Everything had something to do with something else.
I also feel I was wrong about this.
Nothing has anything to do with anything, like at all.
There isnt meaning in why things happen. Or how. There really isnt much meaning in anything. Maybe small things. Like a really nice piece of toast. Or a pretty leaf you see on your walk. A pebble at the beach thats suspiciously smooth.
I had virtually everything I had wanted for myself just some months ago. Really, I hadnt considered life could even be that good. Yet I was more miserable than when I had nothing. This is an embarrassing realization. To have at 25. That things wont make you happy. Everyone knows this.
It was just startling because I am not particularly happy when I have things, and im also not particularly happy when i dont have things. Im maybe just not happy. Maybe not now, maybe not ever.
12/2 I have done something bad. Which I think is fine.
Its fine because it doesnt affect anybody but myself. In some ways I think this is rather good. It makes me understand why the last five years have been… the last five years. This whole time I might have simply just wanted a secret to have, to keep. Between myself and nobody else.
I cant remember the last time I had a true secret; maybe high school. I dont really care to hide things from people.
Maybe when I lost my virginity. I didnt tell my friends for an entire three months.
I have nothing interesting or revelatory to say about the concept of virginity; I will leave that to the substack-ers. But in hindsight, I think that losing my virginity may have been the moment in which I adopted the sentiment that life happens to people instead of for people.
Despite however grim and embarrassing it inherently is to lose your virginity, I much enjoyed having it taken. Not the physical act of course. It was painful. I blacked out so it wasnt really that awkward, the way people always describe it. It just stung. But it left me with something, a secret. I had nothing at that point, so even a shameful secret I didnt ask to keep seemed better than nothing.
In many ways I guess that was the only thing that kept me going for that autumn. I didnt really want to die without seeing my friends reactions to the loss of my virginity. I had to tell them at some point. Their reactions didnt disappoint. My high school friends were very prudish and therefore mortified. I knew my devoutly religious best friend thought less of me. She thought I’d go to hell. My other friend viewed it as some sort of competition. I remember when I told her I desperately wanted to respond to her tepid reaction by explaining that it wasnt even a game i wanted to play, much less win. That sometimes things just happen to people. I shrugged and wondered what if this would have happened had my family actually enrolled me in Saint Maria Goretti, the nearby catholic school. It didnt matter at that point. I won the stupid game by a fluke.
When I was younger, I always understood a secret as a sentiment that would inevitably be aired. Whether through desperation or elation didn't matter to me; how it got revealed never held weight, just that it would be revealed. I figured nobody died with any secrets left. I feel wrong about that now.
Not in a promiscuous or self-righteous way, but I understand how important it is to keep a secret, between just your ears, your palms. Thats the only place it can live. Its forever intangible.
My secret, its tangible. But it isnt this way. Its not real. Its something that has never been said outloud, and never will be. There's some satisfaction in that.
12/1 Dillon is home from Sacramento today. Hes sick, I got him peanut butter cups but hes sick so he probably wont want them.
11/30 I immediately nuke myself upon waking up; Tylenol, Zofran, and vyvanse. Tylenol for raging headache. I wish this headache were from going to a party, maybe the Jasmin Johnson party Sean was vying to get me to attend. But it isn't.
“Im sorry I fell asleep at 9 only to wake up and throw up again” I texted sean around 11:30pm. I meant to text him earlier that I wouldn't be going, but I forgot.
“Girl, are you okay?” He texted back. I remember thinking his use of the word ‘girl’ was funny, it still holds up this morning.
Zofran for the obvious remaining nausea, Vyvanse to focus.
I didnt fall back asleep until 5 because I was throwing up. A lot I guess. I realized when I was brushing my teeth that I must have pushed my bangs back at some point; which I never do. I looked at myself, with all of my hair out of my face: I have really grown into my adult face. Its a bit swollen from the like five hours of vomiting last night, but my face makes sense now, which I could have ever foreseen as a teeanger.
I think I look quite pretty. Or at least like I make sense now.
I thought Alex’s face too; how she has really grown into her adult face. How this is probably indicative that we are now adults. It feels this way. We dont fight anymore either. We kind of just grew up.
“Bug, are you okay?” She asked from my couch last night.
“Yes.” I sat back down next to her, drawing the blanket over both of our legs.
Zoe was telling us about her first friend she had ever made in Los Angeles. She also told us we should all take sexy photographs of ourselves. That we wont be twenty-five forever. It was true, it is true, I guess.
“I feel like there are enough photos of me in a bodysuit and thigh highs to last like my entire lifetime. I should probably start taking photos of myself clothed to be honest.” I laughed, snuggling my head on Alex’s shoulder.
“Yeah thats true,” She said, understanding I was referring to my odd last job. It was really a peculiar situation. “Well, you can be clothed, but like I don't know, I have no photos of myself. I dont want to be old and like not be able to have any references for how beautiful I was”
We all just sat there.
“Yeah. I mean true.” I said, and abruptly got up, grabbing my space heater from my bedroom, plugging it in, only to then begin cleaning the kitchen, then refill the Brita water thing, then open a kombucha, then look at myself in the mirror, then sit on the floor, then sit on the couch next to Alex again.
“Are you sure you're okay?” Alex asked again. I then realized I had completed a myriad of random, yet ultimately worthless chores. I didn't know why but It felt like I couldnt sit down.
“Yeah, I think.”
She knows a lot about me before I know myself realize it. I asked her a really invasive question, invasive in regards to my life, because I figure she knows me better than I know myself. I asked her the question right as a sweet Chinese family took a photo of us in front of the Christmas tree at the grove. These fake nurses from Salvation Army, dressed in all red, what Zoe would refer to as ‘russ-IAN’, were ringing these fucking bells, and I felt like I was going to faint, throw up, or just flat out die. I mean, what about that really provokes holiday cheer? I have never understood this. Your bell is fucking annoying. Your bell is the worst, like ever.
I thought of the fake russian nurses ringing their bells all night as I threw up; the noise wouldn't stop. I started to cry. Not because of the fake russian nurses, but because at a certain point I was throwing up nothing, it was just straight stomach acid. It hurt so badly. My entire body would move forward, so viciously, as if with a point to prove. the fucking fake nurses would ring their bells, and I became so delirious that I just started to cry.
I don't even know what the Salvation Army fucking does.
The Salvation Army is a Protestant Christian church and an international charitable organisation founded and headquartered in London, England. It is aligned with the Wesleyan-Holiness movement. The organisation reports a worldwide membership of over 1.7 million,[4] consisting of soldiers, officers, and adherents who are collectively known as salvationists. Its founders sought to bring salvation to the poor, destitute, and hungry by meeting both their "physical and spiritual needs". It is present in 133 countries,[5] running charity shops, operating shelters for the homeless, and disaster relief and humanitarian aid to developing countries.
The theology of the Salvation Army derives from Methodism, although it differs in institution and practice; an example is that the Salvation Army does not observe sacraments. As with other denominations in the Holiness Methodist tradition, the Salvation Army lays emphasis on the New Birth (first work of grace) and entire sanctification (second work of grace).[6][7] A distinctive characteristic of the Salvation Army is its use of titles derived from military ranks, such as "lieutenant" or "major". The Army's doctrine is aligned with the Wesleyan–Arminian tradition, particularly the holiness movement. The Army's purposes are "the advancement of the Christian religion... of education, the relief of poverty, and other charitable objects beneficial to society or the community of mankind as a whole".[8]
The Salvation Army was founded in 1865 as the "East London Christian Mission" in London by one-time Methodist preacher William Booth and his wife Catherine. It can trace its origins to the Blind Beggar Tavern. In 1878, Booth reorganised the mission, becoming its first general and introducing the military structure, which it has retained as a matter of tradition.[9] The Salvation Army's highest priority is its Christian principles. As of 2023 the international leader and chief executive officer (CEO) of The Salvation Army is General Lyndon Buckingham.[10]
Ok. Like they're British. Doesn't change anything. Point remains; These fake British nurses need to fucking leave the apartment. Like its not their apartment. I don't know what I even did between 12 am-5 am. I think I watched a documentary with a heating pad nestled between my ribs, which were needlessly sore.
I have been brushing my teeth for ten minutes. Ok.
I spit the foam that I’ve created, like a small machine, into Dillon and I’s porcelain sink. Theres blood; which isnt inherently shocking. He stood in the door way the other day as I brushed my teeth, when I went to spit there was also blood, not this much, but some.
“Oh. Im bleeding.” I said before he could notice and therefore embarrass me. Which in hindsight is something he would never do.
“Oh shit. Are you okay?”
“Need to floss” I muffled because I was using mouthwash. He has revoked showing any sense of worry towards me because I react poorly to it.
The vyvanse has kicked in and I can work on what I need to now. I’ll finish it all today. I’ll drink more water to nurse the headache. I’ll call Jason in twenty minutes, we will probably add Alex to the call, I will thank her needlessly for her kind text this morning, I will assure her I am fine. I will go to Whole Foods at 1pm, I will buy 3 bananas, a pack of thin brown ricecakes, unsalted broth, a small pack of peanut butter candies to welcome Dillon home from Sacremento, maybe a thing of flowers. I will text back the people from New York. I will text back the people I need to. I will become normal again within 4 hours.
11/27 Its somehow Thanksgiving. Somehow.I didnt realize it was so soon. I dont know if I would have done anything differently had I realized sooner. Not really, the more I think of it.
“Hey, where’d you go?” Dillon calls from the living room. He must’ve heard me sneak through the back door, setting my groceries down.
“Grocery store” I point to my French tote bag, that I am not entirely sure what it reads, I think its some cute saying against imperialism. My vague anti-imperialism French tote bag. What the hell, sure.
I think it reads: What are you doing to fight hunger? End Imperialism!
