4/2 Chanel man and I keep it brief this morning. He can tell I’m going to a funeral I think. Maybe. He probably doesn’t think of me as often as I think of him.
I wear a short sleeve black turtleneck dress that flares out near my ankles, my favorite kitten heels, and my raybans because it’s bright.
Traffic sucks, heading from hollywood to the west side is never an easy task. I get stuck behind a 2001 Volvo 350 which was my high school ex boyfriends car. I took his virginity in that car. He yelled at me for dropping his pavement woweee zoweee CD in that car. I’m pretty sure he asked me to be his girlfriend in that car. I really need to differentiate ex boyfriends on here because it sounds like I’ve had 50. I’ve had three or four which feels normal for my age. I don’t know how to differentiate them without using their government names , and giving them a fake name seems presumptuous because I don’t plan on writing about them that much. We will try:
1.First real high school boyfriend. Skateboarder. Hippie mom who loved me. Cute fluffy cat who hated me. His name is Rio. We are still friends to this day.
2.Second high school boyfriend with the volvo 350. Guitar player. Got me into pavement. Serious and concerning anger problems for his age. His father hated me. Apparently frequents Zebulon now
3.The one who converted to Mormonism after we broke up but threatened to kill himself before we did actually break up. That whole trick didn’t really work on me; I just stared at him blankly, like he was crazy. This one embarrasses me a lot.
4.Writer (we can give him a name because I am friends with him and do write about him sometimes. We can call him Levi. Cause he always had good jeans)
5.Second writer/ first real adult relationship
Some matter more than others.
I don’t feel bad writing about taking pavement kids virginity. He wrote a really hateful song about me which was confusing because he broke up with me. And in the song he mentioned specific anatomical features of my body. Which is kind of insane in hindsight. I just ate it at the time and kept it pushing. I figured it wouldn’t really matter after we graduated and I was right.
He played a show towards the end of our senior year, it was the first time I had seen him since we had broken up. We didn’t speak at all; clearly he was angry at me for some unspoken reason. The song, despite mattering, was insane in theory so I had to fuck with him a little bit.
During his set I walked in when I heard the first couple of bars of the song. I stood right in front of him. His band all looked at him, and he looked at them. They all visibly had a “what the fuck are we supposed to do” look on their faces. Faces with piercings. This was all so juvenile and hilarious in hindsight.
He looked away from me and sang the opening lyrics, which I know by heart; they’re about how he missed me and the thought of me with anyone but him depresses him. How I deserve more out of life than I have gotten.
Then it launches into a cheap hardcore imitation song in which he says he hates my face, my “stupid” stick and poke tattoo, my sense of humor, says he hates my other ex boyfriend, and tells me to get the fuck out of his life. Which is inherently funny because I think to this day I have never spoken to him since our melodramatic breakup: so on and so forth. It is not that bad of a song. It was their most streamed song. You’re welcome? I guess?
He did not seem happy I stood there for the entirety of the song with a smile on my face. I don’t know how I had the guts to do that at seventeen. I couldn’t do that now, I don’t think.
God I miss him. He was so funny in such an unself aware way. He used to back into cars cause he was shit at driving and scream at me; who was in the passenger seat unassuming. I’d stare ahead blankly thinking of what to wear to his next show. I think he really met his match with me and this pissed him off.
Maybe he hates me because I never took him seriously. I don’t know. Maybe he hates me because I took his virginity. I really don’t know.
—-
I think of high school the entire drive to Dillon’s grandmas house. I met Dillon in high school. I think of shows we went to and coming to this house for the first time.
Oma asked me one million questions “You are from here? Los Angeles” she asked in her arrayed accent. It’s a mix of Indonesian, Dutch, American, and British. I’ll never meet someone with an accent like that again. I can still hear her say words like “hoopla” or random off handed Jewish phrases.
“Yes” I said. I was seventeen with long hair. She thought I was dillon’s girlfriend for five years. The only thing that made her realize I wasn’t was when Dillon started dating Cat.
“You finished high school?” She said sitting in her rocking chair in the living room with a TV blasting the news straight in fron of her.
“Yes.”
“Your name is Ash?”
I nod.
From then on I spent almost all holidays with that family. I never knew her real name until 3 years ago, I always referred to her “Oma” which is dutch for grandma. His family really took me in, and never made me feel like some gross sick stray dog. His mom would cater to me, debatably too much, like on hanukkah in which she made sure no meat touched my plate because she knew I was a vegetarian. When things got really bad with my family I went over; no questions asked which I appreciated more than words can convey. I remember dillon trying to force me to eat ramen after an especially bad night, a night so bad cops arrived to my family’s home. “Im not going back” I pushed the ramen away “I know.” Dillon said looking at me, I didnt look up. I really didnt go back that time.
I’d bring Oma flowers over most times. I’d ask her questions about places she traveled to. She has been everywhere in the world basically. On her funeral pamphlet it states almost all of the countries shes been to; some dont even exist anymore.
—
I didnt think I would cry. I dont think I’ve ever cried at a funeral before today.
I do this thing with death, where I find my place in that persons life. There are always more important people, like sons or daughters, or fathers or mothers, who are losing someone. I am lucky enough to have never had anyone grotesquely important to me die. I also think this inhibits me from properly experiencing death or grieving. Probably my brains way of saving me from feeling sad. Anytime I am sad about someone dying I imagine how much worse someone like their mother or son feels, and I dont feel like I have a right to be sad.
I imagined how Dillon would feel. I am just some girl he found at a rock and roll house show and brought home one day. This is Dillon’s literal flesh and blood. I dont want to impose.
I really wasn't expecting to cry. It had to have been building; seeing photos of Oma holding baby Dillon. And his little brother. A photo of their mom flashing on screen with different hair than she has now.
I was fine until Dillons mom went to the podium. She looked so sad and out of it; understandably. It was hard to see her that way, and see dillon seeing her that way and see brandon seeing her that way. No one should ever see their mom cry, like ever.
I love these people so much. It's hard for me to see them this way.
A strange man, objectively, but a kind one gets to the podium after Dillons mom sits down. He lets everyone know he is cuban, mexican and french. Which feels like an odd way to start a funeral speech. But I’ll admit its a very good way to get people to focus and sit up.
He is Dillons uncles best friend. He tells the story of when he met Eva ( Oma) for the first time, how she asked him a million questions. How he had a rough childhood and how thankful he was for Evaline for taking him in. She always asked the right questions; never the painful ones.
That is when I cried. Not a lot. Because Im still aware of my place in all of this. But I just realized how thankful I was for her, for him, for their entire family. How they really were my family. And Im not sure when that happened but how thankful I am that it did happen.
—-
During the burial, cat and i sit away, letting the men of the family bury her. It isnt our place, we both know that. I zone out for a long time. When I come to I get this perfect view of dillon through tall mens shoulders.He is perfecty centered between them, with his face angled downward at the grave site. I have never seen him like this. Hes in a suit. I’ve seen this suit a million times. Usually at one of our fake fancy dinner parties. I’ve never seen it in a serious context. I realize for the first time how prominent his cheek bones are, and how bushy his eyebrows are. It is almost like I have never seen his face before.
Cat and I sit on this bench watching the most important person in our life watch the most important person in his life get buried. I break to look down at cats shoes to distract myself. Ive seen her in these shoes at bars. At house shows. Ive seen them littered on the floor at her old apartment while we tore her closet apart trying to find the perfect outfit for whatever event was happeningt that night. I look back Dillon. His tie is in focus and I remember him wearing it to a dinner we went to before his surprise 21st birthday I threw him. The time he wore it for a matching halloween costume we planned together. Suddenly this all feels very grown up.
—-
We are the youngest people at the reception aside from Dillons little brother. This shows by us constantly weaving in and out of the front door for cigarettes. We talk about regular things. Dillon is in shock which makes sense.
By the time I leave I ditch the whole speech I planned to give to Dillons mother, where I was planning on telling her how thankful I am. Something about it feels wrong. l worried I’d cry and how wrong that would feel to cry to someone who just lost their mom.
I’ll call her or something.
—
Home now. Took a shower. Gonna model the clothes for Fern and try to sleep early.
Dont know if this will work; chugged coffee at the reception. Trazadone? Think I lost it.
4/1 Wow. First month of analog of thought. Feels like a lot has happened. Maybe too much.
I feel kind of overwhelmed this morning. I didnt get home until late. Planned to stay the night but got my period. Which is good given the pseudo pregnancy scare.
I barely ate anything yesterday aside from mcdonalds chocolate chip cookies so now I kind of feel like shit. I always seem to have post-poned adderall depression now too, the next day. Which is annoying. I already feel like shit because of my period so I wish God would give me just one thing to suck today.
My haircut appointment is at 12:00 in highland park. Can i wear sweatpants and a hoodie there? I think I will do that. Need to get a coffee and pack of cigarettes from chanel man on the way. Max is picking me up later. Going to make him take me to erewhon which hes really going to hate. I am craving my typical order from there:
-1 Japanese Sweet Potato
-Kale and white bean salad (I push the avocado to the side, its a texture thing)
-Sparkling water
Sometimes ill get a brown butter chocolate chip cookie. I have a minor headache today
So I probably wont get it. Feel like the sugar will make me feel worse.
—-
Got a coffee and weird electrolyte beverage from Chanel man. “I said 40 on 8 right?”
“Yes.”
He keeps it simple with me which I appreciate. We never talk. There is no need to really.
The drive over to Ryan’s studio was lovely. It took me down forest lawn, passing the cemetery and all of its accompanying flower stands. There’s green blobs all around me, ceasing to exist as soon as my car passes. My head hurts, but the electrolyte beverage is helping. It is so cold.
Writing this on Ryan’s bench. Realize I left my electrolytes in the car. Whatever.
This shouldn’t take long; it’s only a haircut. I hope I will like it, and know I probably will
——
Got erewhon after my haircut, and it hurt my stomach per usual. The one in Pasadena is architecturally beautiful, like stunning. It is very collegiate looking on the outside, and very japanese on the inside. Which makes me happy.
It makes me feel like erewhon isnt as culturally molested as it actual is. Initally it was a macrobitotic stand in Boston, founded by a Japenese couple. I like it’s origins more than its contemporary standing. I like the Samuel Butler book they named the market after. The couple that founded it has to be cool if theyre naming a market based on a Sameul Butler novel that satirizes victorian culture from the 1800s. Good book.
Remember reading it in the new schools library while max and joseph did their finals downstairs.
On the note of good books, both my issue of the new real review and spring issue of the paris review arrived today. I hope this paris review issue is better than the winter one, I didnt care for it much. I always like the real review so Im not worried about that.
Have to pick up clothes from Fern so I can take photos for her new brand. Excited for her. And that I get to photograph myself Sometimes I feel a bit awkward having my photo taken. I usually only like one or two if a photographer takes them of me.
—-
Max picks me up and we go to In N Out since he won’t be able to get it when he goes back to London. We listen to lady Gaga, and Katy Perry in the car. I like that he never makes me drive. It’s kind of nice to be in the passenger seat for a change.
“Did you bring the Ritalin?” I ask in a sing song voice to try to mask the fact I’m asking him for a controlled substance. He offered. I tell myself that at least. I mean factually, yes, he did. He probably wouldn’t have given me it if I didn’t incessantly remind him.
“Yes. Lost the other one, think it fell under the seat.”
“I could marry you”
I turn the lady Gaga up. We talk about Coachella coming up, and he talks about London while I sing along to the song,
“You might actually be a good singer” he says making me laugh. I guess he is one of the only people I find myself haphazardly singing in front of. I find singing embarrassing. Not even because I’m bad, I don’t know if I’m bad or good, I think I just feel embarrassed thinking of some alternate universe me where instead of being a writer I am a singer songwriter in 2011 Brooklyn. It sends chills down my spine. I suppose being a writer is only slightly less embarrassing.
“Can I get that in writing? Better yet can I record you saying that.”
I make him say “(my full government name) is a good singer”. I forgot my phone was connected to his aux and it records none of this audio which makes it even funnier.
I don’t want him to go back to London. Embarrassingly, I don’t want anybody to leave. Except for me. I am selfishly allowed to leave. I am allowed to leave and never think of anybody, or anything from my current standing in life.
—
Going to a funeral tomorrow morning; didnt realize itd be so soon
Forgive the typos, 5 melatonin and a serving of nyquil deep. I could really use the sleep.
No one wants to go to a funeral, I know this. But I realllllllly dont want to go. Im bad at them.
I remember a funeral two summers ago, wow. I cant believe that wasnt last summer. It feels like that summer was perpetually “last summer”. I dont think there will ever be a recent summer; aside from this one. Ever. What a shit show.
My mom was crying next to me in this church in orange county. Or trying not to cry. Her best friend died. My aunt like figure. Delilah. I guess she really helped raised Axel and I. Remember this slightly, but did not realize I knew her so young. I only remember her as an overbearing force when I was a blossoming teenager who hated being told what to do; especially if it was to not wear tiny clothing or do drugs.
I remember driving to the beach with this woman, she would punish me when I was bad. She told me I couldn't swear, and that I couldn't swim too deep in the ocean. That I couldn’t sit with my legs spread open past like age 10. She’d slather me in sunscreen, whereas my mom usually would slather me in tanning oil at eight. She felt more motherly than my own mother sometimes, mom never punished me, really. She wanted me to be a child model or actress. She never wanted anything for me, let alone anything good.
Delilah was dead now, in a casket in front of us. I tried to hold my moms hand which felt awkward maybe, because I had a suspicion my mom hated me, a suspicion I’ve had since childhood. I held her hand anyway. I dont think this brought her any comfort. I dont think I have ever brought her comfort, only a reminder of what she could never have. Which is a life at 23 without babies.
My mom looked really sad. I got up and went to the bathroom. Above the mirror there were print outs of spanish prayers on office depot printer paper, weathered by the sun. I thought of 5 million ways to end my life before walking back out, I’m not sure why. It wasn’t that death made me inherently suicidal, or that I earnestly wanted to end my own life. I don’t really find myself getting suicidal past the age of 16. I think I just knew, somehow, the coming months were going to be trying. Maybe it was God in the bathroom, maybe he was Spanish. “Hola.” I said to the sun faded print out of God. Maybe the only reason he has never answered me is because he doesn’t speak English. Maybe he speaks mandarin, or portuguese. He definitely doesn’t speak French. God wouldn’t speak French.
Pretty soon itd be over for me, at least it felt like at the time. Not in a death way; just in a “life as i know it now will never happen again” kind of way. Despite my mom looking sad her friend had died, I could sense something tumbling within her. Could see stuff moving behind her eyes. I could tell what she wanted and it was bad.
There are people in life who cannot help but explode everything around them. A single look from them and you’re exhausted. My mom, despite loving her, is one of these people. You’ve felt every sorrow they've ever had, you've heard every prayer they’ve desperately pleaded. You've been every wall they've ever punched. Every driver who has cut them off in traffic and got the finger. It doesn’t feel like there’s anything they can do about it; about this.
Perhaps my greatest fear in life is to be one of these people. Have a feeling I might be.
“I’m trying to think of things I wanted to tell you while I was away.” I said a couple of days ago on Francis’ lap.
“Well what have you been so diligently thinking of for the last week?”
“Death.” I laughed. Wish I had something smarter or less bleak to say for him.
3/31 Woke up despondent. I think I just need to wash my hair and take an adderall. I’ll probably walk and go get a coffee from chanel man in a second.
—-
Adderall doesn’t feel as good as it used to. My body is probably getting used to it I suppose. I feel like I don’t take it enough for it to be this mellow, to even have a tolerance, really.
I’ve been shuffling around the apartment this morning, aimlessly. Switching between frantically cleaning, lazily writing, and trying to touch myself:
1. Cleaning is stressing me out because I have a lot of it to do.
2. Writing seems impossible. I keep switching between three pieces and none of it makes any sense. It all reads as tweaker.
3.Touching myself isn’t working. I can’t cum for some reason. I think because I keep switching between four hypothetical situations. That’s too many situations.
I’ve accepted I won’t write anything for this deadline, and then I’ll be mad at myself 3 months when the book comes out. Feel really stupid. I feel flattered by the fact I’ve had people reach out to me and ask me to write stuff for them, whether it’s a book or magazine, isn’t that supposed to be the opposite? Like aren’t writers supposed to beg publishers to publish them? I feel lucky they like my writing enough to just take anything but I can’t back myself giving anything to a publisher that’s half assed. I know when I write something really good and I know when I write something really bad.
Made a thing of coffee to hopefully amplify the adderall. TBD.
No idea what to wear tonight. Or what matters to me in this very moment. I feel like I care about really stupid things. Or that I’m a bad person. Why is the adderall doing this
I should probably call someone, I haven’t spoken a single word in 9 hours. just been tugging my bottom lip between my teeth and trying to unlock my jaw. should call someone but I don’t want to. Don’t have anything to say, or ask.
Also antsy because I haven’t smoked a cigarette yet, I’m too lazy to go outside. I thought adderall was supposed to give you energy.
Ok, focus ash. Here is a list of everything you need to do:
-call someone
-wash your hair
-shave your legs
-make your bed
-fold your laundry
-email people back
-it couldn’t hurt to read
-ask max to bring you the Ritalin tomorrow since you wasted this adderall
- go on 6th date
——
I end up at a dinner with friends but don’t eat anything. And don’t talk much. The adderall is making my brain quiet today. It’s making me feel less ADHD-y and more autistic. Which is maybe what it’s supposed to do.
I eat nothing at dinner. Just watch. This makes people really nervous; but I have no appetite. We are also at an expensive place and I can’t justify wasting money on something I don’t want.
My mom texts me and asks if I am driving down to get dinner with her. I’ve told her eight times now that I have no feasible time besides the weekend, she said thats fine, but is clearly confused because she has texted me every single night, three nights in a row, asking if we are getting dinner. It’s making me really frustrated and want to cancel entirely. I hate repeating myself.
We couldnt be more different of people. But we are both neurotic and type A. I really hope I am not this annoying to other people.
–
Drove to Francis’ house and surprised him with a coke only to drop it on his doorstep. He says this is cute. I think its funny; not cute. He also claims the man at mcdonalds mustve given me extra cookies because I am pretty. Maybe. I kind of read the worker as gay though.
We roll around in his bed for sometime, I am in a tiny dress from the fancy dinner and keep tugging it down because Im aware he can probably see my underwear. He tells me he can see my underwear. Right.
I start to come off of the adderall in his room, and he doesnt make me feel bad about it, which is good. I find myself trying to talk, and be pleasant, but most of what I am saying doesnt really make any sense. He amuses me despite this.
I tell him I wrote about him on here, and that I gave him a fake name. He reads it in front of me, which makes me cover my face and die one million times nestled on his shoulder. “Cute. I wouldnt mind if you wrote with my real name.”
“Full governement name?” I ask gobsmacked.
“Yup.” He says smugly.
Something about this is hot to me, or at least amusing.
3/30 drive to work in the rain, listen to John frusciante, now sitting in the office parking lot and realize I haven’t gotten my period.
I check my tracking app, it says I’m late for 23 days. What the hell. That can’t be right, I must’ve forgotten to log my last period.
I did get it. I know I did. Had horrible cramps I distinctly remember. I do the math and remember I had it at the beginning of march. Thank God. really cant entertain the melodrama of a pregnancy scare today.
Im infertile from starving myself as a teenager anyway. But I will always be scared of getting pregnant despite my body’s inability to. Wow. I am unable to do the one thing I am genetically meant to do.
This doesnt make me feel like a loser, or failure. It makes me think of the countless PDFs of research papers I’ve read on anorexia, that my friends who go to fancy colleges unblock the paywall on so I can read them. The research papers cite Louise Gluck, Chris Kraus, Deleuze, etc on the increasingly difficult verbalization of the abandonment that anorexia inherently assumes. Anorexia is a hard thing to write about. So I will not harp on this long as Im acutely aware I will do it no justice. But these research papers highlight the abandonment of self, and how that inherent abandonment perpetuates a refusal to partake in quite literally anything. This refusal, as Delezue would put it, creates the perfect “schizophrenic” (by Delezue’s definition, a deterritorilzed entity, not literal definition of schizophrenic. ) In a way there is nobody or nothing more deterritorialized than an anorexic. This, however, does not ring true for bulimics, or orthorexics, because a bulimic may desire, quite strongly, to eat the concievbly most delicious food, and the orthorexic may desire to eat the most concievbly healthy food. The anorexic desires nothing, which I am aware sounds incorrect initially. I mean how can someone who is starving themselves not desire to eat? An anorexics desires, if they even have them, cease to be acted upon. And at a certain point, that desire is so altered it ceases to be anything. An anorexics desire is a simulacrum of desire, and therefore nothing or a new thing that cant be referred to as a “desire” as we have come to define it.
The ritual of denying ones self anything, creates liberation via deterritroilzation.
Oh, I have to clock in.
—
I get dinner with sean after work near USC. I tell Sean about what our CEO said about me, we have a good laugh. He asks me how modeling was and I roll my eyes slightly, playfully.
We head back to his house and sit on his couch. He teaches me how to hand roll cigarettes. Im really bad at it.
My ex boyfriend, who lives downstairs, comes up. We all laugh really hard at this story sean tells about some fratty westside guy, who was shirtless, trying to fight him last night. Even though this story is benevolent it makes me kind of sad. I love sean and hate the idea of anybody being mean to him. Whether its funny or not.
My ex boyfriend and I talk about writing, about Dennis Cooper. We are all going to the reading tonight. He seems very nervous to see him, he admires him a lot. I tell him it will be fine. It doesnt feel weird to reassure him, or give him praise. It felt weirder to do when we were together for some reason.
Sean asks about Francis, the guy I am seeing. I show him his instagram, he says he is “hot and seems like a genius” which is reassuring. Sean seems to know more about the kind of art he makes, and conveys to me how cool Francis is because it’s outside of my realm of understanding. I tell him Francis taught at this prestigious art college and he loses his mind. “I mean fuck, do you want to date him?” I say. He laughs.
I plan to see him after the reading, and I’ll relay sean’s compliments then. He will feel flattered maybe. Hopefully.
–--
I left the Dennis Cooper reading early because my stomach hurt terribly. As soon I got home I threw up. Felt ultimately fine after that but i wish I was able to see Cooper read. He’s kind of the only person I went to see read.
“Yeah. Im really only here to see Dennis Cooper. I have no idea who the fuck else is reading ahahah” I say to a very kind beautiful girl.
“My boyfriend is reading.”
Ah. Fuck.
I apologized and walked away rather awkwardly. I texted Francis that my stomach hurts, and basically beg to see him tomorrow before he leaves for New York.
Dillon texted me that Oma passed away as I was leaving the reading. Flipped my left blinker on to get on the 405, just out of instiinct. To go to his house and comfort him. But I switch my blinker to the right, realizing he might just want to be alone. I was right. As much I loved her, and she was a second grandmother to me, I mean fuck I’ve seen her more in the last two years than I’ve seen any of my family, she was not my biological grandmother. I dont want to overstep.
