Archive for pain

On the death of my grandfather

I have a mole on the side of my body, right between my right breast and armpit. It used to look like most of my other moles, small, flat, and brown, but it looks different now, and I’m kind of freaking out about it. Not because I’m scared it’s cancerous or anything like that, but because this mole is special, as my grandpa, Poppo, had the exact same mole in the exact same spot.

For those of you who follow this blog, but don’t know me in real life, my Poppo died at the end of this past December. If you do know me or read me, then you’ll know that this has been a devastating, however expected, loss. I won’t go into everything again (you can read more about him here and here) but he co-raised me and we were very close when I was growing up. For over a decade before he died, he suffered from Alzheimer’s Disease. In the end he didn’t really remember any of us except my grandmother, and he lived full-time in a special home for people with memory loss.

A lot of people aren’t close to their grandparents, so they don’t really get it, and they say or want me to say that he was like a father to me, but it wasn’t exactly like that. I never had a father, so I wouldn’t know what that means. Poppo was my best friend and one of the only people who has ever made me feel completely safe and loved. Years ago a sentence like that would have never appeared in my writing, because feeling safe and loved is not funny, or really very interesting as far as the big story goes, but getting older and trying to get healthy mentally makes you say and feel all kinds of things that aren’t super amusing. I have lived for almost my whole life genuinely believing that I just can’t seem to do anything right, but my grandpa’s love always got through to me. He never made me feel ashamed or ugly.

I’ve been hard on myself for mourning so deeply. I can’t figure out why it still hurts so much, especially since he was so old and sick, so ready to go, and went so peacefully. But I suppose watching the person you love most in the entire world exhale for the final time doesn’t fit neatly into the definition of “peaceful.” It was harder in the end to watch him leave his earthly body because I had stuffed down my feelings about slowly losing who he was long before that. Just as my favorite mole is changing, I watched my grandpa change before my eyes for years and then had to turn away. It was too painful to see him, too difficult to accept that he was alive but not there to read my stories or meet the person I want to spend the rest of my life with (who reminds me a lot of him, by the way. Sometimes cliches work out). Of course, unlike the weird, raised, discolored mole (TMI), which I will probably have to get removed, my Poppo never turned into anything ugly. He was beautiful to the very end and beyond, from his last breath with most of my family by his side to the amazing pictures we shared at his rosary to the strength he gave my cousin to deliver his beautiful eulogy.

I know it will get easier, because there are more funny stories about Poppo than sad times, but I will miss him forever.

on application

wow, i just filled out the longest job application ever of all time. thank god it was online. the best part was how it renewed my confidence in my ability to bullshit. the second best part was how i bullshitted like an old pro in the free form section and then at the VERY end there were three simple yes/no experience-related questions which will undoubtedly determine whose applications they will and will not read. my answer to each was no.

moving on…

today, as i rode to water aerobics class alongside my mother in her silvery grey VW Passat, i realized that if it weren’t for water aerobics, i would almost never leave the house before 9 p.m., if at all. in fact, i am fairly certain that if not for water aerobics and all the internet research i have been doing on past olympic heroes, my body and brain would have completely atrophied by now. as i sat there, uncomfortably close to the woman whose hopes and dreams for me i have disappointed time and again, it occurred to me that if i don’t figure out what to do soon, i might have to actually commit suicide. not because i am particularly melancholy at the moment, but because it is just starting to sound like one of the most viable options. at this point, i can’t even imagine myself at a regular job. i can barely imagine myself getting out of my nightgown or looking at the sun, if you want to know the truth.

i know this all sounds fairly abysmal, but fear not, dear friendly readers, for i have since then come to the conclusion that attempting to take my own life is out of the question, if only because i currently have no health insurance and, let’s face it, truly lack any real sense of follow-through. therefore, the likelihood is i will simply find myself again in the emergency room of san gabriel hospital, only this time having caused my mother hundreds or thousands of dollars in medical bills. that is certainly no way to re-earn her trust in my abilities. no way!

for this you can thank the re-run i watched, in my nightgown, of course, of an episode of oprah on the u.s. healthcare crisis.