I cannot ignore the irony of the bag. That I got this bag from a cute market- an organic, cute market, my favorite. How they sell overpriced north african chili paste, they sell it for 30 dollars, because its in a… glass jar… I guess? And then I put that into my 30 French dollar tote bag. They also do not accept EBT at this market. They also have really uncomfortable outdoor seating. On Larchmont. They are also selling a French tote bag and foods native to like Africa. Africa as in like the Africa that France colonized. It's just a bit funny.
I dont know how I didnt think of this ironic serendipitous mess when I bought the bag. I was maybe happier then and thought a lot less. Now I am a little less happy, and I guess thinking of… French Imperialism.
I should be thinking of like family. And like friends.
“What’d you get?” Now we are both in the kitchen. He’s dressed nice. He's asking if I want my hoodie back, which he has clasped between his two hands. He’s been borrowing it for some days. I really dont care at all. I mean I will want it back at some point.
“Thanksgiving stuff, like vegetables, and no I don't need it now” I know he is asking me in a veiled way if I would mind that he took it up to Sacramento for the weekend. Answers no. Obviously.
“Are you sure you don't want to come? What vegetables?”
“Carrots and sweet potatoes. Im sure”
Answer is “I’m sure”
obviously.
—-
I am bored so I walk to Erewhon. Beverly is basically empty. Its kind of off-putting, all of the cafes have their curtains drawn, but you can see all of the chairs on top of the tables. The Jewish schoolgirls are missing. They usually walk in big groups, and one girl always looks painfully left out. Its sad. I guess I'm happy they’re missing today because it means I don't have to see this.
But by the time I reach Erewhon, I am just thinking of some hypothetical Jewish girl bored at a family party. Her face is unremarkable, because she isn't real. Shes some imagined thing. Yet she's still sad. So sad.
“Welcome” A security guard nods towards me. I smile. Its weird. Like why are these people here? This sweet old lady, hunched over her cart with hardly anything in it, alone. Shouldnt she be with like her grandkids or something?
Then there is this very bizarre family. The father is wearing joggers. I didn't take what the mother was wearing into account. They had one child with them, maybe twelve years old. What a weird life, being at Erewhon on Thanksgiving.
Oh. I am at Erewhon on Thanksgiving. Ok but its kind of funny. Right?
I just wanted mac and cheese. I didnt want to make it myself, not really. Im already making things. Right?
—
My meal is fine. I eat probably 6-8 bites. I chew roughly 240 times. I will say 250. This is under the guidance that you chew roughly 30 chews per bite. According to the internet. That seems really fucking stupid.
I threw more than half of my plate away. I don't have an appetite at all lately. When Dillon and i went to dinner last night I ate my food, I dont even think because I was necessarily hungry, but so that my hands had something to do.
“He said she was weird to you” Dillon said about my ex-boyfriend, who said something about me. I guess this was at some party I did not attend. I guess it had to have been a couple of months ago.
I wondered why he would defend me all of these years later. What was the point in that? Like at all?
He and I aren't even friends. Not really. We almost were. I don't really know what happened. There isn't really a point in wondering. Like at all. We will just say hi at parties, and it will be slightly awkward except for the times that it isn't, until we die, I guess. He will lose his hair; I’ll get fat.
I start doing the dishes as if I am competing with some woman next to me, a woman who has longer hair than mine, much thinner than I am, and a lot nicer. Her hair is so long. She is so thin. And she is just so so nice.
“Happy Thanksgiving.” I text my mother. I add the period.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” She texts me back, dropping the period. “Love U”
I have always really hated when people will text ‘u’ instead of just typing out ‘y-o-u’
“You too.” I keep the period in.
11/19 “█ █████ ”I shrugged. I didn’t even really know I was going to do that; I just grabbed my bag and threw my coffee away. I guess I am doing this now, right now
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“Thanks” I say and walk out.
I call my grandfather, I don’t know why, because he isn’t necessarily comforting. I guess I should let him know. I don’t know why I feel this way, given it has nothing to do with him. But maybe because I feel like a child still.
“I just never want to disappoint you,” I said between gasps, god this is so dramatic.
“Ok.” He says.
“Are you disappointed?” I plead.
“Where are you?”
“I’m on the 110. North” my knuckles are turning white, they almost look like marbles as I loosen and tighten my grip on my steering wheel over and over. This feels like all I have done for the past week.
“Okay.” He offers nothing.
I have no idea why I called him. It isn’t like he can help me; in really any way. There’s nothing to help. He can’t even sit down to have lunch with me. Much less just be, I guess, a parent.
In many ways I feel like his parent now. And I am a bad one. Well, I am only twenty five. I guess.
“What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” I ask, suddenly calm. Eerily calm.
“Nothing” he says.
“Okay. I’ll talk to you later, bye.” I hang up.
—-
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We both laugh at how ridiculous it is. But part of me still feels uneasy. And like this all isn’t very funny. Usually, I’d laugh along. But I don’t know.
“Well how do you feel?” She probes
“Fine. I guess” this isn't necessarily lying. Because I do feel fine, on all accounts, but I don’t know. It doesn’t feel accurate, maybe.
█ █████ █ ██ ████ █████ ███ ████ █████████ ██ ███ █████████ It feels like I should care about what is happening more, but I don’t know how to do that without it being so overwhelming that it ruins my life and leaves me debilitated in an array of useless ways. I only really know how to mute things.
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11/18 cried in the office bathroom while listening to a Microphones song; like a loser. I thought of how I didn’t even cry when my great-grandmother died. Felt more loser-ish.
I ran my hands under the sink water, probably filled with lead, and ran my palms over my eyes and neck. To make it look like I wasn’t crying, but whenever you try to cover up the fact that you were crying, it always somehow makes it look worse. My face is swollen. Has been for some weeks, I don’t know why. It’s worse after the crying.
Tom texts me and asks to call me, I say I don’t want to or that I can’t. It’s interesting how many different ways there are to say no.
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---
Zoë and Alex texted me about the Hellp album listening party we are going to tonight, which I was initially really excited for when Noah invited me. Now I feel like it doesn’t matter. Or just like something I’m going to be acting weird at.
—-
It’s kind of near the chateau but not quite. Everyone is laughing from their bellies despite not really having one.
Everyone is crowding Noah. And Chandler, I assume. I can only really see Noah.
I can kind of see everything, downtown is kind of puzzled between trees but I can still see it. Tom texts me “How is the party?”
“Great” I say. I lie.
I think it’s great. I can’t tell. I don’t really know. The album was really great. After I put this cigarette out I think I will talk to Noah; I think the album really taps into the transgressive nature of California that I am always trying to write about; unsuccessfully of course. He nailed it. I want to know how.
Its great. I think. I feel invisible. Not to anybody new, but to my friends. Which is making it kind of worse. I tell ████ ████ ███ ███ █ █████ ███ ██████ ███ ██████ ████████ ███ ██ █████ █████ ██. I brought it up because I wanted to talk about I think. I am kind of drunk so I don’t really know if I wanted to talk about it. I just know I brought it up. I know ██ ██████ ████████████ ███ ████ ████ ███ ████████ I know I am now sitting outside alone looking at the skyline writing on my iPhone. I know I’m glad to be back home.
The guy who let me borrow his lighter just stares at me. As if I should be saying something.
“I know you.” He says. I notice now that he isnt smoking.
I shrug. Probably met him at a party or something. “Maybe. Yeah”
“Were you at that 4th of july party?” He sits closer. Nobody is sitting. Everyone is standing. Some people are wiping their nostrils which makes me get second-hand embarrassment for some reason. This really isnt that kind of party, I dont think. Unless it is, and I am the only one oblivious.
“The Marina del Rey one? At that, like fucked up mansion?” I laugh.
“No.” He tells me he was at some party in the valley. I almost went to that one. But I didn't.
He asks me what I do. I say that I am a writer. And then he asks me what I do for work. Haha. I tell him.
“Cool. So like, what do you write about?” He is genuine. But he is also fiddling with his straw. Hes either bored or nervous. Both of those options really suck, at least for him I guess.
“I mean I’ll probably write about this.”
“Really?” he sits up.
“Yeah”
“What will you say?”
“Im not sure yet.” Im not.
“Can you say I wore a sick outfit? Or that Im really cool?”
“Yeah, I can say that.” I laugh.
“Awesome.”
Its awkward and quiet after this, mostly because there isnt much to say about being a writer. Theres more to write about. I guess. Theres really only stuff to say about other peoples writing. And, while he is wearing a ‘sick’ outfit, and is really ‘cool’ I dont pin him as a writer. He seems like a total LA creative director type. He is still trying. Which is sweet enough. I cant figure out why he is still talking to me really, and I feel quite awkward.
“Did you like the album?” I say looking up. There are these pine trees that optimally frame the hotel balcony.
“Yeah, it was great.” He smiles, twirling his straw. Its open bar. But I finished my glass of champagne within the first 20 minutes of having it. Which probably isnt very classy.
I can feel him looking at me, so I dont move my face.
“Me too.”
“Yeah Noah’s video was great. Where do you stay?”
“Fairfax, I guess”
“You guess?” He laughs.
“Hey. I just moved in. Dont be mean.” I laugh, turning my face.
I motion in a sort of, ‘and you’ kind of way.
“Sorry, sorry. I stay in East Hollywood” He throws his hands up in a defensive way, playfully.
“Like Silver Lake?”
“Yeah.”
“You can just say Silver Lake. I won't kill you” I put my cigarette out against the sole of my boot.
“Okay. I live in Silverlake. Im very sorry.”
“Thats fine.” I sigh but kind of laugh. He thinks I’ll prosecute him or something.
“Oh its fine?”
“Yes. That's fine,” I get up. “Thanks for the lighter.”
“Yeah… Hey,” He says, but I don't really hear what he says next. When I look inside, Zo seems upset. Jason is sitting across from her, her head in her hands. Alex dotes on her shoulder. What the fuck is happening?
I make my way across the balcony and back into the hotel, I wish I could remember the name of the hotel, but I cant. Really, the same things happen at all of these hotels on the Sunset Strip. It doesn't really matter, at least not in a distinguishable way. Some feel more special than others. Some feel more precarious. This one feels neutral in the right way. No one is fucked up out of their mind. No one is being carried out.
