I Got Fired, So I Became an Actress

My Garbage Dump is the World

2012-02-27T09:44:00.002-08:00

One thing about being an artist of any kind, is remaining open to the world emotionally. You let the energy channel through your mind. The light comes through, but so does the dark. Experiencing the world in vibrant colors that change and shift with each moment comes with a price. The black.

My storm was on the horizon and I just needed one little thump to push me into a neurotic tailspin.

The Screening of My Pilot:

My comedy pilot was in the second round of a film festival sponsored by a comedy club in Burbank. I created an event for the screening on Facebook, and sent out a reminder or two, but I didn’t push people.

The important note here, is the survival of our pilot in the festival is based on votes. Hypothetically, your friends would vote for your film and it would survive to the next round. The prize would win back our cost of production.

The first night, my partner Lana brought about ten people. I had three; Mitch (the receptionist at Doggie Daycare who dogsits for me), Jeph and Abe.

Backstage, I mumbled, “Obviously no one is really my friend.”

Lana said, “Get it out, get it all out.”

I said, “I am too emotional and post asshole things on Facebook, and no one wants to be my friend!”

Lana, “Feel better.”

I said, “A bit.”

Facebook is one of my worst vices.

I am far too personal, post far too much and am too impulsive with things I say.

For instance, on my Birthday, I asked everyone to do me a favor and defriend me.

Then I read it and say, “This is a bad idea, but the idea is to capture the moment and I have to honor that.”

Then I post it.

It feeds on itself, I post and feel part of a social circle, but it isn’t real. Facebook isn’t friends, its Internet junkies who consume information. And we have all made our own universe of self importance. We don’t have friendships with conversations, and shared moments and shoulders to cry on. We just have an audience, and it feeds the ego . . . but don’t fool yourself, it isn’t life. It isn’t relationships. IT’S BULLSHIT!

Now, nevermind the stupid things I say with regards to my friends, or even my acquaintances. My real friends have the context of my real personality and get it.

There are several professional contacts from my time as an Executive Assistant and beyond. Professors, co-workers, people I would use as reference . . . and I was basically sending them a drunk text ranting and raving about my own personal problems.

Not to mention, the pictures I constantly post of myself. I like documenting my transformation into an actress, but recently, I noticed I have more pictures of myself than I ever had before, and was almost neglecting the world around me. Facebook was nourishing a new, Narcissistic side of myself.

So recently, I have been taking more pictures of everything else, even for this blog.

The question you may ask is, “Why don’t you just stop?” Well, I did. For now, I have.

That doesn’t cure me of the spinning in my mind. The feeling of public humiliation, of everything I have said and since forgotten. The silence from “friends.” The regret for publishing and demonstrating personality flaws.

Again, my real friends weren’t altered. Its everyone else I felt, in front of their computer screens, raising their eyebrow with their cup of coffee. It got into my skull.

Toss in the poor showing to my first screening and my birthday, which was on short notice and without a personal invite (I totally realize how irrational I was being), and you have the clouds of my mental illness overhead.

Fear of rejection ---> Fear of Failure -----> Obsession

I was reliving getting fired from my job. My bosses exchanging looks of, “Geez, she is stupid.” How they spoke over me in meetings. How they stared at me when I accidentally pushed a chair into the door frame.

Then, how I would always get the wrong menu item for myself at company lunches. How I misspelled “commensurate” in an email. How they told me I was too loud when I spoke to other people in the lobby.

My voice is loud. (but so were they . . . )

I fucking suck.

***

The second evening of the screening came, and my phone mysteriously just stopped working. It truly is amazing, I didn’t drop it or expose it to water or heat. I just set it down to charge and it never came on again.

I changed the battery, called the manufacturer, hard reset . . . it was done.

So I couldn’t personally invite anyone . . . again. My phone was shut off the evening of the first screening, as well.

I showed up to the club, and had ONE friend there, Jeph.

Of course. My one friend who has stood by me through thick and thin since 2006.

My mind bent in half and flushed with self-hatred.

Lana and I were called up to present on stage, and I just launched into a monologue:

“Now I could talk about the film a bit and give you a proper introduction, but I think what helps paint the picture is just telling you about my day.

I woke up with intense cramps, but it couldn’t be my period, because that’s not for 4 more days.

My cell phone isn’t working. Its not turning on. Its not charging. Its just flashing. That’s all. Just . . . flashing.

I drive into a meeting at work, and coffee spills all over my lap.

In the meeting, people notice I still have a price tag still attached to these shoes. I tell them, ‘Its because I don’t know if I need to return them for money.’

Then, I go to a mall and use their phone because Virgin Mobile has no physical store locations. Then I wonder if the coffee I spilled on my lap isn’t drying, or if I started my period. In a Target restroom, I realize I did, in fact, start my period.

I get in my car to drive home, and remember that Whitney Houston died yesterday.”

Ok, the crowd is totally silent. And from the stage, I only see silhouettes of people. Lots of people. I am controlling the pacing of this joke, entirely.

I look up, and the light from the projection booth is just enough to see a big smile on whoever it was up there, leaning in and waiting for the next line.

I am ok, so I keep going.

“Normally, I would go home and have a glass of wine, but I don’t have a fridge, nor any running water. Just a hose outside my front door.

(Silence)

Ok, thank you! Enjoy the film and give us your vote!”

I quickly rushed off stage, as the laughter bilged.

Thank God, they were laughing.

My partner stepped up to the microphone. Lana is a beautiful, black woman with freckles and gorgeous brown eyes who is a master at sarcasm. I wish she would act along side me. She said, “You’ve got to feel sorry for a poor white girl.”

I turned my body toward the stage and bent over to laugh.

Our film screened. We didn’t get as many laughs as the first screening, nor did we get enough votes to make it to the next round.

I would like to think I am big about that kind of thing. Cool and witty on my exit, but I was crushed.

I knew the films were, on the whole, snappier than ours. We had great production value, but took a little longer to offer the punchline. We also could not get our cast to show up.

The only one that communicates with me, asked me to “cum to Sundance” with him. Eugh.

Lana said, “I can appreciate how hard that was for you, since I know how much you love Sundance.”

Since I refused him, he ignored my invites to the screening.

I could see Lana was worried about me. I could see Jeph felt badly for me.

The worst part about my mental illness, whatever it is, happens to be how it really hurts the people that care about me. No one wants to see someone they love in anguish, unfortunately its a pre-requisite in being close with me.

Often, I discontinue friendships or relationships, not because I don’t like them, but because I know they can’t endure the bouts of self-loathing and disturbance I go through.

I told Abe, "If I was your mother, I wouldn't want you to be with a girl like me. If I were you, I wouldn't want to be with a girl like me."

Abe, "But would you want to have sex with you?"

Me, "I am a hot mess."

I isolate myself. I will lock myself in a room with pot and television and dogs to get through it, but ah . . . there is Facebook. It makes it so easy to funnel all that hate back out into the world. Sadly, it doesn’t funnel at all; it spreads but doesn’t grow thinner. That is the worst part; sharing it, thinking about it, talking about it . . . doesn’t make it go away. It just multiplies.

***

A few of you may be wondering what I was diagnosed with. Since the age of 15, I have been diagnosed with every illness that hit a fad. In the 90s, it was Bi-Polar Disorder, then the early 00s was Borderline Personality Disorder. My parents like to call it “Hypo-mania with bouts of depression.”

I can assure you, after meeting someone who had bi-polar disorder, that is NOT me. Suffering from Bi-Polar Disorder is potentially the worst mental illness I have ever seen.

And Borderline Personality Disorder is . . . just too extreme. I don’t exhibit suddenly changing opinions of people or my identity.

I feel things intensely. Its hard to justify, when that quality alone can make me the best person to hang out with at a party or on a boring afternoon, or the absolute worst person. My emotions are blinding. I wish that wasn’t the case. I wish that wasn’t who I am. But it is, and its just a small price tag hanging off the cuff of what I am.

My life experience is greater than most people I know. I am alive, but I struggle against myself and it wears me down until their is almost nothing left of myself.

***

Someone wrote Lana after the screening:

"i was thinking on the drive home & realized you two were the only women filmmakers tonight AND your film was the ONLY one with a message. you were robbed! i'm definitely talking about this in my gender & sexuality studies class.”

***

I was working 10 hours at Edible Arrangements on Monday and then on Tuesday (Valentine’s Day) I would be at Edible 7am-Noon and Doggie Daycare 2-10pm.

I didn’t eat. I barely slept. I just worked.

A DJ came on morning radio, Valentine’s Morning and said, “Now what if a man doesn’t have time to get his significant other something on Valentine’s Day.

Hi, Kelly, you’re on the air, and let me ask this, what are YOU doing for your man on Valentine’s Day?”

Jesus Christ man, don’t you ENJOY doing something for a woman on one romantic day out of the year? I love giving gifts, that is part of the joy. Not what YOU are going to get.

Camille, my little brown lesbian, said, “If you have time to jack off, you have time to call in an order.”

Delivery Driver, "Oh, the customer needs 4 balloons, but none of them should say 'I Love You'."

I was, of course, sensitive to this message since lately, I have felt that people expect me to give them something- Dora (endless favors), Men (sexual gratification) Employers (work with no advancement or benefit) and offer me absolutely nothing back.

I really have resolved that the problem with everyone, in this city, in this country, in this world, is we have lost touch with the balance of the universe.

Give & Take.

Several weeks ago, I ran across a Charles Manson interview, randomly. It was recorded in 2011 and it actually made a lot of sense:

Manson, “The only way you can survive, are you ready?

The only way you can survive is to take something from the Earth, and give something back.

You don't need the government to tell you that. You don't need a leader to tell you that.

God is inside of you, and God's telling you, 'Everything you take from the Earth, you've got to put something back.'

That's whats so dirty about the preacher. He's hiding that.

You were told, if you take 100%, you put 10% back.

If you take 100 apples off the tree, plant 10. Thats not hard. Thats very simple. Thats the key to survival of the Earth.

But now we take 1000 apples and put nothing back. Then we come with a chainsaw, and chainsaw the tree down. And we just take it, take it, take it and we haven't put anything back. Because the Preacher says, give me that 10%. That 10% goes to the government, goes to the President. Thats whats destroying us. We're destroying ourselves.

You know, I sit here and I open a bag of cookies and I throw the paper away. And I pick up the sugar, and I throw the paper away. And then I use creamer, and I throw the plastic away. Then I look in the garbage and say, 'This is our life in there.'

My garbage dump is the world.

And we're just throwing it away. All of our resources, we are throwing away.

I see the cars driving by, going nowhere. He's taking a piece of paper to the other side of the yard for nothing. And I see all the stuff we are doing and I say human beings are destroying the whole world.

But I also see God in human beings, and I think human beings are gonna straighten it out or not exist. So which is it?”

Companies are still outsourcing.

STILL! After it has completely eaten our country out from the inside.

We are still burning oil, at any cost. They have raised gas to over $4/gallon, I believe, to influence the election.

I mean, we are riding our own melt here, and now we treat each other like its everything else in our lives, something meant to service us.

How does this person make me FEEL better?

We don’t have relationships anymore. We just collide in moments of masturbatory ego.

“I only read your blog to see what you write about me.”

“We really need to get through the tension, because I am going to need help soon.”

“Just touch my cock.”

All of it, came down on me like a wall of hard water. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. All I could do was think about how nothing will be left of me in the end. Everyone will have their piece of me, and all that will be remain is an old, unwanted body and a sick mind.

The worst part of the revelation is maybe that's all I am worth.

***

So, I wrapped Valentine’s gifts. I bowed. I tagged. I refrigerated. And repeat.

I thought, quietly to myself.

When I got to Doggie Daycare, I was sure that one, if not both my exes, would have sent me flowers.

Nothing was there.

I was also expecting my replacement phone.

Also, it was not there.

In the break room, I got teary eyed tracking my package from Virgin Mobile . . . just out of frustration.

Abe emailed me that morning and asked me to call when I could.

When I did, I said, “Flowers are not awaiting me at my place of business.”

He laughed, and said, “What are you doing tonight?”

I said, “Working.”

He said, “I thought maybe we could do something.”

I said, “Sure. You know what would be a great Valentine’s Day present? Going to my place and walking the dogs before I get home. I have been working two days in a row and I feel bad.”

Silence.

He said, “Wha? Well, I don’t know when I could be there.”

I said, “That’s ok, I can’t be home til 10.”

Silence.

I asked, “Too much to ask?”

He stuttered.

My voice cracked, “Too much to ask! Thanks. Do whatever you want to do today.”

And I hung up.

I waited for flowers from Alan. They never came.

. . .

I drove home, greasy, smelling like dog and pineapple. My clothes were dirty. My face was dirty. My hands were so dry, now they were turning white and cracking.

Pulling up, I saw my house lights on and my dogs outside.

I smiled. Abe came through.

He finished his cigarette, and grinned as he approached me, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

I said, “I thought you weren’t going to come.”

He said, “Why?”

I said, “Cause I hung up on you.”

He said, “Oh . . . yeah. Well, I figured you were just tired.”

I said, “I am . . . and depressed.”

Upon entry of my pathetic abode, I saw the place was cleaned, paper hearts hung from a couple places around the wall and a translucent, rainbow ribbon hung over the sides of my computer monitor.

Abe handed me two cards, one for me and one for my dogs.

I said, “A card for my dogs??? That means a lot. It really does.”

He said, “You know who I learned that from? Grandma. Sometimes I get cards from her cat.”

He pulled out two small heart-shaped boxes and said, “Here, I made you these last night. They are home-made vegan chocolates.”

I said, “You did?”

Abe, “Yeah. It was fun.”

I ate one and said, with chocolate and citrus bursting in my mouth, “These are good.”

Abe, “You like them? Good. I wasn’t sure. I haven’t done that before.”

We sat down.

Me, “I didn’t get you anything because I thought I wouldn’t see you.”

Abe, “Oh. Huh. That’s ok. I took the whole day off work thinking we would.”

Me, “You have to call me and tell me these things in advance.”

He chuckled and put his hand on his waist, hung his head low and slowly nodded.

Abe, “You are looking skinny again. Are you on anything?”

Me, “Like what?”

Abe, “I don’t know.”

Me, “Coke!?”

Abe, “Well, yeah. Are you?”

I said, “Jesus Christ, I just worked two 10+ hour shifts in a row, I am stressed about money and tired. That’s all. It doesn’t mean I am a junkie.”

He said, “Ok, ok, I was just asking.”

I said, “I was thinking, if I were to die, no one would notice for days. I would just lie here, with Brad curled up in my armpit. Then Maggie would playfully tug at my toe and start eating my entire foot until Esther and Maggie would use my legs as a wishbone. And poor Brad, he would be the only one loyal to me.”

Abe laughed. “That’s funny.”

I said, “Yeah. Real funny. I am going to move back to Washington and take care of my parents until they die. Then I will kill myself."

He approached me and rubbed shoulder, “You have thought about this a lot. I can tell because its all very articulate and put together.”

Me, “I have been thinking about it all day.”

Abe kissed my cheek, “I would notice.”

Abe instructed me to shower. I went up to Gabby’s to wash and came back down. He was watching “the Ten Commandments.”

He said, “I just want to see the Pharoah die.”

I said, “That reminds me of a Doors song. ‘Land of the Pharoah died.’ What is that?”

In the red pajama pants Sascha gave me for Christmas, and a little t-shirt, I climbed into bed and asked him to rub my back.

Me, “I have to go to Paris.”

Abe said, “Is that where you want to go more than anywhere?”

Me “And Israel. And Tibet. My spirit tour.”

Abe said, “My Grandmother offered to take me on a cruise around the world.”

Me, “That’s nice.”

Abe, “Why Israel?”

Me, “I want to feel the history. Walk the path of Jesus’ crucifixion. Swim in the Dead Sea. Sometimes they show the Shroud of Turin, it travels, I think.”

The Shroud of Turin as defined by Wikipedia is “a linen cloth bearing the image of a man who appears to have suffered physical trauma in a manner consistent with crucifixion.” They believe its the shroud Jesus Christ was buried in.

Abe said, “That’s supposed to be some image burned into cloth from light.”

