Friday, August 20, 2010
I made it to New York! I've wanted to be here for so long and it is amazing, but I miss miss miss my best friend who left me this morning and is now on a plane back to Tucson. I love him. I miss him. I am not alone, though. My second-best friend- my little tabby cat- is stretched across my lap and yawning. She has come so far! She was born feral beneath creosote in arizona but now she is an apartment-dwelling new yorker with a pink bow on her collar.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
I'm in Tucson again but in a week I'll be gone for good, I'll be out of this town, this surreal place that smells so strongly of creosote tonight as wind and rain rack the fences and lightning and lightning and lightning flashes all over the black and blue and rose sky. I'm in love with the Sonoran desert and its dusty-sweet scent and its atomic sunsets. I'm in love with my flock of doves and thrashers and cactus wrens. I'm in love. I'm heartbroken. In a week I'll be in New York while the only friends I've ever loved enough to die with or die for are half a world away.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Two nights ago, on an Oregon beach, a friend of mine collapsed into the sand with pale face and unsteady pulse. I stood on the road to wait for an ambulance and cried and imagined the waves rushing up to catch all of us and drown us and break us into little dull bits of bone.
Another time, only a few weeks earlier, I was in a completely different place with different people and as we drove along a twisting, treacherous ledge, I thought to myself, if we drive off the ledge and all die here, I'll still be happy. I'll be happy as we go down. I'll be happy that I'm with these people and that I won't have to die alone.
Another time, only a few weeks earlier, I was in a completely different place with different people and as we drove along a twisting, treacherous ledge, I thought to myself, if we drive off the ledge and all die here, I'll still be happy. I'll be happy as we go down. I'll be happy that I'm with these people and that I won't have to die alone.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
I found a dead puppy in the woods. It was lying on a plastic bag and just its head was buried in the ground. I was high at the time, which I think made the discovery more horrifying than it normally would have been. The creepiness of finding a dead puppy was compounded by the grossness of nearby used condoms and clothing. The moral of this story is: um, I guess there is no moral. Now excuse me while I go throw up.
Friday, June 11, 2010
So just as things are beginning to work out, I'm leaving. I've lived in this city for most of three years and for most of those most of three years things were really horrid. Everyone dying or going insane, drugs drugs and more drugs, attempted murders and actual murders and rape and robberies and abuse and skeezy motherfuckers everywhere. I made the worst decisions and the worst friends. I did everything wrong in every way. I'm scarred now, angry now, afraid now, tougher now, prettier now, ... what was I saying?
Everyone has to grow into themselves and their lives. My old friends have all become so beautiful and I'm proud of them. The three years we've all been away from our hometown have made us into new people and I'm new too but I wish so much that the growing up process wouldn't have been so turbulent. All that's happened will never leave me. I wish it would leave me. I wish I could start over. I will start over. When I'm gone from here I will be newer than ever and I will do everything the way I should've done it from the start.
Everyone has to grow into themselves and their lives. My old friends have all become so beautiful and I'm proud of them. The three years we've all been away from our hometown have made us into new people and I'm new too but I wish so much that the growing up process wouldn't have been so turbulent. All that's happened will never leave me. I wish it would leave me. I wish I could start over. I will start over. When I'm gone from here I will be newer than ever and I will do everything the way I should've done it from the start.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Thursday, May 20, 2010
There are so many things, art-wise, that I am having trouble learning myself. Drawing perspective correctly, for instance, baffles me. I am wonderful at copying details of a single item or two, but the mathematical spacial whatfuckingever components of placing several items in perspective in a room have got my mind going in circles. This has got to change! What will I do with myself? Explode, probably.
Friday, April 16, 2010
For the first time in months, I feel good. I feel great. I'm painting again. I'm writing poems and I'm singing and I'm playing my guitar and I'm going jogging every morning at 6 am. I haven't showered in days and it's awesome; I love being disgusting and covered in paint because strange men don't pester me when I walk around outside wearing only a bikini top and running shorts.
This morning, a young homeless guy asked me if I'd like to buy a poem for 50 cents. I told him I had no money on me (the truth). He gave me a poem anyway. It was a decent poem, short, written on a bit of scrap paper. I like that. I like him. Tomorrow I'll see if I can find him again and if I do I'll give him a whole jar of change.