I think of getting another glass of champagne on my way to the table, but I decide against it. Everyone kept feeding me alcohol during the album. I don't know why. Jason would hold a vodka soda up to my mouth, I’d grab the straw for stability. Alex would lazily thumb her champagne glass into my hand; the receiving one. Really, all the same things happen at all these hotels.
When I reach the table, everyone is solemn. It's quite an odd scene. All of the lights are on now for some reason, which seemingly is something nobody accounted for.
—---
I have no idea what I am going to say in my meeting tomorrow. I have no idea how I even called a meeting. █ ██████ ████ ████ █ ███ ███████ ██ █████ █████ ████ ████ ███ ████ █████████ ███████ ██ ██ █████
█ ████ ██ ████ ████ ████ ███ ███ ███████ █ █████ ██ ████ ██████ ███ ████ ██ ██████████ ███ █ ██ ███████ █ ██ ██████ █ ███ █████████ ██████ ███ ██████ ███ ██ ███ ████ ███████████ ███ I’m scared to have my meeting tomorrow. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know. Chandler just yelled something about George Bush, which distracted me.
“Ash doesn’t want to leave yet,” Jason says. I am at the table with everyone. Supposedly.
“I don’t care,” I spout.
Jason takes a photo of us. What is one more photo where I’m miserable? Like really?
Everyone looks at each other. They all leave but I don’t want to be in the car with them so I don’t go. So I am just here.
█████ █ ████ ████ ████ ███
Dillon is picking me up now. I am on the Sunset Strip and eavesdropping on a guy and his friend. They both look pretty similar.The guy, well one is apparently a ghost writer for the rapper, Ian. At least from what I gathered. He is upset at Ian. Trying to figure out if he is valid in his anger but I am honestly cold and can’t focus.
I had a good time. I don’t know. I think I had a good time.
I am at a hotel across the street from the comedy store. I can hear people laughing, even from here. Nothing is funny. Nothing has really felt funny for a month or two.
Haha.
The palm trees are red from the brake lights. “The sunset strip; Dior” a sign reads. I’m bored, so I’m reading things while I wait for Dillon to pick me up. There is a new H&M opening on Beverly on November 20th; how thrilling.
Haha. I feel like I’ve never met anyone in my life
11/17 I ██ █████ ██████ █████ ███████ ███ ██████████████
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“Okay,” I said on the phone, scanning my bread at the Whole Foods self-checkout.
11/16 ███ ███ ████ █████ █████ ██ █████ ██ ██ ████ ██ ████ ███ ████ ████ ██ ████ ██ █ ████ ███████ ███ ████████ █ ███ ██ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ██████ ███████ ███ ██████ ███ ███████
I am always seen as evasive when most of the time I just don’t have anything to say. I don’t think what I have to say matters most of the time. Potential sentences sprout up, but I wonder what they serve. Most of the time, nothing; a sentence can’t change much. At least it doesn’t feel this way.
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But now it isn’t fine. In fact, it’s really bad. Or something close to really bad. Maybe even terrible. It’s probably terrible. ███ ███████ ██ ███ ████ ███ █ ██ ███ █████ █████ ███ ████████ █████ ███ ██ ███████ ███ █████ ██████ ███████ ██ ███ ████████ ██ ███ ██ ███████ ██ ███ I think I’m in Fresno, I really don’t know.
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11/14 the rain stopped, I don’t know how long ago. █ ███ ████████ ████ ███ ████ ████ ████████ █ ████ ███ █ █████ █████ ████ █ ███ ██████ ███████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ████ ██████████ █████ ████ ██ ██████ ██ ██████
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It doesn’t really matter.
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then I made the fatal flaw of opening my iPhone, and playing the Natural Bridge album.
I haven’t listened to anything Silver Jews or Dave Berman related in weeks; really since the perfectly imperfect essay came out. It felt happy. Everyone congratulated me; saying they liked it and whatnot. It’s quite a sad essay in all actuality. That’s what kickstarted me accepting i will be depressed on and off for the rest of my life, and that statistically I have more of a chance of committing suicide than other people. According to my doctor, and I guess… aspects of relatability. I don’t know.
I came to the conclusion that as much as I love David Berman, right now, his music is not good for me. I have been happy the last week; truly. Got a lot of laughs at the office. Had a lovely dinner with Alex and Zoë. Not now - not this.
Not right before a six-hour drive in the pouring rain.
---
The drive is relatively fine. Like by all accounts its okay. It was raining really hard in Fresno. And down the grapevine. I pulled off and got some really terrible food, not even because I was hungry, but because I couldnt focus, which meant I was hungry. Every time a semi would merge in front of me, a small curtain of water would bead against my windshield, rendering me blind. It didn't even look like water past a certain point; it looked like powder. Or snow. It looked dry.
I am an hour out and I stop to pee. I dont know where I am. Just that its dark, Im at a random gas station in central California, and the woman in front of me in line is obviously a drug addict. And homeless.
She has to be on meth, the way she keeps swaying, rubbing her thumb against her pointer finger knuckle. She looks out the window as if they are out there. I am quite bored so I’ve taken to observing her, I have fuck all to do besides this. The line is taking forever. Like really, a long time.
Too long.
Long enough for her to drop her kit while she attempted to fuck with her jacket. Because theres nothing else to do. A clean cotton ball drops to her feet. It looks like a rabbit's tail. A small black box drops, and nothing falls except for the cotton ball. You cant see the needles, but you can hear them when the box hits the floor. Its such a delicate sound. A small, unechoed rattle.
She seems painfully embarrassed. She doesnt make eye contact with anyone. Not that she has to, but she doesnt. I want to tell her it doesn't matter, that I dont think less of her. That it isnt my first time seeing a kit.
This isnt even a lie. I saw ████‘s at a party a year ago. He was a lot more forthright with it. It was a group of us, and everyone pressaumnly was in the bathroom to do some sort of powdered drug. Maybe 3 or 4 of us crowded in the bathroom, which was lit red for some reason. The women's bathroom; at Pour Vous. I remember noting how counterintuitive this seemed. To have a red-lit women's bathroom.
He took out a small black box, and in it held needles, cotton balls, weird rubber strings, which I assumed to be ties for his arm; making it easier to find his vein. A small bag with a sticky substance. Everyone was appalled. I probably looked stupid, my mouth agape.
“Where did you even get that shit, man?” Someone asked, their voice constrained. As if they were watching someone vomit.
He didn't say anything, just tied the rubber strap around his upper arm before we all dispersed. No one ever talked about it, not really. Only D***** and I once at another party.
Someone walks out of the bathroom
I motion for her to go
“You were first right?” I say, realizing she isn't going to go before me. Shes nervous cause she knows that I know she's going to do drugs. I could give a shit.
“It doesn’t matter” She mutters.
“Are you sure?”
She seems shy to do her heroin.
Shes probably coming down and she probably feels terrible. I can wait. I guess.
11/13 “What are the only two things certain in life?” The health insurance lady asks.
My department and I are at a seminar to acquire health insurance. We are sat auditorium style, assembly style.
“Death.” I say.
“Close, Ashley! There is one more, any other guesses?” I dont know how she knows my name but she does. Maybe it is her job.
“Taxes.” A girl spouts from a seat to my left. Oh. Yeah. I guess that is true.
I mean not really though, because you can just not pay them. Like yeah, you’ll go to jail. But the sentiment of them being ever-present is true I suppose. What depressing things, death and taxes, these are all that we are promised. The death part doesnt bother me as much as the taxes.
—
I am at a makeshift desk with a Filipino lady who is wearing cheap lipstick, she has really cute freckles and a myriad of packets for me to fill out.
Health insurance, vision, dental, and life insurance. I opt in for health insurance, skip vision and dental. I don't care.
She tells me I should care, I dont, but that isnt an acceptable answer so I say that I will think about it. She tells me I will have one week to change my mind. Cool, I won't.
“Now in regards to life insurance, which option would you like?”
“Oh. Do I have to have it?”
“I mean, no. But it's good. In case you have cancer, do you have cancer, any heart problems?”
I dont have cancer but it feels like everyone treats me like a Make-A-Wish kid instead of, I dont know, an actual adult. I do have heart problems. Kind of. My doctor, or old one I guess, said I show symptoms of having a murmur. Or something. I cant remember. I just remember feeling like I wasnt working properly in some way.
“No I dont have cancer.” I laugh. “I don't think I really need life insurance.” Im like two years old.
“Its always a good idea, Ashley,” She says. How the fuck do these people know my name.
I mean I guess its on a paper right in front of them. Hi, yeah.
“I mean Im twenty five.” I laugh. “Also arent life insurance policies what husbands take out on their wives before they kill them?”
“Dont say that.” She is mad at me now. I guess that was kind of rude of me. It isnt necessarily unture though. They do like do that. People kill each other.
I didnt get life insurance, and I did not make a friend today.
11/12 I feel fine after eating. But I am stuttering more than usual. A trait that is only noticeable when I am nervous. I am not nervous though.
—
“Do you mind if I smoke?” I shyly ask, Kevin, the mechanic who is doing my oil change. Im really not in the mood to get lectured about how smoking is terrible, the way old people usually always do, because people my age have the data, etc to know smoking is terrible for you and will kill you.
Whenever somebody ends on that note I always feel compelled to say: “Promise?”
Instead he reaches for his pocket and pulls out a pack of Marlboro lights. I smile warmly.
We sit at at table. He explains cars to me. I nod along aimlessly. I like hearing about things that I know nothing about. Even if they are worthless.
He tells me everything wrong with my car. I wish somebody could do this for my personality. Instead of sulking I ask “Will I be okay to get to San Francisco this weekend?”
He scoffs as if this is a stupid question. “Of course baby”
I leave out the fact that I am driving up there to see my boyfriend because I am sure this will break his heart. He reminds of my grandfather, also.