for the record, my nightgown is very short, sassy, and sexy. i was getting nervous that it is probably starting to infuriate my mom to come home to me on the couch in my nightgown (although to be fair, looking for jobs on craigslist), so yesterday i put a shirt over it and pretended it was a skirt. today i changed into my bathing suit before she even got home, as to tip her off to my eagerness to join the living world in the great out of doors.

you may be wondering why i am spending so much time at my mother’s in the first place. first of all there is the price of gas. i don’t have the funds (duh) to be gallivanting around the city. secondly, well, i don’t know if you know this, but joe and i don’t technically live together. we periodically try to spend more time apart so that when that glorious day comes, it will be all the sweeter, however we tend to fail miserably at that. i think this time will be the charm though, because honestly i am not doing so well and it’s not good for a new-ish couple when a man regularly comes home from a hard day in the print lab to find his beloved wifey despondent and chain-smoking tear-stained parliament lights, with both feet dangling menacingly over an inadequately lofty balcony.

what i need is to take control of my own destiny. i need to apply myself to seriously looking for a second job and selling myself, limited skills but stellar personality, to prospective employers. i need to apply what i have learned about myself in the last two years to actively changing patterns i have followed my entire life. i need to apply some goddamned mascara, throw open the front door and say, “look world, i know you have given me many chances, and i took a terrified shit on every single one, but i’m here now, and i’m ready to start creating the life i want to be in!”

shortly after that, it will occur to me that i am deep in the suburbs of san gabriel, where people actually work during the day, and no one probably heard me, or cared, but somehow that won’t matter, because i have had the right audience time and time again, but this time i will have finally found the voice.

the failure princess playhouse is dark

it’s not like i never think about going back to school, it’s just that every time i think about it, i want to slit my wrists because i fucking hated school. i’m feeling fairly unintelligent lately on account of the fact that i haven’t had a real conversation with anyone other than joe in weeks. if you were wondering about the dream job i mentioned i interviewed for, i was moments away from getting it when the proprietors of said dream-establishment made the somewhat abrupt decision to close it down. i will tell you all about that (aka rant like hell) later, but that’s not the point right now. the point is that in the interview, despite some very notable (at least to me) missteps, i found that i did surprisingly well. i was scared shitless even though the girls interviewing me were familiar and friendly, because a) i wanted the job really bad, and b) there were actually official company interview questions, like, on a clipboard, which is always intimidating. somehow, as the questions came out, so did my answers, many of which were seemingly well-thought-out, oft-spoken, coherent thoughts. WTF? me? like i said, i surprised myself even a little. i guess that’s because these days when i talk out loud to anyone other than my beloved, i am mostly in a crowded bar, cracking a joke or recounting the latest OMG moment that occurred among my friends. i guess there are thoughts and opinions i have that i haven’t been voicing for months now, which honestly, and those of you who know me will attest to this, should be damn near IMPOSSIBLE given the profusion of words that escapes my lips on a constant basis. literally constant, as i totally talk in my sleep.

it makes me think of the tori amos lyric in the song “silent all these years” :

“so you found a girl who thinks really deep thoughts/what’s so amazing about really deep thoughts?”

when i first heard that lyric, my little 15-year-old ears were taken aback. after all, i myself thought really deep thoughts, and tori’s lyrics were all really deep thoughts (SO DEEP!!!) so what the hell was she on about there? was this guy just a pretentious ass? were the other girl’s thoughts DEEPER than tori’s? did tori hate girls with deep thoughts like me??? (lol)

i guess she could have been talking about anything in most of her songs (peyote anyone?), but as i got older, i finally began to understand that lyric, at least my own final interpretation. any of us could be the really deep thoughts girl. thinking really deep thoughts is not so great a feat if you can’t put them into the world, in words, on the page, in a song, papier mâché, whatever. i thought i was pretty smart, but i didn’t know anything about it until i learned how to express myself, or rather, about the different ways of expressing who i am.

i’ve found that my life is so different since i embraced my “lighter side”. when i was younger i felt like there were two of me in constant battle. “funny amanda” who everyone liked so much, who would do anything for a laugh, and “real amanda” who was miserable every second and wished only for the sweet relief of death’s embrace. ah, youth! anyhoo, i always felt like i couldn’t be both people because they were too different and that i must be some kind of cursed impostor, like the beast in “beauty and the beast” except with better hair and only slightly better posture. i decided that i was meant to be miserable, and it would be only when i had fully accepted that and lived my life in that way that i would be able to feel comfortable in my skin.