This morning, a young homeless guy asked me if I'd like to buy a poem for 50 cents. I told him I had no money on me (the truth). He gave me a poem anyway. It was a decent poem, short, written on a bit of scrap paper. I like that. I like him. Tomorrow I'll see if I can find him again and if I do I'll give him a whole jar of change.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
I did it. I walked out on my job. I had to. Irresponsible? Maybe. Ethical? I think so. Why? Because I was becoming a terrible person. I had only worked at that club for two months and it was turning me into a manipulative, lying bitch. I was learning how to sell myself just as much as I was learning how to sell drinks and as it turns out I am a hot product. The problem is that I do not want to be a product and I especially do not want my ass to be a product. I am not kidding; men would drop money on the floor so that I they could see up my skirt while I bent over to pick it up. I took their ass-cash willingly because I kind of like money. I'm really not ok with that and I had nearly fooled myself into believing that I WAS ok with that but in a moment of clarity (or panic) I said to myself "I have to get out of here" and so I did, mid-shift, and never came back.
I celebrated by having a shitshow giganto at my house. It was such a good party. The best party. I defiantly wore a frilly old dress (inherited from my grandma) because I've had it with miniskirts and bustiers. I still had boys clinging to me like flies but at least they were not clinging to my ass because frilly old dresses don't allow asses to make appearances (and I'm quite ok with that.)
I celebrated by having a shitshow giganto at my house. It was such a good party. The best party. I defiantly wore a frilly old dress (inherited from my grandma) because I've had it with miniskirts and bustiers. I still had boys clinging to me like flies but at least they were not clinging to my ass because frilly old dresses don't allow asses to make appearances (and I'm quite ok with that.)
Thursday, April 8, 2010
I am a doll. I am painted and poised and pointed and posed and posied and praised. My manager has a crush on me. My customers stare at me and smile at me and wink at me and give me too much money for nothing more than being beautiful. The other girls know it too. Dancer Joelle says "you look prettier every day I see you." I love it and I hate it all at once.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010
I finally have a day off from work and although I ought to be off painting a mural (it is a mural that will likely never get finished), I am at home. I collected orange blossoms from a nearby grove and am pulling off all the petals, rinsing them, and pulverizing them to make orange water with. I'm also watching house finches swooping around my birdfeeder.
Monday, March 29, 2010
I have a piece of metal in my face. It's a flat, small, holey thing. My skin will end up growing through the holes, making it a permanent fixture. I can see its faint silhouette beneath my skin but I can't feel it when I press my fingers to my cheekbone. It's strange to think about it being there. Sub-dermal jewelry. Weird.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
I am so angry. I want to punch things. I want to scream and howl and cuss until I have no voice! I want to light my head on fire and rub my fiery self all over every asshole I've ever met. I am not really going to do that. I am going to take deep breaths, and then I am going to read House of Leaves.
A conundrum:
On the first day that I started my cocktailing job, I was told that I would make better tips by pretending to be single. I tried this out for the first month. I did not like it. Acknowledging that one is single is apparently like saying "Why yes, I DO want to fuck you!" When I'm "single" I get groped and pestered constantly. On the annoying-but-not-harmful end of the scale, I get invitations to parties and requests for my phone number. On the more obscene side, I get hands up my skirt and comments like "I bet you'd really like to suck my dick!" Ah, the audacity of drunk men!
For the first time, last night, I decided that I would be honest. I was serving a group of young men and one of them pulled me aside and told me that his friend, John, was in love with me and wanted to know if I had a boyfriend. I told him yes. The next time I came around to their table, John got up and started yelling at me about how I only wanted to take advantage of him and steal his money. He then stomped off to a different part of the club and sat by himself and glowered. When I went to ask him if he needed anything (because he had a tab with me), he could only scowl and insult me. He then stormed off, making it very clear that he didn't plan to leave me a tip, and never came back. As much as I dislike not being tipped (I only make 4.25$ per hour), the joke was really on him, because I still had his credit card and ID and he probably woke up the next morning with a nasty hangover and no idea where his shit was. What a douche.
Do you see the problem here? If I lie, it's assumed that I'm fair game and I can't get any peace. If I'm honest, I don't make money. What am I supposed to do? I mean Jesus Christ. I'm just a waitress. I just want to serve drinks.
For the first time, last night, I decided that I would be honest. I was serving a group of young men and one of them pulled me aside and told me that his friend, John, was in love with me and wanted to know if I had a boyfriend. I told him yes. The next time I came around to their table, John got up and started yelling at me about how I only wanted to take advantage of him and steal his money. He then stomped off to a different part of the club and sat by himself and glowered. When I went to ask him if he needed anything (because he had a tab with me), he could only scowl and insult me. He then stormed off, making it very clear that he didn't plan to leave me a tip, and never came back. As much as I dislike not being tipped (I only make 4.25$ per hour), the joke was really on him, because I still had his credit card and ID and he probably woke up the next morning with a nasty hangover and no idea where his shit was. What a douche.
