7/22 “I swear to fucking God if you dont leave me alone-” I yell at nothing, not even into my phone receiver, because my airpods are in. “I will tell ███.”
My eyes remain focused on editing my photos. My demeanor is casual despite my tone. I can tell other people in the office are looking at me, I know I should care, I dont. Eyes are widening, attention spans are being diverted.
“I dont want-” The kid starts
“I could give a shit about what you want” I practically bark. “If you give out my number again I will tell ███. If you come to my work again, I will tell ███. If you do not leave me alone, I will tell ███. Just leave me the fuck alone.”
I mean all of this.
The dynamic is very much “I will tell Daddy on you” but I cant even be bothered to care about how it looks. I just want to do my fucking job. Its hard to do that in the heat, which is why, during this fit of anger I am yelling in a bikini top and 501 cut-offs. Its hard to do that when you are being low-grade harassed by some kids online who find you “cool”. As if it were my problem. I hang up the phone and block ███’s number. No sweat off of my back.
know I should maybe feel fear about my office location being given out; instead I only find annoyance. Its obstructive. It’s useless.
“What was that?” Milly asks, her arm cradling my shoulder.
“It doesnt matter” I scoff disinterested in revealing what the call meant; it meant nothing.
The unrelenting heat this past week has gifted me something new and completley alien to me; paranoia. I have never cared enough, generally, let alone enough to worry. To suppose that something bad might happen. I dont even know if I can classify this as paranoia because frankly bad things are happening. Or at least confusing things:
-calls from random out of country numbers
-mornings spent vomitting
-the emails
-the incident.
My spine tickles from a bead of sweat. The bikini tightened around my ribs starts to slip because of my new wet skin. I rest my hand in my heads and listen to everybody around me speak, comments about the flash wiping out the color of t-shirts, mumblings about tomorrows shoots, pointed swearing at our intangible software that has been acting up for days.
It must be the heat. It isnt working because of the heat.
-----
I tell Sawyer I cant stop by his office after work; too tired. I instead call Brandon and fold my clothes.
“Good luck, I guess” He says “I dont know what to say”
He’s honest and unsure.
“Thank you.”
7/21 I step back onto my scale to make sure my eyes are not deceiving me. It reads as ████ My feet shuffle on and off the scale about 5 times, trying to verify if this is actually true. If so I have lost 5 pounds within the last two weeks.I know I have been throwing up a lot ever since I threw up at June’s last week, but this seems stark. Five pounds? That doesn't seem right.
I guess I threw up twice at work today. And I dont know, I cried on sunday. I have been sweating too.
Still.
——
I don’t understand why ██ ████ ███ ████ ██ ████ ██ ██ ███████ Or if it matters. I don’t think it matters. Well I decided that it didn’t matter last week.
███ ████ ███ ██ ███ ██ ████████ ███ ██ █████ ████ █████ ████ ████████ █████ █████████ ████ ██ █████ █████. To their curiosity I usually just shrug.█ █████ ██ ███ █████ ██ ███ █████████ ██ ██ ██ ██████████ ███ ███ ███████ ████████ ███████ ██ ███ ██████ ███ █████ ████ Sometimes I am the best person in the world; I cured cancer. Other times I am cancer.
████ ███████ ██ █ ███ █ █████ ████ ███ ███████ ████████ ███ █████ ██ ██ ███ █ ███ ███ ██████ ████████ I think the fact I don’t care somehow bothers her more.
I have tried caring. ████████ ███ ███ ████ ██ █ ████ ███ ████ ██ ██████ ████ █ ████ ██ ██████████ ██ ████ ████ █████ ████ ██ ██████ ███ ███ ██ ██ ██████ ██ ████ ██████████ I don’t know if she even believes that. Again; does not matter.
It’s that
stupid website
—-
“Yeah, I saw” I answer the phone without even saying hello.
June makes faces to me from his bedroom, teasing me from the couch. My laptop lazes in my laptop as I sort through my photos. The air condition softens me. I imagine if I were to get this call any other time, perhaps him in my humidity ridden bedroom, I’d probably spout up more.
But, the air conditioning is nice.
Ben mumbles to me on the phone about work. Usually this would bother me because I am not at work, but I think that stopped mattering a long time ago. Probably a year ago.
7/20 “What is that smell?” I turn to Ben who is walking eerily close to me.
“It smells like a fire.” he says turning his neck to look for smoke.
I dont go to turn my neck. My eyes remain on my feet, which are walking me from one office to another. Every summer is just walking from one office to another, seeking resolute in the form of HVAC air conditioning, migrating to another. And then that goes on forever.
“I wonder where its coming from.” Dallas says. He holds a copy of a Bret Easton Ellis book I recommended last week. He says he got it from Skylight on Vermont. the spine of that book posited between his thumb and the base of his index, reminds me that people might actually listen to what I say. Something about this was shocking in a really worthless way. I said it in such a desultory manner.
“Hopefully not ████.” Ben says casually.
Hopefully not, that is where the UKI® LU-1560N – Double Needle Unison Feed Walking Foot Heavy Duty – Complete Setup, Table & Stand Included machines are. That is where my friends are. They are probably hissing right now. Exerting air, sucking it in quickly after, threading minuscule needles only a machine could see; not a human eye.
My ersatz eyes cannot see a fire.
I cant even really smell the smoke.
everything is so violent. but nothing ever gets hit.
—--
“Its too hot” He says leaving the bed, instead finding solace on my fire escape.
“I know.” I say but do nothing to aid this. I stay posited in my sheets. For a second I think he might light one of his cigarettes, but he doesn't. He just settles his head into his hands. The sun sets behind him, ensuring gentleness is arriving soon.
7/19 There is this very bleak point in the summer, it always arrives in mid July. The air is thick with intangible tension, but it’s so viscous, so palpable one might operate under the assumption there is a very real threat. Yelling is commonplace. An air of agitation greets you sooner than your morning cigarette. Traffic congetsts mimicing a sea of jeweled -metal- somethings named after hores. It always falls mid July.
I remember this from every summer yet I am shocked by its return; revolted.
My thighs are riddled with a thick sweat befriending June's passenger seat and refusing to let go. A nausea overtakes my entire body that is debilitating, the lack of AC in his car only nourishing my impregnated migraine.
He looks over to me; I say nothing because I’m so focused on not throwing up. The volitality of Los Angeles, all of its abrasive saturation is raping my eyes.
Every time he tries to grab my hand I gag. Not because I don’t love him, but because the summertime is just fucking disgusting. It disgusts me. It fucking grosses me out.
The weather was stomachable a few weeks ago; we’d roll his car windows down and listen to the Rolling Stones. I’d remember all of the times I’d listened to the Rolling Stones ever in my life; My uncle playing the light and smooth drum beat to ‘Miss You’ as my toes shuffled in rhythm against the polypropylene carpet of his living room. A house party in Hollywood 2 years ago. Wild Horses in a downtown 2 bedroom with nice fresh white sheets that I never really rested in.
It’s hard to reconcile this the same season occurring only weeks ago when it’s this hot. Things don't feel like that now. They feel different,angry, and fueled. I don’t know if Los Angeles has ever been this hot. This kind of heat has to kill people.
It has.
—-
In my bed lay in nothing but my teal underwear with the smooth bottom of my laptop acting as the only cooling agent in my new room. My box fan broke weeks ago. I am too shy to ask my new roomates to turn the central air conditioning on. I just indebted myself to lay in my bed, bleakly, with no sort of rectification from the heat. I submitted to it. If you would want to call it that; I submitted to it.
The only relief I obtained was the cold bath I ran myself when returning from Chinatown. I sat in the water staring at the ceiling thinking about the heat; as if it were real. As if it were some scary, real thing, that makes people act insane. It felt probable, likely even as I took into account the incidents from this morning.
My chin nestled itself, submerged in the water, I felt relief as the cold water slowly pooled around me, starting my ankles and ending at the base of my neck. There are no bathtubs where there areUKI® LU-1560N – Double Needle Unison Feed Walking Foot Heavy Duty – Complete Setup, Table & Stand Included machines. And where I lived as of not even 72 hours ago.
I imagine the UKI® LU-1560N – Double Needle Unison Feed Walking Foot Heavy Duty – Complete Setup, Table & Stand Included machines droning by themselves; to nobody. The hissing they produce will ring upon nothing today. I wonder if they miss me. I believe that they do. And I believe that we are friends.
The cold water on my skin made me more rational. It stripped me of the anger I felt only 20 minutes ago, and it was replaced by sadness in recollection of the morning.
The sadness dissipated (and quickly) when I dropped my towel to the hardwood floor, slipping my legs through the teal underwear. I plummeted onto my back, quickly grabbing my laptop to search some kind of weather database online.
Surely, there has to be some sort of historical account for the weather on any given day within the last 100 years. That has to exist. A digital almanac.
“When did the cielo drive murders occur?” I type into google.
August 9th, 1961.
“What was the temperature on August 9th, 1961?” I type into google.
The results are unclear. Some websites, poorly made, sure, but ones that uphold their job as a digital almanac, probably made by somebody’s father who is into science, report it was 81 degrees. Others report that it was 104 degrees.
The answers confuse me enough to close my laptop and desolate myself to my fire escape; where I smoke a cigarette in my teal underwear and white t-shirt.
7/17 A couple of us were set to gather on the roof tonight; in celebration of my last day living above the UKI® LU-1560N – Double Needle Unison Feed Walking Foot Heavy Duty – Complete Setup, Table & Stand Included machines .
I wish I felt sentimental. Or cared at all. I don't, not really.
Im sure theres some part of me that is relieved. It is happening again; Im not a person. Or if I am I am a mangled ersatz of one. Im a human who has thought about what it means to be a human; which is probably something a bad human would do. I sometimes feel guilty for my inapt anger towards the UKI® LU-1560N – Double Needle Unison Feed Walking Foot Heavy Duty – Complete Setup, Table & Stand Included machines. I think it just occurs because I realize how idosyncratic my life has unfolded, and there is no better signifier than them. They are what makes me unrelatable. (EDITING: I AM WHAT MAKES MYSELF UNRELATABLE).
The plan was: gather on the roof, open that really nice bottle of wine I have saved, and smoke cigarettes on the roof. To christen my leaving or something; however that works.
7/16 “Ash?” The model, Luz, calls to me from the rolling chair she is taking a short break on.
“Yeah?” I bid, my thumbs filtering through the previous photos without raising my eyesight. My chaotic demeanor is probably off-putting. I know that I am reading as frenzied right now, probably more demanding than I would be any other day; but this shoot was sprung upon us last minute.
Circumstance not being aided by the incident this morning, when I weighed myself for the first time in two weeks, ultimately leading to my decision to not eat breakfast. I downed coffee and admittedly have forgotten to drink water. I feel like shit, and ████ █ ██ ██████ ███ ██ ██████ ██ ████ ██████████ █████ █ ████ ███ ██████████ ███ ███ ███ █████ ███ █████ ███ ████ ███ All of this is made up in my head. Its self assigned pressure without any self-assigned relief.
“Ash?” She calls again.“I was wondering.. If” She stutters “I have a set coming up soon, and i wanted to ask if you wanted to come? Its okay if not- I just”
“What?” I ask, looking up, my tone blunted. Maybe austere.
“It's totally okay if not.” She stammers.
“Like a music set? A dj set?” i inquire more, trying to make my tone softer.
“Um, yeah.” She rubs the back of her neck.
When the fuck did I get so bad at this? Making friends? Being nice?
I want to go to her DJ set. Admittedly, I wanted to befriend her the second I saw her. She looks interesting. She seemed interesting the first time I took photos of her.
“Yes!” I smile. I remind myself this is something people do when they are excited. When they are happy.
“Okay.” She says but keeps reassuring me that I don't have to go if I don't actually want to. I do. Something about my demeanor must not be convincing.
Its weird because I believe in myself all of the time; even when I shouldn't.
7/14 My head hangs over the toilet and my eyes brim with tears. The dingy lighting isn't helping with the melodrama. The sink water runs in the background, as if it could offer any sort of buffer between the ambiance of the office and my profuse coughing.
“Where were you?” Ben asks when I get back to our desks.
“I was throwing up” I sigh and set my head on the desk.
“Really?” He asks.
I laugh and nod; mostly from exhaustion.
“Are you okay?” He asks. I think he is looking at me, but my head is down.
I nod into my crossed arms that are acting as a pillow.
-------
“Here” He sets a can of canada-dry-caffeine-free ginger-ale near my elbow. Its condensation dripping onto our desk.
“Really?” I ask like an excited toddler; only instead of being excited over something actually exciting, like bubbles, or sandcastles, I am excited over a supposed cure for my nausea.
“Thank you.” I crack the top. “Thats so kind”
I drink it feverishly and rub the back of my neck. It's slightly lemon-y which helps with the thing. Rubbing my neck helps with something; im not sure what but it helps with something.
Our boss comes in and I straighten my spine. It feels incomprehensible that I am at work right now. That my legs are under their desk. I listen intently and try to show that I am following along offering nods, and some “yes, thats very helpful”’s but I cant focus, my nausea is debilitating.
On top of everything; I am moving. ██ █████ ████ ████ █████ █ ████ ████ ███ █████ ██ ███████ ███████ █████ ██ ███ ███████ ███ █████ ███████ ████ ███ ███████ █████ ██ ██████████ █ ████ █████ ████ █████ ██████████ ████████ ███ █████
7/13 My legs flagellate under me, a surprising effort that shocks me. Seaweed and kelp dance around my calves; glittering from an occasional bokeh gratuity of the sun. I feel outside of myself, more so than usual. The tenacity I am exerting to hold myself up is shocking. I didnt know I cared enough to do that. Its a tangible sign that I care about something. Otherwise I could sink, down to the sand under the water. I hear the gusts of my breath against my chest, a sign I am doing something; holding something up.
When I look back to the shore, I see June. Well, half of him. He's in the water about up to his chest. Im all the way out.
Earlier, he held my hand and promised we would take one step with each crash of a wave, eventually hoping to lead us out to the depth in which the water would flood our clavicles; creating our very own tiny pools. I surprised both of us when I just ran, diving into the warm. My legs flailing around; stupid and long. I forgot I am good at this. My arms dug into the water, pulling myself forward or under; my hair became soft and weightless.
I swim up to him; he holds me like a bride, my knees over his elbows, our wet faces together. We both smell like salt.
Is this what was waiting? That day in Malibu? When I let the waves bite at my ankles, my hesitancy keeping me in place, as if to swim I’d crack myself in half? From the shore (that day I mean) would I have been looking back to the rattan chairs, the half-eaten plum on the blanket, the gray sweatshirt flaccidly asserting itself in such a pathetic manner? Would it matter as much as I worried?
I smile against his chest. He splashes me, and I just smile.
7/8 There is this part of the highway on the 134 west that mimics a desert set that might idle in the back lot of some movie studio you hit right before you cross over the hill into the valley. On its rafters, muted green shrubbery atop tan granules of sand that multiply into the thousands, presumably. Mojave color stories usher past you, or your car more so. Gordon Gano soundtracks my drive from the office to my doctor's appointment in Glendale, which only adds to this pseudo-western mood I’ve obtained on the drive over.
All of my windows are down despite the air conditioning being on. “Despite” I remember she spelled that word wrong. She spelled it “Despit”
I would have thought it was a typo but she had used the word twice. It only made me roll my eyes; which was uncharacteristic of me. I could give a shit about somebodys spelling ability or their lucidity. But, it was already out of character of me to be that angry, that viscerally mad to the point that I could feel it in my throat. An actual dry heat of the body, a tensing of the muscles.
Relief washes over me on the 134 West as I think of how I do not have to explain myself over and over. Defend myself.
June says I am a good dancer. A weird one but a good one.
—----
“Ash” A nurse calls to me.
I stand up “Hi”
We weave in and out of cubicles, stopping at one with a calendar showing the wrong month. It is showing the month of May. Maybe she liked the photo of the dalmatian and didnt want to change it,
7/6 I wake up to a screenshot of flight information from Jack.
He's coming to Los Angeles in 34 days.
I stop what Im doing, dropping my clothes I diligently picked out for today (I realize I haven't made a single attempt to look pretty in the past month, which is not aided by the fact that I now weigh 115 pounds and want to kill myself or at least explode something small as a result of this. Im aware of how stupid I sound, but self-awareness is not a cure for hardly anything. I just thought ‘ok maybe i should try’) onto the floor. Limply holding my towel against my wet naked body I text Jack back :
“Holy shit”
I sit down and feel teary-eyed. Something about knowing my good friend will be in arms reach soon is very comforting. I just started to become happy, or at least not bad, again. It almost feels like too much good is happening to me. Like I don't deserve it or something. Like Jack should only leave New York to come and see me if I get diagnosed with some sort of rare bone cancer. Or maybe a terrible car accident.
It feels like I've done nothing to warrant this good.
I’d like to accept it, but I don't know how.
Maybe I could start by picking him up from the airport on Monday, August 10th.
—---
“Is a male doctor okay?” The nurse asks me over the phone.
“It literally does not matter-.” I blurt while multitasking, only to realize my blunting is probably not appropriate in this situation “I mean yes thats fine”
“Okay. We can get you in a lot sooner.” The happy-happy nurse says, which makes me feel bad.
I always forget my blunted nature probably reads as very rude; I've always figured my bleak attunement has only affected me. This is obviously wishful, if not just ignorant, thinking.
“Yay.” I roll my eyes. Stop.
“Okay does tomorrow at 1pm work?”
No. Not at all.
“Yes.” I send a span of 5 text messages within 40 seconds; I didn't even know I could do that. So busy. So tired. I can feel myself giving out.
“Amazing!” I can hear her little clicking in the background. “We’ll see you tomorrow at one, ash.”
“Okay thank you.” I say practically out of breath.
Upon hanging up I send a quick message that Ill have to leave the office early tomorrow, which only heightens my feeling that everybody is always disappointed in me. I Cant Win by the Strokes plays in my head.
It gets to a point where I even recognize I should really go to a doctor.
——-
By the end of the workday I’m practically hemorrhaging. Even as writing this I can’t tell if it’s hyperbole or literal.
A small weight settles in my throat, and a sweat ignites upon my spine. Thinking of lazing on the sand with Brandon on the 4th discussing the concentrated feeling the body obtains before fainting.
“It’s just like something is going to happen” he laughed while passing me a flask filled with vodka.
“Yes. Exactly. I don’t feel like I’m going to throw up.. or. It’s not a headache either. It’s just kind of this keen instinct that something will happen.” I took a sip.
We laughed at the dramaturgy fainting demands. Realistically, there’s nothing to do. If it’s really bad and you hit your head really hard, I suppose the hospital. They can tell you that you’re concussed. But regardless; youre unconscious, theres nothing to do.
A vibrating unsettles my lap; my grandfather is calling my iPhone.
“Hey.” I answer weakly.
He asks me more questions continuing on from when I saw him last. One of them being: “When was the last time you saw a therapist?’
“I don’t know I honestly really don’t feel good. We can talk about this later”
“What’s wrong?”
“I just feel lightheaded and dehydrated." I mutter, clicking thigns on my laptop.
Something about when he asked this on the fourth irritated me. I asked him ‘why? Do you think I should see a therapist?” in a mocking manner. The latent worry, the misassigned concern that for whatever reason is inevitable with me provokes me in a manner I am ashamed to admit. I’ve never found an understanding as to why when I am good people think im bad, andwhy when I am bad people think I am good.
“I dont need to go to therapy. I just have a high stress job.” I groaned, slightly drunk from lounging on the beach an hour prior to making it back to my family’s house. Its not fun to be day drunk at your family’s house on the fourth of july, even if they live closer to the beach than you do. I realized that too late. My mood had gotten progressively worse throughout the day and was only retroactively cured by fireworks; like a toddler with the most pathetic and capricious attention span.
“You just seem-” He started.
“It doesnt matter.” I snapped. Its true even if bratty, even if overly-repeated. The circumstances havent chagned; they will not change.
As we sit on the call now, I feel guilty for my preemptive defense. Maybe he is worried about me. I dont know.
“I can talk about this tomorrow. I just feel like Im going to faint or I dont know. I havent had any time to eat today and I got my p-”
“I am going to read and going a mile walk” he cuts me off. His allegiance to specificity in the most throw-away sentences always made me laugh. He is not worried about me. He is going to read and go for a mile walk.
7/5 The compressing heat inside of June’s car surprisingly doesn't bother me. I hit his joint about 20 minutes ago, as we passed through Commerce. I think I am getting good at smoking weed. I didn't even notice I was high. Just sat diligently in his passenger seat reading my book with a new critical focus.
“This is where ████ is from” I say looking up from the page.
Im not sure why i said this because it doesnt matter. This freeway exit does not matter. But the fact I recognized it, verbalized it, assigned it, made it matter.
█ ███████ █ █████ ████ ███ ████ ████ █ ███ ████ ████████ ███ ███████ ████ █ ███ ███ █████ ██ ███ ████ █████ ██ ████
Things die all the time.
-------
My high is mellow, settling nicely as I watch June swim in primarily white wash from our blanket on the sand. His head bobs in and out of the water, letting me know he is still alive. Sometimes he looks over; I'm assuming to ensure my aliveness as well. Isn't that what physical affection is? Holding hands? Kissing? Ensuring the other one's aliveness?
Maybe.
Im almost 100 pages into the book he lent me, which relieves me. I’ve really lost my stride with reading the last couple of months due to how busy I’ve become.
When he trots back up to our blanket and kisses me he tastes like salt which only makes me kiss him harder. A perverse jealousy overtook me as I watched him swim against the large waves that my smaller-than-his body couldn't brace against. Any sort of hope it might, any testing of that, would have been detrimental; both to my high and my actual body.
-----
My head lay carelessly against the side of the car. I don't even remember smoking; maybe I did an hour ago. But I am calm now, looking out at the terrain of Silver Lake. We are right behind the wall that conceals the 5 from downtown. I have never noticed how it acts as a sad metaphor for a shield.
It doesn't feel safer back here. It just feels away.
When we round the 5 I take note of the palm trees idling on the hilltops. They look fake, plastered onto the sky behind them with mod-podge. They read as completely two-dimensional. As illustrations.
Much like the Hollywood sign from the view at that house party however many months ago. I'm acutely aware of its crackability. Its ability to split.
7/4 The block is empty; I’ve never seen it this empty. A bunch of cats greeted me downstairs in front of the UKI® LU-1560N – Double Needle Unison Feed Walking Foot Heavy Duty – Complete Setup, Table & Stand Included machines but when they saw me; they ran. They were the only sign of life. An occasional beat or pulse, the sway of a large Mexico fan, one of the operators of the UKI® LU-1560N – Double Needle Unison Feed Walking Foot Heavy Duty – Complete Setup, Table & Stand Included machines had to have set up for the World Cup acts as a pulse. There’s an occasional hiss of a machine to mimic the sucking in of oxygen.
I set my groceries down and tried to call to the pair of cats; with no luck.
A gust of wind greeted my wrist as I pushed out the old window in my room and positioned my head out of it. I’ve never seen anything like this. Twilight has emasculated the entire block, leaving a pale submissiveness you’d hardly recognize if you, like me, have become familiar with the block of industrial factories. It’s docileness shocks me. The lack of life is confounding yet beautiful. You only know it's dead because you once saw it alive.
A point of violence bites the horizon; the glitter of exploding fireworks all across the city, landing right above the factories, only far away.
Los Angeles is glittering. Its dying, fucking, and rebirthing itself all at once. It sickens me almost. I can feel it taunting me with how its presenting this bespoke beauty to me. So stupid. ██ █████ █ ████ ██ █████ ██ ███ ██████ ██ ████ ██ █████.
Its never been to nice to me before. Why now?
--------
“Hey. Sorry” The kid outside of the bathroom door says. “Can I ask you a question?”
I dont think I have a choice, so I pause: “Sure”
“Do you know ███ ███████?” He straightens his posture against the wall.
Oh.
“Why?” Yeah. I do. I cant figure out why he would be asking me this. It feels like some joke. Its a name I dont think should be uttered in this enviornment. Its a name that has had the pleasure of saving me and crucifying me. I cant figure out why it would matter in the context of this “fun” fourth of july party.
I think I am in trouble but I dont know. I cock my head to the side to ask ‘why’ again but the boy just looks at me smiling only amplifying this feeling that I might be in trouble.
“You look like you would know him.” He smiles. The line behind him is growing more irritated by each sentence we exchange.
Ok. Whatever apporach this is; its odd.
“I do.” I indulge him. “I guess.. Why?”
“Do you █████ ███ ████?”
I never know how to answer this question: “Sure. I guess. Sometimes, yes.”
Its awkward.
“How did you know that I knew him?” my hands are somehow still wet. I am probing now. Its too weird. Its too coincidental. Ive always felt paranoia is a self-important emotion. The concept of gang- stalking requires this sort of notion that you are important enough to be gang-stalked; for a literal gang (as in multiple people) to stalk you. Its a premoiniton I have never held about myself and hope I never will.
I am important to maybe 4 people. One of those being my boss. Another being somebody that has sex with me. Probably my mother even though I dont think she understands me. My cat named Sampson I bought from a weed dealer for 20 dollars when I was fifteen years old. I’d prefer to keep it this way.