somehow the opposite happened and i ended up having more funny days than suicide days. it turned out “real amanda” was funny after all, and the whole world rejoiced around me. jk. it’s not like that at all. i’m still as miserable as ever, but i have somehow assumed the role of general entertainer and making people feel comfortable and avoiding awkward silences person. joe calls that “charm” but i call it “work”. it’s something i complain about, but of course when people don’t pay attention to me i start to go a little insane. the point being, lately i have been wondering for the millionth time if i have taken things too far in this direction. i’ve complained for years that no one takes me seriously, but after being nearly shocked out of my seat by my own answers in that job interview i realize that i have actually stopped taking myself seriously at all. this is not good. i don’t want to be a little dark cloud of gloom over l.a., i’m just saying i see a lot of people around me working a lot less hard, personality-wise, and having much more respect for themselves and from others. granted, most of those people are good-looking, but i have to work with what i’ve got.

so, once again i am entering into one of my self-imposed subdued periods in an attempt to be seen as the strong, silent type. no more show pony-ing around for this princess. i’m gonna read a bunch of books, eat seven different kinds of expensive cheese a week, and only go to bars so i can passively observe the rituals of nightlife and talk about books and cheese. it’s going to be really great.

p.s. i will still write my blog. and probably have drinks.

p.s.s. this song/video still makes me cry and i ain’t ashamed.

will the Failure Princess ever be Queen?

contrary to the rampant rumors making their way around the interwebs, i have not committed suicide, as i promised long ago to do once i turned 27 if i had not accomplished anything significant. i have just been beyond depressed lately and wit completely escapes me. san fran was loads of fun up until the last day, which is really what sank me, plus i got my period that day, plus the aforementioned suicide deadline was this past tuesday, my 27th birthday!

i don’t even really know why i’m writing this except to say hello. i hate not writing for a whole week, it’s silly, but i just can’t think of anything funny to say. i wanted to post a video of my new reason for living: the jenny craig commercials featuring queen latifah, but they don’t have it on youtube, so you will have to watch it here. the best part is obviously how she keeps it real from the get-go with “i don’t watch the scale. that’s never been my thing…” while also subtly letting us know with her body language that wearing purple cowl neck sweaters with long, flowy skirts has never been her thing either, along with not being a huge dyke, which is MOST DEFINITELY NOT her thing. she is the biggest lez ever. i actually found the commercial somewhat inspiring though, and i liked the health over forcing thinness upon oneself angle. lord knows queen is never going to look like nicole richie, and thank god for that! she’s gorgeous!

in that vein, i found it ironic that i posted this entry about losing weight and what you gain and lose with it exactly a year ago when the other day i stepped on the scale only to discover that i have gained pretty much all the weight i ever lost back. i don’t know how that is possible since i still fit onto some of my “skinnier” clothes, but i guess it just kind of crept up on me. i was barely holding on, well over fighting weight, but still at jean shorts-and-high heels-possibly-getting-laid-tonight weight when i met joe, got laid, fell in love, and totally just lost it. i am in this sort of delusional denial of it all, but all the signs are there. if i see a dress i think will fit me and try it on, it never does. this is a dangerous game when you acquire most of your clothes thrifting, cause sometimes there are no fitting rooms and also to not fit into an awesome dress or blouse is 100,000,000 times more depressing when it’s one of a kind. so sad. i’ve been back to my old tricks of only buying accessories and shoes, but i hadn’t even noticed i was doing it! three things are to blame for this (besides me) love, pizza, and american apparel, for making it so easy to live one’s entire life in a super-low v t-shirt, showing sexy cleav and not even realizing that your waistline and backfat are slowly but surely obliterating the possibility of you getting onto any tops with buttons in the foreseeable future. none of my favorite vintage dresses or tops fit and i think even my feet have gained weight.

one of the things you take for granted when you lose weight steadily like i did last time is how easy it becomes to look “good” in a photograph. i had completely forgotten the old fat girl days of taking shots at extreme angles, extreme close-ups, or avoiding the camera altogether. suddenly, while there were of course LOTS of awful pics of me, there were a lot of good ones too… and by good i mean thin-looking, even though i realize that is wrong. these days i have to erase just about every pic that is taken of me, which is a damn shame, since i just got a new camera for xmas. to me, all my pictures look kind of like the ones of those who had watched the evil video in “the ring,” blobby and awful. horrific.