I said, “They have a team of researchers studying it, there is lots of compelling evidence.”

He said, “Like the hands are outstretched like Jesus, so?”

I was fading.

Me, “Not the position, the plant base smudged around where the crown of thorns is can only be found where Jesus was tortured and crucified. The minerals and stone rubbed off on the cloth, match where they think his tomb was. The injuries in the side and head match. Its compelling. You can even see his eyes and facial hair. They can’t replicate the light used to burn that image.”

Abe said, “That’s interesting. I didn’t know all that matched. That is compelling.”

Me, “The only thing they can’t match is the carbon dating, but its an imperfect science, you know …”

His hands rubbed my back and neck.

Me, “Your hands are always so warm . . .”

Abe said, “Sorry I didn’t get you flowers.”

Half asleep, I said, “Thats ok. You got me the perfect things.”

In my sleep, he said he put a crystal in my hand and asked me to hold on to it. I don’t remember.

He then whispered, “I will come back soon, ok?”

And I said, “Don’t go.”

He left.

The Neurotic Actress Vs. The Robot Butterfly

2012-02-23T23:40:00.001-08:00

The night I came back home to Sylmar after seeing Alan, I had a very elaborate nightmare where I was chasing a serial killer who used pig fetuses to kill his victims. Somehow, he would implant them in living people and then make them explode out of their bodies.

The nightmare seemed to go on for days, ending in this long moment of watching several people die in a shower of pig fetuses. It was very graphic, one fetus burst out of the side of someone's jaw.

I woke up sweaty, and thought, “I hate this apartment.”

Maggie growled at the front door. That’s so damn unsettling.

***

My mind was getting rough. My mom used to claim she could see the clouds forming over head just before a depression hit me.

I don’t suffer from depression often, I have bouts of it. However, a storm was coming for me.

At work, Rachel, the actress, seemed to be battling her own war. We were talking about the karma of killing ourselves, because that’s what neurotic actresses do.

Rachel, “I would kill myself but I worry that I would come back as something terrible, like in a third world country.”

Me, “As a sex slave?”

Rachel, “Or a rock getting hit by a wave every 5 seconds.”

I laughed, “That’s funny.” I continued, “But you have a lot going for you, I am surprised you are depressed. You were in a great movie, you have representation . . . “

She said, “I am so glad that other people think I am happy because I had one movie. That’s great, but just because I had one stroke of good luck doesn’t mean I am a happy person. I am not working. What if I never get another movie?”

I said, “I am sure you will, but you will always have that one people will revisit. And people who will be your fans.”

She said, “Oh, I already have a fan base. It just has nothing to do with my happiness. Successful people, celebrities, they all get depressed.”

I remembered Owen Wilson tried to kill himself.

When I look in the mirror, after my hair cut, the first thing I noticed was my expression. It was borrowed from the Prophet. He didn’t let me take very many photos of him during our 5-yr on-again, off-again affair, but his expressions have rubbed off on me. That’s almost nicer.

The second thing I noticed, is a very severe wrinkle forming on my upper lip. No one notices it unless I purse my lips and point at it, but its coming in. The laugh lines around my mouth and the crow’s feet. It all seems to be crumpling my head up into one giant spit ball.

Now, at first glance, you may think I am in my mid-twenties. A liquor store attendant told me last week he thought I was 18, God Bless him. I know its a matter of time before age creeps up on my face.

And why does it matter? I never thought I would care as I aged. I didn’t care, until people started telling me I was pretty, and then I started feeling pretty after 32 years of feeling ugly.

I feel cheated. I want more time.

So, around this time, I start googling face lifts, mini face lifts, microderm abrasions, botox and chemical peels. I also researched cost, though around $6,000, they will work out a payment program for you.

Just in time for me to pay off my car . . . great.

I feel better just knowing the option is out there, because, though I am the only one that acknowledges the age on my face, I know its just a matter of time before the casting directors and suitors notice, too. And then what? I will only be left with one compliment. “You’re funny.”

Its a good compliment. I love that compliment. But otherwise, I feel utterly useless.

***

Dora and I were still not talking.

Whenever I went up to the main house to shower, she would blast Blink 182 music until I left. I can’t tell you how glad I am to be paying an extra $50 a month to be made uncomfortable where the kitchen and bathroom are.

I did my best to shower, brush my teeth and cook at Doggie Daycare or other people’s apartments.

She and I collided at work in the kitchen as she was washing dishes. She initiated a conversation about why she was upset that I didn’t drive her home that one time, 10 days prior.

She said, “I just want you to know how I feel. After all the favors my sister and mother did for you, we all waited for you, and you couldn’t wait for me, it makes me feel really bad.”

I said, “Dora, you make me feel like your servant. I told you in the morning, and I told you in the middle of the shift, I wanted to have dinner with my friend that night-”

Dora, “But I want you to know how I feel. It just made me feel like you didn’t appreciate all we did for you. But its ok! My mother explained to me that just because you do nice things for people, doesn’t mean they will do it in return.”

Nice jab. She spoke to her mother about it. That hurt. I loved and respected her mother and it would be petty to seek her out and explain my side of things.

I said, “Dora, I waited for you and drove you every other time for months. AND I took you to Disneyland.”

Here I saw a small smile creep on her face, like she was waiting for it.

She cocked her head to the side as she dried a water bowl and said, “I am just telling you how I feel, just so you know. It was really frustrating finding a ride home. And the tension is giving me nightmares. I haven’t been able to sleep again since we started fighting. I really need things to ease up because I am going to need your help again soon.”

Because . . . she needs me to drive her . . . #*!#

Sascha called us out of the kitchen, playfully, and I drifted out of the conversation. I was so disgusted with Dora, and that little malicious smile, that I wanted to leave the kitchen before I smacked that smirk off her face.

I couldn’t look at her, and I couldn’t talk to her because I was so enraged by her lack of appreciation and respect, not to mention her attempt to continually manipulate me. It wasn’t a matter of discussion when I could drive her and when I couldn’t. It was a matter of making me feel bad so I always put her before me.

Its not just the driving, its the placing dinner orders with me at work and never paying me back, its complaining when I get myself a coffee while not bringing her a cup, its using her mug, to only hear that’s her favorite mug and she needs it back while using 1 of my 2 cereal bowls as a cat feeder for 5 fucking months. ITS ALL OF IT!!

Her continual offers to take her food and borrow her things, only for her to hold it over my head shortly thereafter are all in an effort to get what she wants.

All very typical of a young woman, a teenager . . . but if I was not going to enjoy the pleasure of her first 12 years of life calling me ‘Mommy’ and making finger paintings for me, I sure as hell was not going to take her bullshit for the last few years of bitching to maturity. I will not accept a grown teenage daughter on my doorstep- I would rather kill the stork, and I am vegan.

You might think I am paranoid, or overreacting. Let me throw this little tidbit in, her mother and co-workers were asking me if I was ok, and were worried. I got the distinct feeling that she was telling people I was on a drug binge.

Still aren’t with me?

Last night, she point blank asked me if I was on drugs because “it just seems like it.: I guess having trouble even looking at your little brat of a roommate because you are so flustered with general rage while suffering from the fatigue of constant work looks and sounds like a coke addict. Good to know!

I promised myself I would not drive her anywhere unless a) she asked me b) she paid me $1 each way in good faith.

She didn’t ask me, so I was free to do what I wanted to. It was liberating.

I went to have dinner with my friend Jeph.

We talked about work ethic, and how I have been made to feel that by not working tons of overtime, and bending over backwards at Doggie Daycare every available minute that I am not an ideal leader or worker.

Jeph said, “The labor unions in Europe were formed to afford people more time. That is what the people fought for, more time away from work to enjoy their life and their families. The labor unions here were formed to give people more money for their time, so we are paid for overtime. Workers are looked down upon if they don’t put in overtime, whereas in Europe, its the opposite, if someone wants to work overtime, they are seen as mentally unbalanced.”

When I started Doggie Daycare, I told them, “I decided that I would not sacrifice myself for a job. It doesn’t pay off.”

Lori, the woman that lives at Doggie Daycare and hasn’t had more than 2 days off in years told me, “That’s good you found that out now. Never give that up. Never forget that.”

It still bothers me that I am not considered a valuable employee there. Granted, I don’t go above and beyond very often because people don’t seem to notice when I do. And there is the obvious, its just a Doggie Daycare job.

When Trent was there, often the things he did, break up a dog fight or clean out the mop bucket area, were ignored and Mississippi was complimented personally in company meetings. Its like they pick one person to adore, and award them compliments and a 50 cent an hour promotion. Its so petty, I know, who cares? But it wears on you. And this particular Doggie Daycare has lost quite a few employees through simply neglecting their work and contributions while making them feel bad for not doing more.

In the last year, we lost our great Swiss female employee, Carmen, my friend Ocean, my favorite brown lesbian Camille, Trent and now Rochelle. I would even argue the above employees genuinely care about the dogs more than some of those promoted. They also were my friends.

Another argument could be those promoted are all straight men- a possible indication of Management’s sex life. I would not go outright and say they are undeserving, but there are so many that are and to see straight men get compliment after compliment, and watch them prosper on those verbal highs . . . while so many women, I mean good working women, end up disheartened and quitting, it really annoys me.

***

Then, I told Jeph about my love triangle. Abe vs. Alan.

He said, “The best romantic advice I ever heard was, ‘Can you live with that person’s worst quality for the rest of your life?”

I said, “That is the best romantic advice I ever heard.”

I thought about Alan’s worst quality, lashing out and turning cold in the face of hurt or rejection. That scared me.

I thought about Abe’s worst quality, being a stoner who doesn’t work or show up on time. That’s something I think I could possibly live with, if we never had children.

In my nights of freedom, I got to visit Sascha and listen to old records and drink Bud Light.

I enjoyed a late birthday lunch with Lana.

She said, “You need to get some new men.” Then she looked down at Brad, “Your Mommy is crazy, isn’t she? Crazzzy!” He stood on his hind legs for her and wagged his tail in agreement.

The thing with keeping friends, is no matter how tired you are after working, you have to visit them to tend those fires. Friendship, on some level is work, work to stay in human contact. Some get lazy and fall by the wayside with text messages, God damn Facebook. The real friends I had, I saw after we both worked and dragged our asses across town in the middle of the night just to talk.

Despite all that, my storm was coming. My depression was growing in the back of my mind.

I texted Abe: “I am seeing someone else.”

***

I was working a lot. I booked a Swedish commercial on a Thursday.

The call time was 6am in the middle of fucking Simi Valley. I drove up at dawn and was taken by transport into the hills, and sat as close to a stationed space heater as possible.

Again, Wardrobe tried to put me in a strapless sun dress. I said, “Please, I just did an all night shoot in a mini skirt, can you please put me in something warmer?”

They let me keep my skinny jeans and jacket and said, “You’re welcome.”

I was reunited with DJ and Sebastian, Val Kilmer was on this set too and a young man who gave me a massage over a year ago on some other commercial. He was still giving me a massage.

He said, “Is this ok?”

I said, “Hey, you want to just give me a massage, by all means, go for it. I am not going to complain.”

We were supposed to run into the hills for a few takes. I have to say, I love the European commercials because they have good food and they don’t stress out over a bunch of takes. They get what they want in two or three takes and let us relax.

I was reading Alan Alda’s book “Never Have Your Dog Stuffed and other things I’ve learned.”:

“Paris was everything I’d wanted it to be and, unfortunately, more. “April is the cruelest month, “ Eliot said, “ . . . mixing/memory and desire.” I didn’t know what he meant at first , especially because I remembered it wrong. “Mixing desire with dead leaves” is what I remembered from my freshman poetry course. I repeated it to myself over and over. Dead leaves in April? What does that mean? Then I got it. April is cruel because the desire of youth mixes with the moldy leaves of ancient winter underfoot. As long as I was able t just be young in Paris, I was okay, but the winter of my past kept showing up and for me it was April in Paris all day long.

A young man in his early twenties who had been flirty with me over craft service asked, “What are you reading?”

I said, “Alan Alda’s autobiography.”

He said, “Who is that?”

I said, “He was the lead in M*A*S*H.”

He shook his head thinking, “Never saw that.”

I said, “Ok, um, wow, its just the best television show ever created.”

He smiled and leaned in, “Is it?”

I rattled off some more Alan Alda, “The Aviator? (nothing) Flirting with Disaster … um, he is mostly known for TV. He plays a good villain though.”

He said, “Oh wait! No . . . no I am thinking of someone else.”

I opened my book and said, “You don’t know who Alan Alda is . . . that's a crime.”

***

We wrapped around 3pm and DJ needed a ride home. As it turns out, he is the son of a Preacher.

I told him about my love triangle; Abe vs. Alan. He said, “You know why you are trapped where you are, because you laid with them.”

I said, “You mean sex.”

He said, “Yes. Your spirit is tied to them now, so you are struggling to move on.”

I said, “So you don’t think I can have a relationship with either of them?”

He shook his head violently and said, “Noooo. I think you and Sebastian would make a great couple. But in all honesty, you are a great girl, I can see you are probably great in bed because you seem adventurous.”

I held my head out for a moment then said, “Ok.”

He said, “Hey, do you have any pot? Want to smoke a bowl?”

I said, “Ummm, sure.”

So we pulled over into the first suburban area we could find and I got high with a Christian.

He said, “That’s good shit, thank you.”

I blew out a cloud and said, “Its called Bigfoot.”

Then he said, “You are smart, you are good. I think you are AH-mazing and you will find an AH-mazing guy. How old are you? In your mid thirties?”

I twitched. “Yeah.”

He said, “I always thought I would end up with a younger woman, I don’t know why.”

I said, “Probably because you associate a young woman with purity and sexual inexperience.”

He said, “You are probably right. But I am finding myself more and more attracted to women in their mid-thirties. I am seeing a woman who is 35, now.”

I said, “Oh. You are seeing her?”

He said, “Yes, I don’t know if she is my future wife, though.”

I said, “Why not?

He said, “Well, you know, she is nice, smart, a great girl, very selfless, she will do whatever she can to make me happy. Beautiful girl.”

I said, “Are you sleeping with her?”

He said, “Yes, but neither of us have done that before.”

I should state here DJ was married and divorced the year before, by never “done that before”, he meant having sex outside of a monogamous relationship.

I said, “I worry you are going to break her heart.”

He said, “I know . . . I know.”

Me, “Why don’t you think she may be your future wife?”

Him, “You know, she wears too much make-up and sometimes she has pimples.”

Me, “So you are looking for someone perfect. You are looking for someone that doesn't have any flaws.”

DJ, “Well . . . I am looking for something better.”

(Shake my head)

DJ, “Hey, I am being real with you.”

Me, “I know . . . I know you are.”

DJ, “Does Abe watch porn?”

Me, “He says he doesn’t. Do you?”

DJ, “I try not to. I am a man of God so I struggle with it. It isn't easy for me like it is for other people. It hurts me and my spirit. But they recently did a study with butterflies. They put 3 male butterflies and 3 female butterflies in the same container with a robot butterfly with brighter colors and bigger designs on her wings. The males humped the robot butterfly until they died.”

Me, “God.”

He said, “Now, I am going to say something, but I don’t want to hurt your feelings, I just want you think about it. If you got into a guy’s car and it looked like yours, coffee mug on the ground and cigarette butts on the console, would you take him seriously as a mate?”

I thought about it and said, “Probably not, you have a good point.”

He said, “I am just saying, present yourself at the level that you want your mate to be.”

I said, “I hate how dirty my car is.”

He said, “I didn’t want to make you feel bad.”

I said, “No, its ok. You are right.”

I dropped him off and he said, “See you on the next one.”

***

I hadn’t spoken with Abe since the Perm fiasco, so I called him:

Me: “You need to figure out what is going on. But I don't believe our relationship is strong. You are out there looking, posting ads for this other girl and it just tells me that even at our best you are still looking.”

Abe: “Do I need to explain this to you?”

Me: “No, I get it. But I married someone I knew wasn't my soulmate at the time because I thought he would be a good partner. Then somebody came along who I had a deeper connection with and it fucked up everything. I don't want to go through that again and I don't want to see you go through that. You need to figure out what you want and if you definitely want me for the rest of your life before we continue. You need to do some soul searching.”