Im going to unbox my new furniture, assemble it, and then try to sleep. Mom dropped off some more trazadone because I told her how much trouble I’ve been having falling asleep/ staying asleep. I left out the nightmares.
Cant process death, so I just build my furniture.
3/29 should not have been a nun. Woke up at 12 am could not fall back asleep because of a couple text messages I got. One good one, a couple that don’t matter but made me sad.
Stared at ceiling for hours trying to fall back asleep. I should’ve just gone to the party at that point.
Instead I had a recurring nightmare I had as a teenager, and a couple times as an adult. Its the same thing everytime, only the characters change each dream.
It was pretty violent and scary.
TLDR I got assaulted and that wasn’t even the part that sucked. I remember showing cops bloody underwear. Jesus.
Remember my ex boyfriend was in it and upset with me I hadn’t called him. My mom made me report it to the police. And the guy was a real cunt about it.
I feel kind of immune to these kinds of dreams usually, but this one sucked. They suck more as an adult because I am less used to them. Feels weird to think they were worse back then, far more graphic and I’d just wake up and go to high school the next day.
“Would you be open to trying EMDR therapy?” My high school therapist asked after I explained one of these dreams to her. “Whats that?”
“Eye movement desensitization and reprocessing therapy. They’d take a scan of your brain and-“
“No” I don’t let her finish.
No one is scanning my brain. It’s my brain. Also this sounds way too clinical. I’m not getting a brain scan at 18. That makes me feel like I have serious problems and that makes me feel like a freak of nature. They don’t take scans of normal brains, I remember thinking at the time.
“What is it used to treat?”I sigh. Inquisitive despite my defiance.
“Post traumatic stress disorder” she says moving her glasses down to look at me, to really look at me, the way therapists do.
I scoffed. “You really think I have PTSD?” Wasnt trying to challenge her or discedit her. She overall had been an extremely lovely therapist to me; the only one I had liked at that point. Mostly because she never made me talk when I didnt want to. She would talk to me about other things; things that friends talked about. We talked about small nothings most of the time. Like music or movies. I remember one time talking about smoothies with her, and we couldnt remember the name of one of the smoothies from the hippie place down the street I guess we would both go to when we were done with each other.
“Is it chunky monkey… Or is that the one with more peanut butter? The one im talking about has small chunks of dates in it”
“No…. thats…. I think youre right the date one is called chunky monkey though” she said moving to the end of her chair looking up the way people do when they need to focus because they cant remember something; and if they cant figure it out it’ll drive them insane.
I didnt think I had PTSD. Thought that was reserved for men who went to vietnam high off of meth and raped absentee soliders wives, only to turn burn their villages down. Or people for which the words “pearl harbour” mean something. For people who have seen the worst of the worst; or had done the worst of the worst. Definitely not for 18 year old girls who grew up in coastal cities.
I was also incredibly surprised she was offering me a real diagnosis. She was kind of a hippie therapist who didnt believe in diagnoses, which seems a bit ccounterintuittive as a therapist I remember thinking. Which made me feel more fucked up.
“Theres a chance.” She said.
“Maybe one day” I shrugged her off.
We didnt talk about it again until I was 22, in my old apartment. It was my first time fully living alone and I think the amount of time I was alone made me think of a lot. I just would lay in the dark not able to sleep. I still refuted the brain scan/ eye tracking therapy. I might be dumb; I just dont see what tracking my eyes will erradicate. But also I didnt care at the time. Things were happening. There were places to go and people to see I guess.
Maybe I have PTSD. Not sure if that makes me a baller or a pussy. If I'm going to have the same disease as war criminals they might as well prescribe me xanax.
—----
Knew this would cease to matter when I got on the 101 and was able to smoke a cigarette while listening to the same two modest mouse songs loop over and over. I was right.
My coworker plays a song from my ex boyfriends band on our office speaker. Right.
“How did you find this?”
“It came up on shuffle.”
Cool. I forgot how much I liked the song. It’s really good. There’s something really odd about hearing his voice in our office, and generally.
-----
I forgot Lizzie and I are going to the Dennis Cooper reading tomorrow. Quite excited for it. Very busy day tomorrow, shooting at work, then rush home get ready for the reading, then if I am lucky and not too tired I get to go to Francis’ house. And probably have sex. Unless he doesnt want to have sex with me. But im pretty sure he wants to.
3/28 I’m not sick just a chronic smoker. Regardless I take some elderberry syrup this morning to coat my throat.
My hands kind of do their own thing at work. I realize after a couple of minutes my non-typing hand is fitfully pawing at my left collarbone. Probably not good. But also probably nothing.
It feels like something is going to happen. I don’t know what. But it feels like whatever follows this is going to be critical. And set up the next couple of months or year. This feels like too much self responsibility. Which I’ve proven time and time again I’m bad at handling. I throw up a bit in our bathroom after thinking of this for too long . Whatever. I think I throw up more than the typical person. It means hardly anything at this point. It’s as passive as turning your blinker on. Shouldn’t be, but I don’t have health insurance so even if I wanted to figure this out; I can’t.
Listening to black hair by Alex g trying to lock back in at work after the banal vomiting. I like this song because it’s title includes something that pertains to me. I have black hair.
“It’s not what you are, it’s just what you did”
Greattttttt.
—-
Work is good. Stomach kind of hurts. Well nowI’m anxious. For some reason. Im going to take some hyroxzine I keep in my bag when I get back to my desk. I havent taken it in around a month.
Just flipping through a Bret Easton Ellis novel on our offices pink couch trying not to be anxious; to not freak out.
I just feel like I am going to lose everything. I have one million missed calls from unknown numbers too.All LA area codes. But this doesn’t help. It’s making Me more anxious. What if it’s something bad?
—--
“You would give me ritalin if it meant id go tonight?” On the phone with Max. He’s trying to get me to go to this party tonight. I told him theres no fucking way; that I have to be up at 5 tomorrow for work. He told me to take some of that adderall I just bought, I told him i need it for when I work on writing.
“Yes.”
“You want to see me that badly?”
“Yes.”
“You’re fucking crazy.”
“2.”
“You would give me two of your Ritalins if it means i’ll go?”
“Yes.”
“How many miligrams?”
“5.”
“Yeah fucking right. A coffee would do more than that.” Im being a dick. “3 and I’ll go” I say half joking. I dont really care about going. It’d be fun, everyone is going, but I’ll live if I dont. The book Im reading is getting good anyways. I could always use the ritalin though. Especially free ritalin.
“Fine”
Ugh. I dont know if I want to commit. Feel kind of sad and out of it today for some reason. Well I know why. I want to go to a party and feel like I cant; like its irresponsible if I do. Just know work will suck terribly tomorrow off of like 4 (if im lucky) hours of sleep. I also dont love the idea of taking stimulant pills to get through the day. I dont like the idea of taking them that often.
“I’ll let you know.”
I kind of give up. It’s become increasingly difficult to gauge what the proper balance is of normal irresponsibility in your twenties and acting like a nun. I like acting like a nun. I enjoy reading; alone. Or going for my runs, cooking, baking. Writing alone in my apartment. I also enjoy going out, and I’m really good at it. Maybe too good at it. I cant do it too much or I’ll do it forever maybe. As much as I like acting like a nun, its kind of boring, and theres nothing to show for it. Besides corporeal things like mediocre writing that lives on my phone/computer, and emails from random people saying they like my writing. It’s weird people like analog of thought the most compared to my either writing. In my opinion it’s so blasé compared to actual pieces I’ve published or magazine. It’s also entirely different; stylistically. Maybe it’s the bulkiness and access analog of thought provides. Everyone is born with a predisposed inclination to voyeurism; and I’m incredibly honest here. For better or for worse. I.E SEE REAL LIFE CONSEQUENCES IVE ALREADY FACED FOR WRITING ABOUT REAL PEOPLE WITH THEIR REAL NAMES, OR IF THEY ARE AFFORDED A FAKE NAME; MAKING IT PAINFULLY OBVIOUS WHO ITS ABOUT
This sounds like I’m jacking myself off, expecting praise for simply being honest- I’m not. I don’t think it’s brave, again, I just have nothing to lose. I’m only noting statistically I’ve never had so much interest around anything I’ve made. Which is cool I guess. I don’t know how I feel about it, debatably only being a result of grotesque self exposure. Writing about the worst aspects of my life. Also the best aspect of my life. The most boring aspects too.
Writing this often has been good for me. Even when I feel like I have nothing to write about; I find something. Richard Siken gave me advice on twitter on this exact matter. He said that content is not necessarily what one should focus on in writing; if it’s fiction, make the characters do something. He said in movies when the director doesn't know what to do theyll just blow things up.
If I can’t find something to write about tomorrow; maybe an explosion will find its way into analog of thought.
---
Boy I like texts me he is going to new york for a week, next week. This makes me sad for some reason. I wish he wasnt leaving simply because I like him and spending time with him. I guess I probably shouldnt call him a boy, hes a man I like. That sentence just feels weird and juvenile for some reason. I wonder if he will miss me while hes there. This thought also feels juvenile for some reason.We clearly have to like each other somewhat to be spending our time together, but we havent really outwardly said we like each other. Maybe older men dont say that. I dunno. Maybe im retarded for thinking about it this much.
I kind of despondently flip through my book. Looking at the squirrels that play on my powerlines outside. Sometimes I’ll feed them walnuts. I swear one day im just going to see one get electrocuted and fall to the floor, and he will make a thump noise. I’d be really sad if that happened.
—--
I end up telling Max Im going to pass on the party. He seems annoyed but understands. Im kind of annoyed at all of my friends texting me begging me to go. It makes me feel bad. It feels like some weird social pressure. Feeling left out at 24 feels embarrassing.
A big deciding factor is I realize coachella is in two weeks. And I will have unbridaled opportunity to get inebriated for two weeks if I so want. I doubt I’ll even drink much, its so hot and overwhelming there. The thought of being drunk in 110 degree weather is not the most exciting or tantalizing. I doubt anybody will bring drugs also.
Max says he just really wanted me to come out because he is also leaving for London again soon. Why is everyone leaving again?
“Who do you think is prettier, me or clairo?” I asked him in his car the other day.
He smiles at me. We both obviously know its Clairo. “Come on. Tell me. Be one hundred percent honest. I will be able to tell if youre lying”
“You” he says an octave too high. Right.
“Shut the fuck up, its obviously clairo.”
“No its you” I hit his arm before he could even finish
“Now im mad, i hate that you’re lying”
“No its you.” Fuck. off.
“Im not getting out of your car until you say clairo is prettier than me. What? You think I can’t take it? Now im mad! Just say clairo is prettier than me.”
“No.”
“PLEASEEE PRETTY PLEASE WITH A CHERRY ON TOP JUST SAY IT. I NEED YOU TO ADMIT CLAIRO IS PRETTIER THAN ME”
“Fine. Clairo is prettier than you” I knew it.
“Thank you. God. I hate when you lie. I think Im ok. But its clairo.”
“Yeah its clairo.” Right.
I stare out the window until I am bored. Bored enough to read an article from the Atlantic. I check my emails. Guess I’m a nun tonight
3/27 anxious for some reason this morning. In my car in front of the office. Well to the side of it.
Chanel man at the gas station did not seem excited to see me this morning. He rang me up for my coffee without acknowledging me, really. Maybe I dont mean anything to him. And thats fine. I am not a character on his blog, if he even has one. Holy shit, I would totally read his blog if he had one. He should call it “chanel thoughts”
The seagulls are doing some sort of seance above our office. They are cawing. Which makes me feel a little bit better about spilling coffee on my new shirt. They are very cute birds.
The office directly across the street has a pit bull who is missing a leg, kind of like the Alice In Chains album cover, but instead of it being his front right leg he is missing his back left leg. They let him roam around freely. He is cute but looks weathered. Sometimes I want to hang out with him on my lunch breaks but I am kind of scared of him.
It’s a zoo this morning.
—
Got sent home from work because I was coughing really loudly. My headphones were on so I didnt register this. My boss asks if im okay, which I appreciate. I notice my throat has been coarse. I dont know if Im getting sick or just smoking too much.
I bought a pack two days ago and have one cigarette left. Even though I dont feel good I probably will smoke it on my way home, I can’t help it. Havent been this neurotic/addicted since I was a teenager. Think I just realized a cigarette is real, and something that happens, in the same way a black coffee is something that happens, so I should smoke. I also like the way it feels, how they taste, how they give you an excuse to go outside at a party, etc.
I leave work early, and feel like I should call someone to tell them that I am sick. Thats what you’re supposed to do i think. My mom does not make me feel better. She tells me to stop smoking, “it isnt that easy… you should know”
“I do, I know. I meant it generally you should stop smoking. It isnt good for you.”
“Yeah. It’s (INSERT DISGUSTING COUGH, ONE THAT MAKES YOU HOLD YOUR STOMACH), hard. I’ll try though.” I wont try. I dont want to try to quit. I’ll try to smoke less but I wont quit entirely. She knows this, I know this.
I buy more soup at the whole foods in silverlake. One pseudo miso soup called “FUN NOODLE SOUP” Ok i guess. Thats fine I guess. This used to be my local whole foods, I’d read food labels for hours here, and only leave with a slice of tiramisu and sparkling water. Was pretty bored back then.
“Ash!” Boy who I used to have giant crush on says walking over to me as I look at FUN NOODLE SOUP.
“Oh my god hey” I try not to cough in a really disgusting way.
We do that awkward kind of “i usually only see you at bars or shows” talk. I shift around uncomfortably and I think he can tell. Im getting a fever I think. My cheeks are red. From fever or embarrassment, not sure.
I leave the conversation uncomfortably and awkwardly. I scold myself. It reminds me of Lizzie telling me about how Megan Boyle used to record herself eating cat food and upload it to youtube as some sort of self punishment after experiencing social anxiety at a party.
Social anxiety is weird. I have no problem writing about this boy who definitely had no idea I at one point had a massive crush on, but fumbled in the face of adversity (him hugging me as a “hey” and me not knowing where to put FUN NOODLE SOUP)
Analog of thought still feels a bit psycho when its referential to anybody outside of my immediate friends. Like people are figuring things out about me, or how I feel or something. How I view the world. All of the problems with how I view the world.
I suppose theres no harm in him reading this on the off chance, and realizing i at one point had a crush on him. It doesnt matter. I do feel kind of bad about our friendly hug. I hope I didnt get him sick. If i even am sick.
Im either sick or a chronic smoker. Both arent good.
—
Home now. Drank elderberry syrup. Snacking on cough drops. Watching shitty reality TV. Its kind of strange being sick and not having anyone grotesquely worried about me anymore, that im going to die or something. If this were 6 months ago my ex boyfriend would have rushed me to the urgent care, tapped his foot more furiously than i, the sick one, was tapping, made me take my medicine. And he probably would have made me plain toast with butter.
Something about this makes me sad. Not that I miss him or want him to worry about me. I dont really like that feeling. Only sad because I think of how rude I was in those moments. Telling him to calm down, that I wasnt “going to fucking die”, rushing him out of my apartment as he tried to take care of me. It makes total sense why he felt that way.
What makes less sense is why I reacted that way. It makes me sad. It makes me feel like a bad person. It doesnt matter, maybe. I hope it doesnt at least. I want more than anything for it to not matter I acted that way, but I dont think its my decision to decide what matters, or ceases to.
Maybe I should like not be the devil. Should probably let myself enjoy things or people. Huge, if true.
—
Two hour fever nap. I drink strange electrolyte beverage in bed now. Wondering what mentally is wrong with my mom. And if that by proxy means that thing is wrong with me as well. We are on the phone.
She tells me she was sick last week. She also tells me how “shitty” my grandfather looks. She says this in a certain tone that prescribed vague meaning to it. Likely implying she thinks hes dying, or his health is failing at least. I think she wanted me to fill in the blanks. I think she also wants to assign vague guilt so I feel bad for not coming over and visiting them.
“Ah. My fevers pretty high. Think im gonna take a nap” I lie. need to get off of the phone with her.
Before she starts traversing anything and everything wrong with the world. Because she will.
I dont understand. Is she scared of the morbidity she is constantly on about, or fascinated by it? I really dont know. All I know is it freaks me out.
She used to watch the investigation discovery channel on the couch every weekend when I was a child. I had the words “raped” “killed” “sodomized” “nails defiled” “bounded” “stabbed” “disolved in acid” echo through our small house, all the way to the back where the computer room was, where I spent every weekend because I didnt have many friends. The investigation discovery channel narrated my childhood, which couldnt have been good for my baby brain. And I loved my computer. So i was learning about murder from the living room TV and anorexia on tumblr from the time I was like 10. Which is probably really fucked up.
I thought until age 19 that I’d either be murdered or starve to death. And whichever one it was would be by age 19. In investigation discovery channel shows most of the victims are like on average 17 year old girls. By 21 you were an old hag, and the only reason you hadnt died was probably becuase you had a cop husband to protect you. Or you suffered from obesity. I didnt know women could die from other things besides murder or anorexia. Like heart failure, or cancer.
I mentally prepared myself to get stabbed, read a lot about it on yahoo answers and reddit. For no reason. So if anybody wants to stab me, not that Im looking for that, Im not im kind of happy right now despite having a cold, I’d probably be a good person to stab. I’d probably be pretty mellow about it. But again I’d like to re-state I am not necessarily looking to get stabbed.
It’d actually be pretty inconvient.
Just that I’d probably be good at being a stabbing victim. Thats all.
3/26 good day. It’s 12:28 so good yesterday. Stupid but true.
Can’t sleep from adderall. Great.
God.
I didn’t end up writing about Dana. Or the fact that he’s dead. It felt too sad. It always feels too sad. There’s no sort of silver lining to death when the person who passes is as young as Dana was when he died. 17.
So I didn’t write about him, and I’m not sure I will. I don’t think I have anything to say about death; certainly nothing revelatory. It’d just be easier if he didn’t die. I don’t know.
My heart is fluttering, kind of beating itself up. The adderall and coffee I had two hours ago is wrestling against the 40 mg of melatonin I took 45 minutes ago like straight but actually gay high school boys who just want an excuse to touch each other. Sucks. But it’s fine I suppose. I’ll inevitably sleep.
Brandon and nick drove up to visit me. Nick is home from London right now and says he really hates it. Nicks friends from london ask if I am his girlfriend. Brandon eats the cake I got him from Whole Foods. I sang happy birthday Mr.president to him. We all talk about things that pertain to us. Because of my eventful day the adderall doesn’t make me suicidal. To be honest I hardly noticed the comedown at all. My body is just physically exhausted and I can’t sleep.
Instagram is getting annoying. People are dming me about a perceived eating disorder they think I have. Which I know this is fucked up but I feel kind of chubby right now, so I’ll take it. It just feels invasive and scary.
I don’t think I have an eating disorder anymore. Or at least I don’t act like it anymore. I’ll admit, I eat in a very odd way that doesn’t seem to make much sense but I am eating, and have been. For the last year at least. It’s weird to lose weight accidentally after having something like an eating disorder. Complicated but ultimately worthless feelings. Small things never go away though. Like the scale in my bathroom. Or weird electrolyte beverages. I don’t think my brain will ever work as it did before I did all of that. Which provokes complicated feelings of regret and guilt.
Don’t talk to me about this if you know me in real life and happen to read my blog. I’m sensitive about it and it makes me sad. Kind of grotesquely upset honestly. And if you don’t know me, don’t email me or dm me about it please. I can’t believe I’m earnestly asking for sensitivity on the internet, but I am.
I’m going to watch lilo and stitch with a jar of pickles in bed. I’m going to try to sleep so I don’t waste my whole day tomorrow
------
prolonged come down from the adderall. Have been depressed all day, only care about eating soup from Whole Foods and watching TV on my laptop.
Probably won’t write much
3/25 Got home at 2 last night. I wake up and go to the gas station to grab a black coffee. The man is wearing his fake chanel hat today which makes me happy. Im a creature of consistency. And capriciousness. Oxymoron but somehow true.
The pump to the left of me reveals a llesbian couple pulling in, a truck attached with a trailer full of horses. Of all kinds of colors and manes. The pump to my right, a hollywood tours bus. Chanel man says I look cute today. Thanks
—
Picked up the adderall. I take it without knowing its miligram, if its extended release or immediate release. Whatever, its adderall.
I pull up google on my phone and play pharmacist. It’s immediate release. (EDITING: THIS IS OBVIOUS TO ME NOW) It isnt encased. I have no idea what they encase pills in, I imagine some sort of animal fat gelatin thing. Crazy what you can find out about pills on the internet, with no bottle, or prescription, just search shape, color, coating.
I think of taking half now, and snorting half later before nick picks me up. Holy shit I sound like a tweaker. Im not snorting drugs what the fuck. Its a tuesday. Im not snorting half an adderall off of my kitchen table on a tuesday. Jesus.
I think i am abusing drugs for good. I am using it to work. To write a piece about my dead friend. About how I found out he died through a mutual on twitter. It feels sacreligous to write about him off an adderall because he died from overdosing. It feels disrespectful. I dont want to think of this.
I am thinking of the title before the work, which is stupid, I’ve gravitated towards “dead oomf” but that feels kind of cheeky and ironic which isnt really my style. I’d at least like to hope it isnt my style. Going in whole foods to grab a cake for my Brandon’s birthday, and a green juice so I dont kill myself when the adderall wears off. Should probably eat but im not hungry
—-
Nick picks me up. I force brandon to sit in the back of Nick’s oddly feminine SUV because I feel sick. Great. Everyone wants to go to melrose and go shopping. We joke about them carrying me, either piggy back or bridal style. I really fucking hate melrose. I don't understand how millenials epitomized Melrose/Fairfax as a cultural hub in 2014.It sucks. It especially sucks now. I oblige to Melrose because it is not my birthday, it’s Brandon’s. as much as I would like it to be, it is not my birthday.
I actually feel indfiferient to my birthday. Some years I enjoy it, some years i cry.
My 23rd birthday was the best birthday I’ve had. I worked at a coffee shop at the time, and every customer was so rude. Which was typical. I didnt care; people get weird about their coffee, its such a personal thing, I.E me buying coffee every morning from Chanel man at the gas station. I never took it personally when people were mean. I cried because my great grandma died two weeks earlier and my mom was kind of being the devil. She has always made my birthday about herself, every year she finds some way.
When I was younger she would throw my twin brother and I the most elaborate parties. Mostly halloween themed because our birthday is so close to that holiday. It felt like the only time she loved me all year. Every year. I realize now it was some weird sort of playground politics. She would not have me invite certain kids if she didnt like their mom, but she always made sure they knew it was going to be the best fucking birthday you can possibly throw for a seven year old. And that they were piece of shit moms because if they really loved their kid they wouldnt rent one bouncehouse, theyd rent two, even if they werent twins, like Axel and I.