well, there you have it folks, i am officially a 27 year-old failure, still broke, still fat, and still crazy, if only mildly suicidal. i have decided that since i love joe so much i will give myself one or two more years to live and see if i become famous, and, if not thin, then at least healthy and not giving a shit what anyone thinks, like queen latifah.

a failure, the heart

this isn’t very linear. i appologize in advance. my brain is swimming. my grandpa is in the hospital with horrible pneumonia and congestive heart failure. i’m just sort of… failing as well, you know? i want to pray, as that is all i can do, but i am unsure of what to pray for.

if any one person has defined my life, that person is my grandfather, poppo. he raised me from infancy along with my mother, grandmother, and aunt, all in the same house. i don’t believe i have ever loved or trusted anyone more, or know that i ever will.

well, “trust” is a funny word for me, because really i don’t trust anyone. especially because i am terrified of vampires. i used to be convinced when i was a kid that it was only a matter of time before the night came where i would be awakened to find that my entire family had turned into vicious, bloodsucking vampires ready to sink their teeth into my young flesh. sometimes these fears even carried into the morning, whereupon poppo and i would be riding to school in his rickety, blue datsun pickup truck. i would stare out at the grey sky fizzing with dry autumn leaves and think, “if poppo turned into a daytime vampire right now, that would be so scary. but at least he would make me a vampire too, then me and poppo would be vampires together.”

i was a strange child, but i loved my grandfather very much.

in fact, everyone has always loved him. my mom and aunts used to call him “the phantom of san gabriel” because sometimes he would rake other people’s lawns as well as ours and on the eve of trash day he would go around to several of our neighbors houses and, under the cloak of twilight, drag their trash cans out to the front for them. and this was before all the trash cans had wheels.

when we were little, he made all of us laugh and scream by turning his eyelids inside-out. whenever my mom got really pissed she would tell him to spank me with his belt. he would take me to his bathroom, where he kept all of his belts rolled and filed in the wooden drawer. he opened the drawer and showed them to me menacingly, but he never hit me. never once.

the scent map i made of him is original old spice deodorant, the cracked vinyl of the seats in his truck, yard work sweat, the cheap wooden cabinets of his bathroom, cepacol mouthwash, and old, yellowing hardback books.

he taught me to always have a pen. he taught me that you can make a game of the dictionary. he read me a story over and over again that taught me that art can save your life. he taught me that republicans suck. he taught me to go out of my way for others. he taught me to appreciate a good pun. he helped teach us all every fucking thing we know about love.

he has been in a home for about a year, i think, or a little more. they (i say they) had to put him there when he started wandering away from home. i rarely visit. it breaks my heart. i know it is selfish. i gave him my letter then never followed through.

the alzheimer’s disease has killed his memory. he does not remember me. he does not remember how i used to say, “i love you poppo!” and he would say, “thank you!” and then i would say, “poppo, that’s not the answer!!!” and then he would smile and say “i love you too.”

today, in the emergency room, i leaned down and tried to choke the words out, but i don’t know if he could hear me. i would have given anything for him to just say “thank you!” i would have known what he meant by that.

poppo and i with our favorite, the meyer lemon tree


this is difficult for me to write. well, what i mean is it is difficult right now because it feels so relevant. normally, i can disclose, poke, and joke even the most serious affliction into submission, including the one at hand. i like talking about personal things, exposing the darkest parts of myself to even a crack of light, but it’s hard to talk about this thing because of the stigma that’s attached, because everyone thinks of it as a cry for help or attention without bothering to ask anyone who actually did/does it…

but i have to write about it right now because i have been thinking about it constantly, and obsessing. i have this theory that if you write something down it’s like giving birth to it, the aging process can begin, and it begins to die. whenever i get a song stuck in my head i don’t want, i write it down over and over and over again.

so here goes.

from high school into my early twenties, i spent the majority of my time alone tearing into my skin. it was not tres dramatique a la jenny on the L Word or anything… well, not usually. there were two ways it would go down. sometimes i would come home from a night of hanging out with my friends and feel so overwhelmingly numb. i would light a candle, put on some music, get out my little notebook, and slash the insides of my arms or legs until i could cry. other times i would start out in hysterics. one thing or another had set me off and i was crying uncontrollably. the only thing that could stop the tears was the blood, and afterwards i would sit there staring off, with mascara running down my cheeks, finally peaceful.