Abe: “But how do I do that?”

Me: “You have to figure it out on your own. I have told you lots of things.”

Abe: “And I listen and think about all of them.”

Me: “Yes, but it doesn't really help because only you know whats going on, only you know what more you want, you have to answer all those questions on your own so you can be happy. And I just want you to be happy, no matter what, even if its without me.”

Abe: “Thank you.”

Me: “You’re welcome. And I have to figure out how to save myself and get stable so I can be a better partner. Go date other girls, have sex with them if you have to, just stay protected and safe and then let me know if you still want to be with me.”

Abe: “That’s pretty bold of you to tell me to go with other girls. Is that what YOU want to do?”

Me: “I have been doing it, for most of my life. If you asked me last month to give it all up and commit myself to you entirely, for the rest of my life, I would say, ‘Yes, absolutely.’ But now, we feel shaky, and I don’t think I can invest in that until you can say that to me.”

Abe: “Ok. Well, let me think on that.”

***

I had one more day off before a laborious week of babysitting, Edible Arrangements and Doggie Daycare.

So I decided to take Frank, who sounded depressed, and my three dogs to the dog beach in Huntington Beach.

We got in the car and had our usual musical pish posh with one another, exchanging stories about old lovers and past lives.

When we arrived to Dog Beach, the sun was setting, but it was gorgeous. I played frisbee with Esther and Brad was charging at most of the small dogs and circling around them in playful fury. Every time I tossed the frisbee for Esther, Brad would pound out some enthusiastic barks until Esther caught it.

Maggie had to stay on the leash because, how shall I say it . . . sometimes she doesn’t like other dogs.

I asked Frank, “Can you take a picture? My phone is dead.”

He said, “It won’t turn out on my iPhone. Just . . . enjoy the moment.”

I decided to run Maggie down the beach with me, just her and me, while Frank stayed with Esther and Brad.

I grabbed Maggie and we ran, my old lady ran like the wind with me, panting through her long, pink, pit bull tongue, smiling at me, wearing her new flowered collar, and we ran.

I saw the sun setting through the clouds on the ocean, like a yolk breaking through the shell. The water felt level with my face, as we ran.

I heard her panting and I heard lungs flush. Everything else drowned out under the waves.

I looked behind us, and there was Esther clutching her big red frisbee in her mouth and Brad. Frank was left far behind on the horizon, holding his sandals.

I laughed. We all ran and I realized this was one of the best moments of my life.

When ever I have one of these, I like to think, “Now, if I killed myself way back when, I never would have this moment.”

We ran together as a pack until the sand became rocky, and the yolk spilled into the ocean.

One pack, one soul.

We turned back to join Frank and decided to pick up Thai food and watch a movie.

When we got back to his place, spilled wet dog and sand all over his couch, I poured myself a generous glass of wine and he touched my cheek.

I gave him the look.

He said, “Yes, I am touching you.”

I said, “Why?”

He retreated.

We put on Amy Winehouse at Porchester Hall London 2007 and watched her quietly cringe after each number then drink. We asserted some safe chit chat in between.

I asked, "There will be two days where I am working Edible Arrangements in the morning and Doggie Daycare at night. Would it be possible to spend the night with the dogs in between those days to make it easier on all of us? I could take Esther and Brad in the afternoon."

He said, "When? Valentine's Day? Nahhh, well, there are a couple women I am kinda feeling out for Valentine's Day and it would be really awkward if I took a woman back home and you were here. I just want to avoid that."

I said, "Ok, that's fine. I understand."

Silence.

Frank, "Of course, I will probably end up alone on Valentine's Day and everything would have worked out just fine."

I said, "I know. But that's fine, me and the dogs will get through it."

***

I realized this afternoon, this night, would have only been complete if I shared it with someone I loved. A partner.

I am ready for a relationship.

The revelation wouldn’t stop the storm that was coming, my mind was going to crumble, but it was just a matter of time. Just a few days. Maybe less.

We’re Just Three Lost Souls Swimming in a Fish Bowl

2012-02-21T23:12:00.002-08:00

A morning or two after the Hair Show, Abe pinged me: “I feel really awful like Im a heart breaker. I guess I dont know what Im doing.”

I left it up on my screen, unanswered. I wanted it to hang in the air like an comic book character’s thought, hoping it haunted him.

Alan and I planned to see each other on my first day off, which was a Wednesday. On a rush call, I booked work on a French beer commercial for that night, so I pinged him my cancellation.

I showed up to an abandoned hospital in Downtown LA around 3pm, smoked a bowl and waited in line with a group of Angelenos and a suitcase.

A transport arrived to take us to an abandoned warehouse, where we had to fill out various amounts of paperwork, and were warned repeatedly, we were getting a flat rate. There was no overtime and no guarantee of when we would get out. For non-union, $150 is still pretty good.

There was a burger station and actors holding was inside the warehouse, with the windows totally taped up. I had a veggie burger as dry and vegan as I could make it, and then waited in line for wardrobe.

The wardrobe guy was an eccentric Brit who really loved my selection, and inevitably, put me in my denim mini skirt and a purple plaid button up. Then I was ushered into a tent where we got accessories.

I was waiting with another girl, she said, “I am so fat. I hate this gut. I just wish it would go away, then I would be happy.”

I said, “A flat gut comes with a price. Since I lost weight my face is looking more drawn. I have wrinkles I never had before.”

She went back to massaging her gut, she wasn’t inviting me into her conversation- she was talking to herself.

The Accessory Girls came in and one asked me, “Is that my skirt?”

I said, “No, its mine.”

She said, “Oh. Ok. It looks just like mine. Do you have any shoes?”

I said, “I left them in my car.”

The two girls exchanged a glance of disappointment.

I said, “But they were all heels.”

OK, it is a little unreasonable to ask me to bring my entire wardrobe to set and via transport. Not to mention, I just really don’t have much.

I asked, “But can I have this cowboy hat?”

One girl said, “Sure!” And popped in on my head.

She said, “Oh no, its too big. Hold on.”

She came back with a smaller hat, cowboy boots and a little leather, dream catcher “like” necklace. Then she sent me to make-up.

I kicked up the dirt in my new cowboy boots and realized I should not be going to make-up, I am just an extra. Make-up was for featured talent.

So I went back inside to finish my Baldwin book.

The craft service table was packed with candy, fruit and coolers of ice water. I reviewed it. Then Sebastian came up.

Sebastian is a small, skinny guy I worked on a game show pilot with almost a year ago. He might be as tall as me, but he bends like a skinny tree. In corduroy pants, a velvet vintage hat and a blonde go-tee. he stopped to look at me.

He said, “I know you.”

I said, “I know. We worked on Mind Game together. And then I saw you at an audition. I wanted your autographed head shots.” Yeah, he autographs his head shots.

He stammered, but its part of the act; to be beguiled by me, so overwhelmed with my beauty that he can’t speak. And with a person like that, its hard to play along. You are simply the audience.

He juggled fruit and let them fall on the ground, “Your eyes are pulling me out of it, I just can’t see anything but those . . . eyes.”

I shyly giggled and self-consciously stroked my now short hair.

He invited me outside to meet DJ and a few other friends he had on the shoot with him. I told them I was looking for coffee, which was only available on the crew crafty truck. They retrieved a cup for me and the night air wrapped around my bare legs.

DJ came and went, stirring up what people he knew or wanted to know. He was a tall kid, fresh faced, floppy hair but clean around the neck. He was large, by that I mean, big but not chunky or disproportionate. He had a tattoo across his forearm that said, “God is my Judge.”

Sebastian, “DJ is in my spiritual group- well Church group. I mean, its a group for people who love Jesus.”

I said, “Does he love Jesus?”

He said, “At our stage, you have to be IN love with Jesus.”

I said, “I am in love with Jesus, but for probably very different reasons than you are.”

DJ, Sebastian and one other more quiet fellow surrounded me and said, “You should come to the group. You will find the best people in Los Angeles, no obligations, no money, you just come and hang out with some really great people.”

I said, “That’s not really my thing, but I will think about it.”

DJ came up from behind us and I said, “I hear you are in love with Jesus.”

His face turned solemn. “Very much, he is everything, and the joy from that love it just . . sets you on fire.” I could see he had the voice of a preacher in him, one he had known or seen on television.

Sebastian had another gentleman there, his writing partner. He was older and quiet compared to the other two.

He sat with his laptop, black thick curls draped around his ears and a broad, cocoa nose. I couldn’t tell what race he was.

Sebastian said, “He is a best selling author.”

I said, “Oh?” as I blew the vapor off my coffee.

Sebastian, “Yes, his book sold like crazy in England.”

I nodded and asked to see a copy.

He pulled it out for me. I read the sleeve . . . it was Christian themed.

I nodded approvingly and handed it back.

He said, “People don’t know me as much in the U.S.”

I said, “Well, anonymity is a tool for a writer. People behave more naturally when they don’t notice you.”

He leaned back and smiled at me.

I said, “I am a writer too.”

They both skeptically positioned their heads and studied me. Do I not look like a writer? I mean . . .

The Author asked, “What do you write?”

I said, “A real time autobiography, one might call it . . . a blog. About my life.”

I explained to them my life as a struggling actress, the bout of cocaine, the roommate suicide, the Prophet, the marriage to my professor.

They sat and quietly listened to everything.

Sebastian, “I think we found our next book.”

I said, “Nah. Its my next book. (beat) Hey, would one of you mind taking a picture of me over by that graffiti before sunset. I like my cowboy hat.”

Sebastian, “You know who is perfect for that? DJ.”

DJ grabbed my camera and directed me. Looking back on most of the photos, I look awkward and stiff. I am no model, that’s for sure.

A flame thrower was practicing with damp wands behind us.

It got dark fast and DJ fist pumped me, “I got an erection, nice work.”

I said, “Wow, thanks?”

I retreated inside with my book. There was one room attached to the side of holding that had light. All the readers were collecting inside on folding chairs with their books.

One older gentleman had a multicolored beanie on, an old man go-tee and reading glasses on. We had a casual conversation, turns out he is an accountant that lives in a small cottage in Silver Lake. He makes just enough to live, but he doesn’t want to do much. That was kind of nice.

I turned to my book, now stained with coffee from some other day.

“If we start worrying about money now, man, we are going to be fucked and we are going to lose our children. That white man, baby, and may his balls shrivel and his asshole rot, he want you to be worried about the money. That’s his whole game. But if we got to where we are without money, we can get further. I ain’t worried about money- they ain’t got no right to it anyhow, they stole it from us- they ain’t never met nobody they didn’t lie to and steal from. Well, I can steal too. And rob. How you think I raised my daughters? Shit.”

I wondered if women are deliberately paid less so they have to depend on money from men; forcing us to marry or sell a part of ourselves for some level of financial stability. I know women tend to accept lower paying jobs, that is what the experts claim.

I can tell you that Abe, who has not worked a real job in his entire life, is paid more as a legal videographer than I have ever been paid in my highest ranking position. I wondered if I applied for the same position, which somehow I don’t even think I would get an interview for despite more experience and education, if my rate would be significantly lower.

We were called to set. Everyone left their phones and laptops charging in holding and walked over to a section of the warehouse that was set up with barrels of fire. I was thrilled! HEAT!

We were instructed to dance at the prompt of the music.

Female flame throwers and swallowers were put on platforms around us to dance with fire wands and hoops.

A man was dressed up as a female and instructed to simply walk through the crowd.

The French really know how to make a commercial.

I hung out close to the barrel to keep warm, it was night now and there was no insulation. I stood next to a Russian girl, and we had a casual conversation.

I said, “How do you like the States?”

She said, “I LOVE it here. Back in Russia, I was secretary and teacher. It was so boring.”

I asked, “Are you an actress?”

She nodded.

Me, “How is going?”

Russia, “Its going ok. I get jobs, lots of time for role of prostitute. But I like the acting. I had no passion for life in Russia.”

I said, “Do you have a passion for acting?”

She shrugged her shoulders and said, “Its better than Russia.”

I laughed, “Whats it like there?”

She said, “Everything is very cold. We didn’t know the truth of our history. Do you know?”

I said, “I know a little about Stalin and Lenin.”

She said, “Well, all of our history was a lie. Everything I was taught was a lie. Things changed with the internet. We all found out the truth. It changed everything.”

That is kind of amazing.

I put my hands over the fire to keep warm, “Do you know why the Russians beat Napoleon?”

Others were listening to our conversation, and I looked to them as well. Everyone shook their head.

Me, “Because the Russians knew to defecate over open fire. It was too cold for the French to relieve themselves and they got sick and died.”

An older guy said, “Is that true or is that something you just made up?”

I said, “Oh its true.”

He said, “How do you know that?”

I said, “Um . . because I have a Napoleon fetish. I watched that 2-hour PBS documentary TWICE. Something about a man who crowns himself emperor is just . . . arousing.”

We broke for dinner, and I enjoyed some brown rice and asparagus. The asparagus was spicy but not overpowering.

Another guy stood next to me, a tall black guy with big eyes, “Are you an actress?”

I nodded and we spoke for a bit. He said, “I can see you on the big screen, you’ve got something. You could be like a good crazy person. Not bad crazy, just crazy. A good crazy, lesbian.”

Me, “Um, thanks. Why lesbian? Because of my hair?”

He said, “The hair and .. . I don’t know. The way you carry yourself.”

Me, “Huh. Ok. I will hold out for that crazy lesbian part.”

I mean, Jesus Christ.

I sat down, Sebastian gave me his heavy jacket to wear to keep warm, and another guy who looked kinda like Val Kilmer gave me his sweatpants. So in my collaborative outfit, I texted Alan. He hadn’t gotten my ping and was asking for an ETA. I explained that I was on set til 3am or maybe longer.

He was disappointed. That was sweet.

I finished my book shortly after dinner and felt the sting in my eyes, like a splinter had just been removed. Finishing a good book is heavy; you are emotional, there is a moment of loss and consumption, and then you look around and realize where you are . . . in a warehouse . . . in the middle of the night. No one noticed that your spirit just moved.

We were called back to set on occasion and between takes, I would go sit in front of a small space heater I set up in a side room. A man joined me, asking if he could put his snakes in front of the space heater. I said of course, and sat on top of their holding containers while the prickly orange almost burned the skin on my knees.

Back on set, DJ asked, “So, what do you think of Sebastian?”

I said, “I think he is a bit odd.”

DJ, “But do you . . . you know?”

Me, “What?”

DJ, “Find him attractive I guess?”

Me, “Sexually? No. But he is nice.”

DJ paused, “How do you feel about chest hair?”

Then he opened up his top and revealed a forest of thin, brown curls over his chest.

I said, “How very Jon Bon Jovi. This cowboy hat must really be working for me.”

We all started dragging around 1am, and people were complaining. I told everyone that this was the easiest job in the world until it became apparent that they weren’t going to supply us any coffee.

I am sorry, after 1am, lemonade doesn’t fucking cut it.

Sitting next to Val Kilmer, he said, “Its funny, more people want to be friends with me on Facebook since I started doing this kind of work?”

Me, “What kind of work? BACKGROUND?”

He nodded.

Me, “HA!” HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

I texted Abe: “I thought you were different than the other guys, but you are the same . . . just dumber.”

We were wrapping things up, and one group of people were already sent home. Those of us who had a call at 3pm were lined up.

The Production Coordinator said, “Does anyone WANT to stay longer? Is there anyone here who wants to continue to work on set?”

I said, “Without incentive?” They already told us it was a flat rate. Everyone would be paid the same no matter how much time was put on set.

The guy next to me said, “He’s joking right?”

I said, “It just doesn’t make any sense.”

The girl next to me, “Look, here is a photo of me getting arrested in a Korean McDonald’s for indecent exposure.”

After a minute, the Production Coordinator said, “OK, you can all go.”

I pulled off the clothes and returned them to the appropriate male suitors, Val put his pants over his head and inhaled the crotch . . . nice. Then I waited in front of a space heater until the line for wardrobe went down and returned my cowboy accessories.

I texted Alan, “Is it insane for me to come out now?”