When we were older she would take us to this mexican restaurant. I dont even really like mexican food. But she does. And Axel I guess.
My 23rd birthday she called me from about 2 billion fake text now phone numbers. I just shut my phone off at a certain point. I got back to my apartment,put a 200 dollar dress on, took a shot, did my makeup (which came out really horrible) and forgot about the fact someone even gave birth to me.
Alex, Keyan, and Dillon picked me up in Alex’s old car. Alex got me flowers and wrote me a beautiful letter. I hung it on my vanity at that apartment for the rest of my lease. All of my friends loitered outside of La Pergoletta waiting for us cause we were late. I sat next to sean but kept switching seats through out the niight. If I do dislike my birthday it is because of the weird social pressure. It makes me feel autistic. I feel like I respond very odd, either not emphatic or grateful, or too much of those two adjectives. The dinner didnt make me feel that way. A couple of days before we threw a Lorem reading, and I was so fucking hungover. I was at the Chateau the night before, and I generally behave poorly there. I didnt care about the reading the actual day of. Something about it relieved me though. At that specific time my life was in shambles, maybe the worst it had ever been, at least so far. A lot of it was out of my control. I felt like things just happened to me over and over. A lot of people I loved died, and a lot of people i loved disapointed me. And I them. It made me wonder if suffering had any point; it doesnt. But i didnt know that yet. I was getting there though. This was obvious to everyone around. I was drinking a lot and scarily thin. Makes sense though, if I try to think of it in a detached self empathetic way. Things just happened to me with no say, I could not control a single thing around me besides what I ate. So i just decided to not. Tale as old as time.
The reading was a nice distraction from myself. From anything to do with my life. It was my friends and I reading poetry together. Simple enough.
It fucking sucked. I think people assume because I’m bubbly and outspoken that inherently means Im a good public speaker. Im terrible. Like quite literally so bad. They forced me to do the introduction, and then I had to read my own poetry later in the night. Whatever. I just wanted it to end, “I will be so happy once this is over. Then I can just hangout with my friends and not think of myself. Or my poetry. Or my life.” God bless my friends. They apparently were trying to throw me a surprise party, and it fell through because my work schedule. So they landed on surprising me after the reading with cake, champagne, flowers. I mean what more can someone ask for?
They sang happy birthday. I wanted to cry the whole time. Was absolutely so freaked out and overwhelmed with the idea that I was a real person. With a real life. And for whatever reason it was so fucked up at the time. I didnt want my life, muchless to live it.
It made me feel like I was too tangible. Like there I was. I felt like such a brat that I hated it so much. Their faces and random writers staring at me, singing at me. God I was freaking out. It was obvious too. I went pale.
I think because of this preemptive birthday surprise/celebration my actual 23rd birthday was much more palatable. At the dinner I could just relax. The worst was over with.
Everyone came back to my studio apartment, and we drank in my tiny kitchen. When everybody left, I was picked up by a guy who was leaving a death cab for cutie show right down the street from me. He threw a one hundred dollar bill at me “Youre so fucking stupid” I laughed kissing him. We went back to his apartment and talked about art, looking at downtown. We had sex I dont remember very well but I know at the time I liked. I was so relieved that it was all over with.
I have to go, we are driving to Barnsdall now.
3/24 At fig writing this. Having a coffee and croissant. The croissant sucks, Lizzie told me once when we were here that she has a theory that they get the croissants and pastries frozen from costco. I believe her. The coffee is good though.
Gonna go next door to Skylight Books after, which is my second favorite bookstore in Los Angeles. It’s pretty expensive. But a good size. My favorite is Des Pair in Echo Park. I just feel partial to it for some reason.
Gonna go pick up Adderall from friend who has a prescription and said she’d sell it to me. Not gonna mention her by name and have it in writing that shes giving me a controlled substance on the internet forever, or at least until I decide to stop paying for my domain.
Is Adderall a controlled substance or a narcotic? Google search. It is a Schedule II controlled substance. Good to know I guess.
Will take it tomorrow. Going on a fourth date tonight and don't want to feel like shit (when do you stop counting?/ is it stupid or cute to count?) Also I'm really terrible to be around when it wears off. Kind of act like the devil.
Will update if I find a new book worthy of note.
—
Got another Deleuze and Guattari book. This made sense because I like anti-oedipus a lot. It doesnt make sense to me now seeing as the book was thirty dollars. I still bought the book but it made it a much less happy thing.
Drove to the grove, bought 3 stripped shirts. What the hell, sure. And some new underwear. Whatever. Smoked whole way home.
RE: MOVING TO NEW YORK.
Actually why would I do that? This is maybe the most perfect place on earth. The ocean is twenty minutes away. The sun is beautiful despite being abrasive at times. I like driving a lot. If i cant be happy here I dont know why I think I can be happy anywhere else. This will change as my thoughts on the matter do, constantly.
Now in bed again on the phone with mom who I have been ignoring for two weeks.
“You’re alive” She doesnt mean this in a cheeky, funny way. It’s passive aggressiveness disguised as humor to let me know I fucked up. She knows if she is actually just full frontally aggressive I will just hang up so she bites her tongue.
“Yup.”
“Where have you been? You hate me now?”
“Didnt say that”
“OK.”
“I’ve been busy”
“With? Doing what?”
“Work. Hanging out with my friends. School.
“Like Kobe” because of his jersey being 24 and all.
“Yes like Kobe Bryant”
We talk, she can tell Im disaffected and bored. Im not trying to be. I want to be happy and for us to go to lunch and shop, get our nails done, the way mothers and daughters do. It’s hard for me. Not that it makes me angry or sad, it just feels fake. I feel like I am performing. It’s difficult in that regard.
“You really couldnt even text me? Or answer the phone?” This is not a courtesy she gave to me when I was 11 spam calling her cell phone alongside hospitals to see if she was in the ER, or checking traffic cams on google at one in the morning to see if I could recognize her car in a carcrash. Only to take care of her when she got home, putting tylenol and a glass of water on our nightstand.
Whatever. This was a long time ago. In a way it doesnt upset me. I dont really feel anything when I think of it. It doesn’t matter anymore and hasnt for a while.
“Im sorry I’ve just been busy” God this is grating. I want to be good and for things to be good. “Im hungry.”
“What are you going to make?”
“Maybe a salad. Or I’ll walk to the cafe by my apartment”
----
Oh my god, Im going to die.
Close! I actually just need to eat food. No reason to faint on a monday afternoon. That’d just be embarrassing and dramatic for no reason.
I go to my favorite cafe. Well grocery store. Well grocery store/cafe hybrid. I ask the cute girl working if they have any vegan carrot sandwiches left “no but we have the ham one left (:”
Why would I want a fucking ham sandwich if I just asked you for a vegan one? I really need to eat. Im acting like a brat.
I pay for it with a giftcard my ex boyfriend gave me for christmas. In a way that makes it feel like hes still taking care of me, somehow, some way. I dont know how that makes me feel. I feel like I dont need it and wonder if i ever did. Something about holding this diet coke in my hand reminds me of his hand covering mine as we waited at urgent care. He always thought I was going to die. It really scared me that I one day might.
Something about me seems to provoke this instinct in people to “take care” of me, or to “fix” my probelms. I dont know why. It makes me feel really horrible about myself. Like theres something really wrong with me that is obvious to everyone else but escapes me entirely. I am not mad at anyone for doing this, I just wonder why they do it. I think back to when I was noticeably emaciated and a guy begged to make me a sandwich slathered in butter for a second date. He was trying to be nice but it just made me really sad. The sandwich was ok I guess.
I mean even my mom now, so many years later, trying to fix everything she conceives is wrong with my life. But I dont feel like theres anything wrong with my life.
Im not starving, I have a decent apartment, I like my job, I like my friends, I like kissing a specific person. I dont know what everybody thinks is wrong. Nobody is inherently worried, which is good. But everyone keeps cradling me as if I’ll freak out and try to kill myself if something bad happens. SEE ANALOG OF THOUGHT ENTRY FROM 3/19 IN WHICH I STATED THAT I DONT MORALLY BELIEVE IN SUICIDE AND IN FACT FIND IT KIND OF STUPID. Maybe i should feel lucky people love me enough to want to take care of me, maybe its as simple as they want my life to be as easy as it can be, but it ultimately reads as belittling. It makes feel like shit.
I have a sad face I think. Seems to make people freak out. What an awesome and totally blessed thing to have.
—-
Fourth date was good. It is nice to get along with someone. And laugh. I smoke my whole way home, abrasively shoving my cigarette against the wind. It creates minerature fireworks, small embers that flicker off behind me. Like a small powder trail I imagine horses kick up at barns.It is kind of hard to feel terrible.
So i dont.
3/23 3:02 AM. CANT OPEN STRANGE ELECTROLYTE BEVERAGE. EXHAUSTED ALL AVENUES. LEFT HAND, RIGHT HAND, TEETH. WORK IS IN 2 HOURS. OR AT LEAST WHEN I HAVE TO BE AWAKE.I lose. Apartment is clean, so at least there that.
I like this Terry Jacks song:
[Verse 1]
Goodbye my friend, it's hard to die
When all the birds are singing in the sky
And all the flowers are everywhere
Pretty girls are everywhere
Think of me and I'll be there
[Verse 2]
Goodbye Papa, please pray for me
I was the black sheep of the family
And I don't know all these words
With my BB gun I would kill birds
[Chorus]
We had joy, we had fun
We had seasons in the sun
But the hills that we climbed
Were just seasons out of time
All our lives, we had fun
We had seasons in the sun
But the world that we reached
Were just starfish on the beach
[Verse 3]
Goodbye Michelle, my little one
I was the apple of the shining sun
Another apple out of reach
All my tears are salty
I think now I was taught to weep
[Chorus]
We had joy, we had fun
We had seasons in the sun
All the hills that we climb
Were the seasons out of time
We had joy, we had fun
We had seasons in the sun
But the hill on the beach
Were just starfish on the beach
We had joy, we had fun
We had seasons in the sun
But the hills that we climb
Were just seasons out of time
Oh the joy, we had fun
We had seasons in the sun
But the stars that we reached
Were just starfish on the beach
Verse chorus verse. Easy enough. but pleasant regardless. I hope i can sleep within the next two hours, doesnt seem likely.
Work was fine. Actually very enjoyable.
At Barnsdall waiting for dillon to get here, first time I’ve seen him since he has been back. He’s picking up food for us and we are watching the sunset at Barnsdall. It’s really hot outside. And it’s packed here
—
It does not matter how much time passes, being in Dillons car staring at nothing, and anything is one of the only modes in life in which I am completely comfortable. It doesn't hurt that Barnsdall is the best park in Los Angeles, complete with the most beautiful view in the city. You can see everything except for Downtown, which is blocked by the Hollyhock house. Which was incredibly convenient for me, at one point. Ceases to matter at this point though.
Dillon tells me about how much of a mess the tour was. It feels, by proxy at least, that each tour becomes increasingly more difficult, which I suppose makes sense. I dont know. I’ve never been on tour but feel like at this point I have been indirectly based on how many of my friends or ex-boyfriends have been. And I just sit there.
I dont even mean that in a sad way. Theres kind of nothing else you can do but wait. It is obviously more difficult when its someone you’re in love with is leaving. But its less sad for the obvious reasons. Missing someone is sad. It’s sad but liveable I guess. The secret hard part is how much adjusting it requires. Mentally preparing yourself for initial leaving, the actual leaving, the inherent missing, the adjustment to them being gone, and then adjusting to them being back. And then they’re back, and then they’re going on tour again. Cycle repeats. It doesn't seem fair to ask of a relationship. But it also doesn't seem fair to deny someone an experience. So you just sit and smile. Maybe a really unconvincing smile; but you do smile. And that has to count for something.
Dillon agrees with this and acknowledges this to be true. I’ve been used to him being gone since I was 19 and he 18, so we just verbally don't traverse the consequences this has had on our friendship. It’d be dubious to assume it doesnt. He has seen the entire world. I have seen nothing. I can never fully actualize his lived experience because of this, even if i want to terribly, I cant.
So we just smile when we are afforded time together. We know its special so we laugh extra loud, and are generally very annoying to be around for the first week he’s back. We are the only two people in any given room. He’s probably my soulmate in a very sibling-like way. I don't know if I believe in soulmates in a romantic way, at least not for my life, which doesn't make me sad. It doesn't make me happy. But it just is something I have thought about. Maybe the way I was raised, I dont know, love or the concept of it has never been anything super critical to me. It’s nice when it happens but I don't necessarily need it to happen. I dunno.
I tell Dillon about everything that has ever happened in the history of the world since he left 40 days ago, which is surprisingly a lot. We talk about the obvious sad reason he came home so early. He says he appreciates how often I have been checking in on him and his mom and kind of grossly overstates how much it means to him. I don't feel like I have a choice, and I definitely don't feel like I should be praised for that. That is just what you do when you love somebody. Maybe only good thing I have inherited from Mom. The almost overwhelming empathetic nerve to fix everything in everybody’s life except for your own, you cease to exist in the face of somebody you love experiencing a crisis. Which also still isn't that good. It’s probably why I have an array of vague problems I can't figure out, that most people my age seem to have understood as universal truths by now. I’m good at taking care of other people but completely inept at taking care of myself. I.E SEE BLOG ENTRY FROM 3/19 WHERE I WORRY ABOUT MY FRIEND EATING/ SLEEPING ENOUGH, IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWED BY A PARAGRAPH IN WHICH I SAY I FORGOT TO EAT.
Ew, now I feel like I am one of those people who self states they are an empath. I am not implying this. But I will note I think all women are inherently more empathetic than men because you are taught from the time you're a kid that your one goal in life is to fuck somebody (preferably someone you love, and who loves you enough to marry you), get pregnant, and have this thing you have to take care of for 18 years. That seems kind of insane. And then you give that thing baby dolls from the target toy section so that thing can learn to take care of its own thing. Whatever.
Dillon and I are talking, my eyes are kind of looking at the life that is happening around us and to us. Barefoot children running across the lawn, older Mexican ladies asking tattooed women if they'd like to buy fruit cups with chamoy and tajin, a man taking a photo of the sunset on a comically large iPad. My eyes grow immune to the beauty of everything happening around us, to the point that I don't register how lucky I am to hear a baby laugh, or the couple behind us say they love each other for the first time. I become distinctly aware that I need to appreciate the palpable instances of life in front of us.
I look at the cityscape. You can see everything. Which makes what I am going to say next very morbidly funny:
I then realized I had haphazardly been staring at this guy who took a naked photograph of me without my consent for the last 25 minutes without even realizing it was him. I am fucking retarded. Like actually.
This is so embarrassing to admit: I did not realize it was him because he grew a mustache out. My childhood dreams of being a spy do not seem likely.
We both seem to kind of have this holy shit that's you moment. This sucks for him because it is apparent he is on a first date. Oh my god. He seems completely distracted by seeing me, oftentimes ignoring his dog trampling his date; who is stunning. She has this curly brown hair and is wearing a mohair cardigan.
Im sure he's scared im going to come up and say something. But I'm not going to. He just stares at me. I look back, kind of. I wish he wasn't here particularly because this is my park. I have no idea why hes here, its so far from his house. I was oddly relaxed at the dissipation of our weird pseudo-relationship, which I think was offputting to him. It isn't really hard to handle someone leaving your life who kind of assaulted you. It’s this weird kind of sexual assault that can only happen in the age of the smartphone.
What was hard was him contacting me after. When he was gone I was forced to sit with what happened. How small I felt. How my stomach sank when he got quiet. How i had to ask him to delete it from his recently deleted folder. How now these words and incredibly incorporeal things such as a “recently deleted folder” had somehow materialized into something pitifully corporeal. The only way I could handle this was just blocking him on absolutely everything. Pretending like he did not exist or that he didn't do that. It might be a dismissive way to deal with something of such substantial weight, but I just decided I didn't care to do the whole “healing from sexual assault round two in the first year of my twenties” I already did that POST AMERICAN APPAREL JEANS GATE and I didn't care to do it again. If he’s reading this, I feel like there is a good chance he is reading this because has developed an odd parasocial relationship with me: please don't fucking text me. I don't care. I am fine. You shouldnt have done that. But like whatever. We have nothing to talk about. If you're worried about me telling people, I dont and wont. Im not going to cancel you on my Instagram stories because thats embarrassing to me for some reason. I dont ever think of it, or you. Only when youre right there in front of me.
He leaves which is great but doesnt really matter to me. This entire situation feels irrelevant. It happened a long time ago.
Dillon leaves to go to some performance art/ weird drumming thing. I tell him I’ll stop by and bring Oma flowers on Tuesday.
I make it home only smoking once on my drive home.
3/22 Washed my hair and felt much better. Embarrassing how dramatic I can be.
Need to obtain a couple adderalls for the next couple of days. I’m so exhausted at the thought of what I have to do from now until Tuesday. Los Angeles is in a serious shortage of pills. Not that I’m ever feining for them, maybe sometimes, but I’ll take adderall every once in a while. It helps me focus and then makes me want to kill myself. I figure for the want to kill myself part I can just take trazadone and go to sleep. I’d like to skip the whole want to kill myself part. If possible
I suppose I can try that drug dealer I know and hate, but would rather just get them from a friend and skip the whole movie esque back-alley meeting thing. Doesn’t seem necessary.
Man at the gas station isn’t wearing his usual fake Chanel hat which upsets me for some reason.
Need to clean apartment. Bad. In my defense I have been there for like 30 minutes in totality this past week. I can’t clean something if I’m not there. And right now I am at work feeling agitated in my chair. I feel like none of my limbs can relax. Which sucks.
I haven’t emailed anyone back and I don’t really want to. I’m becoming really bored again.
—
Secured the adderall. Which is good and makes me feel less stressed. Overextended myself for the next few days which I do every saturday. Things sound really fun in the moment, usually right after my first coffee, and then they sound not so good.
I went shopping after work. Bought a new bathing suit. I hadnt realized how much weight I lost in the last three months. December I was sick, then EVENT, and I guess my appetite never fully came back. It isnt good for me to know that I’ve lost a lot of weight. I was in this dressing room, shoving my hands between the gap of the jeans and my torso. Astounded. Really confused. I dont feel like I look physically any different. But i have to?
I went down two waist sizes. Im aware you arent supposed to talk about these things. Good thing its my blog. I somewhat figured I lost weight. I know after the EVENT that much was obvious. Kind of looked like shit and felt like I was going to faint all of the time.
But it was only really obvious because of the way people treated me. Everyone acted like I had the most interesting things to say, perching their chins on their hands, when I would talk about benign shit. Random men in the street would stop me and ask me ridiculous things; like if i needed help carrying my groceries to the car when I only had one bag. I know how this feels, it felt this way when I was really thin in 2023. I guess I might be that again but unable to see it. I really dont know.
—
I dont know what I did but I suppose it doesnt really matter. Or not that it doesnt matter, more so that theres nothing I can do about it.
I really need to start writing my piece about Dana so my other ex boyfriend can edit it. Deadline is in eight days. I write the best when Im on adderall so I guess ill try then.
I can either write or read when Im on adderall. Nothing else. Which is good. But it seems like i dont have a choice in which matter. When I want to read I end up writing and when I want to write I end up reading. I do whatever makes me feel the best in the given moment because I know approxiimatley 4-6 hours after taking the adderall I’ll probably want to kill myself.Im not sure if Im being hyperbolic about that. I know that I feel earnestly suicidal and that there is no point in life during that comedown but the next morning I feel fine and very thankful to not feel that way anymore. I try to soften the blow, by doing something relaxing, like watching my favorite movie from when I was a kid or eating some sort of carbohydrate, which is kind of fucking stupid because you cant outsmart literal science, like drug comedowns. Dont think im the only person that feels like this based off of friends accounts of the drug as well.
I dont know if I consider adderall a drug. I have ADHD. A doctor told me last summer that I did. She actually told me after interviewing me, for four sessions, in which she had me describe everything that had ever gone wrong in my life, and also to talk about everything I have trouble with in life. That was a really bad summer solely for this reason. I tried adderall for the first time two months prior to our first appointment, and I felt normal so decided to try to get a real prescription for it. She ultimately noted on my chart that i was detached and vague. And that I infact could not obtain an adderall perscription of my own because I had admitted to doing cocaine. Which felt retarded. “How did you feel when you did cocaine?” Good? Everybody feels good when they’re on coke. That question really irritated me because it felt like a trap. Im not going to lie and say doing cocaine feels bad. “I was really drunk, I dont remember”
I dont think she liked me. I didnt really like her either. She felt way too emotive for being a psychiatrist. Thought they were supposed to be cold and mean. She was too nice and friendly, always walking me to the elevator which felt like overkill. Im sure she does that because she thinks her patients might kill themselves when they get home. Im not sure what she thinks walking them to the elevator will do. I am morally against suicide, but this would do no good to tell her. I think its stupid; you will die anyways. Might as well wait.
Rereading that last paragraph I feel a bit psycho, maybe a bit insecure. Analog of thought feels too vulnerable when I imagine reading it as a loose friend of mine, or some guy I had a fling with first year of college. Also I dont think I should admit to doing drugs like cocaine on the internet. So maybe I will vaugley put a disclaimer here: THIS IS A LIE. I MADE UP THIS BENIGN STORY AS A LIE FOR MY BLOG TO GENERATE TRAFFIC TO IT. I HAVE NEVER DONE COCAINE, OR ANY DRUGS. I AM A PASSIVE PERSON IN LIFE WHO DOES NOT SEEK OUT NEW EXPERIENCES MUCHLESS DRUGS.
Maybe after I feel less taboo about writing this (hopefully) I can write about having sex, or other hedonistic manners that are inherent to people my age but feel weird to have in writing. I dont know.
OK. i have to clean my apartment now. Or else.
Or else I’ll make up some weird punishment for myself like… no youtube before bed. Im good at those fake punishments.
3/21 bringing my laptop to work today. It has become difficult to write because my thumb has been in a bandage for the last week.
Wearing a black skirt, a little kids shirt, and some flats. Trying to not wear sweats to the office because it makes me feel bad about myself. It reminds me of that Karl Lagereld quote. Got some emails. Need to respond. I really hate the ones that are obviously from my friends teenage fans. I don't understand what they could possibly have to say to me. I’m aware that's kind of rude. These are the same people who dm me that I’m fat because they think Im Dillon's girlfriend or something. Or something.
Dillon is in Sacramento right now. Still kind of worried about him, but I’m trying to not be. Our friendship has been called co-dependent which i don't necessarily agree with, but under certain circumstances this is true. He is the first person I call when anything goes wrong or right. Usually wrong. I kind of haphazardly tell good news, I think that is from my mother. She is obsessed with morbidity which I have written about before. Car crashes, AIDS, foreclosures. It's exhausting.
