Sunday, June 30, 2002


I guess the cliche about being alone in a crowded room is true because I have never felt so alone as I did tonight in a room crowded with everyone but you. I tried the alcohol, but that emotional crutch gave way beneath my weight. There's only so much Merlot and beer can compensate for; nothing can be bartered for your touch, your smell. And even when I lay myself down and closed my eyes to rid myself of you, I saw you there limping across the livingroom with a drunken friend on your shoulder. I saw you in the kitchen attempting to swing your hips to hip-hop. You were there in the bathroom holding a girl's hair up, there in the hallway making small talk with strangers; you were there on the front porch pretending not to mind the cigarette smoke.
And all of this depressed me even more because none of them were you. I was the drunk lying on the couch--half asleep, half awake--everyone tramples over and occasionally taps on the shoulder in order to identify. I was the fool who drank too much, who thought too much, who pictured you, for once, thinking about me.

But there is an Atlantic Ocean between your thoughts and me; they are separated by your cool blue sheet of not giving a damn. And tho I know this and treat it as a bad habit that needs ridding of, it's almost biological of me to need your nurturing, your hand against my brow, and to feel incomplete, cheated, without it...

Monday, June 24, 2002

Monica Lewinsky Sans the Breasts

It's funny how your past seems to come back to haunt you all in one day.

This morning I was cleaning out my brothel of a closet and ran across a pair of soiled blue jeans from the GAP. For some reason, unconsciously or not, I managed to save what I was wearing the last time Garrett and I were "together." It's not like I saved it for particularly boring days so that I could sniff it and lose myself down memory lane. It was more so a piece of memorabilia---or a talisman if you will. So there, on my bedroom floor, my past confronted me in the form of white spots that let me know that my history with him wasn't going to be as easily washable as I had thought it would be.

And then earlier tonight as John and I were stocking up on Cashew nuts for our road trip up north tomorrow, I stumbled onto Jeff Sterling, Garrett's ex, who incidentally just graduated high school and is much better looking than I. And I don't know why I remember his full name; it kinda has this ring to it that either makes me want to cringe or think of auto body parts. Jeff Sterling.

So to commemorate or finalize my letting go of the past [(a) washing my jeans and (b) not giving a damn about Jeff Sterling )], I've decided to attempt the all too familiar scene of the heroine chopping off her golden locks in the bathroom. Somewhere amidst my hair falling down in tufts like elegant ballerinas in the air, I picture myself eyeing into the mirror with one determined eyebrow raised and saying something along the lines of, "Your future's a beast: Tame it."

End scene. Image fades out to the sounds of a warrior drum roll.


When I swore I'd kick and shove my way through a cluster of swarming single women competing for the bride's bouquet at Elena's wedding, I didn't actually think I'd really do it OR be successful at snatching the sucker. I also didn't envision myself (a) grinding a 60 year old woman to You Ain't Nothing but a Hoochie Mama, (b) diving into the pool in my Kenneth Cole formal wear to the demands of a pack of Alabamians on their first visit to California screaming DO IT!! , and (c) I definitely didn't see myself having drunken sex with a person whose name I discovered post coitally (in a very Ryan Kinney circa Queer as Folk manner, I managed to, all while gathering my clothes in preparation to leave, utter a "what's your name by the way?").

And so, feeling like Sandra Bullock in her B-rated movie 28 Days, I drove home as the sun was just beginning to rise, thinking to myself how I had really managed to look like a winner this time. I really can't say that I regret the things I do in my furies of belligerence; it's more like a slight annoyance, like a really bad inner lining of an underwear, that I try not to pay attention to. All that I can do is pick myself from off the confetti littered floors, wipe away at the wedding cake that somehow found itself in my ear, and say something about living and learning.

What's more, I couldn't find my fiercely fought for and won bouquet among the reception remains. That disappointed me. I'm almost definite that one of the bitches in the fuchsia floral dresses pocketed it. Anyone in a I Love it. I Bought it at Ross dress is capable of anything I tell you.

Wednesday, June 19, 2002

A dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste

The highest frequency of eating disorders exists among teenage girls and gay men my ex Psychology professor informed me via email after I had confessed to her that my regimented diet was causing me mood disturbances. So in response I informed her that often times gay men seek to have the body of a teenage girl: limber and easily accessible.

In other news, I spent the day swimming with Liberty at Laguna. And no I'm not trying to be Hawthorne, implying that I've finally rid myself of my I don't see the reason to go outdoors dilemma; Liberty is an actual person. It's just that while torpedoing thru a six foot wave, my bathing suit clinging to my ankles, it stuck me that my life could be much, much worse. I could be living in Lithuania for instance, have a nervous twitch, be neighbor to Tipper Gore. Or even better yet, I could climb trees outside of an ex fling's house and burn restraining orders as a pastime like Kirin does. (Note to Kirin: There's your damn appearance!)

So what if I'm stuck selling candles all summer, don't have the body of a teenage girl, and occasionally have to drink myself to happiness? Comparatively, my life is a bed of damn lilacs.

Monday, June 17, 2002

Divine Secrets of the Blow Me Sisterhood

So this is what my life has come to, listening to Lisa Loeb in the middle of the night? I don't even like Lisa Loeb.

Not much has been done today, or the past few days for that matter. I've been hiding out in my house, blaming my unwillingness or inability to go out on a swollen tonsil. Physically I'm sure that I wouldn't be up for rock climbing or even strolling down the beach in wrinkle-free chinos, but I can't help but feel emotionally barred inside my home. It's not the usual "I'm too ugly to be seen in public" mentality, it's more the "why bother?" type of reasoning that has me eating vegetarian chili and watching Sophie's Choice for the sixth time.
I feel as inactive as a sea anemone.

I'm not depressed, clinically at least; I'm just momentarily having difficulty in finding meaning or purpose in just about anything that requires physical, emotional, and psychological effort. But my time for vegetation is soon over. Tomorrow I will be forced to bathe, strap on a quite fetching Yankee's Sales Rep shirt (in a rainbow motif mind you), and sell Butterscotch scented candles.

My last summer of home, of covina and hot nights, of close friends and drunken nights, of asshole, mt. sac, arrow hwy, of familiar places and scents, is fleeting before me, and I just can't help but want to clutch it in my chili soiled shirt and make it stop. Can't I just push the pause button on my life? Just a little intermission long enough to make a bag of popcorn and deal with emotional issues before going on to the next scene?

God I need a drink. I can hear my taste buds sobbing like abandoned children in Calcutta.
But tomorrow I sell candles. As if