He texted back, “Probably. But I am dying to see you.”

I texted Frank. Did I mention Frank and I reconnected on an odd note. He wants to adopt Maggie.

Maggie is my dog, even though just a few moments ago I asked her if she was still alive. She really just wants to lay there and relax . . . sometimes her eyes are open. But she is my dog. She adopted me.

That said, I thought Frank could dogsit and see if having a dog suits him.

He agreed to take Maggie and Esther for 24 hours.

Frank was up. So I dropped off an actor at a commune downtown, then rushed home, packed a bag, let the dogs out and we all drove to Frank’s in Hollywood.

Driving away from Sylmar feels so good- at that moment int he middle of the night, listening to Bob Seger on the radio and feeling a cold bite of night air on the back of my neck so the dogs could hang their heads out the window. That felt like freedom, no matter how short lived.

I dropped off the kids, had a quick chat with Frank about my love life.

He said, “Remember? You called this. You said Alan would be begging for you back a long time ago. But you said you would never give in.”

I said, “I probably shouldn’t give in, but right now I need to be worshiped.”

He said, “I like the hair.”

I pulled at it and winced.

I arrived in San Diego after sunrise. Why people drive slow at 5am makes no sense to me? There was a brief patch of touch and go outside of San Diego, but I flew into Little Italy fairly easily. I parked outside the church across the street, grabbed my bag and Brad and walked up to his apartment in vintage sunglasses.

The Hispanic blowing leaves outside the building smiled at me. I winced.

Alan leaves the door open for me, so I always just shove the front door open just before entering, likes its my opening in a movie.

He smiled as soon as he saw me.

I said, “Do we have to be blowing leaves at 7am? Doesn’t that violate some city law?”

He said, “They always start that noise at 7am, and then the church bells ring every hour.”

The church bell came on, “DONG DONG DONG”

I groaned. They have a big bell, but they aren’t using it to make that noise. They have speakers placed on each side of the bell, playing a recording of a bell.

DONGGGGG. DONGGGGGG.

He took my bag, made me some tea and said I could lay down. I had been up for almost 24 hours.

He said, “I like your hair like this, a lot.”

I winced.

He said, “You don’t see yourself the way that other people see you. You are gorgeous. You don’t need a mane of wild hair to hide behind.”

I said, “I don’t need it, but I grew out this hair after a long time of having short hair and it was me. This doesn’t feel like me.”

He said, “Its sexy.” He leaned in and kissed me.

My guard was still up.

I went to go lay down and he followed me in, then gently pulled off my clothes.

He said, “Look, I grew a small little heart on my lower back for you. I didn’t have time to manscape. See? It makes a little heart.” He pointed to the hair on his lower back.

I said, “Aww, an early Valentine’s Day present.”

He pulled out my naked body in front of him.

I said, “I am feeling shy.”

The sun was all over me and we hadn’t been really intimate since early September.

He said, “You can cover up the top part but I need the bottom part.”

I pulled the blanket over my chest and face as he went down on me. Then we made love for a while, morning sweat and church bells.

Afterward, he disappeared for a while, he moved my car so I wouldn’t get a parking ticket . . . I think he went to class.

I remember dozing for most of the day and getting up for a late lunch at Underbelly with him.

Somewhere in the day he had said quietly at first, “If you decide to stay with me, I plan on buying a house with a yard.”

Well, that is exactly the right thing to say to me right now. Sweeter words could never be spoken. Its just, Alan was capable of being very cold and that would be something I would have to live with. I don’t know that I can.

On the flip side, Alan’s advice has been the most beneficial to me in the last year.

He said, “One of my clients complained that I was too much of an asshole. Its just she wasn’t listening to anything I said, so I stopped sugar coating it for her. It works on other people, like one client that tried to stab my boss last year. She loves me. I really don’t like working for poor people. Its just too difficult. I am going to quit that job. I have an interview with a private law firm that dabbles in divorce and other parts of law. Its kind of a boutique.”

In the beginning, Alan wanted to work for the poor and underrepresented. Now, his course has changed dramatically. Funny how that happens. The whole reason he was going into law was to stand up for the little guy, now he will completely change his mission. And I believe he will thrive working for the rich- they will respect him.

That excites me, in a different way than his Atticus Finch speech from last summer. I don’t know, I have to think about that.

Alan, “I’ve had enough of being surrounded by meth heads, child abusers, alcoholics, and worse on a regular basis and then representing them.”

Me, “Whats worse than child abusers?”

Alan, “There is worse.”

***

We came back and the night was falling down on us. I was still tired.

He was in his aquarium pulling out one of his fish.

Alan, “One of my fish has been dying for the last few days, he’s gone now.”

I said, “DEAD! HE DIED? Just now!?”

Alan, “He lived a few years after he was supposed to.”

I said, “Its because I came to visit. I am the ambassador of death.”

He said, “No no. I didn’t tell you because I knew you would have a reaction. Don’t feel bad. He has been dying.”

He gently pulled out the body and then went into the bathroom. I heard a flush.

I said, “Did you flush him?”

He said, “Yeah.”

I said, “Oh, I had to pee but . . . I guess I will wait.”

He said, “You don’t want to desecrate his burial?”

I said, “Exactly.”

We went to lay down in bed and he said, “He was sick for a while now. I thought about flushing him earlier, but I figure even a few days in pain is still a few days of life.”

I thought about that. Recently, I found a video of a teenager who died of heart condition. He suffered a near death experience earlier in the year and made a YouTube video using cards to describe the experience.

The boy is beautiful, I mean, just a gorgeous young man. His story in a few cards:

When people’s bodies “die” the brain still works for a short time.

I heard them [Paramedics] say, “Hes not breathing, his heart stopped and he has no pulse.”

I really thought to myself, this is it. I am dying.

The next thing that happened, I’m not sure if it was a dream or a vision.

But while I was unconscious, I was in this white room. No walls, it just went on and on …

There was no sound. But that same peaceful feeling I had when I was 4.

I was wearing a really nice suit, and so was my fav rapper, Kid Cudi.

Why he was the only one there with me, I’m still trying to figure out.

But I was looking at myself in this mirror that was in front of me.

The first thing I thought was ‘Damn, we look GOOD!”

I had that same feeling, I couldn’t stop smiling.

I then looked at myself in the mirror, I was proud of MYSELF, of my entire life, everything I have done.

It was the BEST feeling.

Kid Cudi brought me to a glass desk and put his hand on my shoulder. Right then, my favorite song of his came on, Mr. Rager.

The part where it said, “When will the fantasy END. When will the heaven BEGIN.”

And he said, “Go now.”

Right then, I woke up and the EMS were doing CPR.

I didn’t want to leave that place.

I wish I NEVER woke up.

Do you believe in Angels or God?

I do.

Its comforting, perhaps life is not better than death. Maybe that is the big secret. We are fighting to struggle in the sun, when the other side is peace in the dark.

We made love again and he said, “There really is nothing like making love to you.”

I turned into him and kissed his cheek.

I didn’t know what to say. He really broke my heart. I wasn’t over it, even though I rationalized it, and reignited my connection with him. I couldn’t give all of myself to him again. And I am not sure I wanted to.

The morning came fast, and he was off to court at 6am.

I saw him in his suit and he bent over me whispering something about how I should sleep in and take my time.

He would be back.

I muttered something back. The sun wasn’t up yet.

He said, “I didn’t understand a word you just said.”

I said, “Good luck in court.”

And slipped back into dirty bed sheets and dog fur.

I woke up, showered and got a cup of coffee with our dogs. I sat in his empty place and played “Wish You Were Here.” That song reminds me of us from last summer. I tried to find “Angel” by the Black Crowes but I misspelled Crows.

I was restless.

Was I going to wait for him for a brief goodbye? I had to be at work by 2.

He left a note: “I will be back around 10:50-11:00 If you can’t wait I understand. I left gas money by your glasses. <3”

I knew he wanted me to stay. I was feeling muddled.

I didn’t want to go back to LA. If it wasn’t for my Pittie Princesses, I wouldn’t.

I left.

Both Abe and Alan called that morning, but I just wanted to drive. Just drive and collect my thoughts about what I was doing.

I got a text from Alan, “I knew you would take off.”

I texted, “I didn’t want to wait for a drawn out goodbye. I thought it would be easier.”

He wrote, “I see you looked for Black Crowes on my computer . It is spelled with an ‘ES’. Angel is the first song I taught myself on guitar.”

There is something poetic about how he knew which song I was looking for. He gets me sometimes.

I picked up Esther and took the kids to work, Frank said he had some event that night and would leave a key for me to grab Maggie after work in case he wasn’t back in time.

I was mind fucking us. I don’t know that it would work with Alan. He was so hard on me the week before, and he tries to motivate me through harsh dialogue. All those terrible things he’s said to me.

I responded to it this time, it worked.

Most of the time it doesn’t work. People have been saying terrible things to me since Kindergarten. People have hated me for a long time, before I could even grasp the concept of hate.

It makes me think of Em and how our friendship ended. I didn’t give her the response she wanted, but the words she and her husband used were like fire. Even if my thoughts brush pass her and our last few nights on her back patio, I feel my skin darken and curl. I run away.

That’s what I do.

I just don’t know what to do with people’s rage towards me, so I find it best to slip away. Maybe that is the wrong thing to do. I don’t know.

I find it hard to believe I matter so much that I inspire rage.

After work, I texted Frank. We both decided we would hang out if he was around and catch up.

The few text messages I got back were nonsense.

“I 3656f5ewffrji xxied 20pkfk”

“thevvvvvvvvvwoqre s777”

He was drunk or on drugs.

I swept up Maggie and left a Thank You note on his desk.

As I was driving back to Sylmar, he called and said, “I am almost there. Just help yourself to anything.”

I said, “Are you drunk?”

He said, “I had a bit to drink yeah.”

I said, “Let’s hang out another time. I will be around.”

He sadly said, “Ok, I gotta say. I think you are terrific. This is off the record but, you can do no wrong in my book. You and the dogs are welcome anytime. I really wanted to see you tonight.”

I said, “Wow, this hair cut is really working for me.”

Back home, Abe left a note next to the heart shaped stone I bought for us in Ocean Beach. He had come to visit and waited a few hours before giving up.

What a little mess I have got myself in now.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QCQTr8ZYdhg

Unlovable Fuckable with Bad Hair, aka Me

2012-02-11T01:41:00.000-08:00

Before heading in for my pedicure, I grabbed a mocha over at the Armenian cafe I used to frequent immediately after I was laid off.

I wrote my parents the following email:

“Hey,

I called but Mom’s phone is off. I took my new phone apart and blew dry the inside on a cool temperature which didn’t work the first time, but did the second.

The phone was on, it just wasn’t registering touch.

Its working now, thank God. No word from gig yet and the electricity just went out as I was typing this on a coffee shop toilet.

No toilet paper.

I get it. One of those days. Talk soon.

Love
Sent from my LG phone”

Just as I was skipping to my car, I got the call to go down to the Long Beach Convention Center to prep for the hair show at 4pm. In my excitement, I accidentally kicked my change drawer in the car and smudged my nail polish. I could either go to the convention center now with an imperfect toe nail and be there on time, or have my Korean woman fix my nail, since I was already right there, and be 20 minutes late.

I was 20 minutes late.

People look at you different when you say you’re a model. Now, we all show up looking the same, hair unkempt, no make-up, big sunglasses and Victoria’s Secret sweatpants. That’s what a model looks like before a show.

When you tell the guard that you are a model, his face changes. His eyes soften, the corners of his mouth go up, and you realize that you have become a fantasy, just because you told someone you were a model. A second ago, I was just a girl without any cash blocking the parking lot entrance. When the word escapes you, ” . . . model” you transform in their imagination, and fairy dust floats around you in the company of men.

When I arrived, they left me waiting outside for a while. But my book was so good:

“They know. They know exactly when the flesh is ready, when the spirit cannot fight back. The poor are always crossing the Sahara. And the lawyers and bondsmen and all that crowd circle around the poor, exactly like vultures. Of course, they are not richer than the poor, really, that’s why they’ve turned into vultures, scavengers, indecent garbage men, and I’m talking about the black cats, too, who, in so many ways, are worse. I think that, personally, I would be ashamed. But I’ve had to think about it and now I think that maybe not. I don’t know what I wouldn’t do to get Fonny out of jail.“

Things haven’t changed so much, Mr. Baldwin, now it just doesn’t matter what color you are.

My escort came out to meet me, apologizing, “I am so sorry you had to wait out here. I couldn’t hear my phone down there with all the blow dryers and noise.”

I said, “That’s ok. As long as I have a good book, I am perfect.”

She said, “Wow, you’re a breath of fresh air.”

I wondered, the other models must be total bitches.

When I entered our suite, a few girls were getting their hair done, and complaining that it was so radical a change, their latest headshots and portfolios they paid hundreds for are now obselete. I mean . . . you did accept a job as a hair model. I am convinced people just have to complain. They don’t know how not to.

I sat down while my escort tried to find out who would be cutting my hair, if it was going to be cut, and what cut before she permed.

I sat there and continued to read.

Someone came down to give me a cut that would be easy to work with. He said, “I am thinking since we are so commercial with the other girls, maybe we can go asymmetrical and have fun with this one.”

I must say, anyone “having fun” with my hair and going “asymmetrical” with it frightens the hell out of me.

He said, “How much can we take off?”

I said, “I would like to keep some length, you know, on the shoulders. I still have to audition for commercials.”

He nodded and went to work.

He said, “What are you reading?”

I said, “James Baldwin.”

Silence.

Me, “Gritty, 60s, Black literature.”

Silence.

Me, “Something about the way homosexual men write about female characters is so much more powerful in love stories.”

Hair Cutter, “I’ll take your word for it.”

I laughed, and the Hair Dresser across from me leaned in to share a smile with me. She didn’t want me to feel bad.

I didn’t. No one reads anymore. And no one cares. So I will just keep it to myself. They are my jewels to discover.

There was no food, so someone went around and gave each of the models 4 corn nuts. I was ecstatic!

They decided the perm should wait til the morning of the show. I had to arrive at 7am for a fitting and more prep and then the show.

Once I said my goodbyes, I walked across the street to Sharky’s and got three tofu and vegetable tacos. Eating made me feel uncomfortable. I had to eat to keep healthy and sane, but when you eat after avoiding food, your stomach grinds against itself.

A few men invited me up to party with them in their apartment. I politely declined and thanked them for making me feel pretty.

At 5am the next morning, I tried to get the dogs up for a walk before dawn. They weren’t having it.

I drove into Long Beach and entered the building more easily this time.

First, they had to fit me. There is a rack with about 20 vintage outfits hanging next to a jimmy-ed changing room shrouded with a few black drapes forming a three cube L. Inside, there were 30 pairs of shoes, a corner to change and a wardrobe girl.

They tried me in two outfits that didn’t work, and finally put me in a silver top with a low V-neck and a mini-skirt so short, I could feel the air conditioning on my ass.

I couldn’t fit into the size 4 garments with my bra, so I had to strip down to nothing but my black panties. I didn’t care anymore. The black drape was lifted so people could weigh in on accessories and the overall look. There I stood, in bare breasts as they negotiated high heels.

The straight guy was the one staring at my tits and smiling.

The gay guy said, “Is that comfortable? I know when I wear high heels, I have to go bigger.”

The female hair dresser who shared my smile the night before said, “You have big breasts, don’t you?”

I said, “Oh God, thank you. That’s what I have always wanted to hear.”

An intern was assigned to take me down to shampoo my hair. I dutifully followed her and politely asked questions about New York and working for the hair designer. Turns out the hair designer’s wife is the one who shared the smile and said I have big breasts. That was kind of refreshing. She was no model, but she was a regular, middle-aged woman with kind yet knowing eyes.

As she washed my hair I said, “NPR recently had an article on how companies are exploiting interns now with the economy. Its being treated as free labor without any educational benefit.”

Intern, “MMm.”

Wow, ok. No one wants to talk about anything but the weather and my very limited modeling career. So I held on to my book and read as she permed me:

“He listens. He cannot tell what time it is, but it doesn’t matter here. The hours are all the same, the days are all the same. He looks at his shoes, which have no laces, on the floor beside the cot. His prick hardens. Absently, he strokes it, through his shorts, his only friend. He clentches his teeth, and resists, but he is young and lonely.”