His questions are eerily adjacent to the blurt of anon inbox tumblr asks that have been pooling in my inbox , unanswered because they somehow posess the very little unsorched knowledge of my life one not available to read about on the internet, knowledge one could only obtain from knowing me in real life. I hate how paranoid they make me. I hate how easy they are to decipher. It isnt even the low-grade worthless stalking that bothers me; its how lazy it is. How juvenile it is when its all laid out.
“I dont-” He stammers. “I dont know. Im sorry. truthfully I read your blog and I.. I like your writing.”
Great.
I think I scared him.
“Oh. thank you. I think”
Our eyes remain on each other hoping to fill this awkwardness but to no avail. I fucked that up pretty bad.
------
I dont think it classifies as paranoia if youre just correct about whatever it was that you happened to be paranoid about.
My phone wont stop lighting up. Im somehow able to hear the text message notifaction through the symphony of fireworks being lit 10 feet away from me.
“Its amazing how she doesnt flinch!” An older man, I think the gallery owner, I dont know, says to June about mw. He introduced me an hour prior but Im focused on being paranoid, or maybe just right. My phone is locked into my hand typing fervently because I was right, in a round about way; I am in trouble. I think. I dont know still.
20-30 illegal fireworks are being lit off in a probably astonishing manner but I am too paranoid to look up. I am still in some way tending to █████ █ █████ ████ █████ ████ ████ ████ █ ████ █████ I dont want to be doing this but I am.
7/3 ██████ ██ ██████ ██████ ████ ██ ██ ██ █████ █ █████ ████ ███ ███████████ ███ ██ ██████████ ███ ██████ █ ████████ ███████ ██ ██ ██████ █ ███████ █████ █████ ██████ ████ ██████████ ███ ██████████ █████ ████ ██████ ██ █████████████ ███████████ ███ ███ ████ ██ ████ ███████ ████████ ███ █████ ████████ ██ ██████████
██ █████ ████ █████ ██████ ██ ██████ ██ ███ █████ ██████████ ███ ████████ ████████
—---
“Fuck” I mutter under my breath.
███ █████ █████ ██ █████ ██ ███ ██████ ████ ██ ██ █████████ █████████ ███████ ██████ ████████ █████ █████ ██ ███████ ███ █████████████ ███████████ ██ ███ ██████ ██ ███ ████ ███ ███████ Due to incidents, these small insinuations of blood (they're that small) read as something much larger than the issue at hand. They read as a soldiers with donated organs pooled onto the grass, arranged atop a battlefield in Europe. They read as a million gore videos I am not choosing to press play on. They read as evil confetti specs.
I ████ ██ ████ ██ ███████ █████ █████ ████ ██ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ██ ████ ████ ██ ███████
██████ ██ █████ █ ████ ██ ██ ██ ██ ███████ ███████ ██ ██ ████ ██ ██████ ███ ██ █████ ███████ █ ██ ████████ ███████ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ████ ██ ████ ██ ███████ ██ ███ █████ ████ ███████ ██████ ████████ ████████
█ █████ ██ ███ ████████ ████ ████████ ██ ████ ███████ █ ████ ██ █████ ████████ █████
I█ ███ ██ ██████ ██ ██ ████ ███████ ██ ███████ ██ ██ █████████ █ ██ ████ ██ █████ ███████ █ ███████ ███ ███ █ ███ ██████ ███ ████ ██ ██ ██ ████ █████ ███ ██ █ ████████ ██████████ ███ ███████ ███ █████████ ████ ██ ███ ████ █████ ████ ████████ █ ███ ██ ██████ ██ ██ ████ ███████ ██ ███████ ██ ██ █████████ █ ██ ████ ██ █████ ███████ █ ███████ ███ ███ █ ███ ██████ ███ ████ ██ ██ ██ ████ █████ ███ ██ █ ████████ ██████████ ███ ███████ ███ █████████ ████ ██ ███ ████ █████ ████ ████████
I wish I could search this on my iPhone: when do you stop ████████ after the incident? I guess I can. I just dont want to.
█ ████ █ ███ ████████ ██ ████ █████ ██ █████ █ ████ █ █████ ████ ██ ████ █████ ████████ ██ ███ ██ ███ █████ ████████ ███ ████████ ███ █████ ████████ ████████ ███████ ██ ██ ███ ████████ ████ ██ ███ ██████ ████████ █ ███████ █████ █ █████ ████ ████ ██ ███████ ██████ ████ ██████ ███████ but I dont care at all. I would give it away 5,000 times over simply to never have to think of it again. I want it off my hands.
Its becoming so burdensome to have organs and know they aren't working. That I, in some way, am bad. I'm malfunctional. Things are not easy with me; they are not simple. I'm the thing Deleuze wrote about sans the liberation from desire; the only real benefit of being an organless machine.
█ ████ █ ████ ███████ ██ ██ ███ ██████ ██ ████ ████████ ███ ███ █████████ ███ ███ ██████████████ █ ████████ ██ █ ██████ ██ ███ ██████ █ ██ █████████ █ ███ ██ ████ ████ █████ ███ ████████ ███ ██ ████ ███████ ██ ██ █████ █████ ███ ██████ ███ ██████ ███ ████ ████ ███ ███
███████ █ ████ ███ █████ ██ █████ ███ ███ █████████
—--
The woman working the deli at some healthy market seemed really frustrated with me for not speaking loud enough.She had a ripe, terrible attitude which didn't bother me because I had just done my share of that to a nurse at ███ ███████ ██████████ ██ ██████████
“Okay” I sighed, visibly annoyed, physically defeated. This was obvious.
“Im sorry Ms. ██████”
“Its fine, really” I closed my laptop and walked out with a fervor unmatched to my actual grievances of the situation.
Are you allowed to say ‘whatever’ to a doctor?
I want to. I have always wanted to. Sometimes it calls for it.
7/2 “yeah you’re cold when you first meet people” Milly says opening her laptop.
“What?” I ask genuinely confused. I have no idea where this is coming from or what prompted it. We all seem chipper in the studio. We are getting along great with the model.
“Yeah. Like you were cold when he came in.” She says as if this were so apparent.
“I was?” I ask, pausing my review of the photos while the model changes next door.
“Uh yeah.” She says.
“But I’m normal now right?” I pester. The incident comes to mind. The UKI® LU-1560N – Double Needle Unison Feed Walking Foot Heavy Duty – Complete Setup, Table & Stand Included machines.. The emails.
My life has become completely unrelatable.
“Yeah.” She laughs.
He comes back in the next outfit, cutting the pseudo intervention on my sordid personality short.
“Great.” I say and smile, trying to brush off any thought of myself.
7/1By the time I reach the JUKI® LU-1560N – Double Needle Unison Feed Walking Foot Heavy Duty – Complete Setup, Table & Stand Included machines I’ve lost my stride in an uninteresting and old way.
June fell asleep early; Brandon isn’t off of work until 9. Nick refuses to text me back.
I could fold my laundry but I won’t. It will get wrinkly and smell a little less good than if i were to just fold it. Sometimes “ my” bed feels upsetting, in trying to figure out why I realize it’s because I haven’t moved on from the phone call Jason and I had a week ago. My fever was ceasing, kind of, my underwear was striped. I locked my eyes on the ceiling as Jason said these nouns over and over;
Pain. Hurt.
Wait, those would be verbs. I don’t know; they’re not verbs to me, they’re nouns. Which is primarily the issue with me; the blunting.
Pain is just a thing, hurt is just a thing. I’m aware of them, perhaps even constantly oscillating between whatever menial difference the two words have, but also somehow only on the outskirts of them.
Jason made me promise in some concealed way that I wouldn’t kill myself. He said God wouldn’t kill me or let me die. I’m genuinely not suicidal; maybe I am even happy or content (now), but he missed the irony when I responded with:
“Great”
████ ████ ██ ██████ █ ████ ████ ██ ████
███ █████ ████ ███ █████████ ███ ███████ ███████ ███ ████ ███████ ████████ █ █████ ████ ███████ ██████ ████ ███ ██ █████ ████ ███ ███████ █████ ███████ ██ ██ ████
████ ██ ███ █ ████ ████ █████ ███ ██████████ ████████ ███ ███████████ ██████ ███ █████ ███ █████ ████ ██ ██████ ████ ███ ████ ██████ █████ ██ ████ ██ █████ █ ██████ ████ █ █████ ███ ███ ██ ███ ████ █████████ █ ████ ███ ███ ██ ████ ████ ████ That for whatever reason there’s this tethering with us. Even if I don’t want it anymore, and haven’t wanted it for a long time, there’s this tethering I didn’t ask for.
Maybe I did. I don’t know. I know that I don’t want it now; am burdened by its proving of itself constantly.
6/30 Got to the office early to eat breakfast at my desk in order to “reset my stomach acid” after throwing up all night.
I’m surprisingly chipper. It doesn’t matter after a certain point; if anything, moping probably makes it worse in some sense.
“Remember when you started here? And I was the fucking devil?” I ask my coworker/ model/ I think new friend.
“Yeah. You were bad.” She and Ben laugh.
“Yeah. Bad week.” I laugh “probably terrible week.”
I twirl around in the chair.
“But I’m better now. See?” I point to my twirling.
It’s odd that week wasn’t that long ago. Or the bout of emotions that have ceased since then. I became convinced “the blunting” had ceased due to that one weekend; the hourly panic attacks while packing, the complete denial of sustenance I required, maybe even demanded the absence of. Control. It’s easy. And then it’s not.
“We are going to have a great day. the photos are going to come out fucking great. And we are going to make so much fucking money.” I set my sunglasses down.
—-
Philip K Dick book is hard to put down. Which is nice. I think it says something about how I am doing based off of how much I am reading. Or I guess my eagerness to read. I want to read all of the time, but the stamina wavers.
its title is needlessly long which is making talking about it at this bar, in Chinatown, I don’t remember its name, really difficult. It’s fine because June is answering the question for me;
“She’s reading ‘Do Androids dream of Electric Sheep’ right now. I read it on the road and then gave it to her” he says, quite loudly, because he’s drunk.
“Yeah.” I say. I’m shy. I don’t know. █ ██ ███████ ██ ████ ███ █ █████ █ ████ ███████ ███████ █ ██████ ██ ██ ███ ██ ███ █████████ █ ███ ████ ██ █████ ███ ███ ██ ███ ██ ███ ███ ███████ ██ ███ █████ ███████ █████ ██ ███ ███████ ███ ███ █████ ███████ ████ █████ █ ███████ ████ ████ ███ █████
I felt this sort of dread. Ambient and never orgasming.
█ ██ ██████ ██ ██ ████ ██ ██████ ███████ █ ███ █████ ██ ███ ████████ ██████ ███ ████ ████████ ███ ██████ ██ ████ █████ ████ ███ █ ████ ████ ███ ██ ███████ ███ ████ ███████ ███ █ ████ ████ █ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ █████████ ███████
I’m better. Enough.
“How can you see them?” I ask, pointing to the TV playing the World Cup. The wide view of the entire field making the players look as if they were small plastic army men toys.
“I’m tall” he blunts.
“I meant because it’s so expansive.” I laugh into him. He kisses my cheek and I feel less shy.
——
█████ ██████ █████ ████ ██████ █████ █████ ██████ ██████ ████ ██ ████
███████ ███████ ████ ██ ███ ████ █████ ████ ████ ████ ██ ███ █████████
█ █████ ███ █ ███████ ██████
“Duh.”
I have taken a new interest in the army men. They do good= people cheer. They do bad= people sigh or say swear words. It’s very simple. It’s very fun.
——
I made him promise that we wouldn’t become junkies in his bed. He promised. It’s dark and he’s around me. Arm digging into my rib, I think. I can’t really feel it.
“█ ████ ███” I say facing the wall. Maybe one day I can say it without facing the wall.
“█ ████ ████. Goodnight” he says.
It’s very simple, it’s very fun.
6/29 it’s hostile, for some reason. I gave up trying to understand. I don’t care to.
If all it takes for hostility to birth itself (and so unceremoniously) is my absence, my presence is unsustainable. I hate fickle things. There can be relief in knowing something can crack, maybe even in half, maybe in some geometrically satisfying pattern with the glass arranging itself in an order reminiscent of ink splots which are reminiscent of swans, or snakes, which is reminiscent of some deep childhood wound such as a parental alienation, schoolyard bullying, etc. I can’t find any redeeming quality in something so flat. transparent. It just aggravates me.
I try to think of an equation in my head, like the ones I make in my head to try to make sense of things, usually involving this “<“ and this “>” but I decide it’s pointless.
---
Food is uninteresting to me, which means I’m going to start my period soon. Or at least I hope. I don’t think I’ve ever had so much sex in my life.
Skipped the Japanese market and just got a salad from my salad guy (guy who gives me free salads).
“What do you need?” June asks me. I’m fetal position on my twin mattress which is above the
JUKI® LU-1560N – Double Needle Unison Feed Walking Foot Heavy Duty – Complete Setup, Table & Stand Included machines which are above probably fossils or oil. My liver is above my something. Something killing me.
“A hug.” I pout.
“Okay.” He says. I can hear him grabbing his keys.
“You’re gonna drive all the way to the factory to give me a hug?” I scoff, the very light motion of laughing making my pain even worse.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah fucking right.” I refrain from laughing despite finding the absurdity hilarious.
“Okay maybe two. Two really good hugs. Do you want me to bring you anything? Soda water?”
Oh. He’s serious.
“You’re really going to drive all the way here to give me a hug… ok two really good hugs, and a soda water?” I ask.
“Yeah” he says as if it were the most obvious thing.
“Okay.” I smile to myself looking at the ceiling.
6/27 June and I laze in his bed watching the 80s batman trilogy. █ ██████████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ██ ██ ████ ██████ ██ █████ █ ████ █████████ ███ ██ ██ █████████ █████ █████ ██ █████ ██████████ ██████ █████ █ ████ ██ ████████ █████████ ██ █████ ███████ ███ ██ █████ ██ ██ ██████████ █████
███ ██ ██ █████ ██ ███ ████
“Holy shit” I exhale. “Its like a full body orgasm”
His eyes are closed, but I can tell he is looking towards the ceiling.
“I know right” Hes out of breath and his mouth is slightly agape.
█ ████ ██████ ██ ██ █████ ████ ██████ █ ████ ███████ █ ████████ █ ████ ██ █████ █ ████████ ███ █████ █ █████ ██ ████ █████ ██████
6/26 The doctor is the same as when ████ took me when he became convinced I had Lyme disease.
I’m sat opposite where we sat last. I don’t think it struck me how intimate a █████████ █████████ ███ ███████ ███ ████ ██; at the time it just made sense. ██ ██████████ ████████ ██ ██ ██ █████ ██ ███ █████ ███████ ███████ █ █████ ███ ██████ ████ ██ ██ ██ ████████████ ████████ ██ ████ ████ ██ ███████ █████ ██ ███ ██████ ██████ ████ ██ ██████ █████ ██ ████ ████████ ███████ ███████ ██ ████ █████ ██████
My health is as good as it can be after what has happened the last couple of months. My doctors are treating me like a celebrity because I haven’t been back in two years due to the health insurance debacle that has finally settled.
“Hi.” I say all chipper to any nurses I pass.
It’s beautiful and lacking; my favorite.
—--
I pursued some health market without buying anything after my appointment. Now I am on the 110 south with some low-grade fever in bumper-to-bumper traffic, which makes me feel pathetic.
I have to retrieve some package I got delivered to my family’s house, because I dont have a mailbox anymore, but i do have a plethora of JUKI® LU-1560N – Double Needle Unison Feed Walking Foot Heavy Duty – Complete Setup, Table & Stand Included machines.
Lizzie texts me twice; I respond twice.
6/25 “im fine” I say to Jason over my phone. I’m staring out of the loft window wondering if I should have accepted the call or not.
“Are you sure?” He probes.
“Yes. Am I doing anything that seems.. what was the word you used? Destructive?” I ask, earnestly. I’m genuinely confused because this is the first time I have felt some semblance of okay-ness in months.
“Your blog is concerning.” He states.
“I had a hard couple of months. I’m also generally an unhappy person.” I point out.. It was a hard couple of months and generally speaking I’m not a happy person.
███ referring to our shared “blithe melancholia” comes to mind.
“I know but it’s just pain.” He laughs to try to defuse the tension.
The tension is this; I am okay now but I wasn’t before. Nobody, not even me, had seemed to notice even though in hindsight it was glaringly obvious I was entrenched in some eternal mission to make myself intangible, that bordered on what could be conceived as general suicidality.
“I’m okay. Now.” I remaining look out the window; wondering what the factories across the street house. Do they have their very own JUKI® LU-1560N – Double Needle Unison Feed Walking Foot Heavy Duty – Complete Setup, Table & Stand Included machines? Surely they have something equivalent.
“You promise?” Jason asks. It sounds quiet in New York.
“Yes.” I mean it. “I feel better not being there.”
I do mean this. I am feeling better away from everything. I don’t know why, but throughout my life latent worry follows me. It’s only after I get somewhat better and pull myself out of something bad that people become worried and try to help. And after that point it’s just too late. Or not even too late; just maybe worthless in the scheme of the problem.
“The blog is just scary.” He harps.
“I wrote all of that months ago. It took a long time to edit. It’s kind of old news for me at this point, but I understand how it reads so… I don’t know. Current. I mean I just put it out I guess” I do the math.
“Yeah that makes sense.” He says.
He adds that God wouldn’t kill me and that I am not the devil. Which only makes me think about whether I am the devil or not. I never thought about it but now I am.
—---
The blog has made for my life to have these weird little occurrences.
My entire internet presence the last couple of months has made it so I feel like I can’t relate to a single person. This was hard to digest, again, but I think I’m okay with it now. Or at least indifferent. It’s something I’ve made and therefore have to live with. It’s nuances and all. It was always omnipresent: comments at parties, lighthearted jokes about ‘making it on the blog’ (sometimes seen as a compliment, other times derogatory) but now it is in all ways completely unavoidable.
This has caused me strife over the last few months. I cower, not in shame or fear, maybe annoyance, when my blog is mentioned. When somebody elucidates something about myself that by all accounts they should not know, only context-wise I configure they must have read the blog, or scoured my Twitter. It all feels pretty worthless.
My fascination with the internet, with any art I have made the last 4 or 5 years, has orbited around the uncomfortable paradox, the constant push and pull of tangibility and intangibility. I dont think theres an answer to be found there; it is a gray area, it always will be. But existing within that gray area can birth a feeling of uncomfort.
6/22 I don't feel weighted today. Or I don't know, less so maybe. So I do something I have thought of doing for a long time: apologizing.
“Hey.” I abruptly said in the middle of the phone call with June.
“Hey” He said, maybe scared.
“I wanted to say sorry for the way that i acted for… well I guess mainly the entire month of may.” Its true. I was horrible.
“What do you mean?”
“I dont know. I think I am starting to feel better. But I felt pretty bad for the last couple of months..” I pause. “I dont think I knew how to say that, or really say anything at all”
“It’s ok b-” He starts
“It isnt though. I think it affected you. I feel terrible for the way it made you feel; I cant imagine it’d feel good to be basically talking to a wall. Fucking a wall. I pushed you away. I dont know why. I think I felt embarrassed to be doing bad.”
It’s silent for a moment.
“It’s okay.” He says. “I appreciate you saying that.”
There’s no way to skirt around it; I was positively the worst person to be around for the month of May. In every single way.
At work? Demanding. Bossy. Moving with a sense of maligned urgency, gifted so gratuitously from myself to myself. I’d sigh more than I’d speak. And if I did speak, it was never anything nice. More so than usual; I typically don’t have many nice things to say even when I am allegedly happy.
My friendships existed exclusively on the East Coast. Not that I don’t have friends in Los Angeles. I did; I do. I just took to not answering their phone calls, text messages, and emails for three weeks. That’ll do it. If you miss one weekend here, you’re pushing it. Three? You’re gone. I resented everybody for not being ████. I hated people for not being ████ . I would think “ ████ would never say that” or “ ████would never wear that” but the truth of the matter is that I don’t know what she would do or wear at this point. It’s some evasive s attempt I am using to miss her actively.
█████████ ███ █ ████ ██ ██ ██ ██ ██ ███ █████████ ███ █████ ██████ ████ ████ ████ █████ ███ █████ █ ████ ██ ████ ███ ██ ███ █████████████ ██ ████ ██ ████ █████ ███ ████ ███ █████ █████ ██ ███ ██████
My romantic life suffered; I don’t see how it wouldn’t when somebody is depressed like that. I kept trying to act normal, which only made me appear more freak-like. I’d just show up to Junes apartment, saying nothing. Doing nothing. Being nothing. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the month of May was the month I finally received my greatest wish: becoming intangible.
——
My apology earns me a kiss.
“One more bite.” He holds the grilled cheese I begged for up to my mouth, his other hand holding a cup of tomato soup.
I shake my head against him.
“I’m so full and my stomach hurts so bad.” I bury myself into him more. Getting a faint scent of his sweat, which helps but only a little.
“Please.” He sits me up.
“Fine.” I roll my eyes and take a bite of the sandwich.
He looks pleased. And says he loves me. I smile against his shoulder; sometimes it feels so good to be sorry.
6/21 June occupies the skatepark alongside a ton of 12-year-old bikers who he calls “fat” and “Armenian”
“Bad.” I pushed his shoulder, but not too hard, because he was kind earlier and rolled the lightest spliff ever for of us to smoke. He knows I get paranoid, but I think he can tell I am making an earnest attempt in my life to relax, in any menial way and wants to appease me.
I sit on a blanket of his I have come to know well. It is actually a tarp stained with paint. Primary color splots act as memories I dont know but like to imagine. I try to imagine what painting each desultory spot belongs to whenever he brings me to the beach, or any park that has both a skatepark and a decent patch of grass for me to sit and look pretty on.
Usually, I’d read. Or work on my laptop. But I find myself staring up through the leaves, acutely aware of the fact that I am high. A warmth sits in my chest that any other time would scare me, but only feels like an accompaniment today. Just something there.
A soundtrack of children laughing, the water from the wading pool splashing, the swing chains creaking, and June’s skateboard sliding and landing on the concrete, loops as I fall asleep on the grass.
—--
Lucy calls me. I can hardly recognize his voice on the phone. Which depresses me.
The factory is scary when all of the JUKI® LU-1560N – Double Needle Unison Feed Walking Foot Heavy Duty – Complete Setup, Table & Stand Included machines are off.
6/20 “Madonna!” This kid says as soon as i walk into the room.
I roll my eyes and push my sunglasses to the top of my head; the blunting.
Kelly follows my lead as I A-line to the balcony. I dont even have a fucking lighter. From the balcony I can spot my car at the bottom of the hill; idling. Idling with a lighter, probaby.
“Hey, Im sorry about him” Dan comes to say.
I shrug.
I told him only last week that I don't prefer seeing this kid cause he always talks at me instead of me. My abrupt and rude entrance, I think has caused some sort of worthless stir. Everyone in the plush hotel bed now peering through the window.
“He just likes your work” Dan explains in a really fake-apologetic manner.
I think I dont even care. I think I am just now wondering why Kelly and I are even here. I genuinely cant understand why Im here.
“Okay” I shrug again. Usually, I’d be better. that seems like a lot of work.
“Oh youre Madonna?” Some kid I dont know pours himself out onto the balcony.
I shoot Dan a look to ask “really?”
“Yeah.” I sigh, patting my purse for a lighter, without looking up at the kid.
Kelly hands me one. Everybody here thinks im really pissed; shes the only one privy enough to know that Im not. Im just blunted. And impatient. Maybe mildly annoyed.
She and I wanted to come for a glass of wine, and instead im being treated as some sort of lolcow. She can tell I'm annoyed. She can tell, without even asking me, that we are leaving as soon as we finish our cigarettes.
“Im sorry ash. Im trying to have a regular conversation with you, really-” Ryder appears behind Dan, starting a speech that I don't care to listen to. Its so obvious im not a real person to him. I don't even know why this bothers me.
“Yeah, that's clearly pretty challenging for you” I throw my cigarette butt off the balcony.
-------
“I didn't know that happened to you ash” Trinity says from my backseat over whatever killers song is playing through my speakers. “Im really sorry”
I cant see her face.. Trinity can get serious about things, about art, about sad stuff, about happy stuff. I appreciate that about her. I can imagine her face from memory so I dont feel inclined to turn around and verify that shes earnest; I know she is.
Something about this stops me in my tracks. It was such a simple sentence. But I didnt even think anybody had noticed. I mean I guess in some veiled way, I mentioned it. I didnt say the actual word, though. I dont know if I will ever say that actual word; not if I don't have to.
I think its just whenever I alluded to it (begrudgingly) to ██████, or ████, or whoever, it was treated as though I mentioned something so flippant. So inoffensive in nature. As if I offered to grab dinner down the street, or went to get a physical.In my car, right now, I remember the wincing. I remember watching the movie and successfully pretending that nothing was happening. I didn't have the opportunity to think about loss. Whatever it means, and all of the sentimental stuff one might think an “INCIDENT” as such would provoke.