She has stopped calling me so often. I think because she realizes I am twenty four, and have a life of that. I think she wants to take care of me. Nothing is happening to the point that I need to be taken care of. her taking care of me…that feels really out of place to me. For obvious and not so obvious reasons. It is not something I’d never delegate to her.
Pouted at work for around an hour, and decided that is pointless so I texted Zo asking if she wants to go to Figaro Bistro later. I kind of want to go to Horses now, but wont.
Got a good email from a friend I made in New York city 2 summers ago. He reminds me of things I was saying, what I cared about, in the summer of 2023. Really delusional but it checks out. Got an email from Fin, photos of Texas.
Not sure why when I am pouting it feels so severe. Almost feels threatening. I always feel stupid after the fact. And embarrassed. It feels like something a little kid would do. I am wearing a t shirt meant for litte boys today, so at least it tracks.
Just ran out of cigarettes on my lunch. Which sucks. Smoking too much. You can see it on my skin. Nothing else to say. I hope something happens this weekend.
~~~
Still pouting. Will pout at fig. This works well because I’m good at it.
Seems the only way to end the pouting is to do something critical. Not going to do that. I refuse to do anything besides what is absolutely necessary. Childish? Yeah. Maybe. I’m not as smart or self aware as I may like to think.
I am at work thinking of this time I was on Mulholland. At some fancy house. I had the worst sex ever, the guy seemed to not agree because he wouldnt stop talking. I layed on the bed, which was on the floor because the house was some rich kid from New Yorks parents vacation house. Mouthful. I felt completely debased. That was only 3 years ago. This has been the longest 3 years of my life, all the while it feels like nothing has happened. I twist around in my rolling chair and think of his blase attitude towards life. He was convicted by nothing, and therefore free. But it seemed worthless, whatever variation of freedom he had. I wanted to shake his shoulders and ask him a question, for him to answer strongly, about anything. Literally anything. But i couldnt picture him saying anything other than “wow thats so sad” to events like 9/11, or “aww!” to a kitten making biscuits on a blanket. I tried to think of a conversation we had before this. None sprung to mind, aside from him asking if I like Colorado. I say I have never been. He puts his hand on my neck, but his touch is so inoffensive. I think thats what I hated about having sex with him. It felt like nothing happened. Something about it was passive and I realized he had nothing to say, generally.
“Do you like that?” I ask. That is something people ask during sex. “Yeah (:” he responded. God.
That seemed retarded. This is boring. I look at this painting on the wall, it is of an orange, on a blue canvas. It’s really bad. This is all so bleak.
I tell him not to finish inside of me, he asks where, and I dont respond as if to say “figure it out”
He finishes and lays on me, hyperventilating. “Whats wrong?”
“That painting is so fucking stupid.” I say sitting up, staring at this painting. I mean it was genuinely horrible.
“Cant you just be happy?” I dont know. “My friends sister painted that... see her initals” okay. That was a bit mean of me. He rolls over onto me like a drunk baby. He has that sort of high you get after sex which had seemed to escape me. “I mean like its a pretty fucking terrible painting”
“Alright”
I need to wash my hair and sleep, really badly. I think I will feel much better. After the fact
3/20: wow analog of thought is nearing 40 pages. And then it will be 50. And then 100. And then my blog will stop loading.
Listening to the same two modest mouse songs on the way to work.
I wish I was not an active participant in my life, and that somebody would do these things for me; even the fun ones. Not in a depressed way. In a tired way.
My life is looking a lot like it did two October’s ago. When I was running on empty. Don’t want to crash out, or tire myself out. I know this will happen though so I brace myself and try to ease the disappointment. I’m just very busy. Things are happening. Really good and really bad things. It is making me wonder why I wished for this.Friend is playing the Marc Jacobs heaven store. Would love to see this but it’s at 9.
No
Sleep.
Gas station coffee
Strange electrolyte beverage,
And Crush by Richard Siken, SAVE ME
I like work. It feels like the only time I can relax . For right now. Monotony gets a bad reputation for a reason I can’t understand, or am not willing to understand. It’s dependable which isnt the worst thing ever. I wish I could feel the same way about personal matters.
~~
Nothing to note today and yesterday. Or more so nothing I’m willing to say online. I guess I can write about it and censor it ? I don’t care. Matters of my life aren’t interesting to me unless they’re happening imminently.
3/19 it is becoming increasingly more difficult to be gentle with myself, and to laugh off jokes about me “going missing for eight months”
Like actually the fuck did I go?
Startled by something that was revealed to me about someone I once loved very much and their current circumstances. Initially my gut instinct was just how badly I wanted to crawl in their twin bed and cradle them as they cried. I then imagined them crying in their twin bed. Felt sick.
Then my instinct was to bring them flowers. Then my instinct was to call everyone and ask if that person hates me for what I did.I don’t really deserve to be in their bed, their twin bed. To be quite honest.
I think about calling them but I don’t. I just ask everyone if they’re eating and sleeping, taking care of themself.
EDITING: WHICH MAKES THIS PARAGRAPH BELOW VERY FUNNY
~~~
Forgot to eat all day. Kind of. Force myself to eat at midnight only because work will suck if I’m not only 4 hours sleep deep, but also hungry. I’ve also had no time to eat. It reminds me of how POST EVENT the only things I could eat were applesauce (strawberry/banana applesauce if I was feeling particularly valorous) and multigrain toast with a gluttonous amount of butter. It helped me stomach what I couldn’t. May return to this not because eating is painful, but my God is it time consuming.
3/18 Woke up to only immediately want to shoot my phone.
“I love you. Am very drunk but do feel it should be known (insert rest of message describing a speculative event in which i will disappoint this person.)” God. I cant do anything but the thing that will disappoint. It would be irresponsible to say yes. It seems. Im a piece of shit and keep wanting to write another sentence with the word “but-” to excuse myself but I cant finish writing it without feeling like the worst person. Post-event I’ve been proving to my friends im not as flighty as once initially believed, but if there is one thing to bet on with someone as capricious as I am, its to bet on me disappointing you. Sadly. Dont know why im writing this as if I have no control over my actions.
Feels like after a weekend of sybaritic fun im being punished. Which I know is a selfish thing to say about having to deal with real life problems.
Aside from this message Dillon texts me back letting me know he is flying home from Scotland today, subsequently the remainder of the tour has a fill in drummer, and a myriad of health updates with words like “ICU”, “HOSPICE”, etc. Words can be so clinical and therefore disparaging. It almost feels like words never had the opportunity to be beautiful.This morning has been very sobering.
I offer to pick Dillon up from the airport. But cant. Trying to figure out if there is anyway to make this work but doesnt seem likely. I tell him I will bring him food after work tomorrow. Trying to make sure hes eating and taking care of himself.
Going to text Alex and see how she is feeling as well. I guess we will be able to read those Richard Siken books sooner than I believed. Wish this werent the case now.
Listening to Modest Mouse now and feeling pretty depressed. Trying to remind myself life is in flux constantly and that bad and good can exist without completely devouring each other. Will probably go to Barnsdall and read in front of the Hollyhock house. Havent been able to do that this week with the rain and all.
~~~
My grandfather drives up to Los Angeles last minute for lunch.
He drives around Los Angeles like a maniac. He talks feverishly, oftentimes cutting me off. Know where I get it from. He asks what I have planned later for the day. I tell him Im going to read at barnsdall. He asks what that is. I say a park with a Frank Lloyd Wright house. “Do you know who that is?”
“No.”
“Very famous dead architect… You really dont know that is?” This is incredibly confusing to me. You have built how many structures and you dont know who Frank Lloyd Wright is?
“I didnt know you had parks here” he doesnt answer the question.
We round orange drive and get a good view of the base of the hills and the magic castle.Tells me he built a famous actors house here, Rock Hudson’s.
“He was gay… before”
“Before it was okay?” I joke
“Yeah” he answers plainly. I laugh.
I turn his radio on which is perpetually off. 98.7 KISS FM!!
I hear the first couple of bars to 1979 by the smashing pumpkins, I turn it up and dance all in his face. He finds me really annoying but loves me. He loved me enough to raise me for 18 years. He usually would make me turn the radio off but is in a good mood today.
We end up at a small cafe on beachwood. I dont order a coffee, I dont know why, I really need one. I really need a cigarette, havent had any today but he has emphysema like David Lynch. So i cant smoke in his car, and wouldnt anyway. Even partaking in such a small act of hedonism in front of him feels really weird. He asks me no questions besides if theres any update on my health insurance. I shrug but smile as if to beg him to not be mad at me. I stare out the window plainly but sufficed with how my day is turning around.
“Do you think thats enough coke?” Im sorry?
“Oh uh no.” I laugh when I realize he is making a joke about my giant diet coke in front of me.
~~~
Barnsdall was a bust. Really windy. Kept flipping all of the pages of my books.
I skim the richard prince book. Lots on William Burroughs and Philip K. Dick which is interesting enough. I start Crush By Richard Siken. Holy shit, why did nobody tell me how great he was? I mean I suppose they did. The man has enough praise for five lifetimes, maybe even over. I havent read poetry that beautiful in a very long time. Its fucking stunning. He is so eruptive, very very volatile in such a fixed way. Louise Glucks foreword was also lovely. Fascinating.
I leave Barnsdall and drive down mllholland (the back way), and catch a glimpse of downtown. It doesnt hurt anymore which is bittersweet. Infact I didnt think of it until I sat down to write. Which shows that maybe I dont think of it.
I love mulholland and laurel because it is like if this random spot in a city was just kissed by the color green. With baby bunnies, jack rabbits, and deer roaming around. As I make my way down the canyon, and near my apartment, I see silverlake-esque people. Is hollywood trendy now? I thought my friends and I all just lived here because the rent wasnt that terrible. I can see why I enjoy living here, easy access to barnsdall, mulholland, the farmers market, one of my best friends within walking distance etc. I cant figure out why anyone else would want to live in this neighborhood. The traffic, insane people, no parking and all.
Theyre wearing real tree and skating this bench. We kind of look up at each other and I brake at the stop sign super hard. I cant date skaters. I’ve tried. It feels like there is an intellectual gap. Is that fucked up and pretentious of me?
I then see some sort of hippie couple, the woman with baby pink milkshake hair, and the man with free people barrel leg pants unloading a car. I remember the hardcore band that moved into the apartment next to me. Maybe hollywood really is trendy. Maybe it has been and I’m just retarded. I dunno.
Waiting for Dillon to text me when he lands. Im assuming the next couple of day are gonna suck. I really hope I can say the right things to him, at the right times. I just really need to do my best to be there for him. Whatever the fuck has happened between us this past year is completely irrelevant, I need to put everything aside and show up for him. I need to stop acting like life is so complicated and nuanced as a way to excuse my terrible misdoings, others misdoings and as a way to avoid feeling generally shitty feelings. Life is pretty simple. Maybe.
Dont want to cook dinner. So i probably wont. I dont want to order anything. So i probably will just not eat.
Also made the executive decision that I have to go into the ocean on monday. In a tiny swimsuit. With an apple and coffee waiting for me on the sand. Or else.
3?17 dunk and gave the apsn,
3/17. Analog of thought was attempted last night while insanely inebriated ^^
I just checked my bank account. I spent 70 fucking dollars on drinks last night. Not sure why someone my size would ever need to drink that much.
Immediately upon entering Pour Vous I see a drug dealer. We all kind of hate him. As much as that is true I think it’s really ingenious he wears the same outfit everyday so his clients could recognize him anywhere. Truthfully have never bought anything from him, it’s just kind of known. He just stares blankly at me. We’ve shared maybe five words before. It freaks me out how Los Angeles is really just some variation of a Bret Easton Ellis novel. Pimps, drugs, money etc. you’d think Los Angeles would have evolved culturally since Ellis wrote Less Than Zero in the 80s. But no
I drank a coffee beforehand because 20 minutes beforehand I decided I didn’t want to go, but had to. This worked well. Like an espresso martini.
Lucien picks me up and we go to a liquor store. The man working was curious about where we were going. I was wearing a latex dress, and Lucien is very tall so a sight for sore eyes maybe.
I haven’t drank that much in a year probably. It feels weird how much things are the same. The same problems, dynamics, etc.
problem: apparently pour vous was supposed to be where esteemed rapper Playboi Carti would attend to celebrate the release of his new album and subsequent performance at a music festival in Inglewood. Everyone wanted him to show up. And waited around anxiously. My friend says she wants him to show up because she wants to fuck him, “Is he hot?” She shows me a photo. He’s hot.
dynamic: I don’t really care if he shows up but I feel excited for my friends if he does. I am not spending my night waiting for Playboi Carti. That just seems a bit ridiculous. Also don’t think we would have anything to talk about.
Problem: I get swindled by the beautiful bartender and can’t register she is being paid to be nice to me. This happens often.
Dyanmic: Her hair was really long and looked so healthy in my defense.
Problem: the drug dealer won’t leave.
Dynamic: everyone talks about how horrible he is.
Problem: I accidentally open the bathroom door too hard and knock a girl over. She seems really pissed off.
Dynamic: I apologize profusely and tell her she is “fucking stunning”. Her friends ask if I want to be in a TikTok and I kindly reject.
Problem; I am so insanely drunk. But having fun. Someone offers me ketamine to “sober up” ????? THAT IS NOT HOW THAT WORKS????
Dynamic: I don’t do ketamine.
Ella tells me I make her friend really nervous, she thinks. I know I do. Something is enticing about this. She texts him a photo of me and we laugh at his response. French photographer, at pour vous, how apropos, asks to take photos of Ella and I. It goes on for way too long. But I pose nonetheless. Have been talking about the phenomenon of party photographers a lot lately.He kind of finds me anywhere throughout the night. Makes me pose in a mirror, putting lipstick on. What the hell, sure.
Old coworker walks in and I emphatically greet him. We talk about work. And then I get distracted and leave to dance to Chief Keef with Ella, Brandon, and Dagger.
A man tells me I’m beautiful and I earnestly thank him. I forgot I have the capacity to not look like I just rolled out of bed.
I don’t remember much else.
~~~
problem: Brandon believes my drink might have gotten spiked
dynamic: I don’t care
It makes sense I guess. I don’t remember much towards the end of the night. Didn’t feel insanely fucked up though. Had enough of a mind to take my makeup off when I got home. Doesn’t seem like something someone who was spiked would remember to do.
I did throw up profusely when I got home. In a weird way. It like physically hurt my stomach a lot, I felt like I was wrenching. Ew. Remember that sadly.
I remember leaving… kind of?
To be honest it doesn’t matter if I got spiked or not. Nothing bad happened to me. I’m not going to indulge in this melodramatic thing if nothing bad happened to me. Worst case scenario I did. But like it’s fine. Nothing happened. Everyone keeps calling me and asking if I’m okay but I feel fine. Hungover to all hell, but fine. Is it really bad to say I find it entertaining I might have gotten spiked? I have just been so antsy for things to happen in my life, and it is something that happened. As much as I hate party photograph, I do like looking at my photo the next morning because it is a reminder, a very tangible one, that something happened to me. I put on a dress, I drank alcohol, i said thank you to worhtless compliments, something happened. Maybe nothing meaningful but something did happen.
“Um did I do something embarrassing I don’t remember? Why is everyone freaking out” sent text to Brandon.
“No you were an angel and genuinely did nothing wrong lmao” Oh okay. Obviously hyperbole because I don’t think an angel would even be at pour vous. But I’ll take it at face value.
Brandon says I kept saying how bored I was. Okay I guess
~~~
Sean is in Mexico City visiting friends who are there for an Architecture program. Miss him and felt sad he wasn’t there last night. He says it is like if New York was in the jungle. I tell him to send photos.
Really need to start writing before this deadline, haven’t gotten around to it at all this week. Need to have enough work for ex boyfriend to edit before end of next week. Can’t tell if it’s weird I refer to him as that instead of by name, I think it’s funny. Also don’t like the idea of people reading analog of thought and piecing my life, romantic relationships, etc through random bouts of it appearing on the internet. That feels odd. Initially believed no one was really reading this but seems like that’s not the case based on emails I’ve been receiving and comments at parties. If I think of this for too long I’ll freak out and probably stop doing it. So I won’t think of it.
Ordered two copies of Crush by Richard Siken for Alex and I. Intended for us to read together when she gets home but I’m growing impatient. Trying to not cave, trying to just keep reading from the Richard Prince book. I think they’re all home in a week or so. I’m so excited to see them, but I wish seeing Dillon was under other circumstances. I don’t like the idea of us attending a funeral. I generally don’t like the idea of him in pain. Or his mom. I feel really grateful to know all of them and that he has incorporated me into his life so intimately.
I’m excited to go to work on Wednesday. I feel like I’ve been nothing but gluttonous and sycophantic this past weekend. It might do me well to sit at a desk and be quiet for eight hours.
3/16 dismal analog of thought yesterday. Most likely none of substance today either.
“NOBODY HAS TO KNOW” i kept saying to myself through a tucked lip a couple of days ago. Not sure what I was talking about or referencing.
Got a horrible text. So worried about my friend. Kind of the worst feeling because I’m just laying in bed not able to do anything. Not that I could even help but I don’t know.
I feel like I need to clean my entire apartment, pack a suitcase, I don’t know, buy a flight to Dublin and be with Dillon. Maybe should just start by smoking a cigarette. Or having a coffee.
Canceled on plans with my mother, leave it to her to be offended I dont want to hang out with her because someone I love and admire to pieces is dying. She tries to reschedule with me and I just shrug even though we are on the phone and she cant see me. Read the room. She is not someone I want to see right now. She loves talking about car crashes, cancer, funerals, recessions, generally anything wrong. Running off of four hours of sleep, no coffee, and horrible food. Cant muster it up to just say “wow that sucks” for four hours. Shes going to ask a million questions about Oma and I have no answers. You would think me repeating this over and over would help her come to the conclusion I cant solve the mortal qualm of death, being 24 and all. But no, does not register to her. Trying not to be bitch to her. Or anyone. Today that feels fucking impossible. I always forget I have the capability to be the worst, meanest person. It makes me ashamed. Generally grateful I am only this way under trying circumstances. I guess.
Trying not spiral into thinking about death, which is something ive already been prone to since the beginning of this year. I dont know why I have been thinking of it so often. Talk to Zoe about it a lot. Theres no understanding that can be reached, really.
My mom wont stop calling me. It is becoming increasingly difficult to differentiate who is the adult and who is the child. Who gave birth to who. She asks me so many questions. I dont know how she can begin to think I have such an array of knowledge. Anything that pops into her mind, any slight twang of curiosity, and I receive a call. “Who is sabrina carpenter” Not sure. “Did the titanic sink in the 50s” Definitely not. “How long do you bake a sweet potato at 400 and what vinegar did you use that one time” 35 minutes, and balsamic. I am being harsh but Im bratty today. No sleep. And wont get any tonight.
I am a victim of my own actions. Told like 10 people to go to pour vous. Quite possibly getting drunk seems like the worst thing hold on-
Thank God. It was Lucien calling me and not my mom. Lucien assures me of the morale of everyone we will be with later, despite me not needing this. I have been in rooms with utterly abhorrent people, probably because I share something in common with them. I’d like to hope not, but im also not that stupid. We talk on the phone for 40 minutes. I end it with saying “Bye, love you” which doesnt feel weird despite us not having a real conversation in a very long time. My fault, again.
I dont know what I fucked up on, but have this weird feeling I did something very bad. On purpose. Kind of.
Im not in trouble despite how much i would love to be.
3/15 in bed thinking of things that make me mad. Some things are real, some arent.
I sometimes feel like people have a gun against my head forcing me to do things I don’t want to do. It is always veiled as helpful life advice, so maybe not a pistol against my head. More like a water gun, or the kind they sell that blows bubbles for little kids.
3/14: don’t even get anxious when hungover now. Just get really depressed. Feels like I did molly or coke; or something,it just sucks.
Had to work this casting call. I’m not very good at public facing work. I kind of hate it. I think I’m generally friendly but it’s difficult to do. I find at least
I want to take a nap or not think for like four hours. Schedule is super weird this week and it’s making me feel out of wack. Really tired of things that are an extension of me. My friends; my family, my car. I just hate anything that is mine. Because it is mine. It wouldn’t hate it if it was anybody else’s. And I don’t mean this even as it would theirs. I don’t know.
I think a shower and really good salad would make me feel better. Mom is asking if I want to go on a hike with her. Not really. I’d rather her buy me a really good salad. And for her to not ask me too many questions while buying me said salad. I want it to have almonds and kale. And for her to sit across from me and tell me how important I am not even to her but the world. That will never happen. Not even in a bad way. I do think if this actualized id recoil into whatever chair I was sitting in at whatever fast
casual salad chain we would be at. And that she would gasp really loud, like she did when I had 57 hives one summer because I was swimming a lot.
I remember driving up to san Clemente one day to meet her at the beach. It felt very palpable, whatever it was between us, but so was my urge to swim. Whenever I am about to leave or just return from New York I always end up at san Clemente state beach. I’ll lay on a towel that isn’t mine, use sunscreen that isn’t mine, and I’ll swim with my cousins. Every summer, my extended family does this. Rents a spot in san Clemente and rots by the beach for 72 hours, leaves, and selects one funny memory to tell at Christmas; the only other time we all see each other. Well now I don’t even see them then. I usually just go swim and skip Christmas. I wonder what my mom said about my absences. Probably that I was busy with work or some other excuse that made her voice go up an octave as she said it.
I got strep throat one summer in New York, and lost 10 pounds in a week. Well maybe accumulated 20 pounds in 4-ish months. Dunno. My health was kind of terrible. I got strep throat three times that year, and was perpetually at urgent care or the hospital. My doctors were testing me for autoimmune diseases and then I lost my health insurance and just kept going to New York. which seems to be incredibly detrimental to my health.
When the strep throat lifted I wanted to swim. I drove up, brought a book, and a pack of dehydrated fruit from Whole Foods. Pretty sure it was shoplifting from Tao.
My mom and I avoided each other all day. Except she would kind of defend me whenever anybody would comment on my body. Its psycho to see a woman in a bikini and instead of feeling excited, feeling scared. Pretty easy to follow train of thought but not to my brain at the time. I was pretty emaciated because I was running 8 miles a day, perpetually fighting an illness most statistically known to affect the toddler population, and eating shit like dehydrated berries from Whole Foods. If I remember correctly, I threw up so much in the JFK bathroom before my flight that it inflamed or ripped some weird part of my throat, and that didn’t leave for like a month. So I felt like I could only eat soup or dehydrated berries because they melted onto my tongue and resolved the need to swallow. I looked like shit. When you run a lot you look like you’re dying. There’s a photo of me from around this time, in sean’s kitchen, holding a raw dead duck from its head, hanging limply, before we deboned and basted it in its own fat. I look exactly like the duck. My eyes were sunken in, bad, skin was yellow. Had all of these hives on my back, which looked like someone scribbled illiterate braille on it. Which I imagine would have read “HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME”
Swimming made my body a lot worse for some reason. I think I nearly fainted the next day.. mom forced me to go to the urgent care near her house the next day. They said my heart rate was high “I had a coffee just now. I also took a run this morning, I dunno if that is bad for … this” my mom, doctor, and I looked around confused. What is “this”. They talked about me like I wasn’t there, and like I wasn’t 22 years old. I didn’t want to go to the doctor because I didn’t feel like anything was going to kill me. And that doctors should like help people who desperately need it. Like people who are dying. Maybe I was close but I wasn’t dying. I just had braille on my back, yellow skin, sunken eyes, and a stomach so disobedient Kurt Cobain probably wouldn’t have traded places with me. I’m not trying to be funny, I genuinely didn’t think I was ill, in a manner that regarded so much concern. Hindsight.