My hair was being twisted and turned like screws into my skull. I could feel the bone lift up to meet my hair. I winced.

“He strokes himself gently, as though in prayer, closing his eyes. His rigid sex responds, burning, and Fonny sighs, dragging on the cigarette again. He pauses but his hand will not be still- cannot be still.”

Hair Dresser, “Have you ever had a perm before?”

Me looking up from my book, “Me? Oh, um, nope.”

Hair Dresser, “Are you excited?”

Me, “More anxious to see the final look.”

“He lifts himself out of his shorts and pulls the blanket up to his chin. The hand will not be still, it tightens, it tightens, moving faster, and Fonny sinks and rises. Oh. He tries to think of no one, he tries not to think of me, he does not wish me to have any connection with his cell, or with this act. Oh. And he turns, rising, writhing, his belly begins to shake.”

Model, “This haircut makes me look 10 years older. I can’t stand it.”

Other Model, “I like it. You look very sophisticated.”

Model, “I can’t stand it.”

“Oh and the great tears gather behind his eyes. He does not want it to end. It must end. Oh. Oh. Oh.”

Hair Dresser #1, “Its like Darryl Hannah.”

Model facing her, referencing her new hair style, “Splash’ Darryl Hannah, I hope.”

Hair Dresser #1, “Yeah”

Model facing her, “Not Kill Bill.”

Hair Dresser #2, “No, or Blue Lagoon.”

Model, “That was Brooke Shields.”

Hair Dresser #2, “No its not.”

Model, “Yeah it is. She has thick eye brows too, but its Brooke Shields.”

Hair Dresser #2, “There was a new one.”

Me, “You’re right. There was a remake.”

Hair Dresser #1, “Have you not seen the original?”

Hair Dresser #2, “Fuck. I guess not.”

“He drops his cigarette on the stone floor, he surrenders totally, he pretends that human arms are holding him, he moans, he nearly screams, his thickening, burning sex causes him to arch is back, and his limbs stiffen. Oh. He does not want it to end. It must end.”

Hair Dresser #2 to me, “We have to leave this in for 20 minutes, ok?”

Me, “yeah yeah yeah-”

“He moans. It is unbelievable. His sex trickles, spurts, explodes, all over his hand and his belly and his balls, he sighs, after a long moment he opens his eyes and the cell comes crashing down on him, steel and stone, making know he is alone.”

I sat in for make-up, and they painted gold glitter over my eyes and fake eyelashes. The glitter was falling into my contact lens, as I forced my lids open to take the eye liner.

Make-Up, “Can you see?”

Me, “Kind of.”

Make-Up, “Just think of the vampires.”

Me, “Vampires?”

Make-Up, “You know when the vampires first change, they see things differently . . . whats that movie? Brad Pitt is in it.”

I told her.

Half of my hair was in perm rods and I had to walk through the convention center in heels, a loin cloth and a black, sleek hair dressing apron. We all walked out together in one unit.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Model, “I am freezing!”

Two of the youngest models in the demonstration with me were sisters. They were both wearing very thin, V-shaped leotards that hiked thinly up their pelvic bone.

I said, “Good thing you waxed!”

She said, “I didn’t. I carry a razor in my purse.”

Her sister, “Why did WE have to get the leotards? That was supposed to be for the catwalk.”

Me, “You guys look great. Anyway, better you than me.”

We all were pushed into an elevator.

Just before arriving to our floor one model said, “I can just see myself getting chopped in half by an elevator.”

Silence.

Me, “Jesus Christ.”

Nervous laughter.

We walked through the corridor and into the darkness behind the stage. There was the echoing of someone on a microphone, and we fumbled through the black, tripping on cords and clacking passed all the audio and video equipment.

Another model, “I am going to fall. I am going to fall on stage. I know it!”

Me, “Stop saying that. Now, I am going to fall on stage.”

We lined up on the far wing.

My hairdresser, “Now, when you get out there. Look up at me, but look pleasant.”

I smiled.

My hairdresser, “That’s . . . too much. Just a small, soft smile.”

I said, “Don’t worry about it. I have hair modeled before.”

My hairdresser, “There is nothing to this. Just sit there. No one is out there anyway.”

The intro was all very 70s, the music, the video clips and effects. All the models looked gorgeous. The clothes and style looked amazing, their hair and make-up looked amazing. My perm . . . was not looking amazing.

They worked on my hair on stage in front of 300 people, and when they were done with the perming segment, my shoulder was tapped and I followed the intern out.

Two people bookended me, pulling out my perm rods, I extended both my arms out like a tree, “Don’t let me fall.”

I spun around and came back on stage to sit and smeyes as the hair cutter started taking cuts out of my hair.

“smeyes“-noun

A term coined by Tyra Banks; to smile with your eyes.

You see the hair start falling around you, and you think first, “Gosh they are cutting a lot.” Then you feel profoundly sad.

There is some connection with our hair, some strange, spiritual connection. No matter how prepared you are for a hair cut, you feel an inexplicable loss.

Hair Cutter, “I like that you are smiling. Most of the girls are just sitting with a frown.”

With my face frozen I said, “I am trying to not do too much.”

All the girls had walked. All the demo girls had walked. Now it was my turn. I was the last girl. Terrifying.

The celebrity hair designer who cast us, and who I desperately wanted to impress, waited for me at the end of the catwalk.

I walked confidently, concisely, lifting my knees up a little just so I could pretend I knew what I was doing.

Stopping at the end of the blaring lights, I heard the voice of the main designer and pivoted my body and then my head as I smeyed up to the ceiling.

I turned three different directions, and saw my face was plastered across all the big screens and monitors around the stage.

I refused to look, if I knew if I was displeased with the hair cut, it would kill my confidence.

The Celebrity Hair Designer tapped my shoulder and referenced the camera behind me. I posed and then returned to the line-up just before the crowd erupted in applause.

We jumped off the side stage in back like little dominoes.

We walked through the lobby as bystanders took pictures of us. We all complained about being cold.

One model said, “How do you like your hair?”

I looked in the mirror. It was curly and off my shoulder.

I said, “I look like my Mom. Oh well, its me now.”

Down the elevator and through the first show room with tons of demonstrations everywhere, I saw 1991, the hair designer that auditioned me and had me stand for 90 minutes in heels, then offered me half the rate I was now paid.

He was bending down to instruct the camera at a low angle and sweating a little. He videotapes himself having sex, I can just tell. Shudder.

Quickly, we were led into another room, where we stood around a platform, and took turns modeling each hair cut while two hair stylists lectured how to achieve each cut.

Maybe it was me, but I could tell no one was really thrilled with my hair cut. When I got on the platform, one hair dresser said to the other, “Do you want to start on this one?”

He shook his head and smiled.

They still sold it, but let’s face it, I looked like a single mom with a jerry curl best left behind in the 70s.

After strangers came up behind us and touched our hair, asked to post pictures of us on their website, and drifted away from us, we were all escorted back to the prep room.

Once we crossed the lobby a final time (clack! clack! clack!), we burst through the double glass windows and all stopped walking at the same time.

Model 1, “MY FEET!”

Model 2, “I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!!!”

Model 3, “You too? Good. I can’t walk anymore. Its like spikes up my ankles.”

I waited at the head, but kept my shoes on. We were one small flight of stairs away from our room and I just didn’t want to be cold anymore.

We got in and I changed. I shook the hand of the hair designer that permed my hair. She saw I was disappointed but said, “See you at the next show.”

I smiled politely and walked out to my car. It was only noon.

I took this picture immediately after the show.

On Facebook, my hair-steria was generating some support and activity. Sascha texted me and said I could wash it out before the chemicals sit in my hair.

I was in Long Beach, so I drove out to Abe’s in Costa Mesa. He had a bathtub and would make me feel pretty.

Driving, I texted Abe a few times to wake up, since usually he is not up for his first bowl until about 1or 2pm.

I called my mother, and she tried to calm me down.

Me, “I have bad hair. I am stuck in traffic. GREAT! LIFE IS GREAT!”

Mom, “Calm down. It can’t be that bad.”

Me, “Its that haircut from the 70s that should have been left in the 70s.”

Abe called me just as I pulled off the 55 freeway.

Abe, “Good Morning.”

Me, “I am coming over. I have to wash my hair. I want you to document the process.”

Abe, “Um . . . ok. I am just getting up.”

Me, lower, “How was Vegas?”

Abe, “It was . . . “

Me, “Did you get a lap dance?”

I tightened my mouth. Why am I asking this?

Abe, “I couldn’t afford a lap dance.”

Me, “Would you have if you did had money?”

I squinted. What was I doing?

Abe, “It doesn’t matter because I don’t have any money.”

I said, “Well … (tapping the wheel) were they prettier than me?”

Abe, “Not all of them.”

Silence.

Me, “Not . . . all of them.”

Abe, “No. Not all of them.”

Silence.

Abe, “Look, I don’t want to talk about this. Call me when you’re here. I have to get dressed.”

He hung up. My heart was just dropped off the side of the planet. Not all of them?

I WAS GOING TO KILL HIM!!!!

I showed up and parked my car. He met me outside and reached to hug me.

I was limp.

Abe, “Way to be disconnected.”

Me, “Well, I am not a stripper and I am not on Craiglist, so what connection could we possibly have?”

Abe, “Come on, let me cook you breakfast.”

Me, “I can’t eat with this thing happening on my head. I can’t sit here and live with this.”

Abe, “Its not that bad.”

Me, “So, the strippers were prettier than me, but not all of them. What, not the ones in the dimly lit back room.”

He laughed.

Abe, “I was the good one. Everyone else got lap dances. I sat there and just kept turning down girls and eventually I was left all alone.”

Ok, I should say here, it was Abe’s cousin’s bachelor party. He is a guy around Abe’s age, loves to joke about his farts, invented an app and has some kind of career- but who also made it very clear he did not like me.

We met twice, and everytime I asked a question, he looked bored, offered a quick answer and otherwise ignored me. Later, he told Abe to “Watch out for me.”

Now, the cousin’s fiance is a gorgeous, intelligent and nice girl, also around my age, who went out of her way to make me feel comfortable at that same dinners.

The idea that HE, Abe’s cousin, went to Vegas and blew all sorts of money on nasty strippers just before going home to her, made me furious.

I know they say men should get it out of their system, that one last hoorah- but I couldn’t stand the idea that he had to do that. He loved her, why would he want some nasty bitch on his lap?

I said, “I HATE that men go to strip clubs. I HATE MEN. I HATE the way they act. I HATE how all they do is think about fucking. PIGS!”

Abe was down on his knees and looking up at me, “I know you hate them.”

I could tell by the tone of voice, he had come to some conclusion about me. That secret I told him a year ago, in my Pasadena bedroom just before we had sex that last time, it was about my past. He hadn’t forgotten the secret. In fact, I could see all over his face, he had thought about it quite a bit and concluded that I was a shadow of a victim.

He said, “Its just a last hoorah before he got married.”

Shaking his hand off of mine, I said, “Yeah, they have strippers before getting married and then, after the wedding. they end up going on a date with a girl like me and begging for sex.”

He tilted his head and said tenderly, “aww.”

I stood up suddenly and said, “Let’s take pictures of this disaster so we can document it.”

In his bedroom, we took some pictures. I wasn’t happy with any of them. I looked older. I looked like my mother.

In the bathroom, I took a long bath and Abe joined me, once again on his knees.

Abe, “I didn’t necessarily want a lap dance.”

Me, “Don’t worry. Someday you will find a girl worth marrying and everyone else can buy you one.”

Abe, “It doesn’t have to be that way. I don’t have to see strippers.”

Me, “I get it. I know you are oblivious of what you say, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

Silence.

Me, “You make me feel inadequate.”

He splashed warm water over my exposed legs. Then he got up and said, “You don’t need anyone else to leer at you. I will leave you alone.”

I said, “You don’t have to. Will you stay and take pictures?”

He did. Again, I didn’t like many of the pictures he took. The framing wasn’t flattering. So I took some of my own:

I washed up and smoked a few cigarettes.

He said, “Have you been smoking a lot?”

I said, “Not at all.”

In a moment of weakness, I texted Alan a picture of my new hair. He was texting me back, trying to comfort me.

Abe said, “So I was looking at jobs down in San Diego, there are some jobs in production houses.”

Me, “Why would I want to move in with you? Don’t you think I deserve someone who loves and appreciates me?”

He thought for a moment and said, “Yeah, you do.”

Me, “Thank you.”

He turned his back on me.

Abe, “You need to find someone that isn’t emotionally void.”

Texts from Alan poured in. Once again, they are missing from my phone.

Alan wrote: “I will pay for your gas and your ticket to the Wild Animal Park if you come down to visit me. The offer stands.”

Abe picked up the phone, “Oh, and you’re mad at me.”

Me, “I didn’t have sex with him, and it wasn’t because I didn’t have any money.”

He walked inside.

I started pawing at my hair, “My hair . . . “

Abe, “You do look like- Ronald McDonald.”

Dead Silence.

Me, “Thanks.”

Text from Alan: “Come down and I will take dirty pictures of you and make you feel better about your hair.”

Abe, “I know, I’m an asshole.”

Me, “Yeah. You are. I gotta go . . .”

Abe, “Can I come up and visit you this week?”

Me, “You asked the same thing last week but you had to ‘take care of your shit’ and go to a strip club.”

I got in my car and drove away, offering a very curt wave back at him.

I sent Alan a picture of me in the bathtub.

He texted back, “Hmm, its missing that post-multiple-orgasm bliss about it.I can do better.”

Things turned in the conversation. Alan was drilling in how I took from him and never gave back.

To which I wrote: “It has been difficult being someone who relies on favors, without resources while in a constant state of crisis. It makes me feel like a piece of shit to all the people who continue to help me.”

Alan was harsh, making statements similar to what he said on my birthday weekend- reiterating I am unaware of the damage I do, I am a user and the least I could do was give him my body.

Now, though I hadn’t cried really over my hair, or had anything to drink, I was in a weird fog of thought. When I look back on it now, I just had to get food, get weed and get home.

Meanwhile, I was stuck in traffic and miserable about what Abe said and what Alan continued to text.
At the marijuana clinic, the clerk still gave me a ridiculously good deal on my weed. Usually, they give me 60% off their product with a few goodies. I asked him about my hair, he smiled and said it looked good.

Then I went to Taco Hell, and the Drive-Thru boy said he liked my smile.

Maybe the hair wasn’t totally devastating.

I got home and pinged Alan back:

“Fine, Alan. You think I owe you a night in bed for all you’ve done for me. You win. You got it.”

He wrote back: “I accept.”

By the time I got home, his chat box was open on my computer:

“I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. Me saying things is usually not good.”

Me: “I am off Wed and Thurs
I was going to try to book audience work
but I can come down
I am depressed
so maybe it will be good for me”

Alan: “I am too. Maybe good for both. Either way.. your hair looks sexy.. I think you would like to go out and show it off.. so yea.. I need you.. way too bad to be logical or do the right thing.”

Me: “My mind is having a hard time
you kicked the shit out of my character all afternoon
and now feed me compliments about sex and my body
its a serious mind fuck, my friend
I feel totally unlovable right now.”

Alan: “Its what I do to myself all day. Besides I’m still mad at you.”

Me: “and I you
but i am not sending you a laundry list of complaints
now I am sitting here thinking I am only good for a fuck
that’s how everyone else treats me
so it must be true”

Alan: “Wow that’s deep. Be a dude. We are good for even less. At least your very presence is worth something. I might as well blink out as exist.”

Me: “me too
there is tons of pussy in this town
I am just unstable enough to fall for anything”

Alan: “Or.. understand that I want you.. and we can talk about more.. but we have to be honest.. and that’s means you understanding that I can’t commit to you till you are capable of returning it.. you are not”

Me: “I am not capable of a relationship
I acknowledge that”

Alan: “But you can make me feel like someone cares for awhile while we both get our shit together”

Me: “that doesn’t make me any less sad
I get vulnerable with sex”

Alan: “You still don’t have to fuck me. I think I got through to you. But you also know I’m not into it if you aren’t. Se we shall see.
We might just get soup. As long as we talk about sex I am happy it seems.”