“Oh yeah. Its fine. Im fine now.” I say. I find myself aware in an unpleasant way, which cuts through what was supposed to be our hedonistic girl night at some swanky Pour Vous party.
I think about it all night. I know I should feel some huge emotion, but it escapes me entirely as I indulge the pantomime.
6/19 I forgot what it was like to walk drunk. I realize now, as my head peers out over the sea of JUKI® LU-1560N – Double Needle Unison Feed Walking Foot Heavy Duty – Complete Setup, Table & Stand Included machines, that I am peaceful; maybe even tranquil. Maybe I will not be happy this summer. But I will be tranquil. Which is objectively a “good” adjective. But it is difficult for me to not exist within extremities. I have no trust in myself to maintain my newfound tranquility. Or use it in any sort of productive way. It will only be something I complain about losing 6 months from now.
—--
6 /17 ██████ ██ ██████ ██ ███ █████████████ █████████████ █████ █ █████ ██ ██████████ █████.
It’s probably the cement and JUKI® LU-1560N – Double Needle Unison Feed Walking Foot Heavy Duty – Complete Setup, Table & Stand Included machines; but I feel less lonely. I think. I don’t know. That has always been confusing to me; the concept of feeling lonely. I think I prefer to be by myself largely, but every once in a while, it creeps me out how silent I can become.
When I lived alone (the first time) it shocked me how little I could say. How you really don’t have to speak. You can just sit there. Find something to do with your hands.
If I notice now that I haven’t spoken a single word for some twelve hours, I usually █████ ██████ ██ ██ ███ █ ██████ ██ █ ███ █████ █████ ████ ████ █ █████ ██████ ██ ███ ██████ ████ just to say anything.
It’s not as though I felt all that good when █ ███ ████ █ ████████. I’d argue it felt the exact same; maybe worse in some ways. There’s something really terrible about speaking when you don’t have anything to say; I.E the really subpar entries for the past two months. There’s something really terrible about sitting on a couch opposite somebody with absolutely nothing to say.
I’m starting to feel somewhat better I think. █ ███ ████ █ ██████████ █████ ██ ████ ███ ████████ ██ ██ ██████ ████████ ███ ██████████ ███████ █████ ███████ ████ ███ ████ ████ ███████ ███ █████. That probably wasn’t good for me. Probably.
I find myself in a better-ish mood. I’m still blunting a lot. Usually around the mid-afternoon. But the models are saying I seem “positive”.which is synonymous with “good” so maybe I am good.
I’d like to be good. At least not bad.
It’s getting harder to complain too. ██ ███ ██ ██ ███ ████████ ████████ █ █████████ ████ ████ █ █████ ███████ ███ ███ █ █████ █████ ███████ ██ █ ████ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██████ █████ ████ ████ ███ ███ ██ ███ ████████ ███ ██ █████ ██ █ █████ ████ ███ ██ █████ ███ ███████ ██ ███████ ███ ██ ██ ███ ████ ███████ ██████ ██████████ ███ █████ ███████ █████ ██ ███ ███████ ██ █ ████ █ ████ ██ ████ ██ ██████ █████ ████████ ███ ███████ ██████ █ ████ ███████ █████ █████ ████
████ ███ █ ████ ██ █████ ██ ██ ████ █████ ███
███ ██████████ █████ █████ █ █████ ███████ ████ ███████ ██████
It doesn’t feel necessarily important. It’s just something that is going to happen.
I guess so. Figured out what to do with my legs; but still never my hands.
6/16 the perfume of cumin overwhelms me on my walk to get coffee.
I forgot that next to our warehouse lies a spice warehouse. Sometimes you can see the spices dancing through the air, the paprika looking like small orange beads of ambiguous glitter.
I know I said this summer can’t rival the summer before I moved to the city; but I am starting to wonder if it can be better.
The heat is pressing in a way that can only be likened to when you first start to get turned on, the alive anticipation that courses through you with such vitriolic intensity, a belief, real or not, that anything can happen. The air smells like salt, an obvious facsimile because the ██████████ ███████ in which I’ve taken up residence is some 30 miles away from the ocean. It’s not real, but it feels like it’s to the left of me. I can practically feel sand between my toes, though they lie dormant under a U-LINE desk that was bulk-ordered in 2021.
I can imagine myself tan, my freckles abrassing my cheeks until October, I can imagine June rubbing sunscreen on my back, Kelly and I tunneled into some bar bathroom, gossiping about nothing. I can taste prosecco on my bottom lip mixing with the Chanel potted-red lipstick I found in my jacket pocket while packing my stuff to move only a week ago.
6/15 slept in until 9 am this morning. Should make me feel relaxed, untethered, or something. But it doesn’t. It just makes me feel like a loser.
Walking to the office winded me. My heels sank into gravel, and the amount of energy it took to remove them shocked me. I dont want to be futile anymore and i dont know where to start.
-----
“I feel like I should be happier than I am.” I say to Ben.
Something about this shocks me, as if I didn’t produce the thought, produce the sentence. As if I am speaking about something other than my own life.
“Maybe.” He says. “█████ ███ ██████ ████ ████ ████████ ██ ███ ███ ███ ████.”
█ █████ ████ ████ ████ ██ ███ ███████ ██████ █ █████ ████ ███ ██ ███████ ████████ ██ ████ █████ ██████ ██████ I can hardly rectify I am even something that can fuck. Can fuck.
“No.” Is all I manage to say.
“█ █████ ████ ██ ████ ███████ ████.” June said when walking me to my car, the Saturday evening sun beating us down. ██ ██ ██ ██████ ███████ ██████ ███ ████ █████ ███████ ██████ ███ ███ ██ █ ██████ █████████
“Then don’t” I said. “It’s easy.”
It is.
“I thought I’d be happier when I figured all of this out.” I said again, my hand rolling over my laptop to close it.
“Yeah. I don’t know.” He gives up trying to make some oblique sexual pass at me concealed as friendship.
I put my headphones back in and listen to the Mamas and Papas because it’s summer now and it seems like something somebody who enjoys summer would do.
——-
I text Noel back for the first time in weeks. He asked if I was okay some days ago; I never responded. I didn’t have a good or succinct answer at the time. And I still don’t:
“What are you doing later?” I text. My phone is cracked. My small shards of glass posit themselves into my thumb pads. I feel like I am becoming tangible; maybe the heat.
6/11 “You keep fucking up” She says to me
Im confused but I dont contest this.
-----
My stomach starts to hurt in an unpleasant way. Can a stomach hurt in a pleasant way? Yes, I think so.
I've dealt with some better than others.There is an excited air in the office due to the world cup. I try to understand, to care. I cant.
“Do you think people would like that, if we streamed it?” One of my coworkers calls over to my desk.
“Im the wrong person to ask” I say without removing my eyes from my laptop screen.
My ankle cracks underneath my desk, my eyes water. I am not crying, but I am thinking of ████ today. And how I dont understand her. And how she doesnt understand me.
Instead of trying to figure this out, like i have been doing for the last couple of months, I take a deep breath and export my photos I’ve been working on.
“I hope Japan wins.” The model to my left, who is from Japan, says.
“Me too.”
------
I listen to Thelonious Monk at my desk, which makes me think of my friend Joseph in New York. Who recently graduated in some sort of jazz study.
I should have congratulated him.
Jack went to his thesis concert, and apparently told him I’d be in the city soon. He said some really kind things about my art behind my back. That it evokes people for better or for worse.
Its ironic how all I’ve had to say for the past 5 years is some variation of “nothing matters” and how much has been taken from that. What people get from it. I havent gotten much from it.
I remember that summer I met all of them, I was so young in such an announced way. A highly embarrassing way, but I was so oblivious to this. I made a lot of friends that summer, and I have yet to have a summer that even comes close to rivaling that.
I know that this summer will not.
6/10 The loft is similar to every other loft I’ve been to. Its hallways swallow you, confuse you, and spit you back out into somebody with money’s “industrial” apartment with perfectly tasteful midcentury modern furniture and empty Whole Foods bags next to the trash that act as pseudo recycling bins.
“I cant believe youve never heard of Ali G” He lets me in.
There is in-fact a makeshift recycling bin in the form of an empty Whole Foods bag.
“I dont know. Im not european.” I make myself comfortable.
Its like every loft, but there is a grand piano in one corner, and a drop-down projector. Im sure if the windows were open I could make out the neon blue-lit pool we passed over before we entered the labyrinth of a hallway.
“Do you ever swim?” I asked as I crossed the bridge, the blue water taunting us against the lack of light downtown. This only happens when you’re in the arts district, closer to Skid Row.
“No I dont trust public pools.” He said without even looking towards the water.
—
“Mkat is fine. Its just like cocaine. I guess mixed with other stuff”He slouches into the couch, matching my posture. My neck is crooked between a pillow and my clavicle.
“Okay.” I say.
“I might have to fake a doctors record if I may actually want to become a pilot.” He looks up.
“Why?”
“The amount of prescriptions I’ve acquired over the years is fucking ridiculous.” He laughs, loudly. The kind of laugh only a younger person can produce.
“Like?” I tilt my head.
“Everything. I mean fucking everything” He is still laughing. Im not. Im tired. Im thinking of the pool. Im thinking of June too.
“Like?” I protrude my face forward to signify my annoyance with his evasion, playfully.
“Adderall. Vyvanse. Ritalin. Percoets. Ambien. Hyrdocodone. Codeine. Xanax. Any sort of benzo.” He continues to list pills even I have never heard of.
----
“Can you give me a ride home?”
“Yes.”
I keep forgetting to shut the door of his 1985 Mercedes that undulates under my thighs in a way that makes me uncomfortable with myself.
6/9 Maybe I should be more worried. Ben is worried. Me; less. I hadnt really considered that possibility. Dubious of me sure. But I doubt highly that would even transpire.
When he called last night, I was having a slice of toast.
He could hear me shrugging through the phone receiver, and seemed perplexed by my indifference.
“The blunting” I said.
He asked what that meant and I said “I dont really care.” And the fact is that I dont.
What other options do I have? I dont have any.
He seemed uneasy at my complete lack of fear.
“████ ██████ ██ █ █████” I chewed my toast and thought about whether I truly cared or not. Maybe at some point later in my life. Not right now, I decided.
“Just be careful”
“Sure” I went to bed after that.
---
███ ████ ██ ████ ████ ███ ██ ████ ████ █ ██████
█ █████ █████ ██ ████ ███████ ███ ██████
██ ██████ ██ ██ ██ ██████████ ███ ███ █████ █████ ████ █ ██ ██████ █████
██ █████ █████
I █████ ██ ██ ██████ ██ ███ ██████ ██ ████ ███ ███████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████
██ ████ ███ █████ ██ █████ ██ ██ ████ ████████ ███████ ████ ███ █████ █████
███ ██████ ██ ██████ ████████ ██ ████████ ██████ ██████ ███ █████ ████████ ███████ ████████ ██████ ██████ ██ ███████ ████ ███ ██████ ███████ ████ ██ ████████ ███
“Did you sleep with him?” He asks ███████ ███ ██████ █ ███████ █████ ██ ███ ████ ███████ ███ █████ ████████ ███ ███████ ███ █████ ███ ███████ ███████ ███████ ██ ███ ██████████ █████ ████████
I shake my head.
He tilts his face down as if to ask “Really?”
I shake my head again. “I dont want to”
He nods.
I think if I did hypothetically want to have sex with███████ I would feel comfortable enough to admit that ██ ████ in ████ ██████, the light, that's pillowing in reminding us that our days are almost over, and that honesty is often something that proffers itself in exhaustion.
███ █ ████ ███████ ███████ █ ████ ██████ ██ ██████ ██████ █ █████████ ███ ████ █████ ████ ███ ██████
“I understand.” I do.
“I cant be having-”
“I know.”
“So what else is going on in your life?” his hands go up.
“I dont know. █ ███ ██████ ██ ████ ███████ I just got back from new york” My eyes look to the ceiling, trying to think earnestly and honestly what to say
“You like new york?”
“I love new york”
He again, nods.
6/8 I feel half awake, and therefore only half assaulted. ███████ ██████ ██████ ████ █ ████ ███ █ █████ ███ ██ ███████ ██ ███ ██ ██████ ██ █████ ████ █████ ██████ █ ████ ██ ███████████ ██ ██████████ ███ ████
Im too anxious.
I move through the warehouses as if haunting them. My hip bones and eye bags assault anybody who looks at me.
Ben, the model and I chat lightly about rising prices of ground chicken and apples.
“Apples and chicken should not be the same price.” The model, who just moved here from Japan says.
This brings a small smile to my face because I agree with her and find it sort of dubiously adorable. Inherently correct, though.
“Yeah. My apples and a can or two of vegetable soup were around 25 dollars. Which is ridiculous.” I murmur. Everybody keeps asking me to speak up today. I want to ask them ‘from where?’
“I’ve never seen you eat ash.” the model posits.
“Now you have.” I ate the apple I packed, well grabbed for food today. Its juice is running slightly to the corner of my lips. Maybe I should care; maybe thats embarrassing.
I’ve only really managed to eat toast and apples, a couple of spoonfuls of vegetable soup over the duration of the weekend.
I wish I were doing better but I’m not. But I’m trying. And that’s something. I’m trying at something I have no idea what I’m trying at. It feels like 10 people are persistent on trying to get me killed while simultaneously feeling like I couldn’t pay ten people to look my way. It feels =bad. I feel= bad.
My stress is evident in all of these physically obvious ways, if my sighing didn't give it away.
I have no idea where I will be living in a week, either ██ ██ ██████████ ███████ ██ ██ ███████ ██████ Both seem pretty suicide-inducing to me. But one is definitely better than the other. At least █ █████ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ █ ████ ████ █ ███████ █████████ ███ ███ ███████ ███ ████ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████
This excites me and wrecks my nerves simultaneously. I’m not sure I can give much more than I am giving now, in life, but especially at work. I find it miraculous most days that I can even exercise my vocal cords. That they rub together and make a sound.
The only semblance I’ve found with this uncomfortable truth of having vocal cords is when I am on the phone with Brandon. He comforts me in a concise way. A logical way.
It is disappointing that I am not logical or concise right now. As a thing.
“I do eat.” I joke. Kind of.
The truth is that I do, just not lately. Which Im sure is making me feel worse. But I’d like to see something make me feel better. I’d be so happy to admit that I was wrong
6/3████████walks into the office at the most compromising time; I am in tears. And borderline hyperventilating.
He immediately detracts his initial stance, which was steadfast and focused; my tears seem to have stopped him in his tracks.
“Are you crying?” He asks, clearly not knowing what is okay or not okay to say.
I should feel embarrassed or maybe even scared. Probably should. Instead, I just nod.
“It scares me when girls cry.” He jokes.
█ █████ █ █████ █████ ██ ███ ███████ █████████ ██ █ ███ ██ ███ ███ ██████ ██ █ █████ ██████████ ███ ███ ██ ███████
████████ █ ██████
He shoots me a knowing smile as if to acknowledge the fact that he got me to laugh.
█████ ████ ██ ██ ████ ███ █ ███ ███████████ ████ ███ ███████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██████ ███ ██████ █████ ███ █████ █████ █████ █ ██████████ ████ █████████ ███████████ ██ ████ ████████ ███████ ███
█ ███ ████ ███ ██████ ████████ ██ █████ ███████████ ████ ████████ ████ ████ ████ ██████████ ███ ██ ██ ███ ████ ████ ████ ██ ███ █ ███ ██ ██████████ ███ ████ ████ ██ █ ████████ ██████ ███ █████████ ██ ███████████ ████ █████ ███████ ███ █████ ████ ████ ████ ██████ █████
My spine straightens. I feel as though I just woke up from a nap, a three-week nap. His ever-rising volume invigorates me. He's screaming. Its bellowing.
It feels good. Like something is happening.
“That wake you up?” he asks, without even needing the context of my sort of blunted state I’ve occupied for the past two months. He cant even begin to understand the irony.
I nod. Smiling.
█████ Looks unsettled, confused by my reaction.
████ ██████████ ██ ██████ ███ ████ ████ ███ ██████
█ █████ ██ █████ █ ████ ██ ████ ████ ███████ █ █████ ████ ██ ██ ██ ███ █████████ ████ ████ █████ ███ █ ██ ███████ ███ ████████ ██████ █████ █ ███ █████ █████ █████████████ █████ ███████████ ████ ████ ██████ ██ ███ ████ ██ ████ ████ ███ ██████ ██ ███████ █████ ██████ ██ ██ ███ ██████ ███ ████████ ██ ████ ██████████ ████████ ████ ███ ████ ██████
███████ ████ ████ ███ ███ ██████████ ████
███████
This is his way of saying I’m pretty, I think. I shake my head again█ ████████ █████████ ███ ████████ ██ ████ ███ ██████ █ █████ █████ █████ ██████ ████ █ ███ ██ ███ █████ █ █████ ██ ██████ █████ █████ ███████ ██ █ ████ ██████ █████ █████████ ██ ███ █████████
“I wish.” I earnestly state.
He shakes his head and smiles. ███████ ████ █ ██████ ██████ ████ ██████ ████ █████ █████ ██ ████ ███████ ███ █████ ██ ███ ████ ███ ███ ██ ████ ████ █████ █████████ I chime in occasionally when I don’t feel completely scared of my future. One I don’t even necessarily want but am forced to brace for.
It’s hard to find peace with disorder.
I thought I figured this out last summer. Guess not.
-------
I always thought the navy tile in the kitchen was so pretty. And how it remained cool-toned despite being drenched in the light leaking from his perpetually open bedroom door.
I find myself indolent in front of the tile.
“Here, if you want some cold water.” I hand it to him when finally entering his room, extending my arm out and pausing for him to grab it.
“Thank you.” He gasps between breaths.
██ ██ ██████ █ █████ ███████ I try to do my best to remember what that was like. I haven’t had one in a long time. Which is odd to think about.
█████ ████████ ████ █ ███ █ ████████ ███ ███████████ ███ ███████████ █ ██████ █████ █████ ███ ████ █ ████ ████ █ ████████ ████ █████ ██████████ ████████ ██ ███████ ███ ███ ████ █████ ████ ███ ██ ██ ████ ██████████ You can’t be anxious if nothing matters. Or maybe you can. You probably can.
My skin would feel break out into a cold sweat that was rendered useless because my actual body was deafened by heat. A choking sensation would make me tear off whatever shirt I was wearing, revealing my A-Cup bra from Victoria's Secret.
███ ███ ████ ██████████ █ ████ ███ ████████ ███ ███ ██████ ███ █████ ██████ █████ ████████ ██ ███ ████ ██ ███████ ██ █████ ██████ ███ ██████
█████ ██ ███ █████ █ ████ ██ ██████ ██ █████
█ █████ ██ ███ ████████ ██ █████ ██ █████████ ███████ █ █████ ████ ████ ██ ██ ████ █████████
“Okay.” I say. I cant think of anything else to say. I don't think I have anything to say.
██ ████ ████ ██████ ████ ███ ███ ██████ ██ ████ ███ █████ ██ ██ ███ █████ ██ ██ ██████ ██████ ████ █ ████ ████ ████ █████ ██ ████ ████ ███████ █ ████ ██████ ████ ██ ████ ███ ████████ ██ █████ ████ ████████ ██████ ███ ████ ████ ████ █████ ███████ ██ ████ ██ ████████ ██ ████ ████ ██ ████
“Yeah.” I move my hands off of his neck “That's okay”
Inherently, this makes me sad to see him like this. █ █████ ██ ███ ██ ███ ████████ ██. I dont really see what there is to do about this, though.
—----
I queued songs from my last drive home from San Francisco that helped me settle back into the city. I remember being on a call with Tom and realizing things would never be the same again, and with quiet acceptance, this would be my last time I was driving home from the bay.
Rain was pouring on my car, flashing itself in violent beads thanks to the wind. I checked my phone and saw two texts from him:
“Im retarded”
“I'm sorry”
And then a much bigger one sometime later. It was somehow the most romantic text I’ve ever received. But we both knew things would be different after that, and probably not different-good. Probably different-bad.
I broke up with him probably a month and a half later.
As I turn on Glendale, while i should be having some big revelation, or perhaps the sob-fest of all sob-fests, I instead think of how tired I am of driving past this same Whole Foods. And how much this Whole Foods sucks. How the coffee and juice bar hasn't been open even once.
6/1 “what’s wrong doll?” ████ pleads. He sounds genuinely at a loss; I suppose that loss is me.
“Nothing.” I sigh. I’m doing that thing.
“Please just tell me. It’s been like this for a week.” He pleads again.
“No it hasn’t” I start to laugh but stop myself, seeing as how that might make him feel. I only find humor in how comically bad it has gotten; I was somewhat happy the first half of last week. The latter half was miserable. It’s not good that the two can not be distinguished from each other.
“It hasn’t” I proffer.
“Yes it has. You make me feel clueless. I’m not stupid. I can tell something has been bothering you.”
I dont even know what to say. Its just bad. Im just doing bad.
It kills me that he thinks it has anything to do with him. But Im whatever the fucking antonym is of verbose at this point. I dont have anything to say. I dont think I would say anything if a gunman were to come up to me and say: “SAY SOMETHING OR I WILL KILL YOU RIGHT FUCKING NOW I WONT EVEN HESITATE”
I’d probably say “something”
I laugh at this stupid hypothetical which annoys June, who I forgot I was on the phone with.
“Im sorry.” I say.
“Its fine” He says. Clearly put off by how a person can sort of embody nothing.
5/30 it’s just as flat as I thought it’d be. I float atop the water and watch the palm trees idle ; there’s no wind today. My eyes settle on the details amongst the leaves. I hope that something will jump out, like a tropical bird to match the almost-comical pseudo-tropical milieu of the chateau pool patio.
Chaise lounge chairs are strewn with placcid striped towels, and half-drunk aperol spritz. The shade from the palm trees makes it cold; almost nobody is in the pool. It's all pliant in an uncomfortable way.
“You don’t believe in swimming?” I turned to Dan.
“I do.” He said
“Then let’s swim.” I removed my robe, which he gifted me up in the room, I lowered myself into the water. It’s only around 9ft deep. Which I suppose is deep. It felt deep as my legs staggered and struggled to keep me up. I resorted to just floating.
It doesn’t seem good that even swimming, one of my favorite activities, seems difficult right now.
I look up at the building, my favorite building in Los Angeles. I feel absolutely nothing. It’s cascading, it’s beautiful. It’s incredibly flat and breakable.
-------
“I can shower?” I do this, I say a sentence but mean questions.
Dan nods.
I open the windows to expose all of the Sunset Strip. It seems luxurious to have the paradigm of fresh air seeping in through the French windows, battling against the humidity emitted from the shower.
I smell all of the fancy soaps before removing my bikini and tying it around the pole that supports the shower curtain.
My breasts are out. I can see the pool I was just in and wonder if the people in the pool can see my breast. Initially, this makes me shy but I get over it as I run soap along my calves, which are very strong after New York.
I miss New York.
I wish I were in New York, even in the shower at the Chateau, I wish I weren’t here.
I don’t want to have everything or anything here; I kind of just want to leave.
------
I shuffle around uncomfortably in the rattan chairs at the restaurant on the fourth floor.I look across the patio and remember being here with Tom. I wore a dress and he wore a white shirt. I stole potatoes off of his plate because I didn’t like my beet salad, because it tasted too much of beet salad.
It feels unceremonious. Being here. Having been here. Coming here again inevitably.
The waitress brings me the worst Coke I’ve ever had in my life.
It isn’t her fault. I’m sure she hates us, too. We are the youngest people here and because of that we inherently are the ones with the worst manners. The median here is German people and famous guys who think fucking 20-year-olds here is sexy. Maybe it is.
Maybe sex is sexy.
I thought so last week. But the more I get depressed the less I think of sex. Even in a place like this, where it’s practically leaking out of the floorboards along with the smell of John Belushi's death. I’m starting to think his dying here might be the only interesting thing that has happened here. Hotels are kind of meant for fucking. It sometimes feels like I am a thing meant for fucking; only that I am oblivious to this. I think it only feels this way based off of how people act when they hear about my job. And I guess look at my hair. I dont know. I cant conceieve that I have ever had sex in my life. It seems impossible.
Ryder and Dan are talking about things, but I remain on my own private island in the rattan chair. I think of every single time I’ve been here, accounting for the fact that I’m probably forgetting a couple due to inebriation.
On second thought, I’ve been nothing but needlessly bored here. Maybe it’s just because it’s a hotel, but time moves in such a slow manner here. In an uncomfortable way. I don’t think I always felt this way. Maybe I did, and I somewhat enjoyed that aspect.. I just feel like something needs to happen.
I felt that in the pool. As my back carried me from the deep end to the shallow end, something should happen. Immediately. There should be a crash, a sound, a noise. The only semblance of life here is the occasional sway of a palm tree leaf. It doesn’t feel real. I thought I wanted this, this intangibility, this weightlessness.
Not like this.
I miss the calamity of New York. I don’t want to be this sentimental about it; but I am. I miss the constant noise, the sense of urgency. The notion that something can happen. It doesn’t feel like anything can happen here.
I’d rather have a homeless guy slap me than to have a homeless guy look at me and think about slapping me, does that make any sense?