At the beach that day, I’d get weird looks. I think I reminded everyone of our aunt who died of eerily similar symptoms. She just had a heart attack and died one day. I remember my mom getting the call, falling to the floor. I was confused. She knew she was going to die, I mean fuck, I knew that woman was going to die and I was five years old. I understand now that even if you expect something that doesn’t make it any less volatile or debilitating.
My aunt had the same build as I do, really long arms and legs. But quite short. The long arms and legs make it appear like you’re taller; which really puts into perspective how lissome she actually was when she died. I miss her and wish I didn’t understand her. I write about her a lot.
The beach was tense but only in hindsight. I appreciated my mom defending me from glares and comments, even if she didn’t believe herself as she said them. She asked me the next day, as she saw me getting ready for a run, she said “ash I can see your hip bones” I tell her you have always been able to see them, even when I’m fat. Which is true. That got her off of my case for a little bit. Ate some dehydrated berries in front of her to clam her down without verbally having to say these weird words out loud. I assured her with each berry that melted, that I was fine, and I was taking care of myself. I believed myself but this weird guilt kind of tickled my whole body.
“Would I be running eight miles if I felt that terrible?” I laughed out the door, passing umbrellas and small crates of surf wax and sunscreen.
I’ve really put her through a lot
Slept for three hours right now going to take 30 mg melatonin, chew it, drink alcohol free zzzquil. I want to sleep for 18 hour which I know I can do
3/12 cooking lunch. Which feels insane. Even though it’s quite normal.
Window is open in my kitchen. Holding myself cause I’m cold. Shooting with Lizzie and fern in a couple of hours at a motel in Hollywood.
Just had grease pop at my bare torso. I’m in Nike pros and a “bralette” (it’s literally like two pieces of fabric.)
~~
Lunch made me feel sick. Watching video essays about y2k. And generational divides. And impact on culture…. Blah blah blah. If I did the math correctly my mom conceived my brother and I in January of 2000. I wonder if we were a kind of “fuck it” moment of creation. It doesn’t bother me. In fact it makes me happy to think of my mom acting freely, mentally barred from consequences. She seemingly has shown no signs of someone who grew up in such a weird time of American culture. The 90s seemed really odd. There seemed to be a constant need to replicate the 60s pushed upon the youth that made them really angry or despondent. And therefore aspirationless. I don’t know.
It makes me wonder when hauntology became so prevalent and unceasing in American culture?It seems like the 60s is always referred to as such. And why it’s such an American thing? To my knowledge other countries don’t seem to be haunted or perhaps disturbingly fascinated by their pasts as much. Which is funny because instead of being haunted by its horrendous past with genocide and just about every fucking war crime possible, America is so self involved we highlight what we deem to be good about us. And culturally ruminate on it to be the point of actual depreciation of contemporary culture. Don’t know. I don’t care that much to be honest because I feel sick from lunch.
Drinking strange electrolyte beverage in my bed. Will paint my nails soon maybe. Kind of tired. Don’t have anything to say really
3/13: wore actual pajamas to bed. Cool.
Went to gas station on the way to work. I bought a blue Gatorade, smart water, and black coffee. Forgot I had to look kind of good for work today because they’re taking photos. Sure I guess. I look kind of chopped.
Starting to think my disposition makes it appear that I care about things that are in fact inconsequential to me. Problem I’ve had my whole life. Endearing to some, endlessly annoying to others. I talk with my hands a lot. And am generally expressive about everything. Whatever. I don’t really have to deal with myself in a way. If I actually think about it. Selfish but true. If I write about something it doesn’t mean it necessarily matters or affects me. Especially with analog of thought, this all feels very boring. Boring but monotonous in a way which is good for me. I think
Mom texted me “are you mad at me?” And then called me two times yesterday. I told her I was tired and hungover. Both true but also wanted to shoot the phone yesterday so I just left it in the kitchen until I met with Lizzie and fern.
Got to work early because sometimes I can’t lay in bed for more than 20 minutes without feeling like I am ruining my life. Which is crazy to think about the fact I did that for like 9 months. So instead of laying in bed, and writing in the comfort of my own apartment, I am writing in my work parking lot with legs twisted and against my steering wheel. Drinking Gatorade. Texting Alex. She seems to be feeling better which is good. We texted a lot yesterday which made me miss her more.
Think I have to go to urgent care either after work today or before work tomorrow which kind of blows. I really need to get health insurance. I’ll ask today when I go to our main building. I don’t know why I haven’t asked already.
—-
Texted Lucien asking if he wanted to come to the party with us. Haven’t seen him in months which is upsetting and always my fault.
Seeing Zoë after work since she’s back from Iowa. She asked me about what I gave up for lent (fast food and bed rotting) told her I’d break it for her. There aren’t many things I wouldn’t do for her. She wants in n out which is natural after being in Iowa. Excited to see her and lay on her couch. Fucking freezing outside which is making my smoke break suck. Man just asked if he could sit with me. What the hell, sure. He doesn’t speak any English but enough to OK me taking a photo of his dog who has freckles. Really interesting. He is drinking beer out of a paper bag and smoking a swisher, straight. No weed.
~~
Switched from teen suicide to listening to a podcast about Richard Prince. Reading a book right now; essentially a collection of his library. While I’m not super familiar with his photography or photography theory I do find him interesting. Also generally warholian things. The repurposing of something. It’s especially interesting with photography because inherently photography is baudrillardian. At what point does stage one of a simulacrum commence ? When the image is captured? When the model poses? When the photo is published? Not sure. Everything after a certain point is a derivative of an inherently subjective moment. Prince is obviously great for this line of thought. The concept of ownership is interesting too. Who owns what of a photograph containing a subject? The publication who inquired, the photographer, the subject? It’s interesting thinking of every photo as a simulacrum of a real objective moment.
Got ready for pour vous in like 20 minutes. Kind of look bad. Wearing a Marni tunic, white tights and an adidas hat backwards. Choices….
Posted like 6 times on instagram today. Does not matter
~~~
Pissed at sean but won’t matter in 20. On my way to pour vous. Tights ripped so I took them off. I can’t think of anything cheaper looking than ripped tights. Reminder to ask nick to edit Dana piece. Everyone thinks I’m gonna bail so I’m going. Stupid.
~~~
Pour vous was really fun. Sean bought me a drink. I think the bartender could tell I was upset so gave sean a discount. Confusing. Kind of drunk, so analog of thought might not make sense.
We all ended up inside at a table and I saw people I vaguely knew around, not enough to say hi. Or I guess I could have. But I didn’t want to for some reason. Some weird performance art was going on in the middle of the conversation pit. It kind of cut my conversation off, but I have an editor for my next piece: my ex boyfriend. He assures me he’d be happy to do it but is a harsh editor. Can’t tell if it will help or hurt because he is my ex boyfriend. I think help. I trust his opinion a lot. We spent 40 minutes talking about writing and reading; it is funny, we both still hate the same things.
Sean had a flask so we didn’t have to pay for drinks really. Cobra snake appeared, head angled down, about five photos taken. I forgot how good I am at that lol. TBD. Might be the worst photo of me I’ve ever seen. (IS THE WORST PHOTO OF ME. I LOOK LIKE A GHOST) Lots of “congratulations” and “I’m sorry”’s tonight. Both felt undeserved. Not sure why.
Lucien kind of let me word vomit. Which I really don’t have anything to say anymore. I don’t care; really. I feel like when I actually have anything worthwhile to say I’m mute. But something about the way people look at me makes me feel like I should be really honest. I am honestly fine. Maybe too chipper. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with how I feel but nonetheless I say things I think an adult would say.
I feel defensive for people in their absence.
What is everyone sorry for? I don’t understand. I know it’s kind but I don’t quite get it.
Ella and I make plans for later in the weekend. A lot of “congratulations” which don’t feel deserved. Again.
This vague internet celebrity. Well maybe not even vague. I think he’s won a literal Grammy. Or was nominated? Don’t know. Was there. He is always really fun at a party but swears he has never met me and does this weird thing as if he thinks we are in a movie, “how have I never met you before?” It always brings him back down to the earth “I’ve met you like 4 times” and completely demystifies any sort of romantic vibe he believes is happening. He’s also slept with 90% of my friends. So I have to believe there is some charm there that I’m not aware of.
I remember once we all left a bar and went back to some house right above el prado, but in the really fancy hill-y part of echo park. The bathroom had gauche tiling. But a really beautiful patio. Everyone made a really big deal out of me for some reason, maybe because my friends love me, I don’t know. But topic was solely on my writing. stupid, and worthless. At the time I valued form and structure a lot and was only writing, or attempting to write villanelles. This blew his mind and he made me explain what it was like 5 times. It felt really embarrassing. Talking about writing with people who don’t write, or even read, feels really self mastubratory. I think they just assume book=smart. Also men have the need to categorize. So maybe that helps them figure out what kind of sex they want to have. I don’t know.
Sean and Owen walk me out to my uber. I am so funny when I am drunk. Sean keeps reminding me I have work in six hours. I keep telling him to shut up, and that I’ll see him Saturday.
3/12 cooking lunch. Which feels insane. Even though it’s quite normal.
Window is open in my kitchen. Holding myself cause I’m cold. Shooting with Lizzie and fern in a couple of hours at a motel in Hollywood.
Just had grease pop at my bare torso. I’m in Nike pros and a “bralette” (it’s literally like two pieces of fabric.)
~~
Lunch made me feel sick. Watching video essays about y2k. And generational divides. And impact on culture…. Blah blah blah. If I did the math correctly my mom conceived my brother and I in January of 2000. I wonder if we were a kind of “fuck it” moment of creation. It doesn’t bother me. In fact it makes me happy to think of my mom acting freely, mentally barred from consequences. She seemingly has shown no signs of someone who grew up in such a weird time of American culture. The 90s seemed really odd. There seemed to be a constant need to replicate the 60s pushed upon the youth that made them really angry or despondent. And therefore aspirationless. I don’t know.
It makes me wonder when hauntology became so prevalent and unceasing in American culture?It seems like the 60s is always referred to as such. And why it’s such an American thing? To my knowledge other countries don’t seem to be haunted or perhaps disturbingly fascinated by their pasts as much. Which is funny because instead of being haunted by its horrendous past with genocide and just about every fucking war crime possible, America is so self involved we highlight what we deem to be good about us. And culturally ruminate on it to be the point of actual depreciation of contemporary culture. Don’t know. I don’t care that much to be honest because I feel sick from lunch.
Drinking strange electrolyte beverage in my bed. Will paint my nails soon maybe. Kind of tired. Don’t have anything to say really
3/11 woke up around 6:40 which is late for me. Immediately got into the shower, ok I got into the bath. I kind of hate showers. I like to lay in the warm water and submerge my head until right under my chin. I take one bath every day and a shower every other or every 2 days maybe.
I got semi-bad news this morning but this didn’t really seem to effect me at all.
After the bath/shower, I grabbed a weird little electrolyte drink from my fridge. Lime flavored. It’s not Gatorade, it’s the weird kind you can only buy at like a pharmacy or a hospital. I like this drink a lot because it always appears to be the coldest beverage I’ve ever had in my life (until I open the next hospital beverage). It reminds me of when I had to go to the emergency room when I was 15. It was one of the best days of my life. I was sick, like when your fever gets so high you get loopy.
I knew I was pretty sick because they immediately brought me back into a makeshift room with curtains. They said it might’ve been mercury poisoning. Still to this day have no idea if it was or how I even got it. I heard old people dying next to me but I felt like I was high or something with the array of IV drips and mercury seeping into my brain so I was really happy despite all of the death around me. I’ve always liked hospital gowns too. The pretty nurses brought me jello and porous soups because I had thrown up so much I was starting to throw up blood. “Thanks, you guys!!” I remember beaming at them. I was so deliriously happy it made them concerned I think. The hospital is the one place you don’t have to worry about something bad happening because you’re already at the place you’d go to if something bad really did happen. I’ve always felt that way. Pretty sure it was some sort of intravenous opioid they were pumping through me.
“Do you need anything?” My grandfather asked sitting next to my bed. I was so out of it I kept forgetting he was there. He motioned his hand to the nurse next to him. “Oh hi!” I thought about it. “Maybe a drink”
She walked back into the room with the weird beverage. It was actually glacial. “Wow!” My exclamation made my grandfather laugh but in a frightened way.
I spent the next day and a half dancing through the emergency room, getting up whenever I needed to pee, with an IV pole following behind me. I’d wave hi to my favorite nurses who I was now on a first-name basis with. I kept getting up to pee even if I didn’t have to because I didn’t like being behind the curtain. They sent a social worker. I don’t know why. I didn’t like her that much. was far less friendly with her than my new friends.
When I got discharged I said bye to all of my nurses and addressed them by name. “Bye Janine! Bye Hannah! Maritza is that your baby in the photo? So cute. Looks just like you! Bye!” Absolutely delusional.
I have time to kill this morning which is nice because I don’t think I’ll have any time to do that this week besides tomorrow. I’m going to work on this piece all day tomorrow. I haven’t been taking the deadline as seriously as I should be. Typical of me; I just assume everything will always work out. Somehow
Meeting Lizzie and Fern for pie in a second.
----
Actually no time to kill. No idea what I did all morning but I am rushing out the door down to the pie shop to meet Lizzie and fern. Sitting outside my apartment trying to read but I have no time. Smoking this cigarette really fast which makes it feel bad. Ex from several years ago who is an excellent writer posted asking if anybody wants to join poetry group chat. Yeah. Infact was thinking of asking him to edit something for me. Will probably see him at the party in 2 days. Will ask then. Looked at the screenshot a little longer and saw a girl in it who hates me. Don’t know why. Well I do. She hates my other ex boyfriend. And by proxy hated me for dating him. Well she might like me now? That we aren’t together ? I don’t think I want her to like me. This all seems retarded. Analog of thought feels weird when it’s referential to people I know in real life whether I like them or not. If she can post about me anonymously on spite magazine I can post about her on my blog. Okay this is actually retarded. No poetry group chat for ash. I don’t even really write poetry anyway. I don’t really know what I write but I know it isn’t poetry.
3/10 Maybe I do care about being published. I got my copy of ethics today and I’ve been kind of floating around all morning. Everyone seems supportive and excited.it reminds me I can do things. Things that interest or excite people. Which: huge if true.
Got an iced coffee instead of a hot one because the weather is really beautiful today. finally remembered to bring my ID to the gas station to get my cigarettes. I thought of using yesterday as an excuse to quit but during my walk last night a man walked by me smoking one and I swear to God a cigarette has never smelt so good. I don’t think it really matters if I smoke or not.
Listened to the all-American rejects, smoked, and cursed at nothing on my drive over to work. Left something at the office and had to pick it up todaywhich I don’t even mind because Los Angeles is so beautiful today. Feeling my baby hairs tickle the back of my neck as I drive down the 101 feels good. After this I’m going to my hometown which is forty minutes south. Going to see my friend and go to the lagoon like I did when I was younger.
RE: MOVING TO NEW YORK
Called Sean and talked to him about this maybe a week ago. He seemed surprised. I think because for the first time in my life I hadn't uttered the words “I’m moving to New York” in eight months. It’s something I always say, at the smallest hint of things going wrong. Need my oil changed? Moving to New York. Uber is peak and now 56 dollars to go to Silver Lake? Moving to New York. The grocery store is out of my favorite kind of jam? Moving to New York. Stubbed my toe? Moving to New York
It’s always been kind of a threat. I never meant it as such. It’s been of some kind of service for me to have something to fall back on. Whether it’s real or not. It’s not fake though. It is definitely something I feel would make me ridiculously happier. It’s just hard because I am somewhat happy here in a less full way.
I remember when I signed the lease to my now apartment, I got COVID midway through moving.. Alone with boxes and no silverware I sat on the floor of my kitchen and thought “What the fuck am I doing”. Felt like maybe something I was supposed to do.
I just sat, sick, in my perfect apartment at the base of the hills. With beams that reminded me of my dead great grandparent's house, I took that as a sign to live there for some reason. The tiling in the bathroom. The apartment felt like it was meant for me. The Russian landlady, Sheila, said there was good natural lighting because it’s south facing.
as soon as I was completely desolate and virile there I felt like throwing up thinking of the year following, in a place I’m so completely indifferent to. I just kept repeating what the fuck did I do.
My boyfriend at the time was begging to come over and take care of me but I couldn’t pick up my phone without answering in some sort of weird way that made it appear I was completely apathetic towards his efforts to love me. So I didn’t initially. I just sat and wondered why I signed another year lease here. I felt like I couldn’t tell anybody I made a mistake. I felt like I couldn’t tell my boyfriend that I wanted to move, that I didn’t morally agree with long distance relationships and just up and leave. So I just didn’t say anything. I took the NyQuil night after night, DayQuil in the mornings. Every ounce of syrup sloshing around in my stomach was a reminder to stay I guess. “ I’ll just move after we breakup” a thought I had as I stood at the counter one night, pouring the syrup into the measuring cup. BAD GIRLFRIEND. HORRIBLE GIRLFRIEND. HORRIBLE HORRIBLE GIRLFRIEND. SOMETHING GIRLFRIENDS SHOULDNT SAY MUCH LESS FEEL. SOMETHING BAD GIRLFRIENDS SAY BECAUSE GOOD GIRLFRIENDS IN COMMITTED RELATIONSHIPS DON'T ANTICIPATE THEM IN ENDING. I think I called him and told him ‘my fever went down and I was feeling a bit better. He asked how I liked my new apartment, “Love it”
It was kind of the first thing I thought of when we broke up. I’m sorry.
LATER
At my mom's house making some white person casserole. She is making a tray without chicken for me. She takes my vegetarianism more seriously than I do. “Can you have eggs?”, “Do you drink milk” “Is it ok if I use the same spoon I used to stir the sauce? It had chicken broth on it”.
The casserole was good. I had 6 Oreos as well. It’s no wonder to me I was so fat when I lived here. Mom has stopped saying I’m so skinny, maybe because I’m not that skinny anymore. My grandpa doesn’t say I need to eat a steak anymore. Not sure how I feel about that. Not sure I need to feel anything about that.
My mom tells me a recession is coming, updates me on everyone who has cancer, who got divorced, who refinanced their house. We eat dinner silently. I cough just to create some ambiance. I feel like there is a film of fat playing on my tongue, blubbered over my teeth. eventually, she talks and I listen. I prefer it that way. I don’t have much to say anyway. She tells me about an actor's wife who died, the actor had dementia and forgot to feed himself and their dog. All three of them died. “Crazy huh” poking at the casserole “Mhm”.
She puts her reading glasses on to look at her phone. She looks cute in them. “Do you think I can have some more trazodone?” She says yeah. She tells me my grandpa does not eat red meat anymore, only chicken and fish. I say that’s good; probably healthier.
She tells me one of my loose friends from high school got in legal trouble for some shit he’s actually guilty of, got a DUI, proceeded to get curb stomped, and is now mentally retarded. People keep calling him in jail and he’ll just be weird, he isn’t fit to stand trial. It’s confusing. She kept saying stuff about it. I was pretty dejected and felt the need to cry. He was closer to my brother. He’d come knock on my door and say vague things, and just sit in my doorway. “Okay!” I’d throw pillows at the door to get him to leave. Only for him to later text me that I was pretty because he was too scared my brother would hear him from the hallway. I don’t like thinking of him as mentally retarded. Or fucked up on drugs. I wish he was able to get better.
Something about this news really upset me. I sat staring at the TV. Thinking of my brother losing his friend, in a way an apology could never fix, of him visiting yet another person in jail. My mom shows me a video of a cat on Facebook and I forget about it.
LATER: watched the sunset at the lagoon with my friend who lives in our hometown still. He smells the same. Which made me feel good.
He lives across from the country club, and before I picked him up I drove and parked in the middle of two houses. One was a house for teenaged girls who starved themselves my high school psychiatrist tried to send me to, and another was a house of an old friend. All of the houses are mid-century modern. I found an old Eames chair on the curb once, like it was garbage. I didn’t have a car yet so I couldn’t take it home so I just sat in it and waved to cars that passed because I was 16 and thought that was a funny thing to do. My friend who lived in the country club was loaded. He’d always invite everyone over to smoke weed or drink, swim, or party. I guess.
He threw a party one night and I didn’t want to drink, really. I wanted to smoke weed, not like me at all, think I I was hungover because he had been throwing parties all weekend while his dad was out of town for work. His dad was Nicole Richie’s lawyer when she had a DUI. I think Winona’s during the whole Marc Jacob scandal as well. Nobody had any pot, or any they’d be willing to let me smoke. Was feeling debased and walked out front to my degenerate friend's car, to go pick up our other degenerate friend. I asked her if he could go to our weed dealer's house on the way back and she said no, that she was just going to drink. Two guys walking into the party heard this “We were just going to hotbox his car, jump in”
I had a bad feeling about it but I got in anyway. My friend was pissed I left her. So insane to think I wanted to smoke pot of all things that badly. The guy and his friend got into a two-door Mustang. Said his dad leased it for him cause he made captain of the water polo team. Meaning he was a senior. I got in the back because at the time I did what I was told, especially if it meant I got alcohol or weed. When you’re a teenager you feel like you’ll never have access to anything hedonistic again, so everything is done rabidly and all at once. Out of fear you’ll never be presented with it again. I think. The two sat in the front and kind of were fiddling around. Calling their friends and asking if they also wanted to come hot box the car. One guy, Logan, came up to the car. They rolled the back window down and he looked at me. “You’re not going to say hi?” I smiled “hi” They started talking about shit I didn’t understand or have the context to so I looked out the window. I checked my phone to see when my friends would come back but my phone died. “Hey,” he said putting his head in through the window, I backed up a bit. “Do you like getting trained?” All of the boys started laughing. “I don’t know what that means” I did. I was scared. He laughed even harder. I became distinctly aware of how they all were. They were seniors, heading off the college soon but they looked like grown men kind of. I also became distinctly aware that because the car only had two doors, in the front, i couldnt get out. I laughed along to play stupid. I felt something bad in my lower belly, like something really terrible was going to happen but I was so naive I didn’t know what to expect. I thought maybe I would’ve coughed or vomited after hitting this blunt, this imaginary blunt that was not being rolled, and it would’ve been embarrassing. “Are we going to smoke?” They looked back like I was a pest. “If we aren’t going to smoke I want to go back inside” It took a lot of courage for me to say that. Maybe 10 minutes of built-up courage. How long have I been in this fucking car I remember thinking.