Me: “I worry we are both destructive people, Alan”

Alan: “You know I’ve been in a bar this whole time right?”

Me: “I have no reception
I am depressed about my hair
I had to hear about what a shitty bitch I am from you
and then I was stuck in traffic”

Alan: “sounds shitty.. sorry if im mean”

Me: “thanks”

Alan: “but if im not you just keep repeating the same crap over and over
mean is sort of how i snap people out of that
even me”

Me: “I wasnt even talking to you
how could I be repeating shit”

Alan: “i never really thought you’d get this..
i knew you weren’t ready for a real relationship.. i think you’d still banging your ex probably
but like.. i dont really care.. i thought we had a real future.. you just had to give me enough to hold onto until it was time
i dont really want more than that..
and don’t fucking punish me for screwing up..
that’s not that much to ask i thought”

Me: “I can’t comment on our exchanges anymore
I am far from perfect
I am a real fuck up
I know
but I gotta heart”

Alan: “and mine got chewed up and spit out a long time ago
you ain’t the the only one with issues babe”

Me: “I know”

Alan: “and i did read some of what you wrote”

Me: “i know”

Alan: “just not the blog”

Me: “where”

Alan: “you left over an IE window and it kept making these obnoxious sounds
it was your google talk and you were chatting with some dude
basically just ranting about what a piece of shit i was”

Me: “hard to believe”

Alan: “that hurt a bit..”

Me: “dont know”

Alan: “but yea”

Me: “I think you misread it”

Alan: “i closed it.. but i dont think so
i think it was your private talking time
and none of my business”

Me: “I may have said you were not a good person once. because i believed that you weren’t.”

Alan: “but still shitty”

Me: “but ranting on you
I wouldn’t have the time to do that
nor the passion for it
I closed you out, but wasnt upset with you
when i visited”

Alan: “gave a detailed synopsis of me getting you off
and about me begging for more
etc
that sort of thing”

Me: “sounds like a basic theme to a blog
but not a conversation I would have

I need to consult my therapist before we talk anymore
I am feeling spun around”

Alan: “they’ll probably recommend against fucking me
i would to..
because im a trained cognitive therapist

im not drunk anymore..
my brain got gooey
it was a nice drunk
my brain is telling me i tricked you into sleeping with me..
are you dumb or something?
and did i enjoy it ?
“

Me: “I am dumb
I fall for every basic manipulation in the book”

Alan: “ouch”

Me: “while consciously acknowledging it”

Alan: “basic?”

Me: “thats why I am in therapy
maybe you were a level above it
but you knew what you were doing
and so did I”

Alan: “did I?
what the hell is going on ?”

Me: “guilting me into having sex with you”

Alan: “oh.. did that work ?”

Me: “YES:

Alan just lawyered me into a night of sex. And I was going to follow through, because even though I love Abe, he said all the wrong things. Alan said all the right ones.

And after a bad hair cut, a girl needs, more than anything, to hear the right words:

Alan: ” … that hair really does look hot as hell..”

Getting the Fuck Out of Sylmar

2012-02-07T13:20:00.000-08:00

The Monday after my birthday weekend, I made plans to have dinner with my dear friend Jeph, who I don’t see often. There are several reasons; he doesn’t own a car, he lives on the opposite side of Los Angeles, and I work too God damn much.

I told Dora I couldn’t drive her home the morning of that shift, then reminded her on our dinner break and then again as I left.

In one of our exchanges she said, “But can you just wait for me for an hour?”

I said, “I already won’t get out there until after 10, if I wait it won’t be until after 11 and we will both be so exhausted.”

She said, “Then do it tomorrow night.”

I said, “No, he works every night til Friday. Its for my birthday, Dora.”

And in a nasally, high-pitched drawl, she said, “But its not your birthday anymore.”

I remembered something all of a sudden, being 12 years-old on the basketball team. Something happened and I was talking to my coach, I must have been doing the same thing because he shoved his hands over his ears and said, “Stop whining! I hate whining.”

I did. For good. I should have said the same thing to Dora, but I am too God damn polite.

When I asked Baye to let her know I was leaving work, she turned to me with attitude, while still talking to Baye and said, “I know, I am taking the bus.”

I remembered what my therapist said, “She can get a ride by herself, she doesn’t need your help.”

So I said, “Ok” and left.

Then I heard her shout off the doggie playground, “She can’t wait for me like my mother and sister did when she didn’t have a car!!!!”

I stopped, then continued out the door.

I couldn’t wait. I need to think what is best for me and not run myself ragged for a little bitch who never gave me one cent towards gas, nor a “please” or “thank you.” I found my own rides when it wasn’t convenient for her.

I remember one time in particular she just told me flat out she was going out after work and couldn’t drive me home. I should offer her the same courtesy, but I was taught manners.

This seems petty in mentioning now, but its significant. Dora decided to give me the silent treatment for 10 days because I didn’t do what she wanted me to do, when she wanted me to. Brat bullshit, yes, but my motivation to book work and get the FUCK out of her life was building like never before.

There was a slew of model auditions happening because the Long Beach Hair Show was coming up. What sucked was you had to drive down to Long Beach for the auditions, which can easily take over an hour each way in Los Angeles traffic.

The week before, I was turned down from a mass casting at Sebastian Bach in Woodland Hills, where I have always gotten my model gigs before. (Gigs = 2 jobs).

The first audition in Long Beach, I walked on in, sat down and an older gentleman approached us and said, “I am just going to ask the people to leave who I don’t think would work for our product.”

He started behind me, “You . . . you . .. thank you. And . . . (looking at me) you.”

I had just sat down, kind of looked around and said, “Ok.”

He faced me with a tight smile, I got up and walked all the way back to my car in heels wondering if it was my age, my hair, the fact that I have terrible posture . . . what.

The next audition was an hour later just around the corner, so I waited in my car.

This would be a good moment to bring up someone who caught my fancy. I worked audience the week before and I found one of the audience fluffers to be rather funny. His gimmicks were different and I thought, when I walked in, I caught his eye.

That show in particular was odd because the majority of the audience was from some kind of inner city Church rehab group, so everyone seemed to be at poverty level (missing teeth and all) while a few of the black folks exhibited extraordinary talent. Why don’t whites falling on hard times have great talent too? All we really have is John Cougar Mellencamp. The blues performances I heard were some of the best I have seen in person, in concert or anywhere for that matter.

The rest of us sat around whining about food.

Anyway, the fluffer/comedian we will call Max, was good. Great actually. He worked hard, had original jokes and was just on top of it all night. So I made a mental note and added him on Facebook.

When offering candy for little trivia games to keep the audience entertained while the set rearranged and took breaks, one older Hispanic woman volunteered, walked up to play, took the candy and walked away.

I have never seen that happen.

She sat down right next to me and I laughed my ass off.

She shrugged her shoulders, “Free candy is free candy.”

Later, when Max was offering another prize, she walked back down and just stood next to him, staring at him.

He said, “Uhhhh, this is awkward. Um.” He turned away from her. “Is this a David Lynch movie?”

On Facebook, we had a brief flirtation before making arrangements to go out on a date.

In the meantime, I had to go in and sell myself as a model. I have to get the hell out of Sylmar.

I smoked a bowl and then walked into the Hyatt.

This casting call was bigger.

They took my picture and gave me a badge, so when casting they could easily reference my availability, height and look.

After the Polaroid found my face and filled in color and shadow, I thought, “Damn it, I look stoned.”

I walked in and was immediately approached about how much leverage I would give them with my hair. I asked them to keep my length but was totally open to dye.

There were so many castings, I couldn’t keep track of what client paid how much. Some of the gigs paid up to $1,000 and others only $200.

I sat down, when a short, kinda buff dude with a 90s jett black hairdo and a gotee came in. I could tell already, he was getting his rocks off judging pretty girls. He didn’t like me, for whatever reason, but my height qualified me for the catwalk, so he pointed at me and said, “You are kinda tall, come over and stand with the others over here.”

I joined all the other tall models in the corner for catwalk consideration. My face crumpled, “Kinda tall? Um, I am taller than two thirds of the models here.” Maybe I was slouching- hard to do in heels, man, you slouch you tip over.

I stood there in heels for 2 hours, as every other model in that corner was given a call time and information. I stood there and read my book.

The dude, who I will call 1991, passed over me and started casting the shorter models for other slots.

I stood and I read.

A girl asked who got me the audition.

I said, “All Around Talent . . . of which I don’t have really.”

She offered a polite smile.

1991 flirted with some models, chatted with others, my ankles started burning and I began to feel dizzy. I realized I hadn’t eaten. Whether its subconscious or not, you don’t eat when working in the model world.

The last thing you want to feel is bloated, especially if I had to pass in a size 4. That said, I could feel the flush in my cheeks, similar to how I felt both times I collapsed last year.

I stood and I read.

The audition was at 6:30, which I thought would give me plenty of time to go up and meet Helen for a concert her brother bought her tickets for. It was now past 7:30 and I was concerned.

1991 came over and said, “We are now at eye level, that must be from standing in heels for an hour and a half. Go ahead and sit down.”

I did. 25 minutes later, I got a call time.

The guy assigning spots said, “What are you reading?”

I said, “James Baldwin?”

He shook his head.

I continued, “Gritty 60s New York literature.”

He politely smiled and returned to the complicated layouts in front of him.

Then I booked it out of the hotel and ran to my car, called Helen and told her I was going to be late.

I could tell I was causing her some degree of stress. She needed to go to bed early since she had a contortionist job in the morning. She kept apologizing that we had to cut out of the concert early but I said, “We are in our 30s, we need our beauty sleep. We can’t bounce out of bed like we used to, our face will fall. Its important, I understand.”

She said, “Its true. When I was younger it didn’t matter, but now it shows.”

She was feeling low, she is fresh of her second break-up in one year’s time. She liked him. Now, she was getting skinnier. As a survivor of anorexia, she has to stay on top of her weight. Her head hung down like a heavy blossom teetering on the end of a delicate stem.

I haven’t been feeling particularly entertaining lately, since there has been so much resentment tossed around from Alan and Dora. I was so focused on saving myself, that my wit was dulled. I just grabbed her arm and told her she was going to be ok. She collapsed on my shoulder and hugged me. People really do need people.

We got inside of the Exchange, which was a cool little club downtown, but everyone around us looked to be early to mid-twenties. They were dressed like sluts with their vodka sodas, laughing too hard, sticking their asses out too far, and just being obnoxious in general.

On the main floor, the kids were better behaved. Its just a different vibe. Though Helen was cast as a high school student last year because she looks so young, and I could pass for 26 most days, there was no reason to feel out of sorts- but we did. We were both tired and distracted. Neither of us wanted to drink. We were getting old.

The act came on and this adorable skinny boy came out to DJ. He was so passionate, it stole my attention and I thought, “Now, I want to have sex with him.” Last weekend I had sex with Abe, and wanted to have sex with Alan . . . now I wanted to have sex with this guy. I must have been ovulating.

We danced for a bit, looking up I saw a sea of cell phone camera screens and thought of Alan’s speech about the human experience now existing only through a lens. Then we left so Helen could get her beauty rest. We later found out we missed the main act entirely, that was the opening act Zedd. He was . . . ahmazing.

As she got out of my car to slip into her apartment building, I said, “Have a good day contorting.”

She said, “Story of my life.”

I said, “That’s a Helen-ism.”

The next night, I had a date with Max. Now, initially, he asked me out for pie- which I thought was sweet.

Then he FB pinged me, “I’m a super private person though ok?”

I wrote: “I see, so not FB posts tagging you, illustrations of our night together”

Max: “Ill explain later”

Me: “Do you have a girlfriend?

Silence.

Me: “ . . . grand.”

Max: “Exactly, lets get coffee and talk later. No pressure.”

Me: “eugh”

Me: “Can’t go out with you but we can chat over coffee. I am not that kind of girl, the side order. I prefer to be the entree.”

I really don’t understand what about me tips men off that I am dying to be their poor, under-privileged mistress. Why would I want to fuck someone and make them happy so they can provide for some other chick who doesn’t have three dogs? I deserve it all, you know? I do.

Max: “only in movies is timing perfect, and then, in most movies, timing is off as well. it’s just life”

Oh . . . he’s good. He has done this before.

I did my laundry and he texted me that he wanted to meet, so I figured there would be no harm if he met me at the laundromat.

There, I learned that Abe wasn’t going to see me that week, when he had asked so tenderly a few days before. He needed a day to “take care of [his] shit” and then he had a 3 day bachelor party in Vegas with his cousin. I was done. I rarely texted him and didn’t bother to call.

I did text Alan a picture I found on Facebook.

He texted back: “No this is the best picture ever.”

(That’s my ass) ( . . . not bad, huh?)

Max showed up and didn’t like the lighting in the laundromat. He didn’t feel like it was flattering, so we sat in his car. Yeah, people in Los Angeles are that neurotic.

So we sat there and spoke for a little while.

Turns out he is married.

Of course.

And then he pitched me the usual sob story about how he wanted to make it work but (fill in the blank). I have really heard it all. They are either a) insane – which seems to be a personal favorite among men b) selfish and cheating on them c) in an open relationship where we have to be discreet anyway or d) dumb.

Max selected d.

He kept saying, “Don’t get all Sisterhood on the Traveling Pants with it, like you have to feel bad for her. She’s fine. Don’t worry about her.”

I said, “I am not worried about her, I am worried about me. I don’t want to get involved and I won’t get what I want.”

He was getting touchy feely at this point, and kept reiterating that he would probably end the marriage, but he deserved a little bit of fun.

Can I take a moment to scream, “WHAT ABOUT WHAT I DESERVE!!!??”

WHAT ABOUT ME?

Guess what Married Man, FUCKING YOU ISN’T ANY KIND OF INCENTIVE FOR ME!

GET IT!?

Like, really let it sink in for a second. I don’t want to fuck you.

I don’t desire to have sex with some mildly bloated, aging, balding guy who only intends on sticking his dick on me while giving his wife flowers and children, not to mention all the emotional and financial support. Now, why would I say, “Oh, a home, a relationship . . . nahhhh, I just want dick.”

That is not me. That is not women. That’s men, and that’s why I am so often fucking disgusted with the dishonesty, the selfishness and the flat out disregard for everyone else not connected to their balls.

I have sex with single men because they have the capacity to love me. And even if they don’t long after orgasm, the possibility is there, and that, my friends, is worth everything.

He spoke about how this was all “new” to him. Bullshit.

And said he “never thought about anything like this before.” Bullshit.

I told him about my ex-husband, and my divorce and about the Prophet. I said, “Its hard no matter who you are in the scenario, its not a road I need to go down again.”

We spoke about drugs, not sure how we got on the topic.

He said, “Back in the 90s, in Los Angeles, coke was popular on the comic scene. Its not like it is now, where everyone acts like its taboo. A bunch of comics lived in this building and we all had our own stash. I remember I had just finished mine, and I was so congested, it was a bloody, snotty mess. I was having trouble breathing. Then, I went down to my buddy’s place and he was cutting his lines and offered me one. I will never forget it, my nostril just popped open. Like (then he used his hand to slowly open up as he made a sound similar to a car tire popping and slowly deflating). Its funny how close the body and mind are, my nose opened up for that line.”

I said, “So did you take the line?”

He said, “Hell yeah, I took it. I can’t do that anymore, the come down is too rough.”

I said, “That’s why there is xanax.”

He raised his eyebrow and said, “Maybe its worth another try.”

I leaned back now that his story was over, “No, its not.”

He said, “I wouldn’t know where to get it though.”

I was quiet.

He said, “You do.”

I said, “Yeah, but I am done with that.”

He stroked my face. I crumpled my brow and sat back.

I said, “I am not comfortable getting physical. I prefer getting to know someone first.”

He said, “We did get to know each other. I opened up about my marriage, you identified with some of what I am going through. We talked about drugs and your roommate.”

I said, “That was 30 minutes. I don’t know you.”

I then told him I was no longer comfortable hanging out in his car with him in a parking lot.