5/29 The shower is starting to turn black. It could be mold. I don’t know, I should figure that out. Or maybe ██████ can.
██ █████ ██████ █████████ ██ ██ ████ █████ ████ ███ ████████ ███ █████ █████████ ██ █████ ██ ██████ ██ █████ ██ ██████ ████ █████ ████ ██████ █ █████████ ███ ████ ███ ███ ████████ █████████.
I’ve showered every single day since I’ve been back from New York, hoping something will wash off of me. It feels like this dead weight I’ve acquired simply from being home.
I’m hoping to be clean tonight, every night, but especially tonight. ███ has a room at the chateau and I should probably go.
The shower is black, I’m going to be clean; the chateau will feel clean, I will finally be happy to be home. I’ll look out over the hills, I’ll recount every house party I’ve been to in every house, I’ll point with my finger and be really good at it in a way that impresses people.And I’ll be clean.
-----
My stomach recoils against itself.
I’m not going to the Chateau.
Maybe I’ll go tomorrow. Truthfully, I’m tired from work. Even though work is superb right now. And I’m happy about that. Work is still work.
And my stomach hurts. And the showers black.
------
“Hey. I just wanted to check in on you,” Noel calls me.
“Oh yeah. I’m okay.” I’m fine. Completely blasé about absolutely everything in my life, but fine. In all ways, that’s fine. It’s better than bad. It’s better than horrible.
“Okay.” He doesn’t believe me. I don’t know why it matters to me if he believes me or not. It just does. Not sure what it is I always feel I have to prove.
“Maybe tomorrow?” I say. We both know we won’t be seeing each other tomorrow. We know that. We both know that, right?
Even if we want it to be true, we both know that it isn’t true. He’s calling me because he realizes he hasn’t seen me in about two months. Not many people have seen me. I suppose everybody at work. June. Everybody in New York. My ex-boyfriend. Malaya. Kelly. Lizzie. My grandmother. The pharmacist.
The pharmacist has seen me more than ██████ has in the last two months. Which is indicative of the current standing of our friendship. I wouldn’t call it a friendship at this point.
I don’t want to see anybody. Not here. I don’t know.
I don’t have anything to say.
5/26 The office remains the same. Well slightly. There’s less people but only by a few.
It’s still freezing cold.
“How was New York?” Vicent asks me. He’s wearing brown pants today.
“Good.” It was good.
Do you tell your coworkers why? Maybe I should say I got some good food in Chinatown. I did. I could say I freeloaded ████████ off of █████, who I feel comfortable calling a friend now. I’d call him my friend even if he didn’t give me free drugs. But he does give me free drugs.
“Do anything fun?”
“It rained a lot.” I open my laptop and throw my sweater on over whatever sheer t-shirt I decided was acceptable this morning.
“Are you happy to be home?” He pokes.
“Sure.” I type my password in.
------
█ █████ ██ ███████████ ██ ███████ ████ █ ███████ ██ ███ ██████ ██ ██████ ████ ███████ ██ ███ ███████ █████ █████ █████ ████ ███ █ ████████ ██ ████████ ███ ██████ ███ ████ █████ ███ █████ ████ ██ ████ ████ ████ █████
███ ██████ ████ ████████ ████ ███ ██████████ ████ █ ██████ ██ ██ ███ █████ ███ ███ ████ ██ ██████ ███ ████ ████████ ███ ████ ████ █ ██████████ ████ ████ █████ ██ ████ ███ ██████ ███ ████████ ██ ██ ████ ██ ██████████ ███████ ████ █████████ ██ ████████ ████ █████ █ █████████ ██ █ █████ █████ ████ ██ █ ██████
I don’t want to worry him. I don’t want to worry anyone, but I always do. It’s probably selfish to say, but I don’t care as long as I am not worrying myself. I’ve seen myself get bad. I’m not bad right now. June says I look smaller since getting home, which I think is ridiculous. Realistically, I am just within a healthy weight range for the first time in my adult life.
That should be good. That is good.
5/25 the saturation devours me from the toes up; begrudgingly. Everything is high contrast; yet nothing is rich. It reads as placid. Inoffensive. Virtually everything in my peripheral vision offers no depth. It’s flat.
“Are you happy to be home?” My grandfather asks as he turns onto Sepulvada. (suh-pull-vuh-duh)
I nod and look out at the flat, everything.
“Am I getting on the 405?” He asks me. I don’t know why. My phone is dead. My phone has been dead for 3 hours.
“Yeah.” I offer. I know how to get home without directions but he won’t let me drive.. I think I know how to get everywhere in LA on streets and highways alone, which feels like a worthless skill at this point. It was probably always worthless.
I look out at the Westside in between peaks of concrete.
Usually, I am so happy to be home. I could practically kiss the tarmac at LAX. I unpack with fervor and intention, methodically folding each shirt, rolling each sock. What do you do when you get home but everything is flat? You can crack everything in half, separate it?
“Steve’s kid died from taking too much Tylenol… his liver” my grandfather spits as he watches me down two Tylenols with a water bottle he bought me.
“Oh. I think it’s fine. I just have a bad migraine.” And everything is flat.
-------
“Let me smell your armpit. Please.” I beg June.
He smiles. I think he’s happy I’m home.
██ ███████ ███ ██ ████ █████ ███ ████ █████ █ █████ ██ ██████████ ███ ███ █████ ███████ ███ ████ ███████████ ██ ████ █ ███ ████ █ ██████ ████ ████ █ ███ ████████████ █ ███ ██████ █████ ██ ███ ████ ████████ █ ████ ██ ██████ █████ ██ ██ ██ █ █████ █ ███ █████████ █ █████ █████ ████ ███ ███ ████ █████████ ████ █████
It offers more. But more of the same thing. So it’s not all that different.
June lifts up his black t-shirts which has scattered holes all around it. I like when he wears black. I like when he wears white.
I smell his armpit, and it does offer me some semblance of “home.” It smells good. Familiar. Like him. I wish he were sweating more but whatever.
“Crazy.” He pulls me into his chest.
“Did you miss me?” I ask for the fifth time.
“Yes.” He answers for the fifth time.
I believe him. I don’t know why I keep asking. █ █████ █ ████ █████ ████ ████ ██ ████ ██ █ ████ ████ █████ ██████ ███ ██████ ████████ ███████ ████ █████ ████████ ███ █████████████ █████ ████████ ████ ███ █ ████ ████ █ ██████ █ ██████ ████ █ ███████ █████ ██ ███ ██████████
Instead of crying, I have sex with him and have him take me to Whole Foods, where I get nothing.
5/23 █████ tries to find a table for the 7 of us as we walk through the Lower East Side, popping his head in and out of restaurant doors that are so microscopic that he has to swivel through but this does not deter him. If anything, it motivates him.
We are all high in the rain and procrastinating going to some party in Brooklyn. I dont want to go to the party; not after last night. Im not interested in making my life harder, in taxing myself in any sort of way.
“You look good. It’ll be fine” Danny remarked, as if this were any sort of concern I had.
“I am not particularly in the mood to hang out with my ex-boyfriend tonight.” I blunted.
It didn't matter. Everybody was dead set on attending this party. I suppose I shouldn't spend the last real night in New York away from all of my friends, even if that means seeing my ex- boyfriend who I fought with last night.
I just feel tired. █ ███████ █ ███ ████████ ██ ████ █████ ███ ████ ████ ██████ █████ ████ █ ███ █████ ██ ████ █ █████ ████ ████ ████ ████ ██████ ████ ████ █ ████ █████ ██ ████ ████ ██ ████ █ █████ ████
A flash of me apologizing to Kenneth two nights ago enters my mind. What was I even apologizing for?
I'm not particularly in the mood to get rejected from all of these swanky LES restaurants because we are all too unself-aware to realize how retarded we look thanks to the drugs and our soaking clothes wet from the rain. I don't care to fight with anybody right now. Not even myself. I dont care to figure any of this out.
-------
“Ash”
I guess im supposed to turn around now.
I do.
A small menial wave should suffice. Should.
He looks at me as if I’m being evasive, probably because I’m being evasive. It doesn’t matter. What even is there to evade? After this house party, there will be nothing to evade. Debatably, from what I remember of last night, there was nothing to evade to begin with. He was very clear about that
“Hi” I wave and keep walking. I don’t know, I made a choice. A conviction. This is it. I’ve already decided.
“Ash.” He says with a period at the end now. It’s louder; we’re in the middle of the makeshift dance floor.
I don’t know that I’ve ever heard my name as much in my life as I have in the last 48 hours.
“What’s up?” I smile. This seems to irritate him. I can’t say it shouldn’t. We both know what I’m doing. I’m not doing this to be bad, though. I’m doing this to be good.
Despite everybody's belief, I am not trying to be needlessly controversial all of the time, really any of the time. My life is not one big salacious act. There is no relief between us, there never will be. At a certain point, having these conversations is just self-flagellation, for both of us in different ways. Its bleeding just to bleed.
He sends me a look as if to ask what the fuck my problem is. To ask what I’m doing and why I’m doing it. I think he will understand eventually. I think he might understand now, here.
“How are you?” He asks, his brows pulled between this scrunch at the center of his face, his physical display of confusion by my incredibly cold and aloof attitude. He is practically pleading for me to say anything honest, but I dont have anything to say.
███ █████ ████ ████ █ █████ ██ ████ █ █████ ████ ████████
“Im gooooood.” I drag out the ooooo. I don't do this for any particular reason other than to fill space. And to try to signal some weird disconnect, the idea that Im not open to talking about this. Maybe ever again.
“Okay.” He sighs. “I got your text”
I shake my head, probably feverishly, but Im really high so every movement feels incredibly slow.
“Yeah, we dont have to do this. Its not- I dont-” Im not doing this right now and I cant figure out how to say this easy sentence:. “Its fine”
“Dont be sorry” He lowers his gaze as if to look for some other version of me.
█ ████ █ ████ ████ ████ ██ █████ ███ █ ████ ████ ████ ██ █████Maybe because I know that we wont ever be as potently honest with each other again, not after last night. This is it.
“Im going to smoke a cigarette.” I yell over some Modest Mouse song and turn before I have to bleed anymore.
I leave him where he found me.
--------
When the bathroom door swings open, Tom walks out with another girl. Maybe they were doing drugs. Maybe they were having sex
I realize I don’t care if either are true. I expect a wave of anything to wash over me. Sadness, anger, jealousy. It doesn’t. My face remains blank. Again, he looks for something from me. Anything. A pang of anger directed towards him, a tear that indicates I am still there and in some way still his. I think he fails to remember I was like this last summer. I’d run my hands over forks at last minute dinners near the Malibu pier, never eating, never speaking. I’d drive us home in complete silence. I’d go with him to parties, and he’d offer two of himself socially in place of my lack. He’d make this silent apology for me to whichever guest had the pleasure of meeting me.
“Hey,” He says, ██ ██ ██████ ████████ ████ ██ ████
I point to the bathroom and indicate that I have to pee. He follows the said girl as I lock the door behind me.
I dont really feel anything. I piss and look at myself in the mirror, Im not even that high anymore. I just have to go. I’ve had a nice-ish time. I don't think tonight is meant to be anything remarkable. Its just supposed to end soon.
I grab my purse; I once heard somebody describe ████████ ██ █████ ███████████ █████ █████ ██ ███ █████ I laugh as I swing my purse over my shoulder.
I say my goodbyes. Everybody acts fake sad that I am leaving back to Los Angeles. Im so tired and can feel the inevitable come down, estimated in the next 20 minutes, I can't entertain this hyperbole. Even if its polite hyperbole.
I stop. I look at him from afar and wonder if he understands my conviction. After all, he cant read my mind. It seems fairly obvious to me why I am acting the way I am. But then again, he never really understood me even when we were together. Its a hard ask of somebody.
I start over to him. He seems scared. This is why.
“Bye.” I say.
“Get home safe, yeah?” He says in my ear. I nod and pull away quickly.
Jack and Masa say their goodbyes. Danny is comatose on the couch and as they attempt to help him up, without thinking, I run back over to Tom. He seems surprised to see me, right in front of him. He looks down at me, quizzically popping his head at me.
I just grab him and hug him. Acutely aware of the end of something. I wonder if he feels it too. Or even understands why I'm acting out.
“Bye.” I say.
5/23 “Im happy for you. I really am. And Im so proud of you for-” Tom says into my ear, cutting himself off as people bump into him, his grasp firmly on my shoulder, attempting to buoy me next to him, an impossible task in the sold-out crowd at Baby’s All Right.
“Sticking it out. You really do work hard, I know that. And-”
I wave my hand to say hello to somebody who called my name. Im not sure who; I am drunk. I’ve lost track of how many undeserved drink tickets I palmed from friends. Tom and I ended up together, walking around Baby’s. unsure of what to do with my hands, I took to sipping violently on my pathetic-ally tiny drink in a plastic cup with a flaccid lime, poking it with my straw.
Its creeping up on me
Somebody from his band, interrupts him:
“This is ash” He points to me. I'm meeting somebody. I think.
“My ex-girlfriend” He adds. He's added that to every single person he has introduced me to tonight.I ignore the urge to ask him why he keeps introducing me as his ex-girlfriend to everybody. . I am factually his ex-girlfriend, sure. I dont know why he keeps saying it though. I dont think it matters.
I feel indigent as a result of his kindness and what he was starting to say to me. I don't want to think of myself. I don't want to think of the fact that I am somebody’s ex girlfriend. I dont want to think of the fact that Im a daughter, roommate, employee, etc. I dont want to wonder why hes being kind to me; whether it matters in any sort of way, because ultimately I am still at the center of this, and I want to be anywhere but.
I wanted to get drunk and be happy, I wanted to get drunk and be away from myself.
“I love this song” I say all drunk but still aware enough to know I am trying to redirect his kindness and try to move past whatever weird spot we found ourselves in.
“Me too.” He says. We don't acknowledge the fact that this song was on his playlist he made for me to listen to on my drives up to San Francisco.
He smiles when he gets it; that Im not doing it. Im not in any place to have some sort of heartfelt conversation. I smile too. I’d really like to just be his friend tonight. And not his ex-girlfriend.
----
It seems kind of impossible to ignore the fact you are somebody’s ex-girlfriend when you are in fact their ex-girlfriend. This much is clear to me as I fight with my ex-boyfriend on some random curb in Ridgewood. What a stupid fucking sentence.
Im drunk. Embarassingly so. I hear my voice but cant compute what Im saying. I didnt care to have this fight an hour ago.
I think Im trying to say “█ ████ ███ ██ ██ ██ ██████ █████ ████ ██████ ███.”
its not coming out in the right way. Hes mad at me, and I can see this when my vision allows for it. I keep thinking im in some sort of bad dream, Im that drunk. It doesnt help that he isnt somebody i see regularly at this point, only somebody who exists almost exclusively in dreams at this point. I have no idea how I got this drunk. (EDITING: the drink tickets.)
I'm trying to think of anything that has happened in the past hour and I cant. The last thing I remember, loosely, is him asking if I was okay back in a booth at Baby’s. I remember nodding for a minute straight despite the fact I was crying. I remember saying yeah in a very small way, a very unbelievable way. I remember feeling like I had been found out, that I was infact, not okay. That I am deeply scared and unsettled with any and all matters pertaining to my life. That I dont know what I want. Or where to go.
That this big ruse I had orchestrated for the past two months had fallen apart in such a pathetic way. All it took was Tom asking if I were okay? Really, thats all?I just remember thinking I cant lie to him, he wouldnt ever believe me. I cant lie to him. Because for better or for worse he knows me too well. Its so fucking annoying that he knows me so well.
“I█ ██████ ██████.” He sighs. I dont even know what we are talking about. He looks exhausted.
████ ████ ██ ██ █████ ██ ███ ███ ██ ███ ███ ███████ ██ ███ ███ ██████ ██████ ██████ █████ ████ ███████ ███ ███████████ ████ █ ████ ███████ ███ ██████ ██ ███ █████ █ ███ ██ ████ ████ ███ ██ ███ ██████
I can't even pretend I care to win this fight.
███ ████ ██ ███ ████ █████ ██ ████████ ███ ████ █ ███ ███ ███ ████ ████ ██████████ ███ ██████████ ███ ███████ ██ ████ How grueling it is to entertain it. How retarded it was of me to think we could be friends despite my absolute necessity for it right now. How selfish it was of me.
------
When I get back to Jack’s apartment its dark. I shower routinely and act as if what transpired for the last hour did not in fact happen.
“Hey” Jack croaks from his bed.
“Hey” I say as if my voice may assault Jack.
“Whats wrong?” He sits up, like a concerned parent.
“I just fought with Tom. I dont even know what about.”
“Im sorry.” Jack says.
“It doesnt matter. Hes right.” I crawl into bed. “ It just scared me how much he sounded like me”.
████ ███ ████ ██ █████ ███ █ ████ ███████
██ ██ █████████ ████
███ ████ █████████ ██████ ████ ██████ ██ ██████ ████ ██ █████ ██ ███ ██ █████ ██████████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ██ ████ ██ ███ ████ ████ ██████ ██ ███████ ████ ████ ████ ██████ ███ █ ███████ ██████ ████ █ ████ █████ ███████ ████ ████ ████ ██████ ███████ ███████ █████████ ███████████ ████ ██ ██ █████████ ████ █ ███ ██ ███████ ████ ██████ ███ ██ ███████
████ █████ ██ ████ ████ ████████ █████ ██████████ █████ ████ ██████ █████████ ████ ████ ████ ██ ████████
I couldnt recognize him tonight I only saw myself. In such an upsetting and disappointing way.
It feels unfair to have one of the only things youve ever loved start to mimic the worst parts of you. I loved him because he was not me. Im aware how stupid this sounds. I loved him because he was exactly the opposite of me. Every way in which I was bad; he was good.
5/21 When I wake up I am not dead. So that points to the fact that Im fine. Im fine and not dead in New York City, which is cooler than being fine and not dead in Los Angeles. Maybe not cooler. I dont know. Its at least different.
5/20 the older woman next to me will not let up. She fucks with the TV in front of her seat as if it were a job. She ignores me initially when I ask to get up to pee. I knew she could hear me because she insisted upon watching the Devil Wears Prada sans headphones.
My legs shift around to find any semblance of comfort. This is rendered pointless as it feels like tiny bugs are crawling over the muscles in my calves. Pins and needles I think its called.
A deep and familiar dread fills me; I’m going to throw up. It’s the simultaneous feeling of everything and nothing. Flowering heat that encompasses your entire body and a chill you cannot shake. I start to feel this sort of fear, I can’t calm down, no matter how hard I try to breathe. I don’t know. Something seems really wrong with me.
I am attuned to vomiting at this point. In fact, I am suspicious when I go more than 2-3 weeks without vomiting. It's as mundane as a sneeze or a yawn, and something I have given up on retaining some sort of understanding of. This feels different. Scary.
I keep poking my head above the array of seats, seeing if any flight attendants will come and offer some sort of beverage or plantain chips. They always have plantain chips on planes.
Once I’ve waited for nearly 20 minutes in worthless anticipation of plantain chips and lukewarm water;
“Can I-“ I point to the aisle.
The Portuguese woman nods. I feel sorry to interrupt the devil wears Prada. But at this point I am going to vomit on her.
I husk my body over her frail lap and grab onto the luggage compartment to steady myself upon standing. I’m in the air. Like 50,000 feet in the air.
I thought standing would make me feel better, but I feel worse.
The plane is dark, with the occasional ambient lighting from screens playing a variation of a Harry Potter movie or the new Wuthering Heights. There’s a light in the back that I follow as if my own personal beacon; one that will absolve me of this physical embodiment of dread and pain. A new and different kind. A kind I need relief from. I feel like I know what is going to happen, I am 90% sure I know what is going to happen.
“Is there a bathroom back here?” I ask a girl my age. She is in a green hoodie and looks like a girl I know from Los Angeles named Madeline. Maybe it’s Madeline. I don’t know. Her eyes look kind of different. She is pretend to be Madeline, I decide.
“Yeah but I’m in line.” she says.
I nod. That was a stupid question to ask. What else would be back here? A smoking room? A poker room?
——
Pretend Madeline is standing over me alongside a strawberry blonde woman who looks like she is from Arizona.
“Are you ok?” Pretend Madeline asks.
I nod despite having no idea what is going on or who any of these people are. Aside from pretend Madeline. Which you could argue that she is pretend so technically I dont even know her. Flight attendants hover over me as if I am a new something they've discovered; as if I am good.
I’m so comfortable. My limbs feel relaxed. Like an abused rubber band post- finger gun game. my eyesight steadies; my legs are fully extended across the floor. My head is against the floor. I’m on the floor.
“Did I faint?” I ask my friend Madeline.
“Yeah.” She says. “You fell over.”
“Oh.” Is all I can think to say.
“We’re nurses” the older blonde woman says.
“Okay.” Is all I can think to say.
I don’t know what to say after. What do people say after they faint? I never did figure that out.
—---
The drive into the city feels foreign. I feel disoriented but happy to be in New York. There's this heat that presses against the metal of the car. That belts on my left temple, which is throbbing.
It is smaller than I remember. Maybe I just feel bigger. Maybe I just take up too much space now.
------
█████’s apartment is littered with a ton of open laptops, their screens each showing a different thing.
“Kitty” I call to the brown tabby who sits in a webbed folding chair. Something about the contrast of having a webbed beach chair in a Manhattan apartment amuses me; but I could just be mildly concussed.
Trying to figure that out, while simultaneously trying to figure out how it could be so muggy and humid alongside such unrelenting rain.
The cat perches itself behind my neck on the back of the sofa. He won't make eye contact with me but he much enjoys my pets.
“What's his name?” I ask █████, whose eyes don't leave the laptop screen while he answers:
“Kitty.”
Perfect.
My head hurts tremendously, and I'm having a hard time understanding that I am supposed to be having fun. Let alone putting that into action. I figured I could treat my fainting as a thing that happened 8 hours ago and move on.
I didn't really care, which wasn't surprising to me, but was surprising to all of the flight attendants and everybody on board. I guess they did the whole thing they did in movies, the exorbitant “IS THERE A DOCTOR ON BOARD?”
I'm glad I wasn't awake to deal with that. I would have been mildly embarrassed and agitated.
One of the nurses recognized this, and as the plane pulled to the gate, said, “I am just glad youre okay. I could tell you didnt want that kind of attention... but we were worried about you”
I shrugged. It was true. I didn't want that kind of attention. Something about fainting in front of a girl my age made it all the more embarrassing too. She probably has a job that pays her more than mine pays me, and she probably has a boyfriend who buys her flowers every week because she likes easy flowers that are accessible to find. Easy to procure. Simple to vase. She must have health insurance which she pays an appropriate yet considerable amount for. She probably has more than me in every way that matters, and less than me in every way that counts.
I have a small bump on the back of my head from whatever I hit when I fainted. I keep asking Jack if I have a concussion, and he says no every time.
A myriad of cool-looking people pile in and out of █████’s apartment. Literally, the door seems perpetually unlocked. A myraid of cool people look at me like I am very uncool ( I dont think cool people ask over and over if they're concussed. They probably just put their face down into the drugs and shut up.)
A lanky boy slips himself in through the balcony window. I guess this is normal here.
He makes his way over to us on the couch, where Jack and I are being needlessly annoying. I think thats our right though, I haven't seen him in 8 months.
He kind of just stands there. ███ ████. I start to feel embarrassed by my probably slightly concussed- unshowered since this morning- been on a plane for six hours, traversing through Chinatown in the humidity and rain, appearance.
█ ████ █████ ██ ████ █████████ ██ ██████ █████ ██ █████████████ ████ █████ ███████████ ██████ ██████ ████
“Hey. Im ████.” He introduces himself.
“Im ash.” I say monotone, shaking his hand.
We both just kind of stand there.
“Im going to make a call downstairs.” I announce to everybody. I'm not surprised when not a single person raises their eyes to watch me leave.
It feels nice here. I have always liked New York for its communal ambivalence.
5/16 my body twitches against the mattress in a rather unceremonious fashion. I’m not sure what I am dreaming about but I know it isn’t good. My chest rises and falls with what little stammer it has left.
You don’t usually twitch and enter into this half-assertive manner in an otherwise good dream. That is the thing with my nightmares lately, I can’t ever recall what they are about, I can only recall the feeling of dread.
-----
“Doll, I’m gonna go.”
It is good it’s dark because he can’t see my face pull itself into some sort of mix between sadness and fear. Probably closely resembling one of those sad porcelain clown dolls; habitually frowning and made obvious by their overpronounced cupid's bow.
I drift in and out of sleep as he explains where he’s going. Or the sweet things he’s saying. He’s kissing my shoulders, I think. Or hugging me. It’s kind of unclear.
██ ██ ████ ████ ████ ███████ ██ █████ ███ ██ ████ ████ ██████ ████ ████ ████ ██ ███ ███████ ███████ ███ █████ ████████ ███████ ██████████ ███ ██ █████ ███ █████████ █████ ██████ ██████████ ████████ ███ ████ ███████ ██ █████ ████ ██████████ ██████ ████
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I mumble, and wince. I can’t say anything. It seems pretty stupid and childish to say I had nightmares. It doesn’t seem productive by any means to ask him to stay. They won’t go away because he’s here, clearly. I wonder if he felt the small violent thrashes, all a product of this unpronounceable fear.