One of them crawled over the center console in the back seat, the other stayed in the passenger seat. The one that crawled over sat really close to me and my entire body suspended itself with my back against the car seat and my arm awkwardly on the armrest. He started kissing my neck, the passenger looking back at us. I didn’t move really. Maybe shifted, but I didn’t push him or anything. His hands grabbed my breasts but I didn’t feel it. I just looked straight ahead and didn’t say anything. Directly in my eyeline was a mid-century house, the one for sick girls I’d be touring in two years. I kept my eyes there. The house almost looked like a face with its angular window panels as eyes; the hanging pendant lamp above the door being a nose, and the door being a mouth. That’s fine, he can touch my breasts I thought I was a virgin but had my breasts touched before by my middle school boyfriend so I thought it didn’t matter. It didn’t even feel good, or really like anything. His hand went on my torso and our passenger looked away, he looked at a different house. The one to the right so he didn’t have to see what was happening in the rearview mirror.
“Um” his hand pawed at the waistband of my American Apparel jeans. They were brand new, I was still breaking them in. His teeth tugged the skin of my neck, like really furiously, it started to hurt. Bad. The jeans were so stiff because it was real denim, that when he went to unbutton them he quickly accepted defeat. He flattened his hand against my belly and tried to shove it past the button and directly under my waistband. “Can I be let out of the car please?” I asked the passenger. He didn’t even turn his head. I thought maybe he was looking away initially because he didn’t want to see something bad happen. My stomach sank into itself when I realized it was so he could play lookout. My view stayed fixed on the house-face. I felt four cold fingers against my stomach. Inching closer. The jeans were giving him so much trouble he started cursing at me. This went on for five minutes maybe less.
“Can I be let out of the car please”
“Can I be let out of the car please”
“Can I be let out of the car please”
“Can I be let out of the car please”
“Can I be let out of the car please”
“Can I be let out of the car please”
“Can I be let out of the car please”
“Can I be let out of the car please”
“Can I be let out of the car please”
I said it probably 40 times over the course of the 20 or so minutes it was transpiring.
Eventually, I got let out, I think because they were annoyed with me. I went back into the party and locked myself in the bathroom, vomiting sporadically.
My American apparel jeans acted as a chastity belt. Maybe the most apropos thing that’s happened in my life in hindsight. I should probably thank Dov.
I think I’ve always felt hesitant to write about matters like this, assault, or something because I don’t care that much. Which I’m aware seems really tone-deaf and anti-feminist. I don’t think I have anything interesting to say, really. Nothing revelatory or enlightening. It’s normal which blows. It’s also weird thinking of yourself as a statistic of something so commonplace as assault. Nothing interesting happened as a result of it, I had no epiphanies. Ok one maybe, that smoking pot is kind of stupid. I would’ve gotten there without getting assaulted though. I used to believe bad things happen for a reason but now I don’t believe that. Bad things happen all of the time without rhyme or reason. Good things too. I was getting cynical as I got older anyway but reading Sartre a couple of years ago solidified my sinking suspicion that there’s no reason in life. Like at all. People aren’t born with divine purposes or stories. Existence precedes essence. But when I was younger I desperately clung to this pseudo-pious hope that I’d become a Tony Robbins type one day and say things like “It is not what we get. But who we become, what we contribute..~~~” after telling some brutal story about everything bad that has ever happened in my life in a hotel conference room with Uline tables, and those nice quotidian chairs with metal framing and weird almost velvet-like cushions with patterns of magenta flowers and some sort of tan foliage.
I felt all of the things people felt after things like that happen. I felt scared. I felt confused. I pretended like it didn’t happen. I thought it was my fault for a long time. Nothing new or interesting was felt that would contribute to the greater good of society, so I never wrote about it. Also don’t like talking about it inherently. “I’m sorry that happened to you” Okay I guess. I am too but you’re not really supposed to say that about things that happen to you, you’re not supposed to wallow in it. You’re like supposed to find God, maybe open up a women's organization or something. You don’t want to feel too bad for yourself. You don’t want to ascribe that much meaning to something really terrible that happened to you. I also found in any situation of this vein the concept of going to the cops was kind of stupid. In my secular anecdotal experiences, not objectively though. Not because I didn’t want the people who were like kind of terrible sycophants to get in trouble, or the social repercussions; I just hated the implication that this thing I didn’t even want to happen was now my responsibility, a moral choice. If I went to the police and they were actually convicted of something (which they probably wouldn’t be) they wouldn’t have the opportunity to do it (or worse, thanks American Apparels jeans) to anybody else. If I didn’t there’s ample opportunity for them to do it to somebody else. When I walked through hallways at school, I’d see girls and wonder if that would happen to them too. By the same person, or people because I hadn’t said anything. I felt morally fatigued. I didn’t want to talk about it, much less to some random cop who probably didn't even see an issue. I felt like he probably would’ve said the kid didn’t even rape me and I should be so lucky. Or make a joke about how awesome my pants were that they kept his hand from actually touching me. I dunno. I didn’t want to make a weighted decision as a result of something I wish didn’t happen to me. But I had this weird kind of moral panic. It was like right at the peak of the Me Too movement, and all of this emphasis was placed on “speaking up” …whatever that meant. I was made to feel like the devil because I didn’t want to self-flagellate an intense, worthless, but ultimately traumatic experience I had. If I couldn’t even sit and stomach that experience (and a myriad of others alike) I don’t think I could’ve handled people at school knowing, my parents becoming involved, strange men in uniforms asking me questions. It was probably the right choice.
I sat in between the two houses for fifteen minutes waiting to pick up my friend. It ultimately did not matter. But for somebody who always claims to want things to happen to them, good or bad, for the sake of something happening; I really wish that hadn’t happened to me.
3/9 did not write much of anything yesterday or this morning. Analog of thought appears boring to me now. But must persevere.
Terribly bored. Ostensibly. Seriously considering moving to New York instead of moving in with Dillon. I say that all of the time but I think this time I don’t mean it is a threat which makes it feel more real. I love Los Angeles but it feels empty of …. Everything? My friends and I are all busy at conflicting times, half of them are perpetually gone on tour, my family is not enough to keep me here, unless someone got really sick, my job is cool. But that’s really it.
It doesn’t feel like anything has happened to me in a year. I’m not saying moving across the country would fix this. I don’t think there’s anything to be fixed. I’m not even miserable or feel like anything is that amiss, I just feel like the only things keeping me here are excuses. I spend most of my time alone regardless, and I feel I’d rather do that there. Maybe. I kind of want to be away from everything that has ever happened to me, or because of me. And New York is really far.
I feel it’d be at least culturally fulfilling. Or different. Or like things would happen. I mean that is a thing that would happen to me, moving. Whether it felt like it or not.
So there’s that. I remember I was dating this one guy a couple of years ago, he felt really cool because he was the most culturally adept person I’d been with and a ~renowned- artist. He told me it made no fucking sense for me to live here. The way he said it I believed it. He made it seem like it was a disservice to my life to live in Los Angeles
Probably won’t get it together to be able to go. I don’t like the idea of leaving my job.
LATER
I FUCKING HATE DRINKING COFFEE FROM STARBUCKS. IT IS DARK SIDED. MAKES ME FEEL LIKE A TWEAKER. MY HAND IS SHAKING AT WORK AND IM FREAKING OUT, BADLY. IM GOING TO CHEW SOME HYDROXYZINE BUT I MIGHT BE TOO DEEP IN IT. This sucks. I looked down at my hand as I went to type something and thumb looked like it was trying to run off of my body.
Something feels depressing today. Or blunt. I’m not sure. Whatever it is, it’s proving to be unceasing. Everyone at work is staring at each other blankly. I feel like I’m in trouble, and if I’m not, I’m going to be. Hate the novel I started and initially liked. Feel really tired and like I need a cigarette but I forgot my ID this morning, the gas station man would not sell me a pack even though he knows me. Whatever. There was a homeless man and a dog paying in front of me. Well the man was paying. Not the dog. She started barking in a really scary way at the man behind me. I hate when I have too much coffee. It’s like smoking weed and getting scared, there’s nothing you can do, you only can wait. I stopped smoking weed a long time ago because of this. I don’t think I could ever stop drinking coffee or tea though.
I feel like I’m an idiot and that I am fucking my life up. I feel like I keep doing things I know are bad for me, even if they’re minor and inconsequential, it makes me feel like my world is ending. Or that my world is completely secular from everybody else’s world and I’m just in one by myself where I fuck up and it’s purgatory sentenced by my own actions forever. Not sure how to stop doing bad things. Know I can because I’ll be fine one week and a happy person and then suddenly I’m bored and I start to be bad again. “Bad” is such a good word. It’s so apropos to describe my actions. They’re bad. They’re small but they’re bad. They’re not hurting anybody, or me, they just aren’t good. They are bad. Things are bad. I shouldn’t be as nice to myself, I have to get my shit together. I feel like I’m the reason I don’t have anything together. I know I am. I hate when I feel like this because I don’t think somebody my age should feel this way. It feels juvenile and angsty. My therapist says I need to stop shaming myself but it’s very difficult and I think if anything shame might do me (and generally the world) some good. To a certain extent I think.
I forgot to wear a bra to work, I’m wearing this really sheer cotton shirt and fake mohair cardigan that keeps tugging at the hem of my shirt and making it come off my lower belly.. everytime I angle slightly downward my breasts threaten to come out. So stupid. I forgot to wear a bra to work.
GROW UP, GROW UP, GROW UP, GROW UP, GROW UP, GROW UP GROW UP, GROW UP, GROW UP GROW UP, GROW UP, GROW UP. Wear a bra. GROW UP GROW UP GROW UP.GROW UP, GROW UP, GROW UP
*******
Now sitting at my desk and feel better because I listened to Modest Mouse for a bit. “Opinions were like kittens I was giving them away”…. cutest lyrics ever.
My coworker said whenever he looks over at our pink couch and sees me reading it is “sweet”. He also says my outfit is very “cool girl” and that I look nice. I think I look okay today. My face looks tired. I am.Makes me feel awkward when people point things out about me. Even if it’s nice. I accept it but kind of shift around internally as if to crawl into my own private little self. Everyone is asking me about my books today for some reason . Whenever anybody asks about my books, or points out me reading I think of that one meme, ur not a vibe bro. Like truly, I am not a vibe. Just like… books. How sad that reading is seen as performative now. I’m hyper because I drank a lot of coffee so I’m a bit temperamental right now, I would mean this anyway; I would kill myself if there wasn’t such thing as reading or writing. The world would suck. It would suck to never be able to substantiate the human experience beyond the means of yourself. Also books smell really good. I bring a different array; right now it is Susan Sontag, issue of Paris review, semiotexte collection, Anne Carson collection, and some novel (I’m too embarrassed to say the name) I worry I’ll get bored but really I always end up back at the Susan Sontag collection of essays. I figure if I read on my break that is an hour of reading a day. Which is good for my brain and makes my break feel long.
LATER
RE: MOVING TO NEW YORK
If by the time my lease is up (July) and something hasn’t radically changed, I’ll do it. I am nervous to tell dillon and wont tell him until im very sure. I think he will feel fine if i dont move in with him, but would be really sad if i actually left. New York and LA are a revolving door though, everybodys there or back here constantly. Dillon doesnt read my blog, i dont think. If he does, he knows now. He is in London for a couple of days, they had to cancel some shows cause Al is really sick. I am worried about her. Have been. I miss her really badly. I want to lay in bed and watch movies with her. And eat snacks from whole foods with her. I found this really funny video of us at coachella on my phone. We do this thing when we were laughing at something really hard where we both scream a little. I miss zoe too. Shes in Iowa right now. Everyone is gone and this is precisely my point about leaving. I dont want to be gone too in the sake of retaliation. I just feel very alone, and that isn't anybody's fault. Not even mine. Id rather feel lonely somewhere new though. And to havesuch a tangible decision like moving. Its weird. I feel like everything panned out the way I had wanted last year, and Im not depressed but Im certainley not happy. I thought id be a little bit happier.
chewed 3 trazadone and swallowed 2 tylenol. Cramps are bad. Coffee wont let me sleep.Very busy the next couple of days. Hopefully analog of thought can remain somewhat consistent
3/7: I slept for three hours. Slept through my alarm. I never do that.
work was nice. Sometimes on my lunch, I go sit at a table outside and read. In the morning seagulls have cold wars over chip crumbs that our maintenance guys leave in the parking lot. I like seagulls. They’re quite cute but they also remind me of being in elementary school. My school was in a coastal town, albeit very far from the beach because my family wasn’t that rich, and the seagulls somehow found their way to my school. They looked kind of stupid, pecking at wood chips on our blacktop. Now I usually see them before I hear them. They somehow always look really white on their bellies despite being generally dirty birds.
I just got home from work, cooking dinner now. I’m cold. Probably because I didn’t eat breakfast. I’m also anemic. I had a doctor on my old shitty health insurance who told me my anemia was “cured”… sure I guess. Regardless I’m freezing so I have my arm cradled under my rib, holding myself
After dinner, I’m going to shower and then go to this reading at a gallery on melrose. I like that gallery a lot. I read there once maybe around a year ago. I didn’t feel that nervous but my hands still shook really bad. As I type this I don’t know if I will go to the gallery.
Friends inviting me to parties that cost money. Ok. I posted on my Instagram stories for random people to email me, and they have been. It feels kind of fucked up im emailing random people rather than texting people back I haven’t for months. I’ll get to it at some point. Snacking on cough drops again. Craving sleep really terribly. Gonna chew 3 trazadones my mom gave to me to help me sleep. I feel like my body is finding new ways to betray me every other day. I’m exhausted.
I’m melodramatic for the sake of it. I have nothing to say and I shouldn’t force myself to just because I want to. I wrote a really lovely email to somebody earlier; that will be my eloquent use of language for the day. Analog thought can sometimes be boring.
3/6: Dillon called me as soon as I woke up at 5. I asked him if I could call him back after I went pee and got ready for work. He said that was ok. He’s in Germany. He had a cool show last night, he says. Apparently in Europe, they have decibel laws that prohibit you from playing over a certain decibel which I think is neat. I wonder how they sound. He asked me how I was and I told him I cried last night for the first time in a month which wasn’t true. I cried last week because I had a really bad anxiety attack. I was on the phone with a family member, one who is pretty deadpan, and I could tell the anxiety attack was bad because they told me to focus on my breathing whereas they would usually tell me to grow up and “be tough”. I think I had reasons to be anxious so I don’t feel bad about crying. I usually never do and I think anybody that makes a big deal about crying is usually being self-involved and searching for an intellectualization where there is not one. It’s not really that big of a deal.
When I was on Wellbutrin 4 months ago I never cried. Or anytime I came close to, I would cry for 2 minutes and then become despondent which took all the catharsis away. I didn’t care about anything. I’ve never been that emotionally flat in my life. I got into a car crash and I didn’t even care to get the guys insurance information because my car was fine. And I really didn’t care.
Dillon always knows what to say to me. I tend to talk in a really weird way when I am emotionally venting, in a way that isn’t super linear and kind of confusing. But he for some reason can follow along. I told him I was bored and wanted him to come home. It sucks that my friends leave to go on tour perpetually. But I’m also used to it at this point I guess.
Now I am at work on a pink couch in our office.
Got my period. Hate it because it’s mine. I think I wouldn’t mind it if it was somebody else's. I got off a phone call with my mom, my ending statement being “I know you love me but you clearly don’t like me that much. I don’t know why you are insistent I be in your life” I don’t know. Somehow that’s true. That she really loves me but maybe doesn’t like me. I think she thinks I care about stupid shit and I’ve never had a hard day in my life, when in fact I feel like some of the worst days of my life were a result of her. What’s that one quote. It was the first thing in my life, and the worst thing in my life.. not sure. I wish we could understand each other better. But I love her so I’m trying. She willfully misunderstands me, sometimes I think. Like when I told her if I were her I would have gotten the abortion. She had me really young, and I feel really sad she never got to be anything but a mother. She took this as me being suicidal and denouncing God. I can’t even begin to unpack that and how ridiculous it is. I don’t know how to explain to her I would feel fine if I wasn’t alive because… I wouldn’t be alive. She is trying hard with me because she knows I have a tendency to not speak to her for years at a time. Which isn’t a good trait of mine.
I don’t even think I was aware of how avoidant I was until I became an adult.I assume everyone knows how much I care about something because… I don’t know. Because I feel desperately torn up about things, maybe to an embarrassing level. Everything affects me really deeply and I feel ashamed of that. I figure they can somehow feel that. Maybe cosmically, I assume. But they can’t. And I’m trying to learn that. I didn’t realize how shitty I’ve made people feel by just going away. I think I assumed it was what was wanted, so I did it without instruction. I have done a better job at that last year. Or I am trying to. It’s not fun to have your friends joke and say “where the fuck were you for eight months”… and not have an answer besides that you didn’t really think it mattered all that much. People are disappointing in small ways, not just gigantic. Which feels scary because you have a million opportunities to fuck up. And I have!
Despite this, I feel fine at work. I really like my job. I feel relieved by this. Think I signed an NDA when I started working, so as much as I’d like to gush about it, I don’t think I really can. Just that it is something that makes me happy.
LATER
Not exactly sure how I feel keeping an analog of thought generally, let alone one on the internet for people I know in real life to see, and also random teenagers. I have decided it doesn’t matter, and if it ends up mattering one day, I’ll figure it out then. Whether that is a book deal (yeah right) or a cease and desist. I’m being really honest, not because I think it’s radical, or that I’m brave, but because I have nothing to lose. I don’t even know if anybody actually reads this or they just find it aesthetically intriguing. I feel like the only two kind of people who could even be interested in me enough to read this are a) some random fashion playboi carti dude who thinks I’m hot and gets bored after five sentences b) people in real life who think I’m a bad writer. I don’t know, really. I think if anybody does actually read this I’d prefer they not mention it to me in real life. That’d feel pretty embarrassing, for some reason.
As this continues (which hopefully I’m consistent with because it has been fun writing this often) I hope I can grasp a better measure for what is worthy of writing about. Or what is boring. Or what is too much for the internet. If I can mention people in my life by name on here or not. I tried to do that a couple of months ago in my drafts and it just came off as me name-dropping, but in a way. I feel like I can’t help that because I live in one of the most culturally relevant cities in America. And famous or internet-famous people are commonplace (and way too accessible) here. They also tend to be really interesting and I want to write about interesting things.
I hope I can figure it out and that this doesn’t mutate into something I don’t recognize because I like it so far.
3/5 toured an apartment for Dillon and I while he is on tour. I think he’s in France, I dont really know. I went alone. The lady was nice, she was Dutch I believe. It’s kind of near my old apartment. The Dutch lady, Edita, shepherded me through the apartment. When I first arrived she made me put uline shoe covers over my heels, and asked me what I did for work. I told her but I exaggerated a little bit to make myself sound a bit more important. I felt kind of apathetic. It was perfect, the most perfect apartment I’d ever been in. In New York or Los Angeles. It was 100 years old, with beautiful mahogany accents, a kitchen I couldn’t even begin to imagine myself cooking in without the fear of fucking it up, a huge bay window in one of the bedrooms, beautiful aquamarine tiling in the bathroom akin to the tiling in my current apartment. When she told me the rent price I immediately grounded myself because I couldn't handle any more disappointment in my life.
I am happy, I think. I’m trying to find that life is good, and I do believe that, fundamentally, I think. Maybe. But I’ve just been disappointed by an array of things since December. And I’ve disappointed many people in the duration of the last eight months. It feels like a lot to sit with. That my best might not be good enough. Or that someone else’s best is not good enough for me. It’s just a lot to stomach. And every time I think I have stomached it, I am surprised by some new thing. It’s easy to get over something if there is a new thing to worry about. Or fight about. Maybe. I think I have too much time.
I’m bored. I love reading, and writing. It’s fulfilling. It is the only thing I’ve ever felt has ever truly mattered to me in a big way. I remember my mother would take my Ramona Quimby books as punishment when I was bad, and that felt really critical to my well-being at the time. It's just boring sometimes, if you do it consistently. And it’s only particularly fulfilling if you’re exceedingly interested in whatever material you’re reading or writing. I’m working on three pieces right now, but they kind of wax and wein in terms of matter. I don’t know how I feel about being published, whether it matters to me or not, whether I should force myself to care. Because isn’t that the whole point? To write and then get published? I guess so. But it has never been super poignant for me in terms of a piece. I just like to write and be done with things. It’s pretty juvenile and lazy. I don’t feel an intense satisfaction with publication, but I guess I don’t have to. However, it is something I'm going to try to do more of in the coming months. Might be good for me. I just don’t really understand the idea, not of criticism I’m curious about that, but just what the point is of hearing what people think of what I wrote. Like maybe it’s supposed to make me a better writer but I don’t necessarily write to be good. I don’t write to be bad. I write because it’s enjoyable. It’s not super nuanced to me. Which maybe it should be.
I’m going to watch Inland Empire now and maybe cook dinner later. I’m thinking of going to an Ash Wednesday service later. And having them spread the ashes on my forehead. I find Catholicism and its implications culturally interesting. I had an ex-boyfriend once, we were talking about religion and he said I was the most catholic non-catholic there could be. I told him I was raised catholic, and he said that much was obvious. He said it was because I am very hedonistic but that my hedonism is always followed by extreme guilt. I don’t know if I agree with that. I think it is obvious I was raised catholic but I don’t know for what reason. I never really feel guilty when I am hedonistic. Maybe aside from things of a gluttonous nature. But I don’t feel bad having sex or doing drugs, if not done in excess. To a normal extent, I think.
Two people I’ve had sex with seem to think I act odd after sex which makes me kind of insecure. They have said that I seem like I am mentally somewhere else, or that I look sad. I genuinely don’t feel that way. I think I just have a sad face. I'm also not the most affectionate after, I guess, if I wanted to nitpick. Aren’t men supposed to be kind of tired after? Like biologically? I think maybe they assume I’m sad or some sort of negative adjective because I’m quiet after the fact. It’s kind of tiring. There’s also a buildup to it which takes a considerable amount of mental attention. I don’t know. I don’t feel like there’s anything wrong but they’re pretty insistent. I also think some men feel guilty after sex for some reason. I don’t know why. It seems kind of stupid to feel bad that you once felt good.