He asked, “Why not?”

I said, “I am just not comfortable with it.”

He said, “Can I buy you a drink?”

I said, “That’s exactly what I need right now.”

So we went to a place in North Hollywood called the Tiki No. And though everything was telling me to cut short the evening, I was curious.

We ordered some exotic drinks, the place itself was cool though there was some kind of hula hoop contest happening with the female patrons, and the men all crowded around and stared at their hips and asses like it was a gang bang.

I got a text, it was from Abe: “I want u”

I smiled. No response.

Meanwhile, Max crawled closer to me and asked me if I did leg modeling.

A man in a wheelchair rolled by.

I said, “No, but he does.”

He laughed.

Max, “Do you not believe in deodorant?”

I melted and shoved my nose as close to my armpit as possible, “Why!? Do I smell?”

He said, “Just a little like sweat.”

I said, “Oh, no I wear deodorant. Its just been a busy day.”

He said, “Well I didn’t know if you were into the crystal or some shit like that.”

I said, “Why, because I am a vegan? I must not believe in deodorant. Geez.”

Then he put my hand on his cock and said, “Say you are going to go fuck someone else. Say, ‘I am gonna fuck someone else, loser!”

I said, “I don’t want to say that.”

He said, “Don’t worry, it won’t hurt my feelings. Its just fantasy.”

I removed my hand and said, “I don’t want to say it.”

He really wasn’t hearing it: I as in ME DID NOT WANT TO DIRTY TALK TO A COMPLETE STRANGER WITH MY HAND ON HIS COCK.

Have I reached my all caps limit?

We closed out the tab and he drove me back to my car.

I thought he was funny, but there was really nothing in him for me. I know you all must be wondering, why I didn’t cut out early? Why did I stay there and endure his sleazy yet awkward advances? Really, all I can say was curiosity. It may not be a good excuse, but I like spending a little time with random people. It feels good for the soul, in this case, I felt dirty.

I said goodnight and drove home. At least my laundry was done.

The next day, I had another Long Beach model audition. I thought about not going, I already booked a gig with 1991 but it only paid $200. To do more would either require walking the catwalk or getting a major hairstyle change.

After taking a poll on Facebook, I decided it was better to get a complete hair change and cash in so I could just . . . get the fuck out of Sylmar.

I was late for the first audition, so I sat and waited at the second one with my Baldwin book. Girls collected, they all seemed to know each other and none of them knew me.

A short, gray haired English gentleman walked in, followed by two very young male assistants with large, square glasses.

He said, “Is this the casting?”

He walked down the aisle and a girl up front gave him the page her agent passed on to her.

He said, “No this is wrong. WRONG!”

She apologized and he said, “Its not your fault. Its your agent.”

Then he asked for someone else’s casting call, and a girl gave him her cell phone.

He walked off with it, conferred with his assistants and then made an announcement, “I don’t like wasting other people’s time and I loathe people that waste mine. Now, what this comes down to is two things, length and money, right? Nobody cares about dye, because dye can be easily restored. We care about length, yes?

Now, the catwalk models will be getting $800 if they don’t have an agent and the demo models $400, again with no agent. If you do have an agent, that trims it significantly. Demo is $333 and Catwalk is like the devil . . . $666. Now, the food they serve here is inedible, so in addition to your fee for the day, we will be offering you a $40 per diem to buy yourself some decent food. The food here is not something you would eat, its something you would poke.

Alright, I need everyone who is willing for a major change on this side of the room and everyone who isn’t up for a complete change on the other.”

I thought about it and went to the “not a complete change” side of the room. The reasoning was, if they spoke to me about it, I could find out how much of a change and for how much money.

He went through and immediately plucked a tall, skinny red head with pixie short hair and absolutely no waist line.

Then he spoke to two fresh faced brunettes and asked them about their limitations.

Then he pointed at me, “What about you?”

I put my hand to my chest, “Me?” My God, someone wants me.

He said, “Yes, you. What are you willing to do?”

I said, “I just want to keep some of my length if I can, but I am up for anything.”

He said, “Good, you go over there with them.”

I stood in the corner with a handful of other models.

One girl said, “I want her shoes. I want everyone’s shoes here. Well . . . not everyone’s.”

The girl next to her turned to me and said, “Not yours. Just kidding.”

Cunt.

I said, “I got these at Ross.”

I liked my shoes, and who the fuck cares? I mean, am I really going to believe that these girls could afford that much more than me? We were at the same audition.

The Englishman walked down and picked his catwalk girls, then asked us all to catwalk.

My heart started beating. I could feel the vein in my neck throb until it ached. I only catwalk when I am drunk and reenacting America’s Next Top Model for a small group of people.

Luckily, a friend found a video for me on how to catwalk the night before. A) Walk slowly and in a straight line, some models lift their knees high B) Keep your arms still by your side C) End with attitude

I did, and I kept staring at the Englishman and smiling because . . . gosh I liked him.

As soon as I finished and went to the corner, an Asian girl frantically nagged me, “How was I? Was I ok? Did it look alright?”

I didn’t see.

I said, “You were great.”

She said, “Really?”

I nodded. “Don’t worry about it.”

The Englishman stopped to speak to a model who brought her baby in. She apologized and said, “I am so sorry, my husband had a meeting at the same time and that never happens.”

He smiled and said, “Thats ok. I have two of my own.”

Blast. He was married.

The baby kept trying to shove Mommy’s cell phone down her revealing neckline.

Englishman, “Naughty naughty.”

Sex . . . appeal. Why can’t that married guy hit on me?

Oh right, cause he has class.

Long story short, the girl who “joked” about my shoes was excused. The Asian girl with the self conscious catwalk was excused. And I remained with about 10 other models.

He put his hands through my hair and said, “Looks like you already have some natural wave, can you take more?”

I said, “Totally can.” Maybe if I talk like a 25 year-old, I can pass for a 25 year-old.

I was thrust into the demo main stage group with three other girls, my hair would be done on stage.

The assistants told me that I would be hearing from them regarding prep on Sunday and the show on Monday.

Saturday came and went with no call time.

Sunday it was the morning, and there was still no call time.

Now, since I switched to Virgin Mobile, I get absolutely no reception in (fucking) Sylmar. So, when I walked my dogs, I tucked my phone into my bra in case I picked something up.

I did pick up a bunch of texts from Abe.

“Wanting!”

“Want U!!!”

“U Just U”

No call though.

So I emailed my agent who gave me a number, meanwhile, my touch screen stopped working.

I had one voicemail and no way to check it.

On GChat, my friend Jerry, tried to key into my voicemail a couple times, and found that it was from my agent. He had a number for me to call about my call time.

Jerry then called the client for me and left a message asking to give him the details so he could forward on to me.

THEN, Jerry (Hearts, by the way) told me to take apart my phone and put a hair dryer on it but with a cool dry.

I did. My phone still didn’t work.

Somehow, my body heat had ruined the touch screen.

I had to be patient and not freak out! So I took a shower and came back.

My phone still didn’t work. And there was no word about my call.

I tried again and put the hair dryer on cool.

This time it worked. I thanked Jerry and headed off to get my $12 pedicure in Pasadena. I have to look spectacular for this show.

Around 3:15pm, I finally got a call, “Can you be here by 4?”

I said, “I can try.” What I didn’t say was, but you bitches are gonna have to wait for my toes to dry.

To be continued . . .

My Birthday Evil Queen Weekend Pt 2: Winning Sucks

2012-02-05T02:08:00.000-08:00

Before leaving Abe’s, I asked him to perform reiki on me. I realize a lot of people may not know what reiki is or think its total bullshit.

As defined by one of the first three links on Google: Reiki is a form of therapy that uses simple hands-on, no-touch, and visualization techniques, with the goal of improving the flow of life energy in a person.

Hands move just above your skin and maneuver your energy. Hippy dippy? It works.

I love Abe’s reiki, but of course the first time he did it, he went down on me afterward. This time I couldn’t have sex with him.

Despite the fact that I was delaying my visit to Alan to be with Abe, I still felt it would be too low to sleep with Abe just before arriving in San Diego, knowing Alan would hit on me. I did think, having Abe’s scent on me might further encourage and frustrate Alan. I am manipulative to some degree, but not an asshole.

After reiki, you feel a natural high like you just had a few orgasms or maybe like that first pint of beer after hiking an entire day in the heat. Its something . . . something special. It feels like a warm river is moving just beneath your skin’s surface. And though a massage is relaxing, a reiki session leaves you feeling at peace in a way you might not be able to find any other way.

When he finished, he pecked me on the mouth.

The hangover headache I had mysteriously transferred over to Abe, and I made my leave to the other ex, while singing:

“All of my love,
All of my love,
All of my love, to you.”

I heard it on the radio on my way home and opened up to the words deliberately for the first time:

“Should I fall out of love, my fire in the light
To chase a feather in the wind
Within the glow that weaves a cloak of delight
There moves a thread that has no end.

For many hours and days that pass ever soon
the tides have caused the flame to dim
At last the arm is straight, the hand to the loom
Is this to end or just begin?”

Abe told me later, that during our reiki session, I looked like I was 15 years old. Not only my face, he said, but also my body.

***

When I pulled up and parked in Little Italy, I got out and rolled my suitcase a block and a half to Alan’s apartment building. The ocean night air is cold, but that good cold that burns your cheeks and opens your nose to the night. Alan’s apartment building is a rose/peach kind of stucco. I felt good. Then I got a phone call from

Abe. My hands were full so I didn’t pick up in time, but I did read the text message.

Abe: “R U revenging me?”

I felt my first ping of guilt.

I wrote: “I love you. I just had plans, that’s all. Don’t confuse yourself. I gave you my birthday because I love you.”

I walked in an Alan greeted me. The kiss hello was awkward, tight and brief. He read the moment. He took a step back and understood something about me then walked away.

He said, “I got your text to not try too hard on the dinner so I just threw together some rice and vegetables.”

I said, “Perfect.”

He put together a plate for me on a TV tray and we sat side by side on the couch in front of the television, just like the latchkey kids we were growing up. The vegetables tasted like they came from a can and the rice was a little undercooked, but the effort was noted. He was really trying.

After a volcano bag or two, I was spent and fell asleep almost immediately.

I woke up to him on top of me in the midst of a sexual act. With my foot still in dreams, I said, “Oh, I didn’t know thats what was happening.”

He said, “I am sorry, if I didn’t know you knew what was happening, I wouldn’t have done it.”

I woke up throughout the night to him pushing me, and then I would half-consciously apologize for hogging the bed. This sounds like it could be playful, but even in my dreams, I could sense that he was frustrated.

When the morning came, I needed coffee. Its all very matter of fact for me. I need coffee. It was raining over the Farmer’s Market and I took his dog Wilson and Brad on a walk to my car, to recover some necessary items I left behind.

By the time I got back, something was completely different about Alan’s attitude. He was cold and short with me. I kind of dismissed it since I was still on this curve of, “I really don’t give a fuck after you abandoned me last summer.”

I knew either a) he looked at my text messages to Ab. b) he saw my Gmail and a blog comment was posted to ” Blowjobs are for Boyfriends” c) I said Abe’s name in the night (I can talk in my sleep)

It was raining and the coffee didn’t help, so I fell back asleep in his bed. He napped on the couch. Yeah, something happened.

I woke up around 2:30pm and put my shoes on. I asked him if he could watch Brad while I go out for awhile.

He said, “What are your plans for today?” There was emphasis on the “are” like he didn’t like being kept in the dark.

I said, “I was going to head down to Ocean Beach, do some shopping and look around for a while.”

He said, “I imagine if its Dog Beach, they would let you bring Brad into the shops.”

I looked down at Brad, he was staring at me and wagging his tail.

I said, “Hm, I could always try to take him with me. I am going to Dog Beach so I should bring my dog. Ok, Brad, you win. I will take you.”

His tail wagged furiously as I gathered his leash and harness.

Alan said, “I do that too, talking to myself until Wilson wins.” He smiled and looked down. There was still some affection for me in there.

Brad and I went to Ocean Beach as the rain cleared. I grabbed another coffee and videotaped him running along the beach. The sun set and the darkness was coming over my little patch of heaven.

I stopped by a shop and saw an Ocean Beach porcelain mug of just a woman’s bikini breasts. I thought it was perfect for Alan, so I bought it. Everything was 75% off anyway.

At the register, I saw stone hearts, about the size of my palm, maybe a little smaller. I picked a blue one up for Abe and a red one for me.

I said to the cashier, a middle-aged bald man, “I am courting two exes. The mug is for one and the stone for the other. Who do you think I like more?”

He quietly rang them up and then forced out a, “You gotta do what you gotta do.”

I said, “Its my birthday.”

He said, “Good luck with your decision.”

Was I making a decision? I thought it was obvious I can’t be with either . . . not obvious to the middle-aged bald man running a souvenir shop. Maybe he knew something I didn’t.

I warmed up the car and left Brad there as I went for an appointment to have a massage and wax at the Hidden Spa.

They asked me if I minded having a male do my massage. I said, “Not . . . at . . . all.”

Now, since I was making the entire weekend my birthday, I informed them it was my birthday and asked if I could take my dog into the massage with me. He just galloped around the beach and I was concerned he would catch a chill.

The receptionist said, “Well then, of course!”

The whole entitlement thing, the “Its my Birthday and I am a Princess,” attitude was getting me far with everything. Instead of anticipating “no”s from people, and making an effort to work around everyone else, I was going to unapologetically do my own thing. This sense that I could really do whatever I wanted to, was liberating. Maybe I could be a rich bitch after all.

So I brought in Brad, who growled at Bryan, my masseuse. I said, “We have issues with men, both of us.”

Brad saw Bryan, growled a little more and then I said, “Are we done?”

Brad wagged his tail and in we went to the masseuse room.

Bryan was tall, had some groovy soul patch and unkempt hair. He was a tall and young white boy.

I brought Brad in and kept his leash around the chair, undressed and waited for Bryan. When he came in, the massage was exquisite. Male masseuses have a firmer hand on you, and on the receiving end at least, you get a sense that they are carving your body out of stone.

His fingers circularly rubbed just below my lower back onto my buttock. He put his hands through my hair and almost pulled.

I asked, “Do they teach you all of this in school?”

He laughed and said, “Yeah. We practice on each other so we know what feels good.”

I wondered if a massage is always erotic to a man who typically has a female maseusse, there is simply no way a man can put his hands on my body, make me feel wonderful and it not be arousing.

He complimented my tattoo.

I wanted to be sexy and beautiful, but the truth is, after a good massage, my hair looks like it came from the bush, my minimal make-up is smeared and my eyes are struggling to open for the light. Perhaps that subtle scent of bo. Nothing flattering about it. But I tried.

I picked up some soymilk and headed back to Alan’s. I asked him if he was up for watching “Alice in Wonderland” and taking drugs with me, specifically x.

I wondered about taking it before a professional massage, but I never take drugs unless I am in complete control of my immediate environment, and/or have a plan.

He said, he was not in the spirit for it.

Now, I was hoping he would agree just so I could improve his mood and enjoy the rest of my evening. I didn’t want to spend my birthday sitting next to Mopey and eating Capt’n Crunch. But that’s exactly what happened.

I came in, hearty, with his gift,

I said, “I hope you don’t have one already . . .”

He opened it and said, “Nope, I don’t have boobs yet. Thank you . . . thank you for giving me a gift on your birthday.”

I smiled. I did want to make him happy.

He made it a point to not even let our elbows brush. He was withdrawn and quiet. He did, however, put on the “Big Lebowski”- (which was my 2nd choice for viewing to an “Affair to Remember” at Abe’s.

We spoke about war and civilization.

Alan, “No matter what we complain about, we do live in a privileged society.”

Me, “Oh, I wouldn’t argue that. I saw someone back their car up to a dumpster just so they wouldn’t have to walk to throw out their coffee cup. I think that qualifies as privileged.”

Alan, “There is a theory that where there is a functioning water system for the people, access to clean water for everyone, there is less civil war. Because the people need to feel that there is something worthy to protect.”

We talked about how lifestyle has changed so much that what most people experience it through a lens.