I can hear him wrapping up our dinner we ate in my bed. I have to stop doing that. I have to stop acting weird, also.
I’m just feeling afraid of something I can’t specify. So I have taken to never talking about this to anybody. I instead just act weird and then wonder why everybody is acting weird to me.
He keeps saying things, and I keep trying to fall back asleep. Back asleep means not real. It means maybe I will have a good dream or better yet one of absolutely no note, it will make it to where I vaguely remember him saying sweet things. It will mean I don’t have to do the work of falling back asleep all over, and hopefully that I won’t wake up a mess again. Just tomorrow. I can’t manage that tonight, all throughout the night.
█ ███ ████ ███ ████ ██ ████ ███ ████████ ██████ ███ ████████ █ █████████████ ███ ██ ███ ████████ ███ ██ ██████ ████ ████ ███ ███████████ ████ ████ ███ ██████████ ███ ████████ ███████
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Im not. I don’t think I am upset at anything. And something about that is terrifying. I think I feel nothing and that I should feel everything given █ ██ ██████ ██████ ███ ████████ .
I expect some sort of sentimentality to meet me; but it never does. Not on Santa Monica boulevard. Not with the Jacarandas pooling at my ankles. I just don’t feel any sort of connection to my surroundings or myself.
I only feel terrible, right when I wake up. This hasn’t been a problem. Not for a long time. Not since I was fifteen. It made sense then. Bad things happened to me. Stupid things but bad things. And then the bad things would repeat in my head again and again because that happens with bad things sometimes. A lot of the time.
It happened to every soldier from Vietnam pretty much. And I guess me. Which always made me scoff at myself and every doctor who said “post traumatic stress disorder” I didn’t fucking kill anybody. I didn’t rape a village. I didn’t commit fucking war crimes. I haven’t seen anybody die. Just stupid bad things. Half of them avoidable in some way.
I do feel embarrassed. It feels embarrassing. I don’t know why, I can’t control it. I just feel like it looks bad. Like I am looking for sympathy. Which according to ████ is the worlds worst offense.
It still bothers me.
5/15 when I get home from scarlets show, I’m really confused by what I see in the mirror.
I turn my face to the left and run my fingers across my right cheek. My fingers bump over and back to the flat parts of my face. June said my skin didn’t look dull the other night but he was obviously lying.
Maybe it didn’t look as dull. It looks infinitely worse now. I’ve been picking at my skin. Again. A habit I thought I shed as a teenager. One that was juvenile and just that.
My periods haven’t been the same since (THE INCIDENT) and this one is the worst (POST INCIDENT). I don’t know if it’s the new medication making me breakout, or hormones. I’ve always found it relatively useless to try to figure out why acne occurs, because I only ever think of why acne occurs when it occurs. Never any other time.
My face looks really fat too. And just bad. I look bad.
I’m trying to calm myself down and tell myself that’s okay. It’s a frivolous thing to worry about. But I don’t know.
I didn’t have anytime to get ready for Scarlet’s show, leaving immediately from the office in nothing but a black skirt, my ballet flats, and a fitted baseball tee. As I drove to the venue in highland park, I think right on York, ████rattled on my iPhone. Which swerved around in my lap, at times falling between my feet. He said he wanted to have sex with me, and I explained to him that I never was around babies growing up so I didn’t know how to interact with them for a long time.
I said things like “I have to be up early tomorrow, I have plans with Laya. It’s my last off day until I leave for New York”
█ ████ ██████ ████ ███ ███ ████ ████ ██ █ ████████ ███████ ████ ███████ ███ ████ ██████ ███ ██ ███ ███ ██ ██████████ ███ ███ █████ ███ █ █████ ███ ████ ██ █████ ███ ███ ██ ████ ██ ██ ███
I must have been picking at my skin at my desk today, without even realizing. My one pimple that was under the skin is now red and dried with blood. Gross. I have to cut my nails. I did cut my nails, a few days ago. Now they’re back. That’s how they work. Supposedly.
Things are not good. I know this because I am looking in the mirror at my face which is gashed from my own doing, something I only do under extreme stress. Things are not good. I know this because I am annoyed at the thought of having to trim my fingernails. Tonight. In four days. Maybe five. In two weeks.
Things are not good because my fingernails growing is adding to this feeling I thought I solved: I’m still very scared of there being more of me in the world. A centimeter more of fingernail, a new pound of lipids to account for, baby hairs that curl. Leg hair growing back. Skin dying and growing.
My face looks sad in the mirror, in a lot of ways. Ways I’ve been trying to deny for the last two months. I am sad. I don’t think I am happy. I don’t think somebody who is this scared but won’t say that part out loud can even be happy.
5/9 ███ ██ █████ █ ████ █████ █ ██ ██████ █████ ██████ █ █████ ████ ████ ████████ █████████ ████ ████ ████ ███████ █████ ████ ██ ████████ ██ █ ████ █████ ████████ █████ ██ ██ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ███ ██████████
███████ ██ █████ ███ █ █████ █████ █ ███ ████ ██████ ██ ███ ███ ██████ ███████ █████ ███
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█████
███████ ██ ███ ███ ████████ █ ████ █████
“Can I just stay and read for a little while before I leave to dinner?”
█████ ██ ███████ ████ ██ █████
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5/3 “You good?” Denny asks twirling around on an office chair.
“Yeah why? I’m fine realistically. tom says I am doing better than he would be doing in this given situation, than most would be doing in this situation.
Its never fun to have an event in your life that you have to refer to as a “situation” or incident.
“You look sad”
“Just tired.” I think I am just saying this because I am used to saying this. Realistically my energy has been returning for the first time since the incident. I think a lot of this has to do with Dillon being gone. All of them being gone.
—-
Bizarre and empty feeling stomach pain. It feels as though acid were sloshing around, actively corroding my stomach lining but the likelihood of this being true is very low; I haven’t had anything to eat.
I was very ok an hour so ago. My mellow drama ceased and was supplemented by this sort of delusionally optimistic scenario; ████ ███ ████ ██ ██ ███ ████ ██ ████ ████ ██ ███ ████ ███ ██ ███ ███████ █████ ████ ███ ██ ████ █████ █████ ████ ██ ███ ████████ █████ ████ ███ ████ ███████ ██ ████ █████ ████████████ ███████ ████ ███ ███████ ████ ██ ██████ ███████ ██ ████ ███ ██ ███████ ███████ ██████ █ ████ ███ ██ ████ ██ ███ █████████ ██████
This is delusional, out of touch, and perhaps even wrong. But it is the only thing that calms me down that offers some sort of hope that things aren’t completely and utterly scary right now.
It’s revoked of consequence. ███ ████ ███ ██ ██ █████ ████ ████ ██ ███ ███████████████ ██ ████ ████ █████ ███ █ ████████ █████ ██ ████ ██ ██████████ ████ ████ ███ ███████ ████ ██ ███████ ██ ████ ████ █████ ███████ ███ █ ████ ███ ████ ███████ ██ ██ ███ ██ ███ ███████ █████████ ███████████
Occasionally, Denny will pull my focus. I’ll pause my Red House Painters album, and be confronted with reality. The reality that I am in the office, with nothing in my stomach but coffee. And that I feel pretty terrible.
5/2 “Do you want to come to ██████’s party with me?” He asks and bites into a comically large piece of pineapple, which I wanted some of. Only a little bite.
“I think I might just want to be alone today.” I hum.
“Okay.”
Its kind of silent. Only kind of because the gay Brazilian people are very loud. Their omelets are an uncomfortably pale shade of yellow which contrasts horribly against this morning. Which is decidedly gloomy and depressing.
—--
I get a text about how resilient I am; how all will be ok.
I have never proffered whether this means anything: to be resilient. I don't want to be resilient. I don't want to have to be that.
It's been the only thing I thought of since waking up from my nap, scrubbing the pile of dishes in the sink, and watching bubbles of soap announce themselves only to pop as i gazed at my body the bathroom mirror from the shower.
I don't know if it means anything to be resilient. It doesn't seem like I have a choice.
I want to text Tom back that he shouldn't feel too bad for me, because anybody who has felt bad for me, or offered any sort of understanding to me has been socially reprimanded this past month. I don't want him to suffer the same fate.
“I’ll be normal in New York. I'm sorry” I said in my driver's seat.
“You’re being normal now” He said standing above me.
5/1 “coming to the show?” Text from Tom
“Coming to the show.” I type.
We are texting back and forth. He seems happy. I seem really happy too.
It’s weird to see his name on my phone. Admittedly, I still have his contact photo of him as a baby, his eyes huge and brown like a docile cow. He looked precious.
We talk as if we are old friends. I think we are. That’s all we can be.
-------
“I’m sorry. I can’t do this” my hands flail in the air as if to signify the weight of.. this house show I guess.
“Hey it’s ok.” He pulls me into him.
███ █████████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ███ ████ ██ ████████ ███████ ███ █████ ██████ ██ ██████████ ██ ███ ███ ██ ██████ █ ████ ███ ██ █████ ██████ ███ ████ ██ ██ ██████
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“Now I don’t have to play as good. I was so worried about playing good.” ‘For you’ is the part he doesn’t say out loud. He doesn’t really have to.
He looks at me for some sort of reaction. I smile weakly.
“Now I can play the most boring set. The most terrible set. Because I won’t be worried anymore.” He tries, really hard.
I smile, a bit less weak.
I nod. As if to agree that somehow it all worked out. ██ ███████ ██ ██████ ██ ██ ██████ ███ █ ████████ ████ ████ ███████ ██ ███ █████ ██ ███ █████████ ██ ███ ██████ █████ ████ ███ █████ ████ ████████ ███ ████████ █ ████████ ████ ████ ███ █ ███ ██████ ██ ███ █████ █ ████████ ██ ██████ ██ ███ █████ ██ ██ ██████ ███ █ █████ ██ ██████ ██ ██████████ ███ ███ ████ ██ ██ █████ ██████████ ████ ███████ ███ ███████ ██ █ ██████ ████ ████ ███ ████ ████ ██ ████ ██ ███ ██████ ██████ ██ ██████ ██ █████ ████ ██████ ████ ██████ ████ ███ ███████ ███ ██ ██ ████ ██ █████ ███████ ██ ██████████ ██ █████ ███ ███████ ████ ██ ███████
All I do is think now. I don’t speak.
“Thank you for coming.”
4/29 the cashier in an arcteryx beanie hands me a large coke.
Kelly says it’s all very self involved; I have to agree. As somebody who is grotesquely self involved with a mal aligned sense of self importance; I think I have earned the right to classify those who are of the same elk.
I look around and at my feet, which are freezing despite putting a pair of black knee high socks over them. Everybody here is ruined by their sense of self importance. Me too.
Arcteryx beanie. My Marc Jacob heels. Some rapper is here named 2slimey. The kid from Mid 90s is here and he is wearing a purple zip up jacket; like Justin Bieber. He weirdly out of everybody here seems the most personable. Maybe it’s because his mother is here to congratulate him on his role in the short film all of us self important fucks gathered in. Her blonde hair next to his skater body really humanizes him. Makes you feel like it might not be so jaded to move here and have a dream.
Isn’t that what makes it so fucking terrible here? That nobody is from here. Not actually. Everybody has moved here with some sort of idea that they deserve something. To act, to dance, to sing, to write.
I did this. Inadvertently. Maybe somewhat adversely. I don’t want to do it anymore. I don’t think I want to prove anything. I don’t want to move somewhere and be something. I don’t want to be anything lately. Or at least, maybe something very very nominally important. Like a fish. Or a sea anomene. Maybe a cup. Straw could work too.
Anything that doesn’t have to move, and if it does, not by much.
“I think it’s at 1oak.” Eveie said earlier, I think.
“It’s at keys.” Somebody added about the after party. Keys is what they’re calling 1oak now.
I only know 1oak from the lardashians. Kourtney and Scott would fight a lot because he’d take these club appearances at 1oak over spending time with their newborn.
“I’m down.” I say. Without thinking.
If 1oak is so much fun that you abandon your new born child, maybe, just maybe I will have fun there. It will be my first time having fun, in a true sense of the word, in the last month.
4/26 "Aren't you scared?” Jason, who is somewhere I think is in Nebraska asks me over the phone. I like to imagine him by the side of a road kicking a rock as if it were a very very small soccer ball.
“Eh. No.” I declare, turning my car left onto third street.
“██████ is going to be there.” He says so matter-of-factly.
So?” I ask patting my passenger seat, feeling for a lighter.
“It’s going to be intense.” He seems confused as to why I’m not scared. I haven’t thought about whether I’m scared or not. Or if I feel any sort of way about it; if I feel any anything at all.
“Probably.”
5 minutes ago, when my phone rang, I was elated to see Jason’s name on my phone. Now I am filled with a sort of feeling that I’m not succinct as a person; that I’m not reacting the way a person would react to a certain thing. That I’m doing something wrong. Acting weird.
I haven’t had time to think about whether I’m scared to see █████ again. I haven’t thought about whether I would see █████ again. █ █████ ████ ██ ██ ███ █████ ███ ███ ████ ██ ██ ████ ████ ██ ███ ████ █████ ███ ██ ██ ████ █████ ███████ ██ ███████████ █████ ████ ██ ███ █████ ██ ███████████ ███████ ██ ███████████ █████ ████ █████ ███ ███ ███ ████ █ ███.
Last week, Jackson had asked me about █████ . We were sat on the patio out back at el prado.
“No.” I said and sipped some of the wine Evie had gotten me.
“No.” I said when ████ offered me a bump.
“██ ███ █████ ████ ███?” Jackson had asked
“Yes.” I said still staring at the mosaic tiling in front of me, which showed a turtle or some sort of aquatic being. I said it as if it were obvious. As if the question were stupid.
“Everyone’s going to be mad at you bruh.” Jason, who I should just call the punisher at this point, punishes me preemptively.
“Who is everyone?”
“████ ███ ███.”
“They might.” I sigh.
They really might. And I couldn’t be mad if they did. I am maybe the most punishable person alive. I don’t know if that’s true. I’m maybe just the most confused person alive.
4/23 █ ████ ██ ██ ███ ████ ██████ ███ ███ ███ ██████ ██████ ██ ████ ██████ ██████ ██ ███ ███ ████ ██ █████
████ █████ █████ █ ████ ██ ███████ ████████ █ ████ █████ █ ████ ██████ ████ ████ ██ ████
██ ████ ████ ██████ ███████ ██ ████ ████ ███████ ███ ██ ███ ████████ ███████ ██ ███ ████ ██ █████ █████ ███████ ██ ███ ███████████ ██ █████ ████ ████ ██ ███ ███ ████ ███ ██ ████████ ████ ███ ████ ██ ██ █ ██████ I was asleep and therefore left out of this sort of moral qualm; gladly.
██████ ██ ████ ███ █████ ██ ████ ████ Part of me wants to fight it or question it but I am too tired, ██ █ ██████ ████ ████ ████ Falling asleep.
I’m tired of fighting everything. And it just feels nice, so I will let it feel nice. I don’t have it in me to fight, nor do I have the tenacity.
Any tenacity I have is born from solipsism.
----
My solipsism has been rewarded satisfyingly: my career is now. I can’t think of any other way to say it. It is almost like I paid her to say exactly what I had dreamt of.
4/21 The 50 hour fast proved to be worth something. I woke up feeling clean. Like a baby who had been baptised and slept through the entire thing.
It makes it easier to not eat for 50 hours when you're irreconcilably stressed; the effect that has on one's appetite is grating. I lost 5 pounds. Surely just water weight. But it's nice to have a tangible difference compared to all of the innocuous problems that have planted themselves so firmly despite their corporeal nature.
I feel healthier than I have all month, which is saying next to nothing. But better is better.
When at work yesterday, hunched over my desk; I thought I was going to die. And it felt very real. In a new way than any all of the other times I thought I was going to die.
I started praying which is something I only do when I really need something or I’m very scared. My hands shook as I tried to type on my computer, as I raised my glass of water to my lips. I really thought I was going to die and that was it.
“Are you okay?” █████ asked me. I hadn't even noticed him next to me.
I nodded dutifully as if to assure him I was completing something. I was.
██ ███████ ████████████ ██ █████ ████ ██ █████ █ ███████ ███ ███ █████ ███████████ ███████ ██ ███ ███ ██ █████ ██████ ██████████ █████ ███ ██████ ████████ ████ ██████ █ ████ █████ ██████ ██ ████ ██████ █ ████ █████ ███████ █ ██████ ███ ██████ ███ █ █████ █████ ████ ████ █████ ███████ ██ ███████ ████
██ █████ █████ ██████████ █ ███████ ██████ █████ ██ █████ ████ ██ █ ███████ █████ ████████ ███ ██████ ████ ████████ ████ ███ ███████ ████████ █ █████████ █ █████ ████ ███ ██ ██████ ██ ██ ██ ██████████
████ █ ███ ██████ █████ █ ██████ ███ ██ █████ █████ ██ ███ █████ ██ ████ █████████ █████ █ ███ ██ ███████ █ ███ █ █████████ ██████ ██ ██ ███ ████████ █████ ██████ █ ██████ ████ ████ █ ██████ █ █████ ████ ███ ██████ ██ ███ ██ ████ █████ ███ ████ ██ █████ ███████ ███ ████ ████ █ ██ ███████ █████ ██████ ████ █████
-----
“Can we go to my bed?” I grab button, my pale yellow stuffed animal duck from the couch and without waiting for an answer start towards my bedroom.
4/20 Objectively, that is bad. Neutrally, this is the only thing that brings me a semblance of normalcy. A sense of control. A knowing. It sucks when you find yourself aligning with the words on google under a list of symptoms:
- Being very tired and weak.
- Dizziness
- Not able to stand the cold, or feeling cold when others feel fine.
- Swelling of the arms or legs.
- Stomachaches.
- Never feeling hungry or feeling hungry and getting full right away after eating a very small portion
- .Having a hard time concentrating or focusing.
- Low mood.
- Increased anxiety.
- Stress fractures or reduced bone mass.
I do always surprise myself under circumstances of immense pressure or hardship. I don’t know why. I think it enacts some feeling of self reliance which feels very safe to me now. Relying on only myself has rewarded me. I have proffered much of my own life. Not to discount my friends, family, those who love me and support me. But I don’t know.
In times of desperate need and genuine unwellness I have found, for whatever reason, that the world does not offer much grace. This has been confirmed in an array of ways. Naturally, I stopped asking for it. I just took care of what I needed to take care of.
“Can you help me open this?” I ask my coworker. He rolls his eyes jokingly. The truth is that I am so physically weak that I cannot open it myself. Which is highly embarrassing. But I should probably drink water.
——
█ ████████ ██ ███ ███ ████ █████ █ ████ ██████ ████ ███ ████ ██████ ████ ████████ ████ █████████ ██ ████ ████ █████ █████ ████ ██ █ ██████████ ██████ ██████████ ████ ██ ██ █████████████ ██████
███ ██████ ██ ██ ███ ████ ████ ████████ █ ███ ██ █████ ████████ █████████ █████ ███ ████
██████ ███ ████ ████ ████ ██ █████ I want to believe her. I want to believe this is true.
It would make this all make sense. All of the hardship and confusion. ███ ████ ██████ █ █████ ███ ███ ███████ this past year won’t just be something I now can no longer relate to and find increasingly difficult to write; it’ll be an epitaph. The ultimate goodbye letter. One I didn’t even know I was writing
I would like to believe this is true.
—-
“The dodgers end they games today. Or no they come back Friday.” My grandfather says through the phone.
“Nice” I say back unsure of what else I could possibly say to that.
“How is work?” He asks obviously picking up on my monotonous tone.
“Busy.” I say.
“You’re relaxing?” He asks as I turn off of the freeway, right onto La Brea.
I nearly stop my car, and my hand reaches to switch gears to park. My ears can’t be hearing right.
My grandfather; who while he loves me despite seeing the absolute worst of me, is in his own unique way asking if I am okay. My boomer grandfather who has raised me as a bratty child, into a bratty teen, and maladjusted bratty adult, is asking this. The same one who makes fun of me if I complain about emptying lint in the dryer, the one who swears up and down, left and right, that my “generation” are a bunch of lazy sacks of shit that can’t buy houses not because of the actual turmoil his generation placed the economy in, no, it is because we are lazy. Maladjusted. Selfish. He is asking me if I am okay, insinuating I am pushing myself too hard. This makes me ponder the thought; am I?
“I am trying to relax. Yes. I don’t have much time” I am telling the truth. I am not looking for sympathy from him; which I have unfruitfully searched for from him my whole, only until recently.
“You have to relax.” He says starkly. “It’s important”
“I know I just-“ I sigh. I wonder if I command F search this entire blog for the word ‘sigh’ how many times it’d appear. At least over 100. Maybe 300. “I don’t have time”
Again, telling the truth.
He must have heard through my mother about my recent health scare. Which is just a reality now. One that I have swallowed. Not due to some sort of emotional acceptance. But more so due to timing. I didn’t have time to sulk. Take it on the chin, bite it, turn the other cheek, move on. These are things I say to myself in my head often. Things that I say that are supposed to help and feel good for me. They work sometimes; not all of the time.
“well find the time” and like that, we are off the phone.
I had called initially to hear his voice; which was coarse and made me scared. The idea of him aging pains me too much to ever think of it fully. It’s something I try to ignore, but it’s clear at this point avoidance cannot be my full-time job. At least not anymore.
It can be a hobby, like knitting, or something, something I divulge in alone and away. But I have no choice but to be an active participant in my life now. The past week has made it abundantly clear that the world insists upon making me suddenly important. However much I may deny it, it is forcing itself on me.
Take it on the chin, bite it, turn the other cheek, move on.
Except it, it being the world, will not let me. Every attempt I have made this past month; to be quieter, to fade. To disassociate myself from myself, my chassis has proven to be unavailing.
My worst fear has always been to be important.
4/16 i thought so many times of what it’d be like to see jack again. In the flesh. Occasionally, as anybody does, i will sometimes look at his instagram. This is soley to ensure he is alive, i don’t know why he wouldnt be, but sometimes its very easy to feel like somebodh is dead when you haven’t heard their vocie in years and there’s a high chance you might not ever hear it again.
I typically ensure his alive-ness and turn my phone off; feeling very stupid. Of course he is alive, why wouldnt he be?. Occasionally I will read the poem he has about me up which makes me wonder why he hasn’t untagged it. It’s a good poem. I can’t reconcile it’s about me or the fact we were ever in love, practically lived together, so on. It’s weird how I can’t reconcile that but I can remember exactly how he takes his coffee. The sputtering sound he made when I would force him to try my cup, which I just take black.
I don’t remember what it feels like to kiss him. Or what kind of hand holding position we naturally assumed. Time will do this. Sometimes this relieves me, othertimes upsets me. I guess just the idea that even if you want something to be special, sometimes it just cant be. You cannot assign or feign emotionally potent feelings.
There was still this part of me that worried so intently and neurotically that upon seeing him again, I’d somehow remember all of these things. I’d have a big sweep of human emotion. One so all encompassing I’d have to leave to go write about it, or put my wet palm to the back of my neck in the bathroom of a party in a sad attempt to ground myself. One that would make me feel human.
It was all so unceremonious.
Trinity was rattling off her lyrics in an attempt to memorize the song she was recording with Greg. I would mumble she sounded great and pat her in an attempt to ease her nerves to no avail. This helped nobody but we repeated it a couple of times amongst the house party, in a corner we claimed as ours.
In the midst of it I looked up and thought to myself “wow that really looks like jack” and when I looked down at the sweater he was wearing I realized it was him.
We locked eyes and he seemed to have the same realization. I am wearing the same sweater I always wear. And always have worn.
I saw his eyes dart away. I felt absolutely nothing.
I have this deep fear I am suppressing all of my emotions to the point of detriment. To decay. And that this is something i myself am oblivious to, until one day I will realize it and explode into a million pieces.
I think I am doing that, but the reality of this never springs upon me the way I expect it to. I expect it to hit me in moments like this; palpable, human, fucking expected. It never arrives in these moments, only edges itself by my own volition as a sad attempt at feeling normal which has never been fruitful.
I only feel the weight of whatever I am suppressing in the bathtub. I think because this is the only place I ever had any privacy as a child. My best sobbing has been done there. All of my pleading has been in waded shallow water with bare thighs against porcelain.
I did not have that feeling of the world stopping, ceasing, the music playing in the background suddenly becoming mute. His face despite knowing it so well, it’s etches and contours, didn’t act as an anchor amongst the crowd of people I knew nothing of. I felt like it should have, but it didn’t.
I felt absolutely nothing. I don’t think I smiled. I don’t think I cried. I think I just looked at him and felt puzzled by myself. I know how I am supposed to feel about seeing a person I spent so much of my life with, only I can’t feel that. I can’t even force myself to or play into the drama of it. It’s over and done. It has been over and done.
The most startling part of our breakup to me was the idea that it didn’t matter how much you loved somebody sometimes things cease to work. This upset me deeply, freaked me out. The idea that “work” and “love” had something to do with each other seemed insidious. In hindsight it’s incredibly juvinelle. I don’t know. I didnt even believe that when I was with him. But something about not being with him. Made it worse to stomach a truth I had always known but then had to accept.