I dont feel alone at this mechanic. Weirdly. Its always a succinct feeling, being a woman alone at the mechanic. You typically know exactly how it will go.
11/11 I drive to Culver after work. I am on the 10 west, Tom is on my iPhone. And Trinity I think? But this much is unclear.
I feel fucking weird. Like I can feel my fingertips. Like I am in the snow, despite only ever have been in the snow once, as a baby, okay maybe a toddler, its the only reference that feels accurate.
Tom is talking to me, about a public access TV show Trinity is writing. This all sounds really cool; I am not entirely sure this is real, though. I feel like I am dreaming. I feel like I will wake up tomorrow and email Tom:
“Had the weirdest dream. Trinity was writing a public access TV show with an old lady. Anyhow, have a great day baby.
Love,
Button Two”
I try to tell him a story. About work. I think. But I stutter, terribly
“Fuck” I mutter, and begin trying to retell my story. I get off of the freeway. I am on a hill, driving up. What the fuck is this hill? I used to live in this neighborhood. I’ve never seen this fucking hill. Focus.
“Sorry ok so basically,” I restart my story.
No, but seriously, where did this hill come from? Like genuinely? Did they just place it here? What the fuck.
Snow. Fingertips. Baby laughs with ice lining nails bed. A thermal soaked against my four-year-old chest from falling skiing. My mother trying desperately to warm me. The anguish in her eyes as I laughed at her efforts. Snow. Nailbeds. Crying. Breathing.
“Ok fuck I have to go,” I say to Tom. Not even sure if I am really speaking.
“Oh oka-”
“Love you bye” I interrupt him.
Seriously, where the fuck did this hill come from?
“Ash?” Alex beckons from my iPhone.
“Alex?” I look down, and I guess I’ve called her. I dont remember doing that.
“Are you here?” She asks, obviously confused on why I called her.
“Um.. No.” Im trying to figure out how to get off of this hill. “I have no idea why I called you”
Shes silent.
“I feel really weird. Can you drive us to the market instead?”
She says yes.
—-
I pass the Beverly Center two thousand times.
11/10 I put on the ugliest, most psycho outfit because I am running out of clean clothes. I had on oil change appointment in Culver which was set to take place in ten minutes. I locked myself out of the apartment on accident, and by proxy my car. Which, has you know like, the oil that needs to be changed.
I didnt know what to do so I did what I did last time I got locked out; I walked to Erewhon. I bought myself a black cold brew, nitro, which will be terrible. I bought myself a glass bottle of sparkling Evian water because I liked the way it looked. I plan to use it as a vase. █ ████ ████████ ██████ ████ ██ ██ █████ ██████ ███████ █ ██████ ██████ ███████ ███ █ ██████ ██████ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ██ ████ ███ ███████ █████ █ ████ ████ ███ ████ ███ █████ █ ██████
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None of this really matters. Like at all. Maybe in a stupid way, sure.
---
“Tom really loves you” Jason says as he turns left onto Fairfax. He also complains about turning left on Fairfax
“Yeah… I know”
“Like really loves you”
Am I dying? Is Tom dying? What’s going on?
11/9 it is hard to care about anything, but especially things that require a significant amount of effort. Or justification.
‘
I started reading Imperial Bedrooms today after hearing Vivi rave about it. After this I am not reading any of Bret’s other books. I imagine it cant be helping me any way, shape or form. I suppose a book doesnt have to help you. All it really has to do is be enjoyable. Maybe not even that.
It should just teach you what you like, or what you dont like. Maybe this is only applicable if youre a writer. Maybe they do have to be enjoyable. I dont know.
I want to read a philosophy book again after this. I sat down the other day and realized I havent read a philosophy book in a little less than a year. Which is ironic. Because I had an issue with divulging into fiction a year ago. You couldnt pay me to do it. I just didnt enjoy it for whatever reason anymore.
Same issue. I guess.
—
I am looking forward to driving down the 5, even with as flat as it is now. I actually cant wait until Friday. If I didnt have work, I would go now. I’d lay in Tom's bed. He would order me soup.
But I do have to wait. I sat in traffic for an hour today, which is now the new normal for me given my new schedule and apartment. I just cant wait to leave here.
I feel like I dont understand why I am here anymore. I dont understand my allegiance to this place, or these people. I cant understand why I care about these things; at all. Everyone is fighting all of the time. Its a hassle to get literally anywhere in the city. I cant recall a single thing that I like about this city, or these people.
11/8 I got coffee with Vivi, Lindsey, and Taylor at Fig earlier this morning. This kind of thing would have made me shy as a teenager. It helps that they are all so charming, smart, and personable. But you also realize when youre an adult that you cant really afford to be shy anymore. You’ll get left behind. Or life will just happen in front of you instead of to you.
We talk about a myriad of things. Mutual friends we have either in Los Angeles, New York, or San Francisco, Bret Easton Ellis, Tao Lin, ETC. I particularly enjoyed bonding over B.E.E with Vivi as I am on real kick of his lately.
I finished my reread of Less than Zero before coffee. I feel like its a testament to how great of a novel it truly is; that I live here in Los Angeles. I have been in these hyper-specfiic he writes about: hearing your friend is slutting themselves out for drugs, albiet its usually coke or ketamine rather than heroin- wait but no I do know ████ ███ Who fucks for heroin, rooms at the chateau, and flights to Paris. I havent seen ████ ███in a long time. And I am now wondering if she is ok.
I should call ██████ and ask.
Regardless, these hyper-specific situations that are only relative to Los Angeles, after every re-read, I am still left shocked. Maybe it has the opposite effect he didnt intend for. I am shocked to see most of my life, my friends' lives, displayed so accurately on a page. Its supposed to be punchy, unbelievable, larger than life, fiction. But its real. I feel like only people who live here understand that Bret Easton Ellis, while he uses hyperbole amongst his other novels, the most glaring example being American Psycho, he skipped hyperbolizing or satirizing Less Than Zero entirely. It doesn't call for it, really. Los Angeles satirizes itself.
Vivi said she “loves that shit” that reading about what she referred to as ‘disaffected Los Angeles youth’ is her bread and butter. I wondered if I was a disaffected youth in Los Angeles, but then remembered that I was twenty-five.
—
I am driving home from a shoot in the Valley at 10 pm, taking the 270 to the 101. Weird. I am never on the 270, I dont even know where it goes.
I call Tom, who I am worried about. I try to be comforting but I dont know if i am doing it right. My main advice is usually that nothing matters. But you cant exactly say that to somebody who is in law school. Because it kind of does matter.
The city is glittering but not empty which makes it difficult to enjoy.
11/7 I figured the fight last night maybe would have caused some sort of emotion. Relief, more anger, vindication. It brought nothing; yet again.
It didn’t even feel good to yell, really. All I kept saying was “what the fuck is wrong with you” because I wanted to know what the fuck was wrong with him. Neither one of us had an answer. It felt bad; and wrong. Like scolding a child or a small dog.
He just kept apologizing. And I kept saying “what the fuck is wrong with you” and then he apologized again. I said I didn’t care. That it didn’t matter. I was telling the truth.
“I know I’m debased. I act like I don’t notice these things that you guys say to me, or about me. As if I am not even there, like I am sort of third thing other than a person” I didn’t even know where I was going when the words were leaving my mouth, “but I notice them. I tally them in my head, which is fucked up of me. I usually don’t care to fight back. But stop fucking doing it. I don’t want to be around you peopl.e”
I meant it. It’s inconceivable that we can’t even go out with our friends, have a drink, maybe two, and laugh. Instead, everyone is saying these passive-aggressive nothings, or trying to steal opportunities from another.
There's an alarming amount of unharboured jealousy or annoyance. Everyone feels it but no one will address it in a real way; other than these useless comments made in green rooms or places that sound made up like “pour vous” nightclub. I thought it was just the inherent transgressive nature of Los Angeles, that yes, obviously, it will seep into our friend group. Naturally. We are all up for the same jobs, and such.
It’s natural, I thought. Despite feeling immune to it; the overwhelming insecurity I felt radiating, practically brimming from underneath the tables at these fake dinner parties, it was natural.
I’m not sure if I feel this way anymore. I feel like some people are just miserable. I am. But not in this way. I guess. Or id at least like to not be
.
I don’t understand commiseration. I guess. I’d rather do that alone.
I feel like I am being strangled, in this way where you smell something sweet, and at first it’s nice, exciting even. And then it becomes overwhelming. And causes a choking sensation between your throat and nose.
As much as I feel Los Angeles is genuinely home. I wonder what my life would be like if I did move to New York at the beginning of the summer. I wonder if I even do like it here, as much as I proclaim to. I don’t understand my alliance to this place, or these people anymore. Aside from Alex, Sean, a few others I guess.
Things are becoming contorted here in a perverse and ugly way.
I tear a hang nail of my ring finger. I think of a Silver Jews lyric. Something something “tan line on your ring finger.” I book a flight to go to San Francisco next Friday.
----
I obviously start listening to the Silver Jews. I hear my favorite lyric “No I don’t really want to die, I only want to die in your eyes”
And then realize I have been dead in Dillon’s eyes for a long time. And maybe that’s why he says the things that he says.
I’ve become a sort of comatose version of myself, at least compared to how I was when I was a teenager; when he met me. I read as a Xanax addict. I kind of wish this were true, but it isn’t. Xanax is actually incredibly difficult to find in Los Angeles. Another reason to be jaded off the city.
There is no doubt I care about things significantly less, if at all, than I did when I was younger. I’m not necessarily the social butterfly I once was. I’m not particularly friendly or welcoming. I am perpetually stressed out, hungry, in pain. I think I’m fine, or something close to that. But objectively, I have shed some personality traits that are seen as universally good. And picked up some ones that are less than desirable. Sometimes I wonder how I was like that. I guess when things keep happening these kinds of things happen where you don’t even realize.
I don’t have any feelings about this. I still don’t think it justifies what ██████ █████ ██ ███. I don’t know why but my ambivalence towards life seems to irritate them. I don’t think they understand I don’t necessarily want to be this way.