…
Slept through the afternoon mass and did not get my forehead ashes. I fell asleep watching Inland Empire. Something about the male actor's face upsets me but I can’t figure out what it is. Laura Dern is lovely though. Today is one of those days where I hate everyone. I think everyone has forgotten me, or worse they remember me and just don’t care. I hate the verb “remember”, it’s a transitive verb. It can also be intransitive but I feel like that doesn’t matter. For what I’m talking about. It just seems stupid that you can’t actively (in the literal sense of the word active; not hyperbolic) remember something, it always takes considerable effort. Or reminders. Or you only really remember something after you’ve already forgotten. I forget things all of the time though. Maybe too much. I feel like my memory is getting bad. I was talking with Sean the other day and we couldn’t piece together where we were or who we were with for this one specific memory. It took us like 20 minutes to figure it out.
I am making dinner now. Roasted sweet potato (again). I’ve been snacking on cough drops all day because I slept with the window open on accident (again) and that always makes my throat coarse. Thought about what I might decorate a living room to look like. I don’t know if I would want a TV. But I think Dillon would, so I guess we can have a TV. I think TVs are ugly. And microwaves. I like living alone but it really sucks sometimes. I was trying to explain this to Dillon before he left for tour, and I don’t know if I explained it well enough.
If we do get a great apartment the one thing I want is a makeup vanity in my bedroom. I just feel like it takes up too much space in a studio. I dunno. It looks ugly. I just hate doing my makeup in the bathroom sink, also. I really don’t care about moving at this point and feel pretty apathetic about leaving places. The only place I’ve ever felt really sentimental about leaving is New York. I’m always leaving something behind there, like friends, or clothes I somehow forgot to put back in my suitcase. I don’t miss my old apartment at all. I only like going to my hometown to see my cats. My childhood home from ages 0-6 is sweet I guess but I don’t remember much of it. I’m generally not good at saying goodbye in a very literal sense either. I hate how it takes 30 minutes between the time you have decided you want to leave to actually saying goodbye to everyone. Also, it’s not like anyone is dying. Besides, I’m convinced adult life is basically seeing some variation of the same people over and over at a bar, show, party, birthday dinner, etc. every week. It takes up too much time to say goodbye. Dillon makes fun of me because somebody will ask where I went and he just knows I went home. He knows me better than I tend to think. Usually, people don’t get offended. Sometimes they do.
I can’t wait to take 4 melatonin and go to bed. I started my period today and I feel lethargic but my mind doesn’t seem to care. I’ve had racing pointless thoughts all day with no energy to exert them. I’m happy I have work tomorrow and can just shut up for the next couple of days
_
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3/4: went to the park to write and read a bit. I did both. I called my friend I haven't talked to in a long time, and he laughed at things I said, even when I wasn't trying to be funny which made me feel good. Earlier I had half a mug of black coffee and washed my hair which made me feel really happy but bored. My apartment is clean so theres nothing to clean. Everyone is at work so there is nobody to call. Im not hungry so theres nothing to cook. Thats why I went to the park. I started a new novel and it’s really great so far. I like reading at the park and try to do it weekly on one of my off days. When i called my friend his voice sounded the same which is good. And he asked me “Can i ask you a question? And you dont have to answer if you dont want to answer it.” I nodded and then realized he couldn’t see me “yeah”. “You’ve been talking to ( ) ( ) again?” I nodded and then said yes again but a bit smaller. I have been doing things that seem to make my friends curious lately and I dont have answers for when they probe. I had nothing to say, really. Im not doing anything bad but I think they’re choices people dont necessarily find I’d make on a whim, but I have. Kind of. I am generally disinterested in my life and it takes me aback when other people arent. I am tired of thinking of all of the things that have happened to me or because of me. I dont feel sad or like I am a bad person, or that I dont care about my life in a depressing, demoralizing way. I still try hard at work, and do things like exercising or cooking that actively improve my quality of life. I just don't like thinking of myself for extended periods. Not because I'm worried i’ll realize something, or have an existential crisis. I just think its self involved maybe. This is why I have been hesitant to keep any sort of analog of thought such as a journal. It feels like I might care too much if I write too much. If that makes sense. I.E “I should go to a blank restaurant because it would be cool in a journal”.
The conversation was good. We have plans next week. I started reading again and my skirt blew up, which was fine because I'm wearing my good underwear. I was weirdly aloof at this happening. It reminded me of a time in high school when a giant group of us went to the beach to go skinnydipping in the ocean. All of these girls I thought were cool stripped to their underwear and bras, the courageous ones flinging their bras at the boys as they reached their full nudity. I sat in someone's passenger seat and took my shirt off but I felt not good about it so I covered my lower stomach with my shirt. I read the tag of the shirt as I shifted around trying to hide my discomfort. A boy was there who I at one point liked a lot. This wasnt what made me uncomfortable though. I felt like we were doing something for no reason. We were skinnydipping to skinnydip, and maybe tell people at school on Monday. I thought of going in the ocean for five minutes and then getting out, I was wondering what the point of it was. It didn't seem like there was a point. I had nobody I wanted to impress, not that my prepubescent body would, but the ultimately pointless undressing seemed useless. Besides the boy I at one point liked was making a fool of himself trying to impress girls who were cooler than me which made him seem really lame. He wouldnt shut up. I was just happy he wasnt talking to me because he was being so gaudy i knew i didnt have the patience not to remark on that. A boy who i think slightly liked me was trying to get me to undress, but was trying to be coy and not rape-y. Everryone seemed to think i was in a bad mood. I wasnt I was just bored. If we were going to underage drink, I thought it’d be more fun to do it in someones basement or a parking lot. Instead of being cold and naked. “Come on, arent you going to swim?’ The lame boy came up to the window. “Probably not” I answered despondently, refusing to look at his ultra annoying face. He was so drunk and embarrassing. “Come on, It wouldnt be anything i havent seen before” True. We had sex in his garage maybe 4 months before that. It was okay I guess. But it made me not like him anymore. I felt angry at him. All of the cool girls knew we had sex now. I didnt care what they thought of it, I just hate that he got to use it for such a cool line in front of them. To make it seem like he had sex with girls often. I dont really know if he did or didnt. It didnt matter all that much to me. I took my pants off because I was now even more bored, and I really hated amusing him more than I hated sitting there and doing nothing. I figured if I took my pants off his initial excitement would cease after and he would move on to somebody else. I was right. When he walked away to harass someone else I looked down at my legs, then only in underwear. I wearing underwear from a multipack at target my mom had gotten me. My bad underwear. They were navy and white striped. They did my flat body no favors. At that point, I had stolen a thong from Victoria Secret’s pink. It was burgundy with sparkles that I scratched off so that they were plain burgundy but they were in the wash and I didn't know I was going to be held at gunpoint to skinny dip anyway. The boy who liked me looked at me from across the beach parking lot and started walking over as I now stood outside of the car. I was in only shirt, my bad underwear, my untied high-top converse untied acting like makeshift slippers, and a burgundy zipup that would have matched my contraband underwear great. I looked like something Harmony Korine would probably jack off to or write about. One of the two. “So you are going to swim?” he asked me “Do you think my underwear is bad?” I asked. “No, I think your underwear is great.” I was happy he didnt make a joke about taking them off. We ended up sitting on the sand watching everyone else swim. It didnt look that fun. Or interesting. It just looked like something that was happening. I thought about leaning over and kissing him. I couldn't figure out why I would do that.
2/28 I cut my hand this morning. I was cutting a lemon into wedges to put into my coke and on what I thought was going to be a pleasant phone call. I have a meeting at work later so I have the first half of the day off (?), I walked to the corner store and got a Coke because I'm out. The phone call quickly soured as I rounded the church and was agitated when I reached my apartment door.I just really hate being interrupted, I hate even more to say “I wasn't finished speaking” because I sound like a total cunt when I do. I hate how my voice gets. I just feel like its so rude. anecdotally this whole phone call wouldn't have spiraled into an argument if i would have been able to say eight more words. By the way, none of those words were “but”., or some sort of defense. It wasnt an argument until I muttered the dreaded “I wasnt finished speaking” and then it turned into an actual argument because in the middle of saying “I wasnt finished speaking” he started speaking and this happened, and without fail, eight times. It eventually reached a point where I started laughing because it felt comically bad. I eventually screamed “IF YOU’D FUCKING FINISH LETTING ME SPEAK YOU’D KNOW I DONT EVEN CARE ABOUT THE GOD DAMN BOOK ANYMORE IM TRYING TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT SOMETHING ELSE NOW” I hate being angry because I feel like the devil if he were a toddler. I threw the lemon onto my counter and just cut it on the tile, I chipped my cutting board a while ago and to be honest i wouldn't have used it even if it wasn't chipped. I told this person I didnt want to fight, which is something only two people in the middle of a fight say. That i couldnt speak to them if they didnt believe a semicolon transcends page or paper. That the book was just part of a sentence that meant nothing the eighth time they interrupted me. That i was sorry. I just hung up and after that I cut my hand. On accident. There's something terrible about fighting with someone you’d least expect to. Like old people. You figure they're less passionate because age has weighed on them, that they have figured out how to move through life so the world isn't as cutting, and that somehow words mean less. That they become disaffected,but they don’t. It makes me feel like there is no joy in getting older and that wisdom isnt real. I dont understand how you attain wisdom without it being cutting.
rithing the ball of your feet against the bathtub in which you first shaved your legs, or touched yourself. It burns less as the water cools and you feel like you can see a doctor about it. When the tub is full you know you cannot, and it’s just all around terrible. And you can tell one million people and they all say that’s terrible because it’s actually kind of terrible but it’ll just be terrible forever and whenever you feel like it can be less terrible maybe it is but it’s also just a terrible thing that happened and that’s really all it is and terrible can’t even be an adjective at that point I mean adjectives always make me feel things but I feel like sometimes things can just fully be something and that makes me feel like they aren’t fully adjectives because they do not engulf they just prescribe a tone.
i have been fucking nauseous for five days. I give up on eating.
Conclusions/questions i came to on my morning run:
-i probably dont have liver disease, maybe a weak liver generally but somebody who had liver disease probably wouldnt feel good running
-I have all of the time in the world to dress like a 60-year-old french woman, go to the farmers market, do yoga in the park, order water instead of alcohol, turn down invitations to parties because i have work the next day. Likeim 24. Youre allowed to be kind of bad and generally a shitty person with an overwhelming amount of laundry to do. Like I should probably focus on being sexy and hot for a while. Until im 30 probably.
-I am incredibly oblivious to contemporary culture
-i have to increase my budget if I want a 2 bedroom apartment
-i should make a reservation for dinner next week
-it isnt normal to constantly feel cold
-i probably dont have liver disease, maybe a weak liver generally but somebody who had liver disease probably wouldnt feel good running
-I have all of the time in the world to dress like a 60-year-old french woman, go to the farmers market, do yoga in the park, order water instead of alcohol, turn down invitations to parties because i have work the next day. Likeim 24. Youre allowed to be kind of bad and generally a shitty person with an overwhelming amount of laundry to do. Like I should probably focus on being sexy and hot for a while. Until im 30 probably.
-I am incredibly oblivious to contemporary culture
-i have to increase my budget if I want a 2 bedroom apartment
-i should make a reservation for dinner next week
-it isnt normal to constantly feel cold
I am sick and cant decide between potatoes and kraut or butter noodles tonight. I have no idea what has been going on but I am eating like a toddler. Everything else has made me so bilious to the point of my sleep being impacted. I regularly sleep 8 hours, or i become mean and difficult to deal with so i try not to subject anyone, or myself to that. I threw up a couple of days ago, it seemed at the time it would never end. My head throbs upon waking up, and I often feel like I can’t breathe. It is just hard. I havent had normal food in a month. I think you can see it in my face, I know you can. I just look yellow. I hate when it gets to that point. I am starting to suspect something is seriously wrong with my liver.
Fatigue
Nausea
Loss of appetite
Abdominal pain or discomfort
Swelling in the legs, ankles, or abdomen (ascites)
Itching
Easy bruising. I am not throwing up blood, or I haven’t in a long time but i have everything else. The swelling is minor. I feel like the timbre of my voice is changing, also. I’ve noticed it has gotten really dry, coarse, muted. Raspy. That is probably because I am smoking again. I dont think it really matters if I already feel like shit. I found a pack of cigarettes from France that Sean got me, and a red lipstick at the bottom of one of my bags. I kind of like stale cigarettes and I really like European cigarettes. I went to figaro bistro with my friends the other night and took five steps to the left so I could smoke. I just watched them. It was sweet. It’s how I imagine God watches dead people or seriously ill babies in the ICU, wholly and intently. I just want the best out of life and despite maybe having early-onset liver disease I am pretty fucking close to getting it. My friends are just perfect, I love moving my body, I love champagne, I love new york city, I love being able to walk to zoe’s, i love the way my face looks in the morning or right after a shower, i love Los Angeles, I love that my lease is up in four months, I love that Dillon’s car permanently says it is 2016, I love the way shirts fit me, I love the way my grandparents will never understand but despite this have always loved me, I love bread and butter. I dont like bread and butter pickles though they are too sweet.
IS THE GUY FROM MODEST MOUSE HOT? i like his voice. he sounds attractive. Same w tih the guy from Violent Femmes. OR stephen malkmus. Idk they all have this tone. Can a dialect belong to a decade
Talking Shit About a Pretty Sunset
Song by Modest Mouse ‧ 1996
Lyrics
Oh noose tied myself in, tied myself too tight
Looking kind of anxious in your cross armed stance
Like a bad tempered prom queen at a homecoming dance
And I claim I'm not excited with my life any more
So I blame this town, this job, these friends
The truth is it's myself
And I'm trying to understand myself
And pinpoint where I am
By the time I get things figured out
I've change the whole damn plan
Oh noose tied myself in, tied myself too tight
Talking shit about a pretty sunset
Blanketing opinions that I'll probably regret soon
Song by Modest Mouse ‧ 1996
Lyrics
Oh noose tied myself in, tied myself too tight
Looking kind of anxious in your cross armed stance
Like a bad tempered prom queen at a homecoming dance
And I claim I'm not excited with my life any more
So I blame this town, this job, these friends
The truth is it's myself
And I'm trying to understand myself
And pinpoint where I am
By the time I get things figured out
I've change the whole damn plan
Oh noose tied myself in, tied myself too tight
Talking shit about a pretty sunset
Blanketing opinions that I'll probably regret soon
Danced to Tigermilk around my apartment in undies and a bra. My curtains were slightly open. Not intentional, I am definitely not a vouyer, or dont want to be a vouyers subject I guess. I just moved quickly, and couldnt be bothered to close them. I’ve always loved dancing and always hated people who made me feel weird about it. It is the best feeling when you get a little bit dizzy and you feel like you’ve done nitrous. Even writing this, The Beat Comes by Snowden just came up on shuffle and I am finding it hard to sit still. I like this song, it is maybe my favorite right now. I feel good but find it hard to trust myself or to think of myself right now. I think Im completely capricious as a person; I dont trust myself not to find new creative ways to betray myself. I’ve always found a way to do that, at the risk of sounding too auspicious, I feel it in my limbs that things are different this time. Maybe because Im doing things that actually feel great, when no one is around to see it, and no one's ear is a friend. I do things because they wont make me feel better, but because they won't make me feel worse I guess. It is slightly depressing that my only claim to buoyancy is a thinly veiled extremely cynical mantra. I don't know. I just feel good. And I don't feel an internal polemic battle rattling between my wrist and radiating between my ribs. I just feel excited maybe.
walked to zo’s and we opened up her new painting. I wish I had paintings aside from my own. They’re old and dont make me feel good. Man at erewhon kept calling me pet names which took me aback and I think he liked that. Food is just sso expensive. No appetite. Will run. Will try to read but quite sedated and nothing interests me a ton. Despondent to my own name.
Expectations
Song by Belle and Sebastian ‧ TigerMilk- 1996
Lyrics
Monday morning wake up knowing that you've got to go to school
Tell your mum what to expect, she says it's right out of the blue
Do you went to work in Debenham's, because that's what they expect
Start in Lingerie, and Doris is your supervisor
And the head said that you always were a queer one from the start
For careers you say you went to be remembered for your art
Your obsessions get you known throughout the school for being strange
Making life-size models of the Velvet Underground in clay
In the queue for lunch they take the piss, you've got no appetite
And the rumour is you never go with boys and you are tight
So they jab you with a fork, you drop the tray and go berserk
While your cleaning up the mess the teacher's looking up your skirt
You've been used, you're confused
Write a song, I'll sing along
Are you calm? Settle down
Soon you will know that you are sane
You're on top of the world again
Monday morning wake up knowing that you've got to go to school
Mum said she had little choice when she was young, so why should you?
Do you went to work in C&A, 'cause that's what they expect
Move to Ladieswear and take a feel off Joe the Storeman
Tell Veronica the secrets of the boy you never kissed
She's got everything to gain 'cause she's a fat girl with a lisp
She sticks up for you when you get aggravation from the snobs
'Cause you can't afford a blazer and you're always wearing clogs
At the interval you lock yourself away inside a room
Heed of English gets you, asks you, "What the Hell do you think you're doing?"
"Do you think you're better then the other kids? Well get outside."
You've got permission, but you've got to make the bastard think he's right
I walked, ate toast, and took a hydroxzine for precautionary measures.
What do I think of that?
I don't necessarily feel tied to stanza four of that one Frank O Hara poem right now. It by all accounts,in my adult life, had provoked temperamental awe until now. Even the mention of Frank O Hara, I would gush, I would recite the last stanza because i felt the theme of the poem was so perennial to the human existence that it’d be a crime to keep it to myself solely. I don’t feel that way anymore. I want to, but I don’t. I can't navigate whether this is depressing to me or not. It almost makes me hopeful, because while I love the poem, it is such a depressing poem. I havent lost the relation due to happiness which seems like the most obvious answer but I am not happy. Im not depressed. It saddens me to think of the ephemeral.
the susan sontag essay “Reflections Against Oneself” Reflections on Cioran, is reverberating prolifically. I like it. I like her. I like Ann Carson. I like to talk about these things. To move my vocal chords andd imagine them rubbing against each other, because i’ll know they’re there. I need tangibility, to know that I myself am tangible. and something that can be thrown, held, smoke, eat, sleep, run, crawl. I am easily able to not speak a word out loud for ten hours. But I probably shouldnt. My lyft driver talked to me the whole 15 of what was supposed to be a five minute ride. I could tell he was making wrong turns to run the meter up but that was okay because he was telling me he ws n alcohlolic but was not one anymore. Sure, I guess. “It is hard on your body” I said. He nodded. His neighbor is crazy and seems to think they’re more of friends than they really are. I was bored but tangible which is really all I can be right now. And he is a not-alcoholic which is all he can really be right now. And a lyft driver.
oast,butter and apple tea. the tea was bad. I want to buy very expensive makeup or a very expensive knife. I wouldnt use either. Read from thr Paris Review last night and didnt do anything for me but provide nice sentiment. I’ll explore the prose section more but if it doesnt suffice I’ll read some more of Susan Sontags essays which are clincal and dry but I know I will like or at least that it will provoke me.
It’s. Guttural the way the tiles eat at me from the ankles up.
And I pool into some uninteresting, gauche thing. I’d like to be comfortable too
how my wrists snap off into ikea dishes filled with lukewarm water and defrosted chicken breasts idling,
as I attempt
And I pool into some uninteresting, gauche thing. I’d like to be comfortable too
how my wrists snap off into ikea dishes filled with lukewarm water and defrosted chicken breasts idling,
as I attempt
To nurture something
But fail ultimately
“You have to flick water on it to make sure it’s hot enough” I mutter despondently
But fail ultimately
“You have to flick water on it to make sure it’s hot enough” I mutter despondently
one of my favorite poems of all time: i forgot to put it but I am lying about forgetting.
M
I feel as if I can thrash around so violently and nothing will happen to me. Spraining, fracturing, breaking, these words confuse me; yet don’t startle me. I don’t know them, just that they can’t happen to me, and they won’t happen to me. This is not a good thing, in fact maybe terrible. It’s like my stomach has never had bread, or my hands have never held a hammer. I just feel completely amorphous. Aside from the burning painful absolutely devastating heat running from the bottom of my back to where my hair hits the back of my neck.
spent the first half of the year completely enamored by Sharon Olds, but this is short of revolutionary. I absolutely adore her and this is enduring. She is pointed, sometimes clinical, which are two of my favorite qualities a writer can have. At my old apartment, I’d lay out on my daybed and read her poetry books with my cat, Jeans. When I’m really depressed I can’t venture with books outside of my taste or preferences. So it makes sense her work was very poignant with me in the spring, it was safe. Nearing summer I found myself receptive to book recommendations which is not something typical for me. I enjoyed Bret Easton Ellis the most, I think I was initially nervous because his work, or I guess the social media presence of it, was shrouded in irony. I like his work. It’s very disaffected and I think it’s paced very well. I even enjoy his podcast now while at work. I then read Tao Lin’s poetry book, You Are a Bit Happier Than me. He is the same as Sharon Olds. I’ll like both of them no matter what state I am in. It’s reliable. But not boring. I went through a big Joan Didion kick again. I really can’t believe she is dead, still. I remember where I was when I found out she died. It’s the kind of moment that breaks air from entering your lungs, not to be hyperbolic. I felt the same way when Michael Jackson died. It’s just weird when important people die, it feels like culturally they go away too. I thought about her a lot the last couple of months because I had been driving up to central California, I’d imagine Maria from Play It as It Lays, Drinking a Coke on the 101. Now I only read academic journals. I am reading two very interesting ones. The Poetics of Anorexia by Lisa Sewell, and Anorexia nervosa and first-person perspective: Altruism, family system and body experience by Caroline Valentiny and Jerome Englebert. As well as switching tabs between multiple academic journals studying food deprivation in animals, the neurobiology of hyperactivity, and how the deprivation promotes production both biologically and in their ecosystems. The Poetics of Anorexia highlights Louise Glücks poems surrounding her disorder, and their intentional or unintentional use of post structuralist philosophers like Laccans concepts of (or lack of) self. I go back and forth with this. In lacanian terms, which “self” is playing what role in the paradox of the disorder? Is it the conscious or the unconscious? Pre split is that the true “self”? But this quote “[Lacan's] subject is not an entity with an identity, but a being created in the fissure of a radical split ... a self which is only actually and necessarily created within a split-a being that can only conceptualise itself when it is mirrored back to itself from the position of another's desire” leads me to believe it is not. And that an anorexic is not a “self” without the split occurring and highlighting their desires. In terms of identity this is definitely true, with every philosophy I currently resonate with supporting that. Even Sartre’s “essence preceding existence” supports this. But it’s dismal to think about. That essence is not necessarily good. But I do believe it. I think this disorder is so interesting to read about because the culture's understanding of it is so insipid. When really, it shows women are indicating radical splits (whether consciously or unconsciously) and thus almost living in a new state of conscious (or “self), autonomizing themselves from politics, and almost abstinizing themselves from society in a manner so detached it is increasingly difficult to verbalize. That the only accurate way to verbalize it is to reference post structuralist ideas. The subfertuging anorexics do, consciously or not are one of the rigorous acts of political protests despite even realizing it is protest. The subverting of gender roles, both in the actual loss of body contour, or “whereby soft, excessive femininity is purged in order to achieve masculine acceptability. In the process, she claims, anorexics cancel out [their own] ‘female presence and power’”, but also this cancels out self. I don’t know maybe I’ll figure it out one day if I read enough
in:
Essence preceding existence
Sartre generally
Coats
My 300 dollar jeans
Black drip coffee/Gas station coffee/Mcdonalds coffee
Not undermining Neitzche’s contributions to philosophy
Mornings when it is blue outside
3/4 sleeve shirts
Distressed white leather
The smell of wet concrete
The smell of violet
Cheap shampoo
Hunter Biden reality show (prediction)
Susan Sontag
Ann Carson
Italian Men (but not women)
Linguistics
tight zip up hoodies
Research Journals
Central California (NOT SF)
Driving to places
Madonna Inn
Media literacy
Having “a” jacket
Abercrombie cut offs with the pockets hanging out
Kylie Jenner pregnant (prediction)
Accepting nothing and embracing everything
Floor time
Wrestling with your boyfriend
Las Vegas
Paris Review subscriptions
Internships
Dutch angle
Submitting your work
Gelsons/ Bristol farms
Non alcoholic sleep medication syrup
Farmers Market
Waving to babies
Criterion collection
Gus Van Sant
Hennessey and Ingalls
AI photos of niche African cats
French club
The shards by Bret Easton Ellis
Beautiful cookware
pressuring academic institutions to catch up or challenge themselves to contemporary literature or architecture
Downtown Los Angeles
Chinatown
Kissing and leaving a lipstick print
Long sleeve paws
Merit/Byredo lipstick but also never wearing makeup
subrock
out:
Paralyzing homosocial relationships
Schopenhauer
Instagram face
Facial piercings
Irony
Cyber sigilism tattoos
Goodreads
Punishing yourself
Rewarding yourself
Random trips to urgent care
Alcohol
Y2kism
Bows
Sandy Liang
Sweetgreen
Do not under any circumstance put cream or milk into a coffee
Basketball shorts
Do not invite me anywhere in which I cannot park my car
Owning more than 4 items of clothing
Recycling
Friendsgivings
Black Friday
Saying no
Over consumption
Worms/snakes/ eels/ etc.