Seeing him across this backyard, under these string lights, made me feel like a character. Like his ex girlfriend. I am dealing with what every early twenty something deals with; it isn’t special or unique. It’s by no means earth-shattering. To be a 25 year old woman with a bob haircut seeing her guitarist ex boyfriend at a house show for an up and coming neo-twang artist is hardly revolutionary
----
My car windows are down. Trinity is still at the house party. I think. It feels empty on the 101 which is optimal because I’ve decided the only way I can stomach Los Angeles lately is if it is completely barren. Which is a big ask.
4/17 “aren’t you worried about ██████████?” ████ asks me.
“I don’t know. Should I be?” I ask. Completely unenthusiasized by the conversation of choice.
The last thing I would like to hear upon enter this swanky, bordering on gauche party would be to hear about ██████ ███ █████████ ████ ██ as of late. Frankly, it makes me sad. Frankly, I am worried. I have learned this ceases to matter in any real way. If anything; that any sort of effort to worry, a semblance of care, or will not be warmly received. It won’t be received at all.
“I don’t know. I think I am worried. I haven’t heard from him in weeks.” ████ fucks with the collar of his shirt. He is holding a beer. I’m completely sober.
“Oh. That doesn’t seem good.” I don’t know what to say. I think I’m being prompted to say something, reveal something. But I frankly don’t want to talk about this. Especially not at a party.
“Yeah. I mean have you seen him? Talked to him?” He asks sipping from his beer as if we were talking about something as benign as the weather.
No, I have not.
“I honestly haven’t talked to anybody the last month or so” I offer, answering this intangible, unsaid prompt.
It’s the truth, I haven’t. Though, it’s not something I necessarily derive any sort of pleasurable feeling from speaking about.
“What? Why?” He asks, befuddled.
I shrug. How could he possibly expect me to answer that? Here? I can't. I don't want to.
“They dont like.. I dont know. ███ █ ████ █ ███████ ███ “ I am trying to keep it vague but he cuts me off.
“What? The way you ████ ██ awesome” again, he says, befuddled.
Im not looking for validation. I'm not looking for somebody to tell me, I'm actually exceptionally fine as a human being, so to avoid this palpable awkwardness, I thank him only mildly and try to switch the conversation .
People inadvertently shoulder check us as we try to have this serious conversation, in the least serious of places; a random plaza on sunset across from the Silver Lake La Pergoletta, which has been decked out to have an elite party for a sunglasses company. Everybody is here, virtually everybody.
I have no idea why I am here.
“█████ ███████ ███████ █████ ███████ █ ██ ███ ███ █ ████ █████ ██ █████ ███████ ██ ████ █████.” I ask.
He nods.
“█ ████ ██ ██████ █████ ███ ███ █ ████ ████ ██ ██ █████████ ███████ ████ █████████ ██ █████ █████.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“She told me you two got into a fight” ███ finishes his beer, tossing it into a trash can next to the bar.
“Of course she did” I mutter under my breath.
“What? I couldnt hear you” His voice raised.
“Nothing” I stammer. “Im going to go thank Nick for putting me on the list.”
He gives me a nod as if to say ‘okay’ while adding to meet everybody at the Thirsty Crow later. That will not be happening.
I spot Nick through the sea of people. I think he saw me as well. Chobi is trying to say hello to me, but as of 5 minutes ago, in the most reprehensible conversation possible, I had decided that I won't stay.
“do you want to do ketamine and go get food?” █████ grabs my shoulder, turning me towards him. I hate how much this scared me; how I reflexively jumped.
I go to answer but Im cut off before I can ██████ cuts me off.
“Knowing Ash” Im pointed to “I cant think of two things she would rather do less than eat or do ketamine. Both together especially.”
Something about being spoken for has always irritated me; usually because its usually off kilter. then I feel like nobody knows me. That nobody understands me. And then I feel bad about myself because those two thoughts are so incredibly juvenile.
“I’d actually love to do some ketamine.” I havent done it in months and it always mellows me out which would be useful right now, maybe even responsible because I am frankly so high strung these days that I might kill somebody if not myself. Hyperbole. But the stress is eating me alive. I could do with doing a tiny bit of ketamine. I could probably stand to eat too; but that is less simple.
█████smiles, “Lets go to Bacari. We’ll do ketamine on the tables”
“A) I cant afford Bacari, B) I have work tomorrow” I laugh. The idea of doing ketamine on the tables at Bacari is simultaneously incredibly predictable yet completely inappropriate. Living here has taught me that those two words, predictable and inappropriate, appear parallel to each other often.
“Whyyyyyy? Just a little. You’re being a buzzkill.” █████jokingly whines.
“Trust me I want to.”
“Im going swimming tomorrow.” He adds.
“Nice. what pool?” Im trying to keep up, I think hes already high.
“At an apartment. So are we going to Bacari or not?” He is high.
“You guys can, Im not” My eyes are darting around. I feel on guard. Like i have been verbally assaulted on the utmost menial level since arriving.
—-------
The 101 is barren. Like a womb waiting to be filled with the sperm of tomorrow’s morning commute traffic.
I replay the conversation I had with ███ in my head, and am filled with latent worry. Ultimately, I know I can do nothing. I know I am not the right person to maybe verbalize any of this to ██████. I cant; i’d be seen as aggressive and confrontational.
I will sit back. I know how to now. The same Sparklehorse song loops over and over this really acute feeling of worthlessness.
4/15 Jason calls me. I reject the call
“Hey. Im at work, I cant talk” I type and text him. I feel really thrown off by seeing his first and last name loop itself over my phone screen.
“All good. I wanted to check on you”
I turn my phone screen down and get back to work. I dont know if I have anything to say; not really. I did. Or I thought I did. I tried to say it but it seems like I am not the most verbose this past month. Nearly everything I have said for the past month has been misinterpreted; whether willingly or unwillingly misinterpreted. It feels exhausting to even try at this point. I dont even have a point I care to make. Exhaustion will do that I guess.
Jason calling me ignites a sort of retarded fear I have that the world is mocking me, only having it to where my efforts are rewarded once I decide I dont care about things. He isnt meaning to do this, I know that. But like I said I dont know that I have anything to say anymore. It has been proven that it doesn’t really matter.
—-
“Come in” my boss says, we both crowd into the back office, the one with the large iMac.
We exchanged small niceties and catch up; I haw been gone sick again. And then back. And then gone again. I catch her up and assure her, according to the doctors, I will supposedly be fine now. Or fine in comparison to before. I would really like to believe this.
She catches me up on what they’ve been up to since we have habitually missed each other at every turn since Monday.
“Wait aren’t you going to Coachella this weekend?” She asks, her nails typing against her phone. I have always liked that sound.
“No” I laugh awkwardly. This question is one I have had to answer an absurd number of times the past 2 and a half weeks.
She shoots me a curious glance; “why not?”
I shrug. And smile so it isn’t awkward.
We both laugh.
In all honesty, I am very happy to be in Los Angeles.
I don’t mind the thought of being in my own bed this weekend. H█████ ████ ██ ██ ███ ████ ████████ ███████ █ █████ ████ ████ █████ █ ██████ ██████ ██ ██████ ████ ████ ████ ██████ ████ ████ █████ █████████ █████ ████ █ ████████ ██ ██████ ████ ████ ██ ███████████ █████ ████ ███ █████████ ██ ████████ ███ █ ████ ██ ████ █████ ████ ██████ ████ ██ █████ ████████ █████ I haven’t updated the blog, or if I have it has been in an incredibly veiled and elusive in tone, one leaving out the complications. Obviously done intentionally.
It doesn’t matter. Not really. Just more of a nuisance if anything.
----
It’s stupid when the world forces you to become somebody of importance
—---
“Do you have a literary agent?” ████ asks me, standing next to me at the bar of some nightclub (?) on Fairfax.
“No.” I laugh, a bit too much. This seems like such a ridiculous question, given how much turmoil my writing has caused in the past month. Any literary agent who would possibly want to sign me would have to be utterly stupid.
“Seriously?” He asks gobsmacked and is really looking at me as if I said something insane. Maybe the word ‘no’ is insane for a lot of reasons.
“Uh yeah. I dont think I will ever have a literary agent.” I am still laughing at this question as if it were some absurdist joke. I am realizing now, as I squeeze my lime into my vodka soda, he's being serious.
“Why?” His arm reaches over me to grab a napkin.
“My writing has caused nothing but trouble.. Lately” I sigh and laugh. I didnt even know you could do that all at once.
“But youre a great writer. A really great writer-”
I hold my hand up as if to insinuate for him to stop feeding me compliments
“I mean it. I'm not trying to fuck you. Or.. I'm just saying you’re a great writer. I mean that. I really do. I want to help you get a literary agent”
I hold my hand up higher practically pleading for him to stop. For so many reasons.
“I swear.You should have a literary agent ash. I want you to talk to people that I know. I think they can help you.. Im not trying to fuck you. ”
I set my drink down and turn to him to level with him. I still cant tell if hes being serious. I cant tell if im being serious.
“You know people that can help me?” I ask rhetorically.
“Yeah, I think so. Listen, lets get coffee. None of this” He moves his hand back and forth to reference the party and its ambiance “So you can see that Im serious. I mean it you’re a great writer. You should fucking have a literay agent. The fact you dont have one now is fucking retarded”
“Okay.” I comply.
“██ ██ ████ ████ ████ ███████████ ██ ████ ████ ████ █████████?” He probes.
“No.”
4/14 my tax return was deposited into my account this morning and without thinking I opened my laptop and searched flights to New York. They’re not terribly expensive.
Late May should be a fine time. Really, I don’t think there would be much of a difference.
—-
8 hours at desk with nothing but sun kil moon in your headphones should be illegal.
A startling realization has rattled me at my desk; everything has changed and everything is different. I can go to the fucking farmers market all I want, I can walk for miles aimlessly, I can shower a million times, I can call my mother and try, again. Everything is different now. It doesn’t matter how you cut it. There’s a before, there’s an after.
I’m decidedly self aware and deeply ashamed by how I still haven’t accepted I am not young anymore. I am not nineteen. I can’t write this off as some funny thing that happened. This is not a great excuse for a blog update. This is not some deep secret I keep that will make me appear serious or deep. This just sucks and thats it.
4/13 woman offers to sell me a rosary at the mechanic
“No thank you”
If this were three weeks ago I would have said yes and gifted it to ██████. Ceases to matter in any way now.
It’s a very conflicting thing to have a specific aspect of your personality be marveled and disdained. It makes you feel like a you have a mistake of a personality. This is an affliction I thought would be rectified after leaving my teenage years. I think it is fully rectified. I don’t know. I saw a good email subject line recently “your life is not a crime”
Sometimes a sentence is so perfect, you can tell it has never been said, but there has been an attempt by many people to say it for years, it’s succinctness via language a challenge to many, and when somebody truly aces it, it feels like an orgasm or great release. It makes the world feel a bit lighter than before you read the sentence, the verbalization of an affliction or beauty.
“Your life is not a crime” relieved me from this detrimental but subconscious feeling I’ve been acutely afflicted by from seemingly birth; that I am constantly in trouble or about to be.
That whatever I am doing is “wrong” that my little act will be figured out soon. I’ve operated with this secular and self-imposed paranoia for really no reason. I don’t know. It probably has to do with something. But it was nice to read that sentence, it made me feel like I had figured something out; either about myself or the world at large.
——
I had tried to be happy earlier this morning. My motive was to deal with light manners such as laundry, dishes, a quick shower, and maybe an oil change. Monotonous, worthless chores to distract. Happy music to soundtrack all of this. Maybe music I would even listen to at the beach would soundtrack this; because then I would be happier.
This was not a reality and only made it worse when I realized I am being forced to operate with a sense of heaviness I frankly don’t know if I can afford. My doctor asks me if I plan to have children.
“I don’t know. Maybe” I say into my iPhone.
It feels inappropriate to make these kinds of decisions or even ponder them through my iPhone, at this age. I have to. I don’t have a choice.
She tells me how to go about that with my circumstances.
She tells me I will ultimately be fine if I want to have children, that the children will be fine with curly blonde hair and big blue eyes and that my life will be normal as anybody else’s. She tells me that the pills I have to take every day for the rest of my life are not too pernicious in the sense that I can take them at any time, morning or night. Even in the afternoon. She also adds that I don’t have to take them with meals which is good.
She sends an 11-month refill to the pharmacy on 3rd street and I tell her I will pick it up. She keeps saying things so gently which only makes me feel worse.
Doctors are the worst because they're certifiably good at something.
4/12 I run a bath, as quietly as I can as to not wake June. I sit in the bath in complete silence and lukewarm water. Thinking of nothing.
Well I guess i am always thinking of some modest mouse song.
I take one of the pills, which arent too big, with a glass of lukewarm water.
I put my knees under the faucet to catch all the lukewarm water.
—---
Feel so worthless when all I can do is lay in bed. Is there anything more to say about that? Not really.
My mother calls me to try to check on me. The answer is still: bad. I feel bad. In every way i feel not good.
4/11 I tried to have a normal morning despite completely abnormal circumstances. I wore an outfit that made me look put together. I drank a large glass of water. I did the dishes while looking out of the window. I had a mug of coffee.
I did pretty good at this for around an hour or so. I stopped by the gimagaus pop up, and the girls that worked there, who were all so pretty and nice, told me i was so pretty and nice. I tried a pretty dress on that I cant afford.
When I got home, and attempted to bring in the groceries I had just bought; I found myself so physically weak. every joint in my body was ignited in pain. I imagined a set of christmas lights, strung through out me, pulsing on and off. I dropped the bag and one of my containers of yogurt dropped out of the brown paper bag without breaking.
I practically crawled to the bathtub, and ran my neck under coldwater, unaware of what to do.
—-
The grotesque nature of life is not even a plight at this point. I think I just accept it. I have forfeited the idea of empathy, understanding, grace, and whatever some weeks ago (though this was realistically probably months ago, Im just too dumb to have noticed)
Becuse of my attunement I tell June I will watch the Texas Chainsaw Massacare with him. He tries to assure me of its gore knowing I am typically sensitive to seeing humans, well, massacared.
“Its fine”
My laptop acts as a temple as we slip in and out of my sheets. He kisses my forehead when I wince either in my own pain, or the accounted for pain of the teenagers who are getting hung on meat hooks meant for cattle on the screen. He feeds me chips when I am doing better.
“These are very good.” I eat a chip. “This is very good. Scary” I point to the screen.
4/10 unrelated to the pot; but I am urgent care again. I’m nervous to admit that for some reason.
I was only at the office for maybe 4 hours, █ ████████ ████ ████████
It reminds me of being sick at school when you are young; how your mother will stop and get you McDonald’s. I am not getting McDonald’s but the thought is nice enough.
I am so poor that they offered me some sort of coverage for my bill which relieves me but also makes me feel pathetic.
It’s cold in here. The waiting room is painted a ridiculous shade of green. They have accented it with plaque signs thhag map out the building in an abrasive shade of orange. A Gordon Ramsay show, one of many; is playing. It seems insane to play a cooking show at an urgent care.
I’m hunched over in a fake leather chair that sticks to my thighs; my kidneys hurt really bad. It’s a weird kind of hurt where my chest feels empty yet filled with some sort of grease.
Had to take western ave to get here, which I used to take home to my first apartment in Los Angles. I can see the Hollywood sign. It isn’t charming at all. I feel haggard and really tired.
—-
“Do you mind needles?”
“No.” I shake my head and offer a light smile as if to convince the nurse that I dont mind needles, as if she didnt believe me.
“I’m going to have you clench your arm-“
“Three times” I cut her off. Ok. She probably thinks Im a fucking junkie now. Great.
Its just from the mysterious stomach illness I had in high school that I am used to these things; general hospital milieu, and its procedures. I am very good at them. And i know how they work. I know how to make them work in my favor too.
She might not think that I am a junkie,, but She thinks that I am stupid, I am sure of that due to these factors: A) my vitals speak for themself. They are ridiculous. They always have been. But they are bad now. B) My answers to every question she asks read as if i do not care about my life at all:
“Do you smoke cigarettes? Vape?” She asked, tapping her pencil against the clipboard.
“Yeah.”
“To which?” She looked up.
“Uh both” I swung my legs off the hospital bed. She looked down and wrote something.
“Do you drink alcohol? Do drugs?”
“Probably not any more or less than somebody my age who lives in a metropolitan city. Like-” I started but then realized I sounded quite stupid and was practically leaking out self-importance.
“I drink maybe every other weekend. I guess.”
She wrote something down. Since this interaction, around 5 minutes ago, theres a palpability between her and i. Its obvious I am nervous. I am not sure who this is obvious to, or why, if it is me, that is so difficult to admit.
Just then I realize I havent had any time to eat today. Perfect. This is my doing, I understand that, but I am somehow angry with myself regardless.
“Are you okay? Lightheaded?” She isnt an idiot and she can see my eyes practically rolling to the back of my head, accompanied by the brisk inhale after the initial insertion of the needle.
“A bit” I say trying to sound tough, like a cowboy or my grandfather.
——-
The doctor sits across from me and waits for me to say something but I'm very distracted by the tile in this room, and just how low to the floor all of the chairs in this room. The tile has that fake grading that is just so ugly.
“Oh. Okay.” Is all I can think to say.
“ it’s something you’ll have to take medication for, for the rest of your life” she says, implying I don’t know the scope of things.
“Oh okay.” I say. The tile has a slight crack in it 8 squares down from the door.
“Do you have any questions for me?” She says. She filled in her eyebrows, I can tell just by looking at her. She is nice. She is doing a good job at a really bad part of her job; giving bad news in a good way. If theres a good way.
“No.” I grab my bag off of the floor. “At least not yet”
That was a normal sentence for me to say. I think.
She and I are both distinctly aware at the fact that she just gave me life-changing news. However big or small. It’s a moment where there’s a before and after. I fucking hate these moments. Like losing your virginity, or your grandmother dying. At the risk of sounding self important, I really hate these moemnts. I hate having to note or distinct something.
“I will call you soon when you’re more.. ready.” she stands up from her chair so quietly that you would think she thought I was dying.
“You’re going to be in pain for the next couple of days. But after the initial 10 days you will feel much better and then we can discuss ongoing treatment.”
“Okay.” I cant even remember how many times a day I am supposed to take the initial pills.
The tile is still there and intact. When I try to stand up and change out of the hospital gown I lose my balance, putting my hand on the counter. Ew, the counter. Where sick people touch. I guess I am sick.
The nurse comes back in as I am grabbing my bag, full of my fucking things, all of my stupid fucking things, and coyly hands me a bag of pills. Based off of her body language I think she thought that I would be crying when she walked in.
I was very brave and didnt cry until after.
—---
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An earnest plead. In many ways, this was stupid of me, I should have known better. ██ ████ █████ ███ █████ █████ █████ ██ ██ █████ ███ ██ ██ ███████████ ████ ███ ████ ██ ███ ███ ██████ ████████ ███ █ ████ █████ ███ ██ █ ███████ █ ████ ███████ ████ ███████ ██ ███ ██ ███ ██ ██████ ██ █████ ███████ ████ ████ ████ ██ ███████ ██ ███████ ████ █ ███ ██ █████ █ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ████ █ ████ █████ █ █████ ████ ████ ██████████ ███████ ███ ████████ ███████ ███████ ██ ██ █████ ████████ █████ ████ ████ ████████ █ █████ ████ █████ ██████ █ █████ ████ █████ ███ ████ ███ ████ █████ █████████
██ ██ ████ ███ ██████ ███ ████████ █████ ███ ███ █ ██████████ ███ █████████ ███ █████████ ███ █████████ ███ ███████ ███ ██████████ ██ ████ █████ █████ █████ ██ ██ █████ I dont think I realized how tired I have truly been until I collapsed onto my bed an hour ago. I know this will only probably be received as a guilt trip, that Im looking for sympathy. I should have known better than to say anything. I shouldnt have.
I am not acting like myself. Im fucking agitated. Im paranoid. I cant fucking do anything without being in severe phyical pain ,which only adds to my agitation and paranoia.I dont think anybody believes this, but I would like to be good. I would like to be a good, polite, subservient person. I want to be tantamount to cordial, tantamount to good.
But frankly, I am not doing well. And the thing about not doing well; is that you’re not doing well
I am not
I am not doing well. That one modest mouse song.
█ ████ ███ ███████ I would like a friend.
I choose to ignore the obviously devastating subtext.
4/9 My bed just doesn’t feel the same or something. It doesn’t even feel good in a foreign way; like being in a hotel. It just feels wrong.
“Come over” June texts me. I asked him earlier if I could come over and then I told him that I did not want to come over but now I kind of want to go over.
What is that one Geese lyric? Not to be gauche. Actually theres no way to quote a Geese lyric on your blog in 2026 without it being gauche.
——-
Junes apartment is dimly lit and he says it’s messy despite it never being messy. █ ████ ████ ███ ███████████ █ █████ █ ██ ████ ████ ████ █ █████ █████ █ ███
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He is rolling a “spliff” which is just a cigarette and marijuana. I don’t respond well to marijuana. I never have.
I shake my head.
“Milkshake?”
I think he’s trying to cheer me up.
“Probably soda.” I sigh.
“No sighing.”
“Kay.” I sigh again.
——
En route to get soda he plays just the right song, well I requested just the right song, some song about sunshine by Sparklehorse, which made it so where I was easy going enough to actually smoke the pot.
I hold the joint intuitively which makes me laugh because I haven’t done this since high school. It makes me a tweaker and get really weird. The thought of once being a baby really terrifies me when high. Really, everything scares me while high.
In the 10 minutes (which might as well been an hour) that passed since hitting the joint; I went mute. I looked around inquisitively at the In N out line we were in. A blonde girl who’s roots are out is sitting at an outside table, she looks like she smokes weed.
“How long have we been here?” I ask. My eyebrows pulled together in deep concentration.
“Like 5 minutes.” June says rubbing my chin. wow. He is really pretty. Like a very pretty person, or something.
“Okay.” I say. I roll down the window, and then roll it back up. Oh no. That seems scary. Like something somebody who has high would do. High off of weed. I am high on weed? I never smoke weed.
It kind of feels like ketamine. But not. Whatever.
I remain mute. My eyebrows stay furrowed; as if I were too focus hard enough I might reverse myself out of this high. It’s fine enough I guess. I can just become quite scary. I think of my schizophrenic uncle who always drank Capri-Suns; this always made me cry as as child.
“Hey.” June says pulling my eyes away from the vanity license plate in front of us which I am trying to decipher. I would have deciphered this in no time had I not been high. I think it’s a play on ‘sticky baby’ but I’m not sure. I’m not sure why anybody would want this to be their license plate.
“Hey.” He says again. “Who is your favorite superhero besides Batman?”
I think he thinks I am scared. I am almost scared, but not scared.
I think hard. My brows remain furrowed. I do like Batman a lot. The old comics are great, especially the ones where Bruce is randomly a cowboy. I like all of the villains, and have fond memories of watching it with my brother as a child on a huge box TV that acted as a makeshift heater if you ran your palm over its body.
“Probably Curious George.” I say.
“What?” He laughs. And looks shocked.
“What?” The tone of my voice goes up a pitch. “Was that the wrong answer?”
“No baby. It’s just-” he holds his chest from laughing “is he a super hero? I thought he was a little monkey?”
“He like solves cases and stuff.” I cross my arms.
“I guess so. He is kind of like a detective then, huh?” He runs his hand over my thigh, I can tell he is trying to distract me and pull me out of my thoughts which I appreciate. It’s working. In some way.
“Well yes. I can’t think of any other monkeys who can solve cases.” My arms remain crossed.
“Do you need anything baby? Literally anything. It can sound weird. I don’t care. Water. Whatever? When we get home?” He hands me the vanilla milkshake I ordered. Why did I order that? I don’t want that. Smoking weed has always weirdly killed my appitette weirdly.
“I want to watch Girls by Lena Dunham.”
4/8 A little less blood today. Mersh and I get into my car. I am surprised by how laxx he is about it; just sitting in my lap as if he were not in a thing 500 times his size. I suppose he doesnt know. I suppose mersh doesnt know about a lot.
I stop by the donut shop on Melrose to get Kelly a birthday-donut; Im still trying to be cheerful. It works sometimes; othertimes it doesnt. Jacarandas pool at my ankles in this parking lot, tickling my bare toes seeing as I decided to wear flip flops to the office today. It feels like a sick joke. I cannot understand how little time has passed. I cannot understand how much more will pass. I cannot believe its April.
—--
Again; feeling paranoid. I hate it. Around 11 am, I gave up on having a decent day. The only redeeming factor is that Mersh is here with me at the office. But not for much longer, a lady from another office offered to take him to the vet and care for him better than I can. Theres always this appeal about having something to take care of, but I have proven time and time again I am incapable of it. I dont understand the sentiment of giving a suicidal person an animal to take care of. Its never made sense to me. I dont know if I am suicidal person, I dont think it really matters. I think of it sometimes, and i would never do it, but if somebody offered to kill me, or reallly really wanted to (which according to the internet is plenty) I wouldnt fight that hard, if at all. This maybe the only hypothetical in which I become a person who believes in matters of “destiny” or “fate”. If I am meant to die at a specific time I dont see the point in trying to evade that so vigorously.