—-
I’ve mellowed out a little bit. I’m exhausted. I shouldn’t have gone out last night, but that much was obvious to me as I grabbed my keys and left the apartment last night.
Running to a haircut appointment after work, if I didn’t have that to do I’d probably nap. I figure since I am already going to be on the east side I will take sean to a late birthday dinner. And because I miss him. I feel as though I never see him anymore. I didn’t see him at all over Halloween weekend.
The problem with my exhaustion is that there is no end, at least not one in sight for the next two weeks. Doesn’t really matter, it just all has to get done I guess.
And I suppose I will have to drive to San Francisco next Friday, rather than fly. Since my work is behind on direct deposit, that is.
Maybe if the invoice from the shoot on Saturday goes through relatively quickly, I can still get a flight for a decent price. But I don’t think that will happen.
I am thrilled to go spend time with my boyfriend. I am thrilled to lie in his bed. I am thrilled for him to touch me. I am thrilled to go to lunch with him.
I am dreading the drive up. Not for any other reason other than the fact that it’s a lot of thinking time. And you have to pass the sad cows on the side of the highway, at a plantation that kills them. It’s very flat along the five north too. There’s next to nothing to look at for miles and miles.
I also got pseudo-held at gunpoint on my drive back to Los Angeles last time I visited him. It didn’t traumatize me; it was more so just annoying. I would prefer to get robbed… well ,any other time than after having driven for 7 hours.
—-
Everyone asks how I am; I’m fine.
The last two hours of work were lovely despite my lack of sleep, food, and general malaise from fighting with ███████
My boss comes up to my desk, she’s smiling, “What days did you need off again?”
“Just next weekend, I was going to go up to Palo Alto to visit my boyfriend.”
“Boyfriendddd,” she says. I giggle. We do really get along, which makes me happy.
“Yea” I laugh.
“What’s his name?”
Tom.
—
When I am leaving the office, I bump into Dov, who has been around. He smiles very brightly at me, which catches me off guard. I smile and wave. He waves back.
Maybe today doesn’t have to be god awful. Maybe I’ll get my haircut and feel pretty. Maybe dinner with Sean will be great.
—-
Shakers is occupied by its timely audience; geriatric people. They came out in the dozens tonight. Probably in light that the diner is closing.
Shaker's serves good food for old people. It’s mostly bland. Potatoes, chicken-fried steak, and soups. It’s good for their digestion, I imagine.
“Just a salad for me” I say, feeling like an asshole “shoot tomorrow” I mumble to sean.
I told him I needed to eat clean, so as not to be fat. It doesn’t really matter. I order a diet soda, and the waitress, who has a blue streak down the two front strands of her gray hair, keeps refilling once I finish my glass.
I asked Sean pretty imminently after sitting down, in maybe a less aggressive and forward way ‘are you happy’
And he said he was happy.
He isn’t acting like a happy person 40 minutes into our dinner. I debate ordering a glass of shitty white wine, shitty white wine from shakers, because the conversation has become so stimulating.
We talk about basically everything that one might imagine to pressing for a 25 and 22-year-old. We discuss our friendships, our friends' jobs, our proclivities. Our eyes remain glued on the game between USC and Northwestern on a weathered TV hung above the barstool seating.
I imagine Tom in his apartment in Palo Alto keeping score. Making imaginary bets in between legal analyses.
Sean says it is a good thing his girlfriend is definitive and opinionated about virtually everything, that it keeps things interesting. I wonder if Tom would agree.
Sean's girlfriend seems to care about thing,s though. I don’t really care about much. I wonder why I find myself to be so definitive and concise on things I don’t even care about.
11/6 In all honesty, I don’t want to go to Bar Italia tonight. I feel weirdly antisocial. Maybe exhausted too.
I feel compelled to go though, for some reason. I can’t figure out why. As much as I don’t want to go tonight, I would prefer going over sitting in my bed, resting. I probably need the rest. But it just seems miserable. I figure I’d be thinking alongside resting. I can’t figure out what it is that I don’t want to think about, necessarily.
I just don’t want to, is all I know.
It seems tiring. What I am doing now; going out nearly every night, and then working 8 hours the next day, writing for two hours upon arriving home, and making more social plans is tiring. But I guess Im doing things. I guess this is objectively something.
11/5 I text Alex to see if we’re still on for Bar Italia on Thursday. I am getting myself quite excited. They used to be my favorite band, some years ago. And then I just forgot to listen, but I quite like their new album.
I hum the lyrics to a particularly catchy song at my desk in between bouts of nausea. I try to drink my coffee but its making it worse.
Alex says we are still on.
11/4 Worst UTI I have ever had in my life. Like ever.
The pain is spreading to my sides and my back. I dont really understand UTIs. I just know it isn't good if you can feel it in your sides, or your back, because it means its causing duress on your kidneys.
We have a meeting which I am practically squirming through the whole time. Waiting to pee. And trying to not cry. Am I really that much of a bitch that I am going to cry from a UTI? I didnt know they could ever hurt this bad. Wait, yes, we need to get our margins up.
“Ash, are you ok?” My new coworker says, or I guess he is an intern. He says a lot of vaguely spiritual things I wish I could believe in. I’d probably be a lot happier of a person.
“Yeah, Im fine.” I smile. Probably look crazy. I imagine my kidneys turning gray. I remember that Jack always thought there was something wrong with my liver.
“You will get through this. We will all get through this.” He says his vague spiritual statement for the day.
Does the office have a communal UTI I am unaware of?
In all honesty, I dont mind his misplaced and nebulous mantras. His personality is the antithesis to mine. Which keeps the days interesting. I wonder when he is interning until.
—
“And cat if you can add her name as well” I text Travis.
I go back forth all day debating whether I should go see everyone play the lodgroom again. I just had so much fun last night. Everyone has been sending me photos they took of me on a myriad of cameras, and I really like the way my hair looks. I look happy too, if that counts for anything.
“We are going?” I text Dillon. I hope we can drive together.
“Yea. Think so.” He texts me. He lets me know he is at lunch with his Mom, that he will see me at home.
“Do you want list for Bar Italia on thursday?” Alex texts me
I obviously respond ‘fuck yes’ and then ask what she will wear to Bar Italia on Thursday. I am running out of clean laundry.
—-
You would think this green room in Highland Park would make it difficult to hear whispered conversations, the one in the corner, the one between the drummer from the one band, and the guitarist from the other.
No.
Instead of hearing the worthless kind of comments, the ones you usually hear on tour, or when your friends are on tour, involving the words ‘backline’, ‘rental’, ‘tour manager’, I hear █ ██████ █████████ ██ ████ █ █████ ██ █████████ ███ ██████████ █████████ ████████████ █████ ███ ██ ██████████ █████ ███ I dont know. Its upsetting I guess.
I move off the couch and grab a water from the fridge. Lydia tells me I can take whatever from the fridge; she's so nice. Everyone is so nice. Except for the people who are not so nice.
“Theres beer in there too,” Seb says and motions towards the fridge.
“Im okay” I shrug, I dont want to give the answer that I don't drink beer, that I only drink vodka sodas, vodka and cokes, or champagne, because that makes me sound super LA.
—
“You have to meet my friend Ash,” Travis says from across a lounge we have found ourselves in. “Ash is LA”
Okay.
“Travis, No. Im not” I sigh but laugh, shaking a tattooed persons hand, who has no eyebrows.
“You literally work for Dov Charney” He laughs and ashes his cigarette just over his shoulder, so freely. Doesnt seem to bother him the ash will end up on the floor.
If I have ever met a true rockstar, like a movie-grade rockstar, its Travis from Sword II.
“Who is that?” The tattooed person asks looking at me. I am not going to answer that.
“He’s the American Apparel dude” Well. Yeah. He is.
I stop myself from correcting him, as the company has a different name now. It doesn't really matter though. I stopped correcting people on that a while ago, seeing as it was genuinely pointless.
“Yeah.” I ash my cigarette into an ashtray centered in the middle of the table.
“Ash don't fucking bluff. You’re like the most Los Angeles person I have ever met in my life.”
I dont really think of it that way. I dont really think of myself in any way I guess.
11/3 Disoriented for some reason. I woke up at 5, gathered my things, and left for work, only realizing halfway down the 10 that I actually don’t have work today. Without really thinking, I drove home, put on a pair of jeans and my third favorite sweater, made a coffee, and left for Malibu. There was a ridiculous amount of traffic on the 10, now the 10 west, because I am on par with all the morning commuters.
——
I listened to the Replacements, which was fine. And I looked out at the sea when I neared the pier to see how many surfers were out today; a lot. They look like small birds, or seals, bouncing over and under waves in their wetsuits. Upon closer inspection, the waves are quite nice. 4-6 ft at least. Which is probably better than they have been in a while, during the summer months at least. It is officially fall or winter. It doesn’t really matter which one because they’re basically the same thing in Los Angeles.
I roll down my window, maybe halfway to Paradise Cove, so that I can smell the seaweed and salt. But I get cold so I roll up my window and turn my heater on. When I reach Paradise Cove I laugh to myself. I am not fucking paying 15 dollars to park. Hell no. So I turn around. I have no idea why I did this because I already knew they would charge for parking. I really don’t know why I did that.
So now I am heading south down PCH, and I will go to the beach I always go to. Which has free parking. And chaise lounge chairs for a members only beach club, that I learned over the summer, you are allowed to sit in and read, even smoke, if you are pretty enough, feign enough arrogance or a radical sense of belonging, especially if your swimsuit is a nice medium of revealing yet tasteful.
That will be good to read there.