a lot of times i would carve words and phrases into my arms and ankles. i always thought people who burned themselves were nuts (funny), but then i got into heating up pins and the head of a lighter and searing it in. that was kind of more of an instant hit of endorphins, much less symbolic for me than the bleeding, healing, and scaring of a razor cut.

the thing is, it was never a cry for attention for me. more of a reminder that i was a real fucking person, flesh and blood, and not the monstrous nothing i felt like, every single day.

which brings us to the present. the last three years of my life, and in particular the last year or so, i have moved forward in ways i never imagined. these things come easily to most people, but i avoided them mostly because i didn’t expect to or want to live this long at all. i kind of just went through life thinking of myself as a funny little experiment, like, “what kind of crap will she make of this situation? tune in tomorrow to find out!” i don’t know what finally changed, but i guess i have felt more like a real person in the last few years than i ever have, since i was a child.

that is to say, until recently. i feel so not like myself lately, i don’t know what to do. and i all i really want to do is be distracted, but i feel like the constant distractions are what is making me crazy in the first place. yet i am scared to be alone with myself because i’m afraid of what i might do (cut) or maybe even more afraid of what i might not do (write).

i’ve not felt the urge to hurt myself in YEARS, just so that is clear. and suddenly feeling it now is terrifying to me because i remember the last time i did it and how disappointed and disgusting i felt the next day. it was about two years ago now, maybe, and i drank a bunch of whiskey (first offense) then got into a horrible argument with two of my friends about love and how i don’t believe in it. i was being nasty and they were being nasty and it was just a huge mess. i was living with my mom at the time and when i got home i went straight to the backyard. i knelt down beneath the barren lemon tree on the wet grass, sobbing and cursing whoever made me. the only thing i had was a lighter so i flicked it on and held it until the metal part turned yellow-orange, then pressed it into my forearm again and again making partial circles, like the moon, and wishing the moon could see me, too.

i woke up sick and sore and vowed never to do it again. it hadn’t worked like it used to, anyway, and i felt worse instead of better.

i just need to keep reminding myself of this. i’m reading a book right now called the IHOP papers by ali liebegott, who read an excerpt from said book at the sister spit: next generation reading at the gspot a few months ago. she was amazing. her book is hilarious and sad, and so true. the only thing is there are some cutting scenes and i didn’t know about that when i started reading it. they are very tasteful and well-written, which is essential, but still, i am finding it somewhat triggering. i don’t want to stop reading the book though, so really, that is part of why i am writing this here. to get it out, to fire a warning shot to myself.

in the interest of full disclosure, i am a recovering self-injurer, dear reader, it’s true, in more ways than one. i suppose life can’t be all lipgloss, winecoolers, and pussy. i don’t feel very confident right now, so i don’t know how to end on an inspirational note… except to say i do feel somewhat better after writing this, and thanks for reading it.


if each day is a gift then most days you will find me digging through the tissue paper in the box, frantically searching for the receipt.

today was an exception.

i had a decent day at work. i have been holding out on you guys, I GOT A NEW JOB! i haven’t quit Buffalo Kitchen yet, but i have to now because the new job just told me they want me to work full time. it’s a pretty sweet gig, working out of an office in los feliz for a skincare company with cool people. 10-5, not too shabby. lord knows i’m not a morning person, but ten isn’t too bad. and i get to do stuff my crazy little brain loves like filing stuff and being anywhere near beauty products. oh man. today i pre-filed a bunch of invoices and i nearly had an orgasm. plus i have been using the product line and so far i love it. full review to come. omg, plus the pay is really good for me and i get to be at least semi-by the computer.

also, yes, i’m kind of depressed right now, but it feels kind of good and familiar. going out every night and dancing and smiling, sure, that’s great and all, but one must never forget where they come from. i come from sitting in the shower, clutching my knees against my chest beneath the rushing water, imagining that if i could just cry hard enough, the drain would take me too.

hahahahaha. um.