I am sent a link; which in hindsight I really wish I had not opened.
A potent “whatever” fills my chest, and then leaves pretty shortly after; leaves nothing.
Sometimes I wonder if I have been writing an epitaph this whole time.
—--
While today cant amount to good, it can amount to nothing. Which is better than bad.
4/7 Waking up I felt less sick. My body felt slightly warm, but not in a feverish way. In a- theres a 6 foot something thing asleep next to me with its arms draped over me, unaware of its strength kind of way.
Kisses off to work which always help
—--
“What is this?” I hold the small kitten in the air, as if he were God’s greatest gift. He might be.
He arrived to the office in a small clear container, atop a plush white blanket, occasionally screaming as if to ask why he were in a small clear container atop a plush white blanket. I imagine that’d be very confusing.
Occasionally, stray cats will pop up at the office, but this one, who I choose to call Mersh, is far too foible to fend for himself amongst the rivaling cat gangs and harsh elements of the world. He is as big as something very very small. He is at that age where he needs to be held all of the time, so we all switch off between holding him all of the time.
—-
Mersh sits on my lap as we drive home on the 110 for our sleepover. He sleeps peacefully, only waking when I hit the brakes a bit harsh. He listens to the radio on my lap and dreams about things. Probably like playing, or kibble, or the beautiful women in the office who all hold him and say things like “awwwww” or “you’re just so small!”
—---
The little thing screams if I leave him alone for any longer than two minutes. It made me feel compelled to skip dinner entirely, which if I am honest, (which arent I always? Isnt this the biggest deficit of mine? It has kind of ruined a lot) would not have taken much convincing anyway. Mersh runs over, often falling over, back into my chest. We read more of that Chris Kraus essay, I do so aloud because it works my stutter out, and it puts the little baby mersh to bed. Because babies like when you read them stories, or sing.
I hear him crying from my room as I brush my teeth, which are again filled with an unprecedented amount of blood. I cannot even taste it anymore.
4/6 Ample rest. Brushed my teeth and was met with my blood. I think it is stemming from my throat, but at this point curiosity serves nothing.
See your very own blood in a white porcelain sink can evoke such a feeling of detriment.
—--
Red House Painters at work is not helping. Im half awake, which confuses me given the ample rest. I cant stop sniffling which makes me feel pathetic.
—-
June meets me at the apartment after work and makes sure I take strange liquid medicine for my cold. How many pseudo flus can one person get? Im good at it. Im good at this.
I wish it counted to be good at bad things cause im so good at a lot of that stuff.
4/5 My thighs are sweating on the leather passenger seats. I noticed too, before June merged onto the 101, that the jaccarandas are in season again. This seems unfathomable. I cannot reconcile the idea that the last time I wrote about them was a year ago. I would believe a century had passed.
—-
I raise myself, jumping, and lowering myself to land on seaweed pearls. They pop underneath my feet, and every time I make a shocked expression.
“What did you think was going to happen?” June asks.
I dont know.
We lazed on the sand for a couple of hours, switching sides on the towel so one of us obtained shade while the other baked in the sun. We posited ourselves under the dock of a seemingly empty mansion. I flipped through my Chris Kraus book on video art in the 90s while he arranged flowers he picked for me. I found myself mostly silent. This beach, which I dont know the actual name of, only that its close to Coral Canyon; always provokes me.
Sometimes I am burdened by grotesque sentimentality to the point of nausea, othertimes it is hard to remember it even exists, let alone that I myself, surely at one have had to have felt it.
He let me be silent which I appreciated.
But every so often I would get up to play, running to the sea like a child, my limbs flailing around. The great white foam would crash against my lower belly and I would feel this aliveness that I thought would relieve me but only terrified me.
My complaints lately have been as follows; Im so busy, B) theres no time to swim. I have been in the office everyday Los Angeles has presented its prepubsecent summer. Ive looked at my legs under the desk, feeling their heaviness, only to imagine the subsequent lightness one feels in the water. Its simple science, buoyancy and all, but it feels marvelous; like theres no more fighting. The air in your lungs; so crisp and salty. No more fighting.
June swam out, about up to his top rib and called for me. I stood in the water up to my thighs.
I felt this reluctance to meet him there. To swim. I wanted nothing more, I thought, than to be in the ocean. Yet, I found myself constantly looking back at the sand, down where the beach club once was. It's nothing now. They moved all the chaise lounge chairs. They reclused the yellow and white striped umbrellas. I had the taste of plums in my mouth. I imagined this wetness on my face, as the juice from the plum swam down my cheeks and onto my bikini top. I thought about the sensation of getting a tiny bit of sand into the sandwich my mother packed into a brown bag. How it felt to be pinched by a crab in Laguna at 9 years old in the tide pools, how it felt to have nobody believe me about that.
I just kept looking at the sand, feeling really sick. It felt like if I swam out, I don't know, like I would be leaving something. Everything.
There's the sentimentality. But in the least emotive way, this felt terrorizing. Like a legitimate ceasing of something. I could imagine it all; right there on the sand. And I didnt want to turn my back for some reason.
4/4 I sustain a moment of separation that feels liberating instead of threatening.
I’m wondering if autonomy matters at all. It seems like it will at some point; but not now.
----
I laze around on Melrose in the heat with no purpose or goal in mind.
I wondered into Agent Provocateur just to try on lingerie aimlessly. The lady, in and out of my fitting room stood behind me, adjusting the clasps on the back of the (my?) lace balconette. She asks if it feels supportive and I say sure.
The heat is getting to me. I feel happy but completely abject from my own life.
For the rest of my afternoon I find myself doing things my mom and I would do when I was 15 and we were trying. We would sit at cafes across from each other, I’d wear black clothing and gigantic white t-shirts refusing food after four hefty spoonfuls, usually of soup or salad (which was our preferred cuisine)
She’d ask if I thought I was going to hell. I’d roll my eyes and ask her if she thought I was going to hell. She’d ask me again if I thought I’d go to hell. I’d get pissy and release my fork from my hand so it’d fall on my plate, create a noise, a little/big sound to signify my defiance but also to create some sort of tangibility of whatever stupid tension was between us.
I’d sigh after my noise from the fork landed, furthering the tangibility of these ridiculously hypothetical situations, ones I could only choose to believe she made up to be mad. It seemed preemptive to be mad at your sixteen year old daughter for hypothetically going to hell. It made no sense. I remember thinking “I haven’t even lived yet”
She’d insist upon these hypotheticals, these abstracts. It made me annoyed.
Today I find myself creating hypotheticals at the cafe table, all on my own. I get it.
——
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I want to rectify my mood. I should rectify my mood. We are going to a party in Beachwood in which all of our friends will be at. I’d like to be stomachable by then. Mostly for him but a little for myself.
——
The house is an old storybook with an exceptional view of the Hollywood sign. I had noticed it an hour into the party, remarking that because it was so close it borderline looked completely two dimensional; like something you can break, something you could crack in half.
I wonder in and out of rooms looking for alcohol. I had bought a bottle of Japanese vodka from Whole Foods but I left it on top of the porcelain tiles in the kitchen; next to some tecate beer, a pot of fresh French pressed coffee somebody made, and lime rinds stripped of their pulps. The glass bottle couldn’t have been alone for more than five minutes, but by the time it was back, it was empty.
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I rest my hip against the kitchen doorframe, raising and lowering my hands; engrossed in a passionate conversation with this guy about Lou Reeds review of Yeezus. They’re playing Kanye in the den just below, girls are dancing alongside Noel who is acting as their sort of jester for the night. Something about this makes me jealous. I don’t know. I feel all of these sort of horrible feelings about everything to the point that they mean nothing.
“What kind of music do you listen to?” This guy asks me.
I spot June walking over, obviously confused by why I am perched against the doorframe, talking to another guy. He snakes his arm around my waist
“This is June.”
He smiles because he’s polite.
I dont have horrible feelings with him.
—-
Everyone is touching me tonight. It does not feel that different from every other night.
In my search for the bathroom/ ongoing quest to recoup alcohol, I bump into a guy. I think he liked my friend. And then liked me. I don’t know. He is holding my shoulder as he talks to me, so it’s hard to tell.
“Where are you from?”
I say where I am from.
“I feel like everybody from there is so smart.”
This is so fucking stupid. I can accept a compliment but a veiled one, or an uncreative or debased one will always agitate me.
I find it difficult to take men seriously. Theyre so self indulgent with their dramas. They have no tact or poise when it comes to their emotions or desires.
—--
“Ow.” I have a splinter of cheap wood lodged in my palm; which feels so fatty. Unlike the hollywood sign, which i mentioned; is two dimensional. I am saying my goodbyes to it, being escorted up the tiered stairs of canyon home in which I apparently debauched too hard at (June is holding me for balance)
A barricade of black cars are lined up in a very useless way. Supining themselves in this dead end; as if a fossil of the hills.
4/3 my boss and I joke about getting a fish for the office. I think we are joking but I am kind of serious too. I really would like a fish here.
I would like a fish almost anywhere. I think anywhere.
——
“Ash” intuitively, I turn my head around
“Yeah?” I ask before the car even rolls the window down. It’s a Mercedes, which makes me raise an eyebrow.
I’m so used to my name being called here that I just answer immediately. To my surprise, it isn’t anybody who works for the company, it’s a guy who scouted me for a shoot.
“Oh hey. What are you doing here?” I ask, peeking my head into his very nice car. He is with one of my higher ups.
“Oh you know.” He says. I don’t know.
“Right” I draw my wrist back after realizing I am letting my cigarette trail smoke into his very nice car.
“Are you going to the Kanye show?” I ask, seeing as this might be the reason he is here.
“No. I went on Wednesday.”
“Oh. Nice.”
“Listen, what are you doing?” He asks.
“You’re holding up traffic” I say.
“Okay. Stay here. I’ll be back.”
I watch the nice car drive west toward the end of the block. I’m leaving.
———
On my way to Junes, I stop for a pack of gum because I think he might try to kiss me later.
I also grab a Coke and I’m in such a decent mood I get an automatic carwash; the ones where you have to drive thru a makeshift tunnel. It is alright. Sometimes, these car washes have bubbles that align themselves in a pastel rainbow across your dashboard. Sometimes the bubbles smell like nice things like cotton candy or gum.
My grandmother used to get her car washed all of the time simply to amuse me with this. She says now it was to get me to go fall a sleep, that the only way I would fall asleep as a child was if I were to be in a moving vehicle.
That hasn’t been the case since the only real car accident I have ever gotten in. I remember it well. My friend, who I had a crush on, 16 years old and bleeding from the face. I felt like an adult. I just remember thinking there shouldn’t be blood on his young pretty face.
I had a concussion and went to sleep immediately upon arriving home. Probably not good.
I pull out my car, my very own car, and think to myself, in this ridiculously good mood (given the circumstances at least) how miraculous it is that I even have a car. I was fifteen when that happened and it curbed any sort of normal teenage appetite one might have of wanting to learn how to drive.
I turn left onto Beverly. I idle at the red light in front of Erewhon and Andante. I think also a small sandwich shop and a Jewish school. I’m starting again.
Before I even can, a car hits mine I feel it, my car moving, and then the noise. It’s funny you always hear the noise after somehow. Which makes absolutely no sense.
The car is being driven by a man not much older than I am. He looks back confused and panicked. He waits for me to pull over too, but I am not doing this right now. I keep just waving my hand and telling him to go.
“Go” I whimper to myself, alone, in my very own car.
——
I’m late to dinner from that fake and useless car crash (if you could even call it that) so I apologize mercifully.
He pretends to not forgive me but grabs my lower back, and the top of my head, pulling my body into his, which is sat on the edge of his bed.
He is hugging me, I am reciprocating but I am also staring at his wall.
“Don’t you want to go to dinner?” I ask, my eyes glued to nothing. He actually has many things hanging in his room, a plethora of things to look at really, but this particular wall is blank.
“Mhm.” He says into my chest. “Wait”
I wait. He turns me around and pushes me onto the bed so I am now sitting. Oh.
He pulls out a bouquet of flowers. The most precious arrangement of; white, thinly bridled calla lilies, on top of a bed of a flower similar to white babys breath, and cradled by some white limenoums.
I find myself genuinely shocked. I don’t know why. In all honestly, part of adult life that has been quite surprisingly pleasing is the amount of flowers I’ve received. Men are typically good at getting women flowers. I assume they probably got bitched at by their high school girlfriends enough for not purchasing them, that they now know to just get them. But also when people die, or people very close to you try to kill themself you typically get flowers.
I’m shocked because they’re stunning. They’re so neatly arranged. I’ve been so happy to receive any sort of bouquet that I never even considered their arrangement might matter. Everything is balanced and in tune with each other; there’s contrast and contours while still being soft.
I smile, holding them, turning them in a 360 angle in my stumbling hands, wanting to admire them from every angle.
4/2 “I know a young man who has a crush on you” ███ says. His assistant, or some woman, is next to him, smiling at me.
“Oh. You do?” I smile. This has to be a joke.
“Yes. He just saw you and he came up to me going ‘there she is! There she is!’” He mimics the excitement of a child. Its hard to believe ███ is as old as as he is because he reads quite young.
“And? Are you going to tell me who it is?” I cross my legs and position my hand on my chin, fully amusing him now.
He shakes his head no.
“You cant just tell me that and not tell me who,” I whine jokingly. “Pleaseeeeeeee”
He shakes his head again, and zips an imaginary zipper across his lips.
I playfully roll my eyes, and say something about how Im trying to work. In all honesty, it is nice to hear. I havent felt necessarily good about myself due to, I guess, various circumstances. Its hard to remember I am a girl that boys could even see, want to take on a date, kiss, etc. I dont know. Being sick and losing this weight, the consequence of that in my face, which twitter user 200004859938th let me know “ages” me and makes me look “sick”. Its aggravating because I know its true. This should be enough to make me stop what I am doing. It wont be enough. I know myself and the circumstance well enough to know this.
Regardless, this hasnt done the best on my self-esteem. What bullshit, the concept of self-esteem. Its so bloated. Grotesquely self-important in such an uninteresting Westernized way. But ultimately, everybody has one.
I wish I did not. I wish I didn't have anything. Let alone myself to deal with. And then all of the things that belong to me. Or things I have to tend to because of me. That is kind of the point of what is wrong.
“Well you’ll tell me one day?” I look up from my computer, back to ███.
He nods and gives me a mischievous smile. At least there is still some level of playfulness happening right now.
I feel depressed and then I dont.
That has always bothered; my unrelenting, cheap effort at hope.
—--
Maybe I just am better now. Right? Maybe. Smiley face.
I forgot that I have the best job ever. I am just playing dress up, and sorting through an array of vintage clothes. It is nice. It is mellow.
Theres a nice buzz around the office because everybody is talking about the Kanye show. Some of us went to the one last night, others will be going tomorrow. I think I want to ask ███ for a ticket. But I dont know if he will give me one. The worst he could say is no I suppose.
He will randomly offer me things; so its worth trying i guess.
SKIP: Depressing Arthur Russell song about not being around anymore.
PLAY: A nice song from Free Kitten.
Oh, right. I feel immune to that worry right now though. Hope this is a permanent liberation.
4/1 I slept easy in June’s bed. I didnt want to cause problems how I did the other night. Besides there is no oxycodone left to take. I took 12 mg of melatonin and it worked well enough.
“You smell like an Irish baby” I say into his wet chest. He let me sleep while he showered this morning.
He gives me a look but ultimately smiles. He takes a beat and cups my face with his hand “oh my god” he says exasperated, shaking my face gently as if to ask how I am real. He is very good at making me feel pretty.
It was easy enough when we were making out in his car last night, the rain creating small pattering sounds that mimicked how gentle we were being.
—-----
Work by all accounts is fine. It’s relieving now, when things are fine. I theorize, and will forever; that I am a terrorist in my sleep. Everyone is aware of this; it escapes me entirely.
My desk, which is a clinical shade of white, reaffirms a scary notion. I am tired.
I am tired of trying. I am tired of trying to understand why. It does not make sense; it never will. And even if it does, that in some way is a cope. Right?
I am asking myself, but ultimately I know. I have known. I will know. And then I will forget. And then I will know again.
-----
I’m 90% sure I killed somebody, or committed some great big terrorist attack that I am unaware of. This sucks.
I thought I’d spout down; I didn’t.
I still don’t want to try. In fact, now I think I am heading towards even refusing to try. Even if I did want to try, I cant. Im beyond busy. Im still bleeding too. Now coughing. The drama!
3/31 Its miraculous how fast it can all happen. Modest Mouse song stuck in my head.
I feel paranoid. And vaguely religious. Not in a good way.
Im doing that thing you do when you’re a teenager; when you hypothesize whether God can be real or not, not from an existential curiosity, but from a place of “there must be some guy out there making all these things go wrong and terrible because thats the only way I can stomach such unpredictablibity and seemingly onset pointed personal tragedy” Its selfish. Its immature. I still cant help but to do it.
Its a really juvenile trait of mine. One I wish I would shed, once and for all. Because the hard truth of the matter is that I know these things just occur without rhyme or reason. Things get bad randomly. And all at once. There isnt some divine reason; suffering is not divination, it's just suffering. You don't get a medal.
My grandfather has seemingly picked up the skill of understanding when not to poke at me.
“How is work?”
“Busy.” I sigh into my iPhone receiver.
“Good busy or bad busy?” He asks, but very gently.
“Busy.”
We talk about medical insurance, and all of this stuff. Im just so happy to talk to somebody; I dont mind.
He doesnt make me say it which I appreciate it.
—------
Packing my bag. It reminds me of when the fires broke out in Los Angeles. Its a really hard thing to decide what you might need incase everything gets set ablaze. I believe, at the time, I packed my birth certificate because it felt like the responsible thing one would do, my iMac because I cried when my family gifted me it at 11 years old, and I think my guitar. I dont know why I packed my guitar because I havent played guitar in nearly five years. I remember holding it by its mahogany neck, trying to reckon with the fact that I used to care about it. A long time ago, but yes, I did care about it.
I dont feel sentimental about anything today. Maybe not in a long time.
I carelessly throw pairs of underwear into my large duffle bag, alongside some jeans, and variations of white t-shirts. I should probably pack some books. Susan Sontag essay collection, Portnoys Complaint, any others. It does not even matter.
I think it might be raining.
I flip the fridge open, and grab a cup of pre-made cold brew. Its awesome because I dont have to make it. My eyes tour the the fridge; a couple of heads of broccoli, goats cheese, capers, tomatoes, yoghurt, blackberries etc. I bought all of this on Friday when I still had the need for it.
I usually wouldnt buy so much food. I even bought miniature ice cream cones with some quirky name from Trader Joe’s. I think I felt happy.
I grab a bottle of Nyquil off the counter, this reminds me to grab the sleeping pills from my vanity.
—--
My grandfather and I sit in the living room. He tells me everything about myself, which is good because I know nothing about anything, let alone myself.
“The dodgers begin the playoffs this weekend” Its tuesday I think.
“Gotta pee. Can I take a shower here?” I wanted to earlier but I felt distinctly uncomfortable.
He shrugs. I think thats a yes.
The idea of showering in my childhood home offers me a facsimile of comfort. I think. I take off my boots one by one, taking the time to unzip them even, slipping my jeans off, and then my white t shirt. I am in nothing but my black bra, a black pair of cotton underwear, and a pair of white socks. I look in the mirror. I think I look kind of better today. “Better” only by standards of this past week.
My eyes arent that dark anymore. My skin has somewhat returned to normal. My mouth is still bleeding though. Leaning over the bathroom sink, I fuck around with my gums by running cheap floss through it. I am gushing blood, but I dont notice this all too much because I can make out my iliac crests. They hover idly over the waistband of my underwear. I touch them.
“Oh” I say between the bleeding.
Without thinking I move off of the counter. My white socks look like fake stuffed bunny rabbits against the stone flooring of the bathroom. Its green. An actually soothing shade of green this time. When I was younger I spent a lot of time in here, I’d sit in the bath fully clothed sometimes, just to obtain a semblance of privacy. I’d lay on the stone floor when I was anxious; it’d provide a cooling sensation on my back.
My white feet are now on the scale. This was my first ever scale, and something about that feels sentimental which is fucked up.
I cant help it.
I have lost seven pounds within the past two weeks.
—-
Actual tranquility is achieved when I walk down the pier of the coastal city I grew up in. It smells of fish and bait; I am surrounded by these burly men. Men who are back from the oil rigs, they docked a medium sized boat named the ‘S.S Isabel’ on the base of the pier, the men walked up this aluminum ramp and headed onto main street to i suppose grab food or became regular denizens of life after 6 months of shucking for oil.
“I didnt even know you could do that” I said, my boots, heavier than ever dragging across the concrete of the pier making sure to miss the bait and guts. The oil riggers do not seem phased as they pass us, the rubber soles of their shoes crushing the bait and guts.
“Ask to go on the boat” Max auctions.
“No” I laugh. No.
I roll my eyes and sit on a bench. On the south side of the pier; a view of a jetty. On the north; the city's pathetic skyline. It has always looked like a miniature, weaker Los Angeles. While it is nice being back, for some reason, I could never imagine living here again. At least not willingly.
The smell of fish and seaweed makes me feel comforted for the first time in days.
—---
June watches for my reaction as Anthony Hopkins tears off his facsimile of a face.
3/30 reading Portnoys compliant in June's bed. June is asleep next to me.
I drove him insane last night, I’m afraid. Unable to sleep at all I’d rock back and forth, moving his arm over my left rib so it wasn’t sitting on top of it, I’d moan every once in a while to communicate my lack of sleep.
There was the palpable tension between the fact he desperately wanted to sleep and that I couldn’t at all.
While he rested away, I crawled over his larger-than-mine body and opened up the small container he brought back for me; in it a bottom tooth the extracted during his emergency wisdom tooth removal, and an oxycodone. The tooth was deep from his gums. The oxycodone, Colorado.
I emptied the pill onto my palm and hurried to the bathroom. I just then realized I don’t know where keeps his cups or dishes. The water from the faucet is cold and washed the pill down fine enough.
In light of the unforgiving morning; I can’t say the oxycodone did much. I took it, sure. I fell asleep fine. This was the only reason to even take it.
I was arrested in a war between my brain and physical body where I woke up every twenty minutes. I’d have an intense, bizarre dream, and wake up, happy at first, because the sensation the oxycodone provides. It is like you are sinking, melting into yourself. You feel warm; everywhere. Your veins arent a thing anymore. You cease to be the owner of tendons, bones, any sort of organ that keeps you alive; those are distant memories of the past.
God, I fucking love downers.
I would be happy due to these sensations, or more so lack of. I think I have always liked downers because they are the closest you can get to not existing, to being intangible. You are warm, you are nothing. You are a warm nothing.
I would then be sad when I realized that I was awake, and therefore alive. Probably not good.
I’d fade back into some nonsensical dream. Faces I’d prefer were absent were in fact present. Pools of neon water in a high school grade pool made sense; I did not question them despite the absurdist borderline ludicrous sentiment. I swam in them. I smelt sunscreen, and rubbed my crunchy chlorine-soiled hair in between my fingertips; it felt so real. An animal that was a mix of two real ones decidedly became a pet. My eighth-grade teacher was there. You were not there.
I woke up and realized nobody was there.
I woke up and I realized June was there.
—---
“Hey, can i tell you a secret?” I am piled onto June's lap in one of his t-shirts, and my underwear. We are in his bed. We have been in his bed for basically the last twenty-four hours.
He nods, close to my face.
I crawl up closer to him, cupping my hand to his ear, only to mutter gibberish into it.
“No!” He gasps and covers his mouth in a feigned manner of shock.
I nod, smiling.
“Really?” He grabs me by the shoulders, playing into my stupid joke.
“Mhm… and!” I mutter more gibberish into his ear. He laughs. And pulls me into him.
“You cant tell anyone, okay?” I soberly beg.
“Of course not. Thank you for telling me and trusting me” He pulls me into him again, harder, and closer.
This is the first time I have laughed in 72 hours, I think. This is the first time I have been made to feel redeemable, maybe even acceptable, in the last 48 hours.
—-----
Santa Monica Boulevard is sparse in all ways tonight. My window is down for my cigarette, but no noise bellows in. There is no sign of life in the city except for this pathetic ember on the end of my cigarette.
I did the math, realizing I have smoked a pack in two days.
Mark Kozeleck is playing. Some Mark Kozeleck project. They all bleed together in my head. I think it is that song I really love about San Francisco in the rain, despite it being summer. It just makes me so sad, so I try not to listen to it often.
Things are all falling apart. I dont see why I cant listen to this song.
I can only really make sense of ██████ █ ███ ██ ████████ ██████ ██████ ██ ██████ ████ ████ ██ ███ ███████ ███ ████ ██ ███ ██████ ████ ███ █ █████ █████ ████ ██████
3/29 despite this being my first day off in six days, I still woke up around 7:30 am.
I think I am excited for June to come home. And my brain just intuitively knows.