—
I am making good progress on my book. I typically do with anything I am rereading, probably because I already know that I like it and I get quite antsy to get to my favorite parts. I am perched under a pale yellow-and-white umbrella that I opened for myself. There is nobody on this beach. The entire stretch of sand is desolate. It’s hard to reconcile how busy this place would get during the summer. I came here often, usually alone. I came twice with people. Once with Cat and Greg, we drank cheap tequila sodas at the beach club. we bought a ridiculous amount of snacks we hardly touched. We all talked about going to a party in Echo Park after we made it back to the city, showered, etc. I don’t think any of us went. I got great sleep that night, I remember.
I came here again towards the end of the summer with Tom, before we were dating. He seemed scared of the water, which I thought was sweet. He said it was cold, I said it felt fine. We planted ourselves in the sand and read our books we got the day before at a bookstore on Sunset. He fed me a plum he bought for me from the farmers market earlier that morning. He tried to tell me what was going to happen with us, when he left back to law school at the end of that week. We sat at a cafe, and I poked at a salad lazily as he explained things. He had to help me finish the salad. I don’t know what was wrong with me; I just stopped speaking. This seemed to confuse him.
I’d like to think he is more used to it now. It is a critique I have received in all romantic relationships thus far; that its aggravating that I will just stop speaking during important conversations. Or fights.
I am trying to think of why I do this; I really don’t know.
I usually just feel like I have nothing to say or add. I remember leaving a party with Will once, he really made me irate, “Text me when you get home,” He said. I didn’t talk to him for a month or so after that. He asked me why I did that, that it hurt his feelings, and I said “I don’t know” (I didn’t know why I did that)
I would hope I do this because I am being careful with my words. I want to make sure Im sure, or something. But realistically, I have no idea why I do this. It just feels impossible to open my jaw and rub my vocal cords together for some reason. I am just speechless, which is funny given the regular aptitude of my personality.
I pause reading my book and check my phone. Alex assures me her publishing agent put her, her boyfriend, and I on the list for a show at the lodge room in Highland Park tonight. Our friends bands, Feeble Little Horse, and Sword II are in town tonight for a stop on their tour. I smile at this text because I haven’t seen Lydia in around 2 years. I saw Travis and the Sword II people recently, given the tour really only ended a few weeks ago.
I think this will be good for me. I am becoming stir crazy again. I can’t stand being at the apartment, in my room. Maybe it’s because of the curtains, I don’t know. But it reminds me of the feeling I had when Jack and I had just broken up, and I refused to be at the Hollywood apartment. I don’t know why; it didn’t necessarily remind me of him. I think it was because I realized all we did when we were together was lie in bed, make soup, have sex, and I would cry a lot. I don’t know why I was crying all of the time. I don’t know why we never left his apartment, or why we ate soup so often. Or why perpetually him, or I, consistently had to go to urgent care. I would come here a lot after that. I don’t know the name of this beach but I know it’s mine. I know where to stop on PCH so I can find the stairs made out of cheap wood and dirt. And I know which chaise lounge chair is my favorite.
I don’t know why he didn’t wish me a happy birthday. I thought we were going to become friendly after I congratulated him on his album release. It hurts my feelings, but I also can’t blame him if he doesn’t want to be reminded of that time in his life. I don’t really like to think of that time of my life.
There are two months left of the year. I think of this as I turn over pebbles and pick up shells. I think this has been a year. I have really no adjective to describe it. It has been productive at least. A lot has happened, though, maybe too much. I fell out of love, then into some weird, ambiguous third thing, I hurt somebody repeatedly, I confused them. I wrote about nearly everything for no reason. I denied drugs, I did drugs. I went out, I didn’t. I fell in love again. I hurt people. I was tiny. I was healthy. I was ambitious entirely. I went on tour. don’t know, that's a lot. Right?
—-
The sun came out around noon so I left the beach. Its not too warm, but I still change into a skirt and t t-shirt from my work when I arrive home. I make another coffee and pour myself a glass of water while checking my phone.
Tumblr
Anonymous asks (or more so states in this case)
“I don't think you realize how cool your life is”
I do. Thats entirely the issue.
I realize how unbelievably great and privileged my life is. I feel as though I am lucky without having done anything to deserve this. Being listed to virtually anything, going on tour, having a job at a company I have adored since i was a teenager, a beautiful apartment, a boyfriend that dotes upon me.
I have all of this, and I understand its weight, but I somehow am still depressed most of the time. It scares the shit out of me. It cements this idea that I don't suffer from circumstantial depression, but rather a genuine chemical imbalance in my brain. One option is avoidable, maybe interim. The other feels absolutely helpless.
I think this is what maybe freaked me out on my 25th birthday. It's a quarter of your life. I thought about my life thus far, and for more than most of it I have been depressed or something close to that. I thought this would be something i grew out of, as if it were something like teenage angst.
I remembered two interactions that solidified that there was something wrong with me:
It got really bad when I was 23. I had gone to an intake psychiatry appointment for the simple task of getting on antidepressants. I had done it before. They ask you questions. You answer slightly- honest. You get your pills. You feel somewhat better after 3 weeks.
I did my job. I answered the questions. I slated my answers slightly to not evoke too much worry. Or be sent to a psych ward. They always ask if you're going to kill yourself, even if you have the barrel of a gun to the temple of your head, everybody knows you are supposed to say no.
I thought I did fine, and that things would go swimmingly. I would pick up my new bottle of wellbutrin in 20-30 minutes. I would take the first one tomorrow. My personality would become interesting and modern again in 2-3 weeks.
I got my pills, but as I drove back into the city, I got a call
“Is this Ms. Ingram?” A woman said in a professional yet brittle tone.
“Yes, this is she,” God. I always feel so old when I have to say that
“Hi, this is Kate. I am a nurse at the Kaiser location you just had your appointment at. Are you still at the facility?” She sounded rushed.
“Hi, I am not,” I wondered if I had left my keys there, or my wallet. Both hypotheticals were impossible, given that my keys were in my ignition and I had to show the pharmacy tech my ID to get my pills.
“Okay. We just wanted to call and check on you… Your score on the mental health exam… It was rather concerning.” Her voice teetered off, indicating for me to say something.
“Oh?” Was all I said.
“You scored very… um high… on the depression questionnaire,” She was trying to sound less clinical, more empathetic, more human, but it wasn't working. “We just want to make sure you aren't at risk of endangering yourself or others. Are you with somebody right now?”
“Oh. Yeah. Im fine.” I said mostly because i was confused. I didn't know what they wanted me to say or do. I did my part. I just got the pills.
She, in a more professional tone, basically made me promise her that I wasn't going to kill myself. Which really confused me because I knew I was depressed, but I guess I hadn't realized how depressed I really was.. Enough for a fucking nurse to call me and act as though I was an escap-ee of sorts.
When we got off of the phone, I felt so confused. And sort of worried about myself.
This worry was cemented when I sat in my psychiatrist's room 4-5 months later, our appointment being to talk about my quitting my wellbutrin, which I felt had completely numbed me to everything and anything.
She asked me if I was feeling better, I said yes. She asked me what was so sure I was going to keep feeling better. I shrugged and said I will eat better, keep doing my daily runs, and regularly seeing my friends. I ended the sentence with “I will be fine, I think.”
“Ms Ingram, I don't think you realize. This is… You're going to deal with this for the rest of your life.” She sighed and put her clipboard down as if I were a child she were frustrated with.
“The rest of my life?” I scoffed. Why was she talking to me if Ii don't know myself? I am the depressed one. I am the one in the chair. You are the one standing. You are the one who has a clipboard.
“Yes. Based off of your chart… statistically… Ms.Ingram, this isn't your typical sort of rut. You have recurrent major depressive disorder. It will come and go. I am not trying to scare you, but it's going to be something you will deal with for the rest of your life.”
I didn't say anything
“Do you understand?”
“Yes.” I said, though I did not. I don't think I understood this until October. Until my 25th birthday. I thought of it; she was right. My life was circumstantially perfect at the start of October, and I somehow still wasn't happy; in fact, I was depressed.
I am better now. Kind of. Somewhat. I think I am ultimately fine, but in realizing that the doctor was right, I kind of spun out.
I do not want to live the rest of my life varying between states. I dont want to always have to anticipate that. I dont want to be on and off of antidepressants for the rest of my life. I dont want to worry people, or myself. The way she said it made me so deeply uncomfortable, as if she were diagnosing me with a cancer of some sort, except she made it seem like there was no resolute. There was no chemotherapy, no medical marijuana to aid symptoms, she said it with such despair as if the only option in my life were to be inevitably commit suicide. Which frightened me terribly.
That isn't necessarily true, but the way she said it felt so finite.
I have to come to terms with it, I think I have following my 25th birthday. I dont know. It's all quite grim. I thought a lot of this was attributed to my personality. And it feels quite scary to admit that its because of a chemical imbalance in my brain. That it just won't work properly for whatever reason. It can feel quite hopeless I guess. It feels like things are already decided for me.
It makes me feel unreliable. To everyone. Even myself. No amount of running, eating right, or getting enough sunlight will fully eradicate the fact that it will inevitably come back. At least according to her. Who I am by all means now, more inclined to trust rather than myself.
—
Feel anxious. Weird. That kind of escapes me as an adult. I just ate so maybe I am scared of my stomach hurting. Or something.
I am also freezing cold. I feel weird and tense. I have felt this way a lot lately.
This is maybe bad to say because everybody was so acutely worried about me on Halloween, but it was nice to not think for some hours. I do not remember what happened. I think I feel fine and lucky that nothing bad happened, of course. But I cant remember the last time I was just kind of obliviously living. Im sure I was a total nightmare to deal with. Dillon says I was throwing up a lot. And that I kept complaining about how “cold and scared” I was. Im sure I was cold and scared. But I dont really remember it. So it doesnt really matter. I feel like everyone is surprised by how “fine” I am from that night. It doesnt really feel all that different from the usual.
I often feel like a dog people feel sympathy towards. Like a dog who is going to get put down, so you buy him an ice cream cone and let him eat a chocolate bar because he is going to die anyways. I don't want to think of puppies dying before this social event.
I am going to put lipstick on, a coat, and then I will go. I will listen to happy music on the way and do the things I am supposed to do.