seriously though, i am pretty down. i had some special time alone with myself last night, but i didn’t feel like writing much. amy gave me the new tegan and sara album and i listened to it all the way home from driving her to LAX. bad move. it needs to grow on me, but some of the songs are quite good, and very sad. something about tegan and sara just gets to me. i don’t really know what it is, but it pierces me in the heart part and makes me feel all longing and shit. for what or whom, i do not know.

i haven’t been sleeping well. i still have no curtains and moon and then the sun don’t want me to sleep. been having strange, realistic dreams. the other night i dreamt i was dancing with myself and i woke up clutching one of my dresses. not one of my favorites.

oh, yeah, anyway, back to why today DIDN’T suck. i was really tired at work, obviously. i think it’s so unfair that i’m not going out but i still get no sleep. my brain didn’t really wake up until about 1:30 p.m. and by then i was in full filing swing. good times. i have never had a legit daytime job before. it’s pretty interesting. after two o’clock the day whizzes by.

after work i actually decided to suck it up and go walking around the reservoir. turns out i decided to run most of the way. as they say, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned exercising. it was pretty incredible, actually. i haven’t run that thing in so long. it felt really good to be out in the sunshine sweating it out. i was pretty shocked i could even run half an inch with how out of shape i am, but i’m thinking all the dancing i do has something to do with it. well, that and the concentrated rage.

so all in all, it was a good day. i am thinking too much and being in my head for the first time in some time, and it is painful, but i think it’s good. i am working hard and working out, which is good. i’m going out tonight sober, which can be oddly entertaining if you’re with the right people, and i will be.

thank you, Whomever, for this decent day.

gossip gossip gossip/news news news

okay, so here’s the thing about me: i am NOT a gossip. i never tell a story that isn’t true, and i don’t make a habit of repeating things that shouldn’t be repeated and/or are going to get me into trouble. if you tell me something is confidential, the likelihood is i will never discuss it again. until you say i can, and then i SO WILL! i love a good story. and i am super-observant and people tell me stuff all the time.

i will never know what information gets past me and don’t really care because, as they say, what you don’t know won’t hurt you. but nine times out of then, when someone is being insincere, i can tell for one of two reasons. the first is i can see right through most people unless i am blitzed, and the second is, i probably already know what’s going on because someone already told me. i pay attention and remember almost everything someone says to me… unless, of course, i am blitzed.

the other thing is, i don’t really care if people are talking about me if it’s the truth. if it’s something hurtful, i only hope i never find out. i understand that sometimes people talk shit, even people who like you, and that’s how it’s going to be. the problem is, people don’t always know what is and isn’t true, i guess. i don’t lead a particularly controversial life (at least by the standards of those i choose to surround myself with) so really there is not much anyone can say about me… except some people think i’m a gossip, and that bothers me.

recently i had someone in my life who was very fond of making me feel badly about talking so much about people, going out, etc. i am really sensitive to that and try to be aware because i know when i am doing it too much. apparently someone wise once said to this person that when you talk a bunch about other people’s lives that means there is nothing going on in yours. that is the kind of statement that would make me stop and think, so i considered this person’s opinion and started thinking about my behavior. the problem was that is this person, the same person who was constantly giving me shit and making blanket statements about “hating gossip” was constantly ASKING me to tell them stories and what was going on. the whole situation has been very hurtful and has forced me to realize that as i get older, i need to be more cautious about who i allow into my inner sanctum. generally i can read a person fairly well, but in the last year or two i have been letting a few bad apples slip by. i have two theories on this: 1) maybe as people get older, they have more of their own agenda, or perhaps a more sophisticated one and therefore are more likely to use someone else or fuck them over to get what they want. this confuses someone like me because the majority of my friends i have had at least since my late teens/early twenties and just generally expect that people are still going to approach new friendships with that kind of sincerity, 2) i often get blitzed.

so basically, i have been mulling over this for several months now. my roommate jaime has taken to saying “you’re not a gossip, you’re a news hound.” and she and amy were joking the other night about getting me a newsboy cap and a badge that says “PRESS.” hardy har. i can take a joke, or even criticism when it’s from people who really know me and care about me. i just don’t appreciate people making assumptions and statements about me based on their lack of ability and/or interest in getting to know the other parts of me.