I woke up happy because I dreamt he was home earlier, then I dreamt ████ ███ ███ ████ ████ ███ █████ ██ ████ ████ ███ The sadness occurred probably 3 minutes after waking up when I realized this was not real and might not ever be real.
The aftermath of last night is still settling within me. I wish the birds would stop chirping so I could just go back to sleep. I wish I could just sleep.
█ ████ █ █████ ███ ██ █████ ███ ████████ █ █████ █████ ██ ██████ ████████ ██ ███ ████ ████ █████ █ ████ ██ ███ ██████████ ███ █████ ██ ███ ██ ████ ██ ███ ██ ███ ████ ██████████ █████ ███ █████████ ████ ███ ████ ███ ███ ████████ ██████ ██████
It feels worthless to be lucky in regards you don’t even aspire to have luck in.
██████ ██████ ██ ██████████ █████ ██████ █ ██ ███ ███ ███ █████████ ████ █ ████ ██████ █ ██ ███ ███ ███ ███████ ██████ ██ ███ ████ █████████ ███ ███ ███ ███ ███████ ██ ███ ██ ██ ███ ███████ ██ ███ ██████
These do seem like the right things to do.
I just have very little faith in myself to bridge the gap. Especially after reading notes about my teenage self from my old psychiatrist; “mother reports patient isolated herself in her room still despite claiming to feel ‘better’”
I am good at three things: ████████ ███████ █████ ██████ and having sex.
-----
I have been better. I have attended work regularly and diligently. I have wanted good for myself and others. I have tried to take as good of care of myself that I can muster. I have gotten myself up to a normal and healthy weight for an adult woman my age. I have gone on dates despite having no sexual appetite or urges, I have worked through that because I know it isn’t good for me to not desire, I guess feeling desired, or desiring.
I have forced myself to go outside and see my friends after a less than desirable work day; because that is good for you. It is good for people. I have said no to cocaine because that is bad for you. I have said no to just about every drug. I have had vegetables, salads, murky green juices while hungover instead of my preferred either a) nothing b) greasy diner breakfast meal because that is supposed to be good for me.
I made new friends because that is good. I said yes to photo shoots despite not liking them, or even the way I look in them, because that seemed good. I have cried in front of people, people I really care about, I’ve been forthcoming with them, because that is good and not doing that when you feel negative emotions is bad.
I have done all of these things. I’ve tried. I have really given it a good old college try.
And it has worked. I’ve been happy. I have been happy for the first time in my adult life. I sing in the car on my way to work. I allow myself to enjoy dinner with my friends. I go to parties and partake in small talk, even if I know it doesn’t matter, because I finally found the charm in it. I go for walks around my neighborhood and admire the miniature villas with their Spanish architecture. I make plans to visit friends on the east coast.
I want good. I want to be good. I thought I was good. Or was something very close.
3/28 My coffee isn’t too strong, my cigarettes taste the way they did when I first started smoking a decade ago. The weather is temperate. Traffic is mellow to nonexistent. I feel much better.
I don’t even mind having to work on a Saturday; in fact, I am in such a good mood I say good morning to everybody upon entering the office. I even packed a lunch. Which I think is a good sign; it seems like this would be a good sign for somebody.
—-
I have no appetite because I believe a fake-intervention is going to be held for me, invariably at some point today. I say fake, not to discredit it. But usually, interventions are for drug addicts, gamblers, etc.
I think I’m █████████ I don’t even know at this point.
I’m an anxious wreck at work, dropping things, varying between crying and deep breathing, so on. The whole row.
I got a concerning text, which then turned into about 15 concerning texts, and will inevitably turn into a concerning phone call. I had been waiting for the phone call for an hour, and then eventually just started to cry. I don’t know why exactly. The whole situation is bad,it seems bad. I seem bad. This seems bad. I kept trying to collect myself, but to no avail.
I’m now in the bathroom with a tissue to my face. Whole row. Cold water on the back of the neck. Breathing like you’re two years old. ’m trying to brace going back outside and I’m attempting to gauge the risk of somebody, anybody seeing me cry. It just doesn’t seem nice. It doesn’t seem like something that would happen on a Saturday. Let alone something that would happen at the office, my place of employment.
I count myself down like a toddler, 3, 2, 1,
When I open the door I am immediately met with my boss.
“Are you okay?” She asks in a gentle tone.
“Yeah.” I’m crying as i say this. I realize how pathetic it is to say yes while crying so I offer a shrug. “Just … stuff” shrug again.
“Yeah. I understand.” She says. She stops what she’s doing and turns her body towards me. “Do you want a hug?”
I nod, surprised by my own answer.
How lucky am I to have such a circumstance for work?
—-
I decided I really needed a cigarette so I took an early lunch. I looked at my lunch that I packed in the fridge: a small bowl of yogurt with berries and honey. I don’t have an appetite. How ironic that the literal one time I pack a lunch I don’t have an appetite.
It’s hard to eat when you’re out of breath from crying. I guess so.
Upon going outside and fucking around with my bag looking for my lighter, trying to hide my swollen and red face; I see ████, ███ sees me. He looks me up and down, and once again, up and down, and says hi.
I smile. Genuinely. “Hi”
It probably wouldn’t make sense to anybody, sometimes not even me. But this all offers me comfort. I can always count on him to do that. Wars will be waged, famines will ravage,████ is going to look me up and down. And then again.
I can always count on coming here and being engrossed, ripped away from whatever might be happening to or because of me. I can help make the best t-shirt in the world.
And that’s the biggest worry I have to have.
A couple of work friends surround me as I smoke a cigarette on my lunch. It’s nice to have work friends. I didn’t have any before. This was due to personal flaws I think.
They don’t seem put off so it might be that the swelling in my face actually went down, and my eyes are no longer red.
——
June and I somewhat fight on the phone. In a fake way. Or maybe real. I can’t tell. I think I’m just being temperamental due to circumstances.
“It’s too loud I’ll call you later” I sigh.
“I’m in a packed elevator” he says, which I can barely make out.
“Right… I’ll call you later”
There is a sudden moment of complete clarity. I can hear his voice again, sans the chaos from the now deceased crowd “I’m sorry baby it was packed in the elevator”
God. I’m the fucking worst.
“Okay. I’m sorry” I should have added a pet name or something to that apology. I don’t know.
—-
I tried to eat dinner after everything. It was really difficult to get out of bed. ‘Just so cold’ I kept repeating to myself in my head.
Count myself down like a toddler, 3,2,1
Instead of making it to the kitchen, I make it into the bath. I didn’t even wait for it to fill. I just got in and positioned myself under the faucet, the warm water running between my elbows, pooling between my breasts and arms.
I let my arms give and the warm water spills all over me, my stomach, my thighs, my knees which helps slightly with the ‘just so cold’ of it all.
—-
I feel acutely “wrong with”.
3/27 An issue with my health insurance, well the lack of health insurance has me running in between buildings at work today.
They wanted me to check if I had health insurance. I held my tongue. I think I would fucking know.
“Can you just check?”
Yes.
I do not have it.
“I do not have it” I emailed.
Great.
I am now sat at my desk with every medical record from age 15 onward. I can read any notes any of my doctors, which were plenty, at my convenience.
----MENTAL STATUS EXAM----
LETHALITY---
SUICIDAL IDEATION: denies suicidal ideation, plan, and intent
HOMICIDAL IDEATION denies homicidal ideation, plan, and intent
APPEARANCE & BEHAVIOR---
APPARENT AGE: as stated
ATTIRE: appropriate
GROOMING: good
HYGIENE: good
EYE CONTACT: appropriate
GAIT AND POSTURE: normal gait,normal posture
BEHAVIOR / MANNER: normal, normal,cooperative
MOTOR ACTIVITY: normal
MOOD & AFFECT---
MOOD: anxious, depressed
AFFECT: mood congruent
SPEECH: normal
COGNITIVE---
THOUGHT PROCESSES: coherent,relevant,logical
THOUGHT CONTENT: no psychotic or inappropriate thought content
SENSORY & COGNITIVE: alert,clear
INSIGHT: average
JUDGMENT: average
—
ASSESSMENT:
AXIS I: Major Depression
██████ █████ ██████████ Prob
R/O Panic Dis, R/O Anxiety Dis.
Axis II: deferred
GAF: Current: 59
It is weird to read about myself in the third person. To look at, read, digest the consonants, literally spelling out this elaborate but also simple narrative. I was good. And then I was bad.
Its maybe not the best for me to have access to it. To view myself through these files, the worst years of my life condensed down to affect, motor, speech.
Its maybe not the best to not have health insurance for the last two years. Its maybe not best to get a boyfriend who lives six hours away. Its maybe not the best the break up with somebody a day before New Year's. Its maybe not the best to wait until 7 pm to have dinner because “there's no healthy foods” around.
Since when do I know about what is best?
3/26 in between directing the model, I hear a voices, intuitively my back arches and I whip my head around;
███ ████ is back from ███ ████.
He immediately locks eyes with me, and walks up to me. I am in a pleated skirt, down to my ankles, and a vintage Smashing Pumpkins t-shirt. He is going to hate this.
“I know you”
“Yes .” I say. I can’t say much else; because then I will have to answer for as to where I was during the fall.
“I know you” he repeats, grabbing my hand. Firmly shaking it, looking me up and down.
█ ███ ████ ███ ██████████ ██ ████ ███ █████ █ █████ █████ █ ████ █████ ██████ █████ █████ ████ ██████████
“This is Kelly” I point to her, he then shakes her hand.
Thank God I didn’t get pneumonia. If I was busy before, they will have to create a new word for whatever it is I will be now.
——
█ ██ █████ ████ ██ ████ █████████ ██ ████████ █ ██████ █████ █████ ███████████ ██████ ███ ███ ██████ ██ ████ ████ ███ ███ ███ █████ ████ ███████ ██ ██ ████ █ ███ █████████ ███ ███ █ ███ ██ ████ ████ █ ███ ███████ ██████ █████
█ ███████ █ █████ ███ █ ███████ █ █████ █████ ███████ ██████ ███ ███ █████ █████
3/24 I am falling asleep on the pink couch in the office in front of everybody; I don’t care anymore.
June must’ve picked up that I am off, or at least more off, because realistically I have been off since Sunday night. I am fatigued to the point of seemingly no return. He texted and asked if I was okay, if I wanted him to order me food to the office. I said “no thank you” (I added a pet name so as to not read as a clinical bitch) I said something about how my period really disturbs my appetite; which is the truth.
I am on my lunch break trying to read Philip Roth out of this really ugly pink book cover. I had two large cups of coffee. Nothing will aid the fatigue.
I’m doing admin work today too, opposed to standard shooting, editing, so on. It’s not helping. I’m practically falling asleep at the desk.
████, last night, emphasized a text she sent earlier I had never responded to; asking when we should fly home from New York.
“June 5th” I texted back. This seems like a fine day to fly back to Los Angeles for no particular reason other than the fact that it sounds fine.
I have not responded to anybody else’s text messages or returned their phone calls. I missed Brandon’s birthday dinner at Nobu on Sunday; which I self-admittedly forgot.
I think I just slept through it. I’m imagining the salmon nigiri, the sake, all of these things I don’t necessarily care about aligned in a beautiful rich way.
I guess, I ███ ████ ██████ ██ ██████ ███████ ██████ ██ ██ ███ ████ █ █████ ████ ████ ████ ███ ██ ███ █ ████ ██████████ ██ █████ ██ ███ ████ ██ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ █████ █████ █ ███ ██████ ███ ██ ███ ███████
I responded to everything in a monotone and bleak way. I accepted apologies without a hint of softness in my voice. I said he should remember things are important outside of work; do I hear myself?
Not really.
I’m going to try to sleep with Roth on my lap. I’m going to try to drive home later and eat a relatively okay dinner.
I have been eating terribly, sleeping terribly. Which is not good. ████ scared me on Sunday, she heard my coarse voice along with its complaints of how busy I am until we leave to the desert in two weeks.
She said to be careful, if I push myself too hard, I can get pneumonia. I thought this was something that only happened to old people, like my grandfather. Who has habitually gotten pneumonia without fail every couple of years since I was born.
3/22 ████ is home from New York, so I am half awake and warm on her couch. Kismet comes to cuddle with me every once in a while. His small brigade of organs, raising and lowering themselves, apparent through his small furred chest, is the only reminder that I am actually here.
I was just on the phone with June. I miss him a lot.
Hes in a lot of pain, and it feels kind of ridiculous of me to tell him how bad of shape I am in. Like that one MJ Lenderman song. Still not going to listen to that song, it always upsets me.
████tells me about New York and what it was like. I cant even remember what New York is like at this point. I say I am excited to go back with her in May. I think I am. Its hard to think that far ahead.
“What are you wearing to Coachella?” I ask her.
She answers, I look at my calendar and realize it's in two weeks. Its hard to think that far ahead.
Its hard to even think about tomorrow.
Zoe arrives and this is my signal that I should probably head back home to prep for tomorrow which is loaded. I run to the bathroom really quick to blow my nose, but when I do this I end up just bleeding from my mouth. Which probably isnt good.
“How are you feeling?” June asked when we were on the phone, however many hours ago.
“Im okay. Do I sound bad?” I know i sound bad.
“Kind of”
Yeah I know.
—--
At home, a spider richochets itself between my curtains and the window. Despite feeling completely foible, i get a small cup to trap him under with the hopes of setting him free outside.
I have never been able to kill bugs. Its just too sad.
I am so weak it takes a lot to trap him, and then eventually move him to his home which is just; vaguely outside.
I lose him at points, wondering if he is still under the cup. Whenever I check, he is doing worse. His stamina is flagging, his legs are moving slower and slower, his tenacity is practically leaking. I think the cup might have hurt him, I dont know how, but I think I might have hurt him.
I open the back door, and go to let him out, as if he were my dog, but when I remove the cup he isnt moving. His flaccid body piles down the back first stair.
I think I hurt him.
This is ridiculous, I think. Im almost crying on the kitchen floor now. I did not mean to kill him. The whole point of the cup, and trapping him, was so that i wouldnt have to hurt him. This means nothing seeing as he is little and dead now. Dead and little.
3/21 I slept the entire day which really made me feel weird. I didnt get home until 4 which I just cant take anymore.
I woke up half heartdly around 9 am, coughed up blood, and went back to sleep because I didnt want to deal with that.
████ and I are in our eternal poses, Im strung across the couch, hes painting on the floor. We talk to each other without ever making eye contact. This makes talking about hard things feel easier. Our air conditioner being the only annoyance, its quite loud so you have to scream whatever it is that youre trying to say.
I dont know what I am even trying to say. I think Im asking him to come to this magazine launch, making the point its only walking distance away. Making the point I have an ad for my blog in it. Maybe in my own pathetic way I am asking ████ to support me.
He cant. He has his friends show. I dont even know the person by name.
He keeps apologizing without ever actually saying the word ‘sorry’ because I didnt express actual disappointment. Life is just something that happens.
Im not actually upset. I also dont even have the energy to be upset, not in a real way. I have enough energy to mildly and vaguely complain though.
—---
I gave up on the prospect of going to the last ever Milly show around an hour ago. Its 9:28 now and theyre set to play at 10. Theres no way I am making it to pasadena within that time frame. I dont want to.
I think if I even try to do that I’ll die.
Im barely here, on Beverly bouelvard outside of this bar. I ordered a water, which totaled to 8 dollars. Sure.
This guy is talking to me. About movies I think.
Hes wearing a suit. Im wearing a t-shirt meant for little boys who play baseball, a pair of black shorts from work, and last nights eyeliner. I tried scrubbing it off, really hard, to the point that it burnt my eyes but to no avail. Its pocketting itself in my waterline.
Which I thought made me look bad but apparently not bad enough because this guy wants to take me to dinner.
I genuinely cannot figure out why.
I have done nothing. I’ve said virtually nothing. I am virtually nothing right now.
Ive offered no sort of hint at any sort of redeeming character traits. At all.
I figured maybe this would get him to see I am in no place to be taken to dinner. I think this is only wanting to make him try harder.
I feel like I am going to die. At the risk of sounding dramatic. When I was talking to Jameison earlier I felt like I made no sense. I coudlnt even figure out what I was trying to say. I felt like everybody was wondering why I was there, and what the fuck was wrong with me.
I feel half awake, but still warm. This is overall an incredibly unpleasant feeling.
3/20 Last night of the Julia gallery tonight, I think I am very sad. I think I am sad because people are going to Berlin. France, Wherever. I just know it isnt los angeles.
Its weird to think after tonight I will never go back to the gallery. I dont know how it became such a third space in my life, or really what my friends and I did to deserve such a luxurious playhouse. But I will miss it. Bad.
Lots of things are ending; Milly’s last show ever tomorrow is at Sid the Cat. I think ████ ████, ████and I are going to go. Feels full circle. I’ve been to probably like 20 Milly shows. They just kind of have always been around. It used to be a Friday night thing, go to a Milly show at El Cid, then back to their house in South Pasadena (yellow house is what everyone called it), the boys would drink beer, talk about their producers, music industry things I guess.
Its really sad that wont be happening anymore. Ever.With things ending I have just kind of been forced to think about the fall.
I still cant listen to Ee which really pisses me off. But i think that proves what is wrong with me; my stark and frankly scary ability to adapt. I can be happy, more so convince myself that I am happy under nearly any circumstance. I can be good, I can be mild. I can be tantamount to whatever is expected of me in almost any situation.
But then there are these rips, rips of reality which threaten to tear that all apart. I think if somebody forced me to listen to that one Ee song I’d start to cry, or something worse. Is there anything worse? I’d do whatever is worse than crying.
Theres this fear rising within me █████ ██████ ███ ████ ██████ █ █████ █ ██ █████ ██ ██ ██████ ██████
Thats something I dont want to account for, something I dont want to figure out “what it means”
I know that it means nothing; I will let it mean nothing. It cant mean anything. Not right now.
-----
here is this communal drunkness from all the champagne. This guy, Tim, is trying to buy Zoë and I drinks. He’s the worst kind of guy who is hitting you on despite the fact it’s benevolently clear you have absolutely no interest in him; he habitually interrupts you as much as he harasses you.
“That’s okay, really” Zoë tried to say.
We kind of don’t need him to buy us drinks because we are on a covered tab here.
-----
“I just think its about–” Theyre talking about writing in front of me, which I dont mind. I can hardly think though. Its loud here, everybody is hot seeing as the gallery is in an old theater from the 30s. Maybe the 40s.
Everybody’s skin is sticking to each other.
I have taken to going on my iPhone instead of trying. I think this is fine, or at least better. I dont care about my essay on Baudrillard or Krauss right now. Im pretty champagne drunk, and it seems like this will be my last drunk night sponsored by the kindess of German millionaires. I am trying to enjoy it; it isnt working.
I cant figure out why. I keep going to say things, talk about things I know I care about. I can only find myself saying the same thing when everybody asks me how I am “just so busy with work”
Im stil sick in a really worthless way. I cant breathe on top of the capacity issue the gallery is facing. I gave up on trying to breathe around an hour ago, when we first initially got here. It was puzzling to see it so packed. It felt wrong.
I have spent so much time here borderline alone. Or with Zoe and ████ who I am so close to it might as well register in my brain as still being alone because I am that comfortable with them.
Alone. I realize I havent been alone all day. I went from being at the office for ten hours, to dinner with a coworker, to getting ready in ten minutes (while I could hear zoe and dillon laughing fron the living room), to on the concrete being hovered over by people that I supposedly know. I know them. I think I know them.
Im just really tired and out of it. I probably shouldnt be drinking when I feel so physically weak. But I dont know when my debauchery will be sponsored again; if it ever will.
I am going to go downstairs and get another drink
“I am going to go downstairs and get another drink”
No one really understands this as “I am going to go downstairs and get a drink to be alone” because I didnt say that part. So now we are all going downstairs to get another drink.
I eventually piss, which I only half had to do so I could obtain a semblance of alone-ness.
Got my period. Great.
I wash my hands, taking my sweet time doing so. My hands turn prunish under the lukewarm water because I am taking so long. I am completely distracted my reflection in the mirror. I look like hell. I am covered in an array of bruises I dont remember obtaining, my skin is practically melting off of me, my pathetic attempt at 10 minute makeup only looks sad. Im completely null and void. Theres not really a trace of life there at all.
—-
German house music rapes my eardrums. What a good verb. Thats exactly what it is doing; raping my eardrums.
Everyone is here. Probably too many people I know.
I have no control over this; I dont care either way.
It feels like life is just something that happens
3/19 Air conditioner is broken in the office today, which is cradled by my remaining menial fever.
I walked in weary. I think I will always be scared to go back to work after being out for a duration of time. I am worried everybody is mad at me all the time, generally in life, or upset with me. I dont know if worried is the right word.
Because i ultimately am not afraid of the supposed anger towards me, the preconceived “upsetnesss” thrown my way. It just kind of weighs on me in a worthless way that makes me really hard on myself.
Its a fake pressure I apply to myself.
Im self aware of all of this; yet it doesnt help in any sort of way. If anything it makes it worse.
Much to my disbelief, I enter a meeting with my bosses aand everybody is very happy I am back. I almost turn my chair around to see if there is somebody else behind me. Me? Really? Okay, I guess.
I’ll take it.
—
The meeting goes exceptionally well. I feel really happy. And supported.
hese are two great words.
I feel as a basal pressure. But its hard to know if thats real or something I am making up for myself.
3/18 I did not intend to do so; but I am drinking champagne at the Julia gallery again.
Something has happened, it is packed tonight. Our pseudo clubhouse feels blown out. I recognize instagram models, granted the more artsy ones, but they’re here. They’re boys, I guess men, my age here.
They keep looking at me.
I am starting to believe I might be beautiful.
I can’t figure out why people think this matters. Or shows any sort of skill or tact on my end.
“Obviously you’re fucking beautiful, and you’re smart” Alex, the bartender, holds my hands, literally ignoring the willing and patient customers. He seemed to have miss me during my bout of mystery illness.
It felt nice to come here and have everybody ask where I was, and if I was okay. I said I was okay. I was.
I feel inclined to ask “so what?”
But I just drink the champagne.
Being called beautiful, at least as a woman, has always only ever felt like the twist of a knife. I’m perpetually aware that by the time I’m 35 nobody will pay attention to me.
Unless I get real smart.
But the grocery store, will just be a grocery store.
These comments instill some sort of notion within me; that I have to act quick and fast while people still care. I have to take advantage of this thing I have no control over; because I really will eventually have no control over it
3/17 I am the worst illness have-r ever. It is impossible to sit still.
Yesterday: I spent most of the day lazing on the couch while ████ painted. He even let me paint a small section. He said I have “very good technique” that I was “actually pretty good at it”
Charity. He says the same thing when I round off on his drums. Its like when you tell a child they are good at ‘playing’.
I sat under the air conditioner in a tiny babydoll dress feeling pretty fucking useless. I went on my phone and saw things that upset me, only mildly, but they still upset me. This only made me feel even more useless.
I thought of what I wanted, because when you’re sick you have this insight to your deepest desires, an almost prenatal truth to what you absolutely need in that moment, what do i need? I dont think anybody would like my answer to that question; I dont like my answer to that question.
Selfish.
I tend to get pretty angsty when Im ill. And sentimental. Like a baby. Its the one time I’ll let the front, if thats what you want to call it, down. And even then, it isnt fully down. I still have agreed to the Jaded London photoshoot under the guise it will take no longer than 30 minutes. I text Asher from sex magazine back that I am in infact available for a call today.
I dont know how to stop, which isnt even a sentiment I am concerned with. I dont want to.
I dont know when I figured this out, but I very much enjoy to be busy. I need to be busy. If i am not, I will kill myself. This is a simple sentence, one very easy to digest, and makes a lot of sense to me. It is generally easy enough to subscribe to. It is a beneficial sentence to subscribe to.
████████ ████ ██ ██ ██ █████ ███ ██ ███ ██ ██ ██████ █████ ███ ███ █████ █████ █████ █████ ███ ██ ██ █████ █ ████ █████ █ ███ █ ████ ██ ██ █ ███ ██ ███ ██████ ████ █████ ████ ██████ █████ ███ ██████ ██████ ████ ███ ██████ ████ ███ █ ███████ ████ ██ ████ █████ ██ ██ █████ ███ █ █████ ████ ████ ███ █████ ███ █ ████ ████ ████ █ ███ ███████ that became a full-time job in it of itself. It became a career. A conviction.
█ ███ ██████ ███████ ████ ██ ██ ████ █ ███ ████████ █ ████ ██ ██████ ███ █████ ████ ███████ █████ ██ ███ ███████ ████ ██ ███ ███████ ████████ ███████ ████ ███ ██████ ██ ██ ██ █████ ████████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██████ █████ ███ ███ ████ █████ ████ ███ ███████ █ ██████████ ██████ ███ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ███████ █████ ██ ███ █████
I never understood why my tact was seen as concerning ███████ ██ ████████ ██ ██ █████ ████ ██ ████ ████ █ █████████ ██ ██████ ████████ █ ████████████ ████ ███ ██████████ ████ ████ ██ ███ ████████ ████ ██ ████████ ████ ██ ███ ███████ ██ ████ █████ █████ ██ █████ ████ ██ █████ █████ ████
It made sense then. It still kind of makes sense now.