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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█ ████████ ████ ██ █████ ███████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ██ █████ ███████ ██ ███████ █████ █████ ███ ████ ██ ██ ████ ███ ███ ██ █████ ██ █████ ████ ████ ███ This all seemed fair. 

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.