Alan, “The argument is a man used to experience something like (motioning to me) Disneyland through his own eyes and experiences. Now a man experiences Disneyland through the lens of the camcorder. It has completely altered our perception of life experience. We only see what is happening ahead of us through a camera, in a desperate attempt to capture that experience, as opposed to living the experience.”

I love Alan, sometimes.

Me, “I love Ocean Beach so much, there was a place, a two bedroom with a fenced yard for $1400 a block from dog beach.” I texted Abe about it earlier.

Alan, “But I won’t be here much longer.”

I tightened my mouth. He could see it didn’t matter where he was going to be.

I matched him, volcano bag to volcano bag and said, “I am trying to smoke as much as you so I can get some kind of indication on how stoned you are when we interact.”

He said, “How is that going?”

I said, “I can barely keep track of a conversation.”

I asked him what was wrong, he said nothing.

I asked him if I offended him, he said no.

I asked him what was up with the melancholy, he said this is how he always is.

Maggot Brain by Funkadelic came on, and we both just sat in the song together. As rocky a boat as I made, we always enjoyed the view.

When I went to bed, and he settled on to the couch, I asked him if this was the last time I was ever going to see him again.

He said, “No, tomorrow morning is the last time you will see me.”

I tried to stay up and spend time with him, but I was tired and stoned, so I went to bed and laid there, thinking about what a bitch I am.

Laying there alone with both his dogs (it should be noted that his dog slept with me over him that night) and I thought about the elaborate web I constructed over our heads. How I had played Abe and Alan off of each other. Abe’s bullshit with Hailey was easily spun around into using Alan to make him jealous.

I thought about how Alan leaving me when I needed him most last summer, was complimented by my chill three months later with apathy and despondence.

Don’t get me wrong, they deserve it. But it made me feel like shit. It was supposed to be my birthday weekend, and I was using the people I loved against each other like it was some kind of game.

I did/do feel that someone needed to school these boys on empathy. They needed to know how they made me feel, if not for me, then the next girl. Perhaps it’s not my job to do that. Maybe it is. I don’t know.

Either way, I was up all night pining for Alan. The rejection or somber reality of his feelings turned me on to him, and I wanted to seduce him- probably just for the upper hand but there was still a burning in my complimentary Angel-card holding Victoria’s Secret panties.

I knew it was probably evil of me to try to fuck Alan when I clearly hurt his feelings. So I went for the lesser of two evils and masturbated in his bed, leaving my scent somewhere near his pillow so he could smell me after I left.

The morning came, and I immediately packed my things up.

I went to his computer to close out my browser and clear the cache so he couldn’t have access to anything on-line.

Open, was a text window: “There’s always a moment when you start to fall out of love, whether it’s with a person or an idea or a cause, even if it’s one you only narrate to yourself years after the event: a tiny thing, a wrong word, a false note, which means that things can never be quite the same again.” – Douglas Adams

Beneath it, I added, “If you fall out of love so easily, you were never in love in the first place.”

He entered the room, “You don’t have to rush off right away. We can get coffee or something.”

I said, “Thats ok. I feel like I am imposing now and I want to enjoy the rest of my birthday weekend.”

He said, “If you want to stay, I can pay for your ticket to the Wild Animal Park.”

I smiled and said, “Thats alright.”

He looked conquered on the couch.

I said, “Unless you want to talk about whats bothering you?”

He said, “Whats the point, you are just going to leave anyway?”

I threw my hands up in the air and laughed. He didn’t.

This was unexpected. I didn’t know how to deal with this genuine emotion in Princess fashion.

I said, “What do you mean? I just came to hang out.”

He said, “I know, it became clear it didn’t matter at all if I was here or not.”

Well, mission accomplished. How does it feel, mother fucker?

I brought my car around and put my suitcase and Brad in, while running upstairs for anything else.

He saw me and smiled a little, “Where’s Brad?”

I said, “He is in the car.”

His smile faded.

I got everything, said goodbye to his dog Wilson and shoved everything in my car.

When I put my keys in the ignition, I realized I forgot my Capt’n Crunch, so I jogged back up the steps to his second floor apartment.

I said, “I forgot the Capt’n Crunch. I need that.”

He came in and I faced him with the box and I said, “THANKS!”

He laughed with a mouth full of toothpaste.

I hugged him and kissed his cheek, but he was stiff.

I said, “It was real.”

He said, “Yeah, it really was.”

Then I left.

I bought a pack of cigarettes. I have been trying to stop binge smoking since the New Year. I just didn’t expect anything like that to unfold.

I don’t know what I expected.

Then Brad and I went back to Dog Beach and walked the peninsula. It was a beautiful Sunday morning. I don’t know what it is about that spot, it centers me. I feel content in a way I haven’t for a very long time.

As I watched him run with other dogs, kick sand up in the air, sniff around before bolting towards me with a smile, I started getting the texts from Alan.

Looking back on my phone, I see they are all gone. WTF!?

Did someone go in and delete them all?

Alan. Fuck.

Perhaps you don’t need to know the texts verbatim.

Text after text said that I used him.

I apologized for making him feel bad- and then I would get another text saying, “I don’t believe you. I think you just said that you cared because it was the right thing to say.”

“No amount of liquor or pills can stop what you do to me.”

I must of recieved 30 texts tearing apart my character and intentions. They were so off base and so out of the realm of common sense, that it couldn’t hurt my feelings.

I said, “Even though all these text messages are mean-spirited, they still show me you care. Thank you for that. I really thought you didn’t.”

And

“I wanted to spend my birthday weekend with the people I was closest to, one of them was you.”

He wrote: “Life is better alone than with someone like you. All you know how to do is take and make other people miserable.”

So I wrote back, “Does that mean you are going to throw away the mug I gave you?”

He wrote, “No, but I have to put it away, out of sight. Its all I have to remember you by now.”

I wrote back, “Geez.”

How ridiculous were we going to be?

Nothing he could say could really hurt my feelings.

We didn’t know each other, not anymore. And his behavior after Danny died was unforgivable.

I swung back up to Costa Mesa and wrote Abe, “I am a shitty girl.”

He texted back, “Problems, huh?”

When I arrived, I told him that I upset Alan and he was texting me nasty messages that really made no sense.

Abe said, “Terrestrial beings . . . and their text messages”

My phone kept lighting up for a good three to four hours after I left Alan.

Perhaps I knew, leaving abruptly was the best way to turn the knife in the heart of a kid who was removed to foster care at an age when he was just learning to understand his identity. He has abandonment issues. Am I that evil? No, but I was that hurt.

Abe needed to pick up a new phone since his was lost or stolen. He wasn’t sure. We went together to a private seller off of Craigslist, since his paranoia already had him coming up with schemes about being high jacked from an apartment complex in a very nice area.

I was still in a dream from all the marijuana and ocean air. It was a warm day.

When we got back to Abe’s place, I gave him the stone heart I picked up for him.

He held it in his hand and I took out my red stone heart and pressed it up against his.

Abe smiled and asked me to kiss his stone. I did.

Then he said, “Thank you for getting me a gift on your birthday.”

I said, “I wanted to.”

He said, “Can I come by and see you this week?”

I said, “I don’t know . . . I have to think about things.”

He said, “You can look at my browsing history from now on.”

I said, “I don’t want to do that. If it isn’t Hailey you are looking for, it will be someone else. I want to be enough for one person, I don’t care how idealic that is. Maybe men always need the possibility of sexual variation. I just want to hold on to the dream for a little longer before giving up.”

He said, “Thats right, I am just an unemotional, pot smoking robot. I am lucky to even get sex.”

I laughed and said, “Its true.”

We had sex one more time before I left back to my shitty apartment in my shitty life as an underpaid nobody. I didn’t want to go, but I missed my pittie princesses.

Abe said, “I can’t tell if my balls or getting bigger or my legs are getting fat.”

One last thing I wanted to do was grab Thai food.

Abe and I went to Thai Spice and ordered some food- around 8pm he said I had to stop using the Princess excuse since it was now two days passed my birthday.

I said, “Well it was nice while it lasted.”

As I sat across from him, sweating over my curry, I watched his little mannerisms. The way he turns his body slightly to an angle when he sits down.

How he puts a forkful of food in his mouth, thinks about it and then starts chewing. Inevitably, he nods his head in satisfaction.

I needed water for my curry, and he asked me to stay seated so he could retrieve it for me.

Everything he did, down to the way he held his fork made me want to just marry him, be with him, live with him, give him babies, do anything to make it work.

Now, I know and you know I can’t do that. He doesn’t feel the same way. And calling myself a Princess wouldn’t change that.

***

My birthday weekend was nice in lots of respects, I was relaxed, I had a good time, but I was spending time with two men I once loved, maybe still do and they were both utterly miserable.

I did that. I was responsible for that.

As I was driving home, I still got texts from Alan:

Alan: “Forget about me. Forget you ever met me.”

When I got home, I emailed him:

” . . . you just seemed to not want me there at all . . . so I left. I don’t understand this rage of emotion you are having.

I am hoping after time passes, you can look at this again and tell me about your feelings, to my face.

I really do feel a lot of wonderful things for you. I enjoyed your company the last two nights. I love the real you. All your fascinating ideas about world and perception. You laugh at my jokes . . . sometimes. And are really cute, generous, kind . . . I only have positive feelings towards you and I hope you feel them from up here.

I am always here, even if I don’t appear on your chat list.

You make me sad.”

Then, I pinged him: “I know you realize you are acting out of abandonment issues. And why do I even CARE to hang around when you threaten to hurt my feelings? WHY DO I CARE ALAN? For the same reason I want to cuddle with the dog at work who spins around when ever she gets nervous because someone beat her over the head a long time ago. I can’t save you. I want but I know you would just hurt me whenever you felt something again.

I want to fix you and care about you. In the end, it will bite me in the ass, and thats what I have to keep telling myself. I will still be here when you get yourself sorted. “

Poor Tallulah. She is so cute and no one can get near her without her pissing herself.

I asked a Doggie Daycare manager about her and she said with authority, “The psychic says she was hit over the head from behind and it just went black after that. That’s all we really know.”

Do you really have to pay a doggie psychic to figure that part out?

He wrote: “I don’t believe a word of your email. I want to let you go without
causing you any more pain. Therefore I cannot say what I want to say.
I never will. Just don’t contact me again.”

I wrote: “You can’t hurt my feelings. Your lack of mental stability discredits you.”

He wrote:

“This is what I did not want to send. I backspaced it over and over
again. But after your last little snippet, fuck you, here’s the
truth. Respond if you want, you are blocked through chat and phone so
I don’t screw up and let you visit ever again.

You can’t just go away, you want to give me shit because I want to end
this without having this stupid argument. You really can’t get it
when I tell you there’s no fucking point in saying anything as long as
you’re gone from my life. Why stretch it out? Oh right, because you
want more.

These last weeks, at first I thought you really wanted to see me..
that we had a chance of actually creating some sort of friendship
again. Something that might last, like I hoped we would. It took a
few days of interacting with you to realize something I should have
known.

I know you got a brazilian (I didn’t, just a bikini) or whatever while you were gone.

I know you wanted to do E and we probably would have had some really great
fun sex. In all honestly, having you in my apartment on E is right at
the top of my fantasy list. But, fantasy and reality are different
and the reality of having you on drugs in my apartment would have been
horrible. If it wasn’t you, I would have done it. But you hurt me
too much and too often to ever trust you around me when I’m on drugs.
And what’s worse, you really don’t have any idea do you?

You care only about what you can get from me, and nothing else. You
want a future with me, but only if I change to be who you want. You
want to visit, but only on your terms. To hell with me, right? I’ve
only been working for months without a break. No reason to worry
about whether I need to relax too.

I tried to talk to you about what happened to me while we weren’t
talking. I don’t think I even got started before you started giving
me shit about it, actually getting upset with me for talking about it.
You had your friends and even sort of your family to talk to. I
was alone, except for you of course, who is quite honestly worse than
being alone. But still, it’s my fault. I should have gotten over
everything all by myself so I could support you right?

That is sort of how things go with people who try to get close to you.
You take whatever you can from them, then when they start to resist
or need you, you treat them like they are somehow your enemy. Spite,
distrust, and cruel jokes are not the way to go with me. I do enough
damage to myself to let you pile on more.

The only people you support or care about are people you look down on.
Dora is like another dog for you. Just another stupid creature
that needs you. If she actually had a brain of her own and didn’t
pretend to need you, you wouldn’t give a shit about her either.

Your last two visits have been terrible for me. I’ve worked my ass
off to show you a good time and you treated me like shit. I thought
maybe you’d be better during your birthday weekend, maybe you were
just too nervous to behave like a decent person the previous week.
Instead, I get another weekend of being told what’s wrong with me and
what I should have done. That is exactly why I hated being with you
before we broke up.

I do not want you to come back. I don’t want to get blown by you. I
don’t want to fuck you. I don’t want to talk to you. I do not want
you to be any part of my life.

That’s what I figured out Saturday. I realized that I did not matter
to you, not really, and you only said I did because you felt like it
was the right thing to say. I realized that you’re not worth begging
for. Not if all I’m going to get out of it is more misery.

I even thought about reading your blog to figure out what the hell you
could be thinking, but I really don’t want to know how else you’ve
twisted my words. If it’s anything like your interpretation of the
Douglas Adams quote left here, you probably misquoted or misunderstood
everything I ever said to you. Maybe that’s why you showed up here
the talking to me the way you did. Maybe you convinced yourself that
you didn’t do anything wrong.

Maybe you’re so stuck up on me not wanting to see you when your
roommate died that you forget that I wanted you to be gone from my
life before that. We broke up, we stopped talking, and I promised
myself I’d never let you do this to me again. THEN your life went to
shit and you somehow blamed me, even though you drove me off long
before that.

I am just afraid that I’m not smart enough to keep from letting you
back into my life again. That would be an even worse mistake than
letting you show up here this weekend was.

I can forgive you easily enough because I no longer think you’re smart
enough to know what you are doing or saying most of the time, but I
know you’re not my friend.

I do not have a friend in you. Friends give back. Friends
understand. Friends forgive. You do none of those things.
I’m not angry at you, like this email would suggest. I am angry at
myself for forgetting everything I said above and letting you back in
my life. I should have known it would hurt. And I should have known
you are not worth it. Yet I did it anyway.”

I wrote: “My feelings still aren’t hurt.

I asked to talk about it in person but you chose to hide behind your computer and phone.

I do have bad patterns, its true. But I always try to do the right thing.

I am sorry you felt neglected and criticized. Though I think largely you have a filter on, clouded with pot, paranoia and insecurity.

I can never forgive you for abandoning me when Bobby died. Though, I recognize you were incapable of helping me.

That’s where our friendship took a hard blow.

It is what it is.

I always believed it was a bad idea to get physical, but I suggested the x to improve your mood. Not to fuck. I have someone else for that.

I want you to be happy and find peace, though I fear its a long road for you.

I carry nothing but hope and light for you. You are special, in many wonderful ways. I hope you see that and dwell more on those ideas.

Love”

And then I wrote:

“I would also like to add, I never had my parents help me and I had very few friends after Bobby died and I lost almost everything. VERY FEW.

An ex-boyfriend came back to help me put some weight back on and get my head together. That was a blessing. I fought through a lot of shit late last year, and it was no party.

You don’t know how to have a conversation, if you did you might find out you aren’t surrounded by assholes afterall.

Everyone is trying their hardest, and most of the time it’s not good enough.

And if I used you for something, I don’t know what the FUCK that could be since I don’t have anything!

I felt bad for leaving when you asked to have a cup of coffee or even pay for my park ticket. I later realized that was a window for us to maybe have a conversation about what was bothering you. But deep down inside, we both know it would just give you more time to make me uncomfortable for a longer period of time because I didn’t give you what you wanted, and I don’t even know what that is.

I do love you, Alan. Please take care of yourself.

I can’t allow myself to keep trying to solve this enigma.

I hope you can figure it out in some kind of sober reality.”

. . . Happy Birthday to me.

Later I emailed him this pic and said, “Reminds me of our conversation”

He emailed me back this song:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dh3bleXWaCk

Maggot Brain by Funkadelic