11/2 My grandfather is over this morning to help me hang my curtain rod in my room. I’ve been at this apartment for nearly two months and I somehow still dont have curtains. Living room doesnt have curtains either. Sigh.
Stove doesnt work either.
I have been begging Dillon or my grandfather to help with the curtains, especially given I have been at work what we feels like almost every single day. And if I am not at work it is merely because my stomach is in that distinct and familiar pain (a stabbing sensation under my right rib, so sharp it sometimes hurts to breathe).
I am reading a book on my bed, Less Than Zero by Ellis. Again. Its one of my favorite books, at least in the top 10. Whenever I talk about I call it a “magnum opus” which I find humorous because I never use that phrase in reference to anything else. My grandfather keeps muttering complaints under his breath. I keep asking if he needs any help. He says “fuck no” so I dont help him.
He complains under his breath, again, and I ask if he needs any help, again. He says “fuck no” again. Its kind of hard to read in the midst of all of this; so I stop. Im going to check my phone. I think I was supposed to have coffee with Alex and Jason today. I was supposed to go out with Fern and Zoe last night. I was supposed to do a lot of things this weekend but friday night kind of fucked all of that up.
I text Jason and Alex but I dont know if they’re awake. I check tumblr.
Anonymous sent:
Its been nearly a month. Please write, please, I am tired of seeing 10/10 when I go to load your journal
Fair.
I dont know why I stopped for this long. I havent gone this long without updating the blog since, like ever. I guess. Objectively, many interesting things have happened. Well interesting for the readers. I’ve just been busy. And sick. And busy. And on tour. And then sad. And then on a plane home. And then home. And then sick again.
“Shitty ass screwdriver” My grandfather mutters.
I feel as though I could have hung the curtains by now, if I had any free time. I get mad and turn my phone off.
I try to ask Dillon if he will go with me to IKEA to get curtains. He says no. Which is making me angry because I said Sunday was my only free day. And he said “well yes ash of course I will go to ikea with you to get the curtains on Sunday”
Sunday and we won’t be getting curtains. I can’t be that mad at him because he saved my life the other night. In my defense, I never asked him to. I only really asked him to help me with the curtains. And the stove.
It’s assuring to rely solely on yourself, but really exhausting.
—
In living room now with a stuffed golden retriever on my lap. My stomach hurts because I made the fatal flaw of eating breakfast. Whatever
Instead of yelling at the window in my room, my grandfather is now yelling at the window in living room. He is asking me about traffic. I say I don’t know.
Alex and Jason are texting me, trying to figure out what to do. I suggested Barnsdall because it’s beautiful out this morning. It made me so happy to go there at a certain point; maybe it can again.
Jason says Barnsdall is too far.
I wish Tom was in Los Angeles so we can go to the farmers market together. But he isn’t. I also cried the last time we went to the farmers market, which was around 2 weeks ago. He kept asking me what was wrong but I didn’t know.
I’d like to nap on him because the coffee isn’t really working. And Mostly because I would like to restart this morning to where I can i have it be that I am not: 1. Sick to my stomach 2. Angry at dillon 3. Hung the curtains myself
11/1 Trying to piece together last night.
Being told about things, things I have no recollection of doing or saying. Frankly I dont even understand how I made it home. Apparently Dillon got me home, he says.
I dont really understand what happened, or how. Isnt that kind of the point of that though?
See old entry, I dont know, probably some time in April, when Max and Brandon texted me that they believed I was roofied at pour vous the previous night. I just responded ‘ok’They seemed put off by my response. Genuinely what am I to do about being hypothetically roofiied? It didnt really matter because nothing bad happened to me. I was fine. I ended up at home regardless. So like whatever.
I dont think anything bad happened to me last night. Aside from the obvious; being incredibly sick, losing consciousness, having to be carried around like an obese toddler etc. But I dont think I got assaulted. So terrible to say but it wouldnt really matter if it did, I would have no way of remembering it.
Tom says I was on the phone with him, which I remember some bits of. He says that i just kept repeating that I was scared over and over. When I was leaving the party multiple people tried to help me, he could hear it in the background, and that apparently really did not like that. I was telling people to fuck off, or leave me alone. God, I have such a dazzling and welcoming personality.
I must have thrown up a lot. I can feel my hip bones swimming under my skin, which feels oddly thin, as if I could puncture through the skin with the tip of a pencil. God. My makeup is still on.
I count down from 50, which turns into 20, which turns into 10, and then I restart because I cannot fathom standing up. When I eventually do, I start shaking uncontrollably, reminding me of being a child in the snow, the only time I have ever seen the snow, shivering. My mother brought me to the restroom of some bed and breakfast right near where we were skiing, and she rubbed her hands against my chest desperately trying to warm me up. Somehow, small vines of ice enveloped my 4 year old flat chest. I cant remember if I fell, I dont know. But I just remember being so cold.
I remember her giving me my grandmothers sweater, but I couldnt warm no matter her efforts. I was just crying, and saying that I was sorry. I felt as though I ruined something, I felt as if I was defunct. I couldnt become warm. And I tried. It just wouldnt work.
When I make it to the bath, I lay my head against the porcelain tub. I let the water get up to my neck. I have no idea what time it is, I realize. I check my phone and have an overwhelming amount of notifications; everyone is asking me if I am okay. I respond to none of these. Im fine, this can be conclduded by just tracking me.
I laid there for hours, and counted myself down to get up eventually, my wet hair dripping down my back and pooling into a small puddle on the floor.
—
“Bro?” Dillon calls from the living room as I pour myself water in the kitchen and butter a piece of toast.
“Hey.”
“Are you good?”
“Yeah. Im so hungry. I dont know that I have ever thrown up so much in my life” I smile to assure him im fine. Which I am. Its just double assurance.
“Yeah, do you want any real food?” Is toast not real food?
“Im okay, I think” I butter my toast as he sits down at the table.
“Do you want like, a meal?” Whats he on about? Where the fuck is any of this coming from.
“I dont have money to order a meal. The stove is broken. I have my bread” I smile. Triple assurance. Lets stop talking about this.
“I just feel worried about you” He sighs, looking out of our kitchen window. Which has quite an ugly view.
“Why??” This might be retarded of me to ask given last night, but it seems fairly obvious we arent speaking in reference to last night.
“Like are you eating? I have only seen you eat bread and apples for the last like week.” How medieval of me.
“Yeah I am fine. I have just had a horrible stomach lately. It just hurts really bad and these are supposed to like.. I dont know. Not make me throw up at least,” I shrug.
“I know but you have to try”
I.am.trying.
—
After Toast Gate I check my phone again. Some vague texts from other friends, forming some sort of low effort low reward intervention. “We need to start eating better” I think it just is directed at me, so I reply to everything else included in the message except… that
I am trying. I am always starting to better. I am always quitting being better. I am always fixing some aspect about myself. I am always doing something.
I dont really understand why these pseudo-interventions are taking place. Given I don't think I am super sick right now. Maybe I am and I just cant tell. I dont know. For the past month, I havent actively thought of food. Which is good for me. It can easily become the only thing I am thinking of. With all of the stomach pain I have kind of given up. I even stopped weighing myself. Albeit, I am eating less. A lot less. But not for any other reason other than being scared of my stomach pain becoming debilitating. It has proven to be mostly as a result of eating. So, common sense, yeah Im gonna stop eating. Or avoid it as much as possible, i guess.
I also feel like we should maybe focus on last night which is obviously more pressing.
It feels like everybody is talking about me behind my back, which makes me feel bad about myself. And like a little kid.
—
After deciding today, and by proxy myself, is useless I put on Psycho by Hitchcock. Maybe I will watch the Shinning after. I like the old scary ones. I like anything that is in black and white.
Settling into the useless feeling, its nice. I like feeling like I have nothing to do. Probably because there is always something to do. Something to do: check my phone. The dodgers won the World Series again.
I text Tom about this, obviously. I jokingly ask if I should go light Sunset Boulevard on fire with all of my friends. This obviously read to me as a joke, given I am a woman who doesnt care about baseball at all, and its just kind of ridiculous to start lighting fires because your team won.
Somehow, the conversation turns into him saying he is worried about me. Do I have cancer, and everybody knows except for me? Like genuinely. Do I have a tattoo across my forehead that says “dying”? Genuinely, for fucks sake.
I know its wrong, and I am the one who is wrong. But I just feel angry when people worry about me. The timing is always inappropriate. If anyone were to worry about me it should have been while I was on tour. I was not okay. I dont know how anybody couldn't see that. My 25th birthday and the following day did a number on me. I dont know why everything was so terrible, but it was. It far exceeds just generally disliking my birthday. Horrible things happened. Which is fine, but my God. I haven't even told anybody the extent of it and I probably never will, I just want the day to be forgotten. Honestly.
Since returning home, I am somewhat better. My mood is more consistent at least. I feel okay if anything. Fine, or something close to that. I wish my stomach were better, but I’ve wished for that my entire life, it won't happen. I have given up. Which, to me, is the ultimate liberation and grants me a kind of immediate happiness. Its relieving to not have to try. Nothing can go wrong, or there's no expectation to be met, I guess.
This latent worry is just not needed. If I am losing weight, I am not doing that purposefully, which is more than I can say for the last couple of years. Last night was a blip, that usually doesn't happen. My stomach, yeah, I can't do anything about that. I am trying to get health insurance. Ultimately, I cant fix everything, much less myself, and this realization has been good for me. Maybe bad for others. I just dont see the point in trying.
Maybe I am acting different. I dont know. I dont feel any different.
“I dont want to talk about this, Im going to bed, Love you” I send the text.
I try to sleep but I cant. I just stare at Anthony Perkins face. Its almost to the shower part, where he tries to kill her.