Do you see the problem here? If I lie, it's assumed that I'm fair game and I can't get any peace. If I'm honest, I don't make money. What am I supposed to do? I mean Jesus Christ. I'm just a waitress. I just want to serve drinks.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Today I feel like:
a used condom melted in an oven rolled up with some dryer lint lit on fire and tossed into the freeway
OR
most synonyms for blue (according to thesaurus.com, these include disconsolate, obscene, cold, cheap, and ecchymotic)
OR
most synonyms for blue (according to thesaurus.com, these include disconsolate, obscene, cold, cheap, and ecchymotic)
Friday, March 12, 2010
Last week, a man on the bus passed me a note. He did so silently, and got off the bus right after having given me the note. The note read: I can tell you the secret to your success. There was a phone number written at the bottom. Later that night I called it and asked how to be successful. The man on the other end of the phone didn't seem to have any idea what I was talking about, but maybe that's just because it was three in the morning.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Afterlife=internet?
Today is the one-year anniversary of the death of a friend. I hopped on over to his facebook page (which has not been deleted or changed since his passing) to mourn. As it turns out, everyone else was mourning via facebook as well. His wall had received comments upon comments: prayers and grief and well-wishing and stories about the things that have happened since he left. I started crying so hard after reading through a handful of wall posts. They were all so sad, and even sadder in the fact that it's fucking facebook and does anyone honestly expect dead people to check their facebooks?
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
A thing that I have learned recently:
Being hot is not all it takes to get by in life.
This comes as somewhat of a surprise. Weird, huh? I always assumed that once you reached a certain level of hotness, people bowed down and gave you money and appreciation and snacks constantly. As it turns out, what really happens when you are hot is that you receive a lot of phone numbers written on scraps of napkin. Usually the guys who are giving you their phone numbers are not very attractive, but they drive a lexus (or claim to) and think that if they wave a few dollars around, you will decide to go on a date with them. On that note, I really wish I knew what was passing through the minds of the much-older men who ask me, daily, to go home with them. I think some people just have a bad grasp on reality. In their world they are not fat and bald and fifty-something, or in their world it doesn't matter that they're fat and bald and fifty-something, because all girls really want are twenty-dollar bills and rides in semi-fancy cars.
Things that looking hot WILL NOT DO FOR YOU:
1.) Get you a job that pays much more than minimum wage
2.) Keep you from getting fired from your minimum wage job when it turns out that you are slow and bad at remembering the names of coffee drinks
3.) Make the workers at the department of economic security more sympathetic to your cause
4.) Pay your rent
5.) Feed your cat
6.) Wash your dishes
I really need to go back to school.
This comes as somewhat of a surprise. Weird, huh? I always assumed that once you reached a certain level of hotness, people bowed down and gave you money and appreciation and snacks constantly. As it turns out, what really happens when you are hot is that you receive a lot of phone numbers written on scraps of napkin. Usually the guys who are giving you their phone numbers are not very attractive, but they drive a lexus (or claim to) and think that if they wave a few dollars around, you will decide to go on a date with them. On that note, I really wish I knew what was passing through the minds of the much-older men who ask me, daily, to go home with them. I think some people just have a bad grasp on reality. In their world they are not fat and bald and fifty-something, or in their world it doesn't matter that they're fat and bald and fifty-something, because all girls really want are twenty-dollar bills and rides in semi-fancy cars.
Things that looking hot WILL NOT DO FOR YOU:
1.) Get you a job that pays much more than minimum wage
2.) Keep you from getting fired from your minimum wage job when it turns out that you are slow and bad at remembering the names of coffee drinks
3.) Make the workers at the department of economic security more sympathetic to your cause
4.) Pay your rent
5.) Feed your cat
6.) Wash your dishes
I really need to go back to school.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Today I walked through an underpass and found a man playing the violin so beautifully that it made me cry. I must admit that I cry at least once per day at things like dead pigeons and unsatisfactory beverages, which is to say that this crying-at-music business is no extraordinary event. The violin-playing WAS an extraordinary event, however, and I had to stop and tell the violinist how amazing he was. He thanked me shyly and explained that he was playing in an underpass because the acoustics were so good. I was moved to leave him with all my money. By all my money I mean two dollars. I think that I will maybe try to go find him again tomorrow, or possibly the day after, and although I have no more money to spare for street musicians (I am terribly poor right now), I will at least give him origami birds or flowers or shiny pebbles or pieces of tinsel.
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