i started to feel really badly about myself and wonder, wait, maybe she’s right, maybe all i have are stories about other people’s lives and going out and mingling… then i realized that there are layers to that, as to anything. if you were an artist, you might talk about art a lot, hairstylists talk about hair, movie buffs talk about film, etc etc. i am a writer and a storyteller. people’s actions and motivations fascinate me. i love to observe them, and i love forming the words to describe them. so i am going to tell a lot of stories. it’s like, my job. it’s something i will always have to keep in check because i am not trying to justify it, i definitely DON’T think it’s healthy to talk about people all the time. no one would like to hang out with a musician that only talked about music. i get that.

i have a ton of other stuff to talk about. i have been reading newsweek. newsweek is awesome! there is so much news in there. is it weird that one of my favorite sections of any magazine is the letters? even if i haven’t read the issue the letters are regarding, i love reading the letters. they are always either so astute or written by an absolute idiot. with their feet. i think this is because only someone with something really important to say or someone with no life at all would write a letter to a magazine. even in the age of email this rings true.

once, when i was eleven, i wrote an angry letter responding to an angry letter responding to an angry letter to seventeen magazine. i had to write it out, put a stamp on it, and send it in the mail. it did not get published. a first in what would become a string of failed attempts at expressing my outrage. such is life.

expensive perfume and the erotic bruise

Big_cheried_2this christmas was good to me. i got a ginormo bottle of my official signature scent miss dior cherie and the luxury body creme. which, in case you were wondering, is better than the body lotion, according to my roomate nicole, because it has a higher concentration of the perfume oil. wow, that is like the gayest fact ever. she is even faggier than i am! the perfume isn’t ridiculously expensive for someone who makes any money, but you are not talking to that kind of person. i specifically got a credit card to buy my first bottle of it, because this shit smells amazing! i get compliments every time i wear it, mostly from men, but whatever. apparently butch lesbians do not appreciate fine fragrances. that’s cool ladies, but really, don’t i tell you when i really like how you smell of cigarettes and Dial soap? it’s nice to be noticed, just sayin’. so anyway, now that i have two bottles i am going to wear it more because it’s my signature scent and money is no object perfume goes bad. yikes, but i have so many fragrances to choose from! for a while i curbed my makeup addiction with perfume, you know, like retail methadone, but then i had another problem on my hands.

someone once told me that you aren’t supposed to spray perfume on your wrists then rub them together like mom (and soap operas) always taught you. it “bruises” the fragrance. i don’t know what that means, but imagine my delight when i went to spray my miss dior cherie one Img_1552_1 morning last week and saw this bruise. i love bruises, always have. there is something tough and sexy about them, and trashy. this one looks like i have been up to something very naughty. i guess this all sounds kind of wrong cause that bruise also looks like i may be a battered woman, but everyone has their kinks. truth be told i have no idea how i get most of my bruises. they just appear and i can enjoy them for a while until they disappear, so quickly.

there was one time i had this bruise that took forever to go away. it was after a night of partying years ago, when i used to work at the movie theatre. we were hanging out there one night drinking and there was this weird old guy who was a friend of someone who wasn’t even there. i was nineteen and fairly wide-eyed, even if i didn’t know it. after a while this guy started following me around. i had always been a bit of a masochist, and i guess he heard me bragging to john and christine about how i was into pain, kid stuff, but i thought i was tough. there’s a bunch of weird shit in between, but basically he tried to molest me in the basement right in front of those other two. i just sat there as he put his hand up my thigh. i have an uncanny ability to leave my body when things get scary or interesting, allowing me to never fully experience pain or joy. it rules.

i just kind of went away from myself during the whole time. he didn’t do much other than cop a feel in the basement, but then he followed me into the bathroom. he cornered me coming out of the stall and got in my face, asking me, did i like it rough. i was mostly numb. i was standing there, watching myself, wondering what was going to happen next, when he punched me square in the jaw, snapping me back into reality. i don’t remember much after that, reality bores me.

point is, i spent the next few weeks with a bruise and what felt like a ping pong ball on the left side of my jaw. it didn’t hurt, it just itched. it was like, itchy and i wanted to rip my skin off. i was upset because i got myself into such a stupid situation, upset because i could barely remember it even though i wasn’t even that drunk, but mostly i was upset because in that moment, i wasn’t all that scared, and that was really scary.