10/29 ██ █████ ████ █ ████████ ███ █ ███████ ████ ███ ██ ███████ █ ████ ███ █████ █ ██ ██ ███████ ██████ ███ ███ ████ █ █████ ████ █ ████████ ████ ████████ ████ █ ████ ████ █████████ ██ ██ ███████ █ ████ █████ ██████ █████ ██ ██████ ████ ████ ██ ███████ ███████
That would’ve been really cool thing to say if I was fifteen and an angsty teenager, but I’m a 25-year-old adult. It feels embarrassing to fight this way. I don’t want to do this; I really become the worst version of myself around him. Around any of them really. I don’t yell. I don’t call people out of their name. I think the only reason I do this is because I was raised this way, by these people. I don’t do this to my friends, or my boyfriend.
I don’t focus on this for long. I text Mark and bug him about Halloween plans. When I saw him in Miami, in between flashes, I asked if he knew what was happening for Halloween, because I am nothing if not a beautiful subject at a party, and also an opportunist.
That’s a bit jaded. I don’t know. He’s usually at the best parties. So. Maybe he will know where we should go.
He sends me a flyer for an invite only party Noah and chandler are DJing. This doesn’t aid in any real way given that Noah put Alex and I on the list for it already, and I am still at the issue which is that none of my other friends can get in. I don’t care to do the whole “why did he put you on the list and not us?” I don’t know. Maybe you should ask him. Literally. But also figuratively.
I don’t know why he puts us on the list. It’s nice that he does. I don’t understand why nice things need to be explained. Shouldn’t they just be nice?
—-
I was put on the list for the Rachel Senott pilot screening. I don’t know why.
It’s too late to go. I’m already at Alex’s apartment in her very comfortable chair, it’s very unlikely I will get up for the next 2-4 hours.
Besides, I am saving my energy for the bender that is Halloween weekend.
10/27 I haven’t done an update in 15 days, Jason tells me. Someone on tumblr also asked when I will update again; I guess now.
I have done so many things yet simultaneously nothing. Horrible syntax. Feel completely demotivated by how horrible I have perceived my writing to be in the last 2-3 months. It’s all so clunky, lazy. I’ll work on it, or try to.
Realistically it’s hard to write when you get back from tour, are scheduling upcoming interviews, working 40 hours a week (sometimes more), your boyfriend is in town to visit you, you turn 25, everyone is mad at you, and you’re sick to your stomach 80% of the time.
I’m being self indulgent but I earnestly have lost count of the amount of times I’ve thrown up in the last two weeks. See, that syntax feels quite ugly. Clunky.
I realistically don’t care about throwing up. It’s as passive to me as a sneeze now it seems; which is honestly disgusting. I went to the office on Saturday morning, and while I was throwing up in the office toilet (I have thrown up so often I have started to rank which is my favorite toilet to throw up in,
My apartment. Low stakes.
Whole Foods bathroom. Fine when no one is in there I guess
Any friends apartment. Makes me anxious and embarrassed
The office bathroom. By far the worst. I just feel like everyone knows. They can hear me coughing, or at least I think.
My coworker walked in. Which was humanizing. Like why would she ever need to see my knees on the floor, hearing me cough up bile which has been burning my throat for the past hour? She doesnt, really.
—-
On my drive home I pass by a gang of catholic school girls. I think of how I once was one. Or almost. My family never sent me to catholic school despite their religion. I think they realized I had difficult socializing when I was in public school for elementary school and this wouldn’t be aided by being around a ton of other girls and nuns. I probably would have turned lesbian just to have something to do.
No. But i think they did genuinely realize I had a hard enough time enrolled in public school. I was just never able to make friends. Aside from my twin brother kind of. But he was my brother so it didn’t really count. And I was always very scared of bothering him and his friends; this was not an unfounded fear. He would literally yell at me to go hangout with other the children. So I would run away and pretend to be playing with other children during recess, but really I would sit at the trunk of one of two eucalyptus trees which were out of sight. I would lie to him and tell him I hung out with Makayla. Makayla was my real friend at one point; but not by third grade. She said I was mean in first grade which was honestly fair. I told her she was horrible at singing and that her mother was fat. Well she asked me if I thought her mom was fat and I said yes, because I thought her mother was fat, and she got extremely upset at me.
I thought she genuinely just wanted to know whether her mother was fat or not. Her mother was fat. I answered the question. I didn’t realize it was some kind of test.
“Well your mom is too skinny” she said to me. “Like a French fry” she said to me.
“Okay.” I said.
“She’s skinny like a French fry.” She said again.
“Yes. My mom is very skinny.” I said. I was genuinely confused.
I was not invited to her birthday party that year. Which is how I realized that we weren't friends anymore. Yes, she avoided me at recess after the skinny mom vs fat mom debacle at recess. But I just thought she was busy. At recess.
I didn’t understand why our moms were fighting. Or if they even were, really. Or why it mattered that my mom was very skinny. Or that her mom was maybe a little fat.
I never had to wear a complete school uniform like these girls crossing Beverly Boulevard.
except in the first grade. I had to wear a skirt and a small vest. Which was quite cute. But very uncomfortable. It made d oing math somehow more difficult, I remember. I was always fine at reading. I’d place a couple of grades above my reading level which made me feel very smart. It mattered in no real way to me though, Because my brother was quite good at everything. He’d place at the same reading level as I did, but also placed above in mathematics. I was decent at science. History.
I was horrible at soccer. And mathematics.
I feel maternal to one of the school girls who is walking alongside a nun. She seems shy. Or new. All the other girls are paired off in twos. And they look quite happy. They look happy in a way only 13 year olds can be happy. Its obvious from their body language they are gossiping.
Its making me think of an MJ lenderman song now that always makes me sad.
10/22 I decided at work, maybe on the second hour I need to make a list in order to feel happy. I do this often. There’s random lists everywhere. Lists of perfumes I like, lists of traits I like about myself, lists ranking flowers from favorite to least favorite. Lists of nail polish according to finish and shade.
Here is a list of things I need to do to be happy I think:
Read twenty pages a day
Drink a lot of water
Take my vitamins even if I don’t believe in them
Say yes to more things (unless it’s modeling. Alex says I need to set a rate. I tell her I don’t think I’m pretty enough to do this)
Go out even if I have work the next day
Eat only healthy foods. Vegetables and such.
Respond to more text messages
Hang out with Max while he is here from London
Order a new French press
Act my age
These all seem fine. Maybe I will make one more list. 26 things to do before I turn 26
Get a passport
Quit smoking or start smoking more
Buy a CD player
Swim
Get a 2nd really good pair of jeans
Figure some things out
Turn the computer off
Find a publisher (or quit doing this whole thing)
Allow myself to be angry
Apologize and mean it to ****
Figure out what to do during the Christmas time
Stop buying random useless things
Get
10/21 Contamination OCD is flaring up. It’s the first time my OCD has flared up in years. It’s in a very passive way, not as invasive, I’m just washing my hands a lot. Not too much though. The skin isn’t cracking. At least not yet.
It’s because Dillon is sick. I can hear him coughing all the way from my bedroom. I feel really nervous about getting sick again. If I get sick it will be my eighth time getting sick this year. My body feels really exhausted and warm. Could just be from extensive travel and jet lag. I don’t know how those kinds of things work really.
.
The extreme overstimulation from tour is really depressing to come off of. I sat in my room alone for 9 hours on Monday. I didn’t know what to do so I just sat there. I’m hoping it’s just that and that I’m not actually depressed. It’s difficult to tell with me.
I didn’t gain much weight from tour. At least less than I anticipated. Again- you’re not supposed to think these things, say these things, write these things. But I do think these things. And sometimes I say them, I can’t help it. People get really pissy about it.
My scale is in my bedroom which is quite weird, but something I’ve adapted to. It was in my bathroom, like a normal person, for 3 years. I lived alone for 3 years. Now it’s in my bedroom. It’s just weird thinking of dillon seeing my scale when he pisses every morning.
Truthfully that’s not the deciding factor. It’s that I don’t want it to get uncalibrated.
—
“It’s nice to have you back Ash” they say at the office. I smile.
Everyone is saying my first name to me again, which is making me feel paranoid. There’s some entry on here on why I hate when people do this. But I think I am just paranoid because the emails have started again.
It’s from a different email address but I think it’s from the same person. I didn’t even really tell anyone about the email I received during the early morning hours of Monday, or the 4 that followed the initial one. I think that was my first mistake over the summer, telling people. I didn’t know what to do though.
Everyone told me how to act and behave which really confused me because I wasn’t doing anything. Literally anything. I just sat there and somehow I was still doing something wrong.
Certain people said I should go to the police. Which I didn’t care to do- at all. It felt way too dramatic. Other people told me not to provoke them. Which angered me. There was some sort of insinuation. An insinuation that I somehow brought it upon myself.
I turn off the noise cancellation on my AirPods at my desk because I don’t want to startle today. And I startle pretty much everyday at this point.
—-
Holly offers me next to nothing in our therapy appointment. Well that isn’t true; she’s much smarter and older than I am. I’m just maybe too proud to admit my stupidity. Or too stubborn to accept that things are quite simple, and that I am not a complicated person.
I answer a lot of her questions for her before she even asks them.
I’m a bad patient. It has to be the worst to be a therapist or psychiatrist and tend to patients who think they are in on the game. They know what to say and what not to say. They think they will win. Win what?
Genuinely, win what?
10/17 It’s somehow worse than I imagined. Which is a bit funny in a sardonic way.
----
I’m taking a melatonin and going to bed. Turning 25 is the hardest thing I’ve done so far.
I know a lot of people say this, but I mean this very genuinely; I objectively don’t care about my birthday. (See the blog update, from, I don’t know a couple of days ago where I discuss my issues with emotional blunting) I already have a problem with caring about things generally. But I am still somewhat normal. I hope I am somewhat normal at least. I’d at least like to be somewhat amused or maybe even happy on my birthday. I’d at least like to have a good day unrelated to my birthday.
I try to what would have made a good birthday. I really don’t know. I guess any other day that has been good and has nothing to do with me. Like maybe just a really good Tuesday Would have been nice.
I really miss LA.