Photo dumps
We need to refine what we consider “subversive” ATP
Weak sense of self
Insecurities as an adult
DoorDash
Manicures
Natural deodorants
Infographics
Passive aggressiveness, be angry or don’t be anything
Wellbutrin
Oatmilk
Mullets/shags
i want for autumn:
-pea coat
-talcum powder
-rice milk soap
-new guillaume dustan book
-a striped sweater
-dutch oven
-chanel lip liner
-chanel cheek baumé
-montana panton wire extended shelf
-a framed photo of my cats
-date milkshake
-birthday dinner at the chateau
-very simple conversations
bonnie parker white turtle neck, black shorts, beret, blonde wig, 20s makeup, gun
dorothy
https://legavenue.com/collections/halloween-costumes/products/86988-gingham-dress-lace-skirt
snow white
lydia beetlejuice
margot tenanbaum
marla singer
joan
boo from monsters inc (for work)
betty boop
leon the professjonal ❤️❤️❤️
sailor
nurse
french maid
mime ❤️❤️❤️ stripe, red choker, beret, suspenders
oktoberfest
betty the flinstones
bob dylanhalloween costumesbonnie parker white turtle neck, black shorts, beret, blonde wig, 20s makeup, gun
dorothy
https://legavenue.com/collections/halloween-costumes/products/86988-gingham-dress-lace-skirt
snow white
lydia beetlejuice
margot tenanbaum
marla singer
joan
betty boop
leon the professjonal
sailor
nurse
french maid
mime stripe, red choker, beret, suspenders
oktoberfest
betty the flinstones
bob dylan
10/1 it’s rosh Hashanah tomorrow
I tried to make my room look as much like a hospital as possible. I went to the home depot at my local outdoor mall when they opened at 5am and put this pail of behr primer on the counter and a white trash meth tweaker rang me up. It ws really no big deal he had to be up for work this early; he never went to bed. He asked me if I had a boyfriend and I showed something. I lifted up my nightgown and showed him my underwear Ive had since 6th grade. They were from old navy and they had the word “tuesday” right over my vagina. He saw my upper thighs, how they were straight down instead of curved out. He saw my ilium, ischium, and pubis sticking out, inching the home depot lettering that said “ 60% off of gardening materials NOW TILL DECEMBER”. He started to drool. I was pretty fat compared to his girlfriend who was on meth and sometimes caffine pills when things dried up.
dinner and a show I Had seen Claire gnaw on monobloc polypropylene chairs like they were bones filled with marrow ready to be sucked. I had seen her suck on the polymer, the heat from her cheeks making the thermoplastic melting into a viscous liquid. She opened her mouth (a wooden stick holding her tongue down) to show the liquid making lace of saliva and polymer. The lace had no pattern as she didn’t care to think of one. She played with the polymer film and moved her tongue around as if to say “Look at how bad i am being” It was thawing on her filiform mixed with silt from cereal crop; millet. She ate millet four days ago, she spilt much of it onto her hoodie from the GAP. (CHILDREN SECTION, SIZE MEDIUM, ALTERED AT THE WRISTS WITH A SMALL BRAIDED ELASTIC TO FIT HER LENGTH) Claire’s stomach acid ranked at a level thirteen which meant she was more clever than the methyl grouping in the monobloc chair’s arm so she could melt it and feel it warm against her buccal mucosa. As she became more desolate in the south, She broke it off, she chewed, only stopping to spit out the unmeltable parts. Her eyes widened, like a dog who learned how to open the fridge. Once she had tasted enough to hit paint and decipher the polymers MFI (melt flow index) she spit the entirety out. She spit it out onto my mothers kitchen tile, a pool flooded with ethylene and saliva bubbles that made popping noises like rice krispies with two percent milk. She hunched as if to level with the new toy,and gently slid an ice tray over it. The popping noise ceased, and I heard gushing between her lithe fingers. It hardened against her, a sensation she had known once which resulted in a child with a full head of black hair, as if she had given her own hair off her head to the child. The child grew. She fed him in a teflon high chair, she fed him sour ropes, taffy, large glasses of milk and millet which he spit up from time to time. She enjoyed the child’s face as he opened toys from fast food places, she felt tethered to him from the rear view mirror as she saw him chew lick and suck on the cut rate army men toy made of Acrylonitrile butadiene styrene. Her pool had become moldable and with shaky hands she moved as if throwing clay. She molded it into the shape of a small pastry, a german or french one was not as clear, only that she had a base of a carb , a blanket of some sort of frosting dotted with what seemed to be raspberries but this was hard to tell because everything was white. Dollops of her saliva fell onto the berries, creating a sheen. Claire put it into the freezer. Claire salivated for days, and started to smell strange. Her skin turned yellow and her heart beated to the tempo of Superstar by the Carpenters. She fell asleep next to me on her extra monobloc chair in front of the tv. I sat in a throne, a rocking chair. I asked her if it hurt, her spine against the polymer and all she said was that her millet was done. The pastry stayed in the icebox, Id drag a step stool made of wood accented with Polytetrafluoroethylenebearings and i’d look at it from time to time, it had small bites taken out of it. One corner looked as if it was cut with a fork and knife.
Claire’s coffin was made by a distributor in Shenzhen, Item # FU91693, it was collapsible 5ft long when assembled and made of fabric and held together by wire framing. The man who hardened against claire and gave her one child did not have money for a real coffin, so opted to order a coffin used for front lawn halloween decorations. Initially he searched for a toy coffin made of polypropylene but the price of Item # FU91693 was more attractive. Everyone also figured because she weighed so little the fabric would not rip, only sag. Which was right. Her child with its black full head of hair sat on his fathers lap, my mother, brother, grandfather and i sat in the third row. My grandfather watched his sister sag near the grass, and even through the fabric you could see Claire's sacrum bones taunting crustacean bugs who were looking for something to nestle on or under. The fabric was slightly sheer and you could tell what Claire was wearing. A pinafore dress(THE CHILDRENS GAP, SIZE LARGE, ADJUSTABLE STRAPS WITH POLYEPOXIDE BUTTONS AND A COIL NYLON ZIPPER) no one acknowledged this. I believed for a second that I could see her left ring finer, but it was just a taraxcum flower that grew to be plump and yellow, it was not her yellow hand that threw the polymer delicacies. They buried her, the boys who dropped out of the high school nearby and needed quick money. They did not struggle to hoist her down. For a second, I believe she may have unzipped # FU91693 and spit out more polymer or thrown up bile or asked for a real hamburger, a real one. But she did not. They threw dirt over her face, I imagined her opening her mouth to catch the soil, finally eating, digesting, pleading, reckoning, replevying. My grandfather gritted his teeth as one of the boys burrying his sister hit her foot with a ULINE shovel which had a 14x17” blade. We all shifted towards the front of our seats when we heard the ULINE shovel which had a 14x17” blade hit her tendon which had metallised. Sifting through heavy breaths and guilt we made our way to the reception room at the church. I looked at the ceiling and thought if I looked hard enough my eyes could break the ceiling and see her in heaven at a Mcdonald's, one which had a polyvinyl chloride jungle gym i could feel my bare feet suction on and off of . Asbestos ceiled church tops did not reveal this to me, but instead snowed slightly landing on my hair, and I ate it. It melted onto my tongue like LSD or a listerine strip with microcrystalline cellulose and maltodextrin making a film of satisfaction on the apex of my tongue for being like Claire and eating but not really. I was young, they showed a photo of her at the front of the church recreation room meant for baptism or first communion parties. I ate salty tears and more of the gifted toiled chains of agnesium, iron, calcium, aluminum, and sodium that the generous popcorn ceiling offered me to not think about her sagging body. I chewed on a Polyethylene terephthalate cup filled with grape juice. When this did not satisfy me i ran a S-7305 5 ¾” uline spoon
against my baby teeth hearing as it ricocheted against my lateral incisors. I stomped my feet against the olefin carpeted floor, and my 196983114503 093-01-9923Polyurethane 84% Recycled PET (Polyethylene
Terephthalate) and 16% Polyester , 57% Polyester and 43% TPR (Thermoplastic Rubber) , Imported ballet flats with low-resilience polyurethane foam memory foam insoles made noises to alert my mother I was of ill nature. I rubbed my lipids, proteins, electrolytes, enzymes and metabolites on her #518080
GAP Polyester 63%, Rayon 33%, Spandex 4%Machine washed, Imported,
24 ¾, 31 ¼, 30 ¾, shift silhouetteSoft woven mini dress, Crewneck, .Sleeveless dress with a pocket at the hips. She hands me a Petrochemical, Isopropyl palmitate, Dimethicone, Tocopheryl Acetate, Cocoa Nucifera Oil, and Aloe Vera Extract. tissue and I release my colloids of inorganic salts,lysozymes, immunoglobins, glycoproteins, and lactoferrins.She raises me to her lap, we are close to each others face, i can smell monoterpenoid organic compounds with chemical formula C10H20O which Geranyl diphosphate synthase (GPPS) first catalyzes the reaction of IPP and DMAPP into geranyl diphosphate (−)-limonene synthase (LS) catalyzes the cyclization of geranyl diphosphate to (−)-limonene (−)-Limonene-3-hydroxylase (L3OH), using O2and then nicotinamide adenine dinucleotide phosphate (NADPH) catalyzes the allylic hydroxylation of (−)-limonene at the 3 position to (−)-trans-isopiperitenol.(−)-trans-Isopiperitenol dehydrogenase (iPD) further oxidizes the hydroxyl group on the 3 position using NAD+ tomake(−)-isopiperitenone.(−)-Isopiperitenone reductase (iPR) then reduces the double bond between carbons 1 and 2 using NADPH to form (+)-cis-isopulegone(+)-cis-Isopulegone isomerase (iPI) then isomerizes the remaining double bond to form (+)-pulegone.(+)-Pulegone reductase (PR) reduces this double bond using NADPH to form (−)-menthone.(−)-Menthone reductase (MR) then reduces the carbonyl group using NADPH to form (−)-menthol.[13] which makes her breath smell good but not real. We rock back and forth and back and forth on the
31.75'' H X 21'' W X 22.5'' D 17'' H 25'' H 6.9 lb.
PolypropylenePolipropene 25 [USAN]; Propene polymers;Poly(1-methylethylene) of PP is between 0.895 and 0.93 g/cm3. ultra-high-molecular-weight polyethylenewith prime synthetic resin with ultra-violet inhibitors Impervious to salt air and most common stains.which is Fade Resistant; Rust Resistant; UV Resistant; Weather Resistant; Stain Resistant,
D638
D790
D256
D648
D570
and can hold up to 300 pounds and rock back and fourth and back and forth and back and forth my mom whispers things to me but i can smell the monoterpenoid organic compounds with chemical formula C10H20O which Geranyl diphosphate synthase (GPPS) first catalyzes the reaction of IPP and DMAPP into geranyl diphosphate (−)-limonene synthase (LS) catalyzes the cyclization of geranyl diphosphate to (−)-limonene (−)-Limonene-3-hydroxylase (L3OH), using O2and then nicotinamide adenine dinucleotide phosphate (NADPH) catalyzes the allylic hydroxylation of (−)-limonene at the 3 position to (−)-trans-isopiperitenol.(−)-trans-Isopiperitenol dehydrogenase (iPD) further oxidizes the hydroxyl group on the 3 position using NAD+ tomake(−)-isopiperitenone.(−)-Isopiperitenone reductase (iPR) then reduces the double bond between carbons 1 and 2 using NADPH to form (+)-cis-isopulegone(+)-cis-Isopulegone isomerase (iPI) then isomerizes the remaining double bond to form (+)-pulegone.(+)-Pulegone reductase (PR) reduces this double bond using NADPH to form (−)-menthone.(−)-Menthone reductase (MR) then reduces the carbonyl group using NADPH to form (−)-menthol.[ on her breath which makes her feel austere and not of a
of place i once inhabited. I jerk my neck over and begin to chew on the 31.75'' H X 21'' W X 22.5'' D 17'' H 25'' H 6.9 lb.
PolypropylenePolipropene 25 [USAN]; Propene polymers;Poly(1-methylethylene) of PP is between 0.895 and 0.93 g/cm3. ultra-high-molecular-weight polyethylenewith prime synthetic resin with ultra-violet inhibitors Impervious to salt air and most common stains.which is Fade Resistant; Rust Resistant; UV Resistant; Weather Resistant; Stain Resistant,
D638
D790
D256
D648
D570
it tastes good so i continued to chew on the 31.75'' H X 21'' W X 22.5'' D 17'' H 25'' H 6.9 lb.
PolypropylenePolipropene 25 [USAN]; Propene polymers;Poly(1-methylethylene) of PP is between 0.895 and 0.93 g/cm3. ultra-high-molecular-weight polyethylenewith prime synthetic resin with ultra-violet inhibitors Impervious to salt air and most common stains.which is Fade Resistant; Rust Resistant; UV Resistant; Weather Resistant; Stain Resistant,
D638
D790
D256
D648
D570
which felt good so i ate more of the 31.75'' H X 21'' W X 22.5'' D 17'' H 25'' H 6.9 lb.
PolypropylenePolipropene 25 [USAN]; Propene polymers;Poly(1-methylethylene) of PP is between 0.895 and 0.93 g/cm3. ultra-high-molecular-weight polyethylenewith prime synthetic resin with ultra-violet inhibitors Impervious to salt air and most common stains.which is Fade Resistant; Rust Resistant; UV Resistant; Weather Resistant; Stain Resistant,
D638
D790
D256
D648
D570
and washed it down with Water, C10-12 alcohol ethoxylates, sodium secondary C13-18 alkyl sulfonate, fragrance, citric acid, colorant, xanthan gum and preservative
31.75'' H X 21'' W X 22.5'' D 17'' H 25'' H 6.9 lb.
PolypropylenePolipropene 25 [USAN]; Propene polymers;Poly(1-methylethylene) of PP is between 0.895 and 0.93 g/cm3. ultra-high-molecular-weight polyethylenewith prime synthetic resin with ultra-violet inhibitors Impervious to salt air and most common stains.which is Fade Resistant; Rust Resistant; UV Resistant; Weather Resistant; Stain Resistant,
D638
D790
D256
D648
D570
Water, C10-12 alcohol ethoxylates, sodium secondary C13-18 alkyl sulfonate, fragrance, citric acid, colorant, xanthan gum and preservative
31.75'' H X 21'' W X 22.5'' D 17'' H 25'' H 6.9 lb.
PolypropylenePolipropene 25 [USAN]; Propene polymers;Poly(1-methylethylene) of PP is between 0.895 and 0.93 g/cm3. ultra-high-molecular-weight polyethylenewith prime synthetic resin with ultra-violet inhibitors Impervious to salt air and most common stains.which is Fade Resistant; Rust Resistant; UV Resistant; Weather Resistant; Stain Resistant,
D638
D790
D256
D648
D570
(͎C͎2͎H͎4͎)͎n͎
(͓̽C͓̽2͓̽H͓̽4͓̽)͓̽n͓̽
(̷̪̤̘̻̠̫͇͐̐̔̃́̌̈̓͐̓̾̈́̓͂̃̎̆̓͆̒̀̀̈̿̉̈́͗̕̚͝C̴̢̨̧̺̹̙̼͓͚͎͖͍͔̰͖̭̜̰̞̲̞͍̯̮̩͙̣͌̈́͋̾̀̒̒͐́͋̈́̒͆̅̈́̋͘͘͝͝ͅͅͅ2̶̨̱̠͔̬̠͚͉̥̱̠̥̫̖͕͔͍̯̫̯̙̠͉̦͔̉̇́̆̅̀̓͂̊̏̇̑́̓̍̂̈́̆͝͝͝ͅḨ̵̨̻̬̠͈̦͇̫̮̟͔̫̣͖̙̫̟͇͉͐̎̉̀̇͊̿̓̿̓̃͊̓̍͐͗͊̚͜͜͝4̴̧̤͙̦͚͇̜̲̟̗͖͈̝̺͓̬̲͇̠̋̿͌̄͂̀͋͑̽̈́ͅ)̴̗̤̫̪̃̓̄͆̓̋́̄̅̓n̸̛͚͂̅͛͛̇́̏̉͗͒̒̅̇̉͠͝
(̴̘̮̫̞̩͕̘̖̝̦̭̠̙̰̾̌̐̀̊̈̔͜C̴̼̰̯̫̭͈̺͔̹͓̀̽͆̇̈́͐͘̕͜͜͠͠2̵̡̨̢̧̢̝̩̟̫̘̅̽͐̽͌̊̄̚H̴̛̙̦͔̳̟̫͎̪̬̪̋̆̀̌͗͝4̸̢̛̠̬̼̫̝̬̳͔̜͙̆̈̀͌̉̆͒̑͆͑̚)̷̛̠͌̈́̊̕n̵̨̤͖͗̓
I have no interest in my personal life. Or the people in it. Or the people that have been. Or the vegetables I have cut. Or the words that I have read. Any extension of myself or by proxy is completely gluttonous. And therefore must be erradicated. Self (at all and at any)>gluttony>die a bad person or unremarkable one who cared about benign, trivial shit. That being said here is my ins and outs list for Autmn 2024 according to what I like or dislike/ think is cool/ think is lame: IN:-chanel lip/ cheek baume in shade camelia
-matching shades of lipstick with your friends
-wearing all black (this is perenial)
-tumblr (a bit stupid given i have this blog)
-capers on everything
-kissing in elevators
-knee high socks with midi skirts
-eco brutualism
-mules
-xiu xiu, depeche mode, new order, gesaffelstein, in utero, slint, teen suicide, blonde redhead, carissas wierd, the crying nudes, la timpa, john glacier, daniel johnston, polly jean harvey, death cab for cutie, the durutti column, arthur russell, eels, brian jonestown massacre, if i were a carpenter, babyfather, red house painters, rainer maria, sprain, lou reed, the VU
-making it onto madonna12.com
-being really drunk at a party and going to the bathroom to fix your lipstick and just looking at your face with niether a positive or negative affect to be noted
-i would like to have a reason to go to New York
-pleated attire
-simmer pots while baking
-french press black coffee
-angels dream tea
-clear umbrellas
-smoking cigarettes after the gym
-plain jewelry
-steel
-steel
-steel
-cold things against your skin
-hollywood
-animalique by byredo
-cotton underwear or silk underwear
-underwear that says the days of the week
-asceticism by day hedonism by night
-dolphin shorts, any sort of small short
-russian food
-having an avoidant personality
-being vague
-being disaffected
-fighting with trained medical professionals
-the fall is for going to parties and wondering how you made it to work the next day
-house shows/house parties
-kissing at house parties
-stealing from rich people who throw house parties
-wool
-panton wire boxes
-la pergoletta
-blairs
-crashing out
-my boyfriend telling people to shut the fuck up
-the car crash collective girls
-my anti aircraft air friend album and tour (https://myantiaircraftfriend.com/tour/)
-not having anything to say
-la timpa
-passport paperwork
-passport photo sexiness
-white girl wednesday
-lipstick stain on cigarettes
-collars
-my maintence man telling me I am Marilyn Monroe. You’re right.
-adderall
-margot
-french class at a community college
-smoking instead of eating
-zoe walking to my house and I make her dinner
-dillon basically being a frat boy now
-dillon
-shopping with catherine
- playing makeup and dress up with cattherine
-jello
-jean paul sartre
-wearing a bra
OUT:
-sweetgreen
-texting back
-burner account centric schizophrenia
-explicitly long paragraphs that get sent to me on my phone
-therapy speak, hey you are not speaking english or any contemporary language
-being agreeable
-betting on horses
-getting groped at hellp dj sets by like 19 year old boys who are basically gay
-shoegaze im really tired
-sandy liang
-my twenty fourth birthday
-everyone always leaving to go on tour
-koreatown
-garish clothing
-garish language
-i need to sswear less
-going to your hometown
-dogs/puppies
-blonde people (why would you ever want to be blonde its like the least chic thing ever)
-safari on iphone or mac
-my milk ridden laptop
-being nice whenI really dont have to be
-shots at the doctor
-the doctor
-my problems
-silverlake flea
-thai angel,rest in peace
-not listening
-crop tops
-insanely baggy jeans
-road rage
-auto fiction
-reading just to read
-talking just to talk
-cooking just to eat
-women talking like schizophrenics on tiktok
-vegan meat substitutes
-alimentto in silverlake, rest in peace
-cheese
-red wine
-you look like something from a pintrest board in a bad way
-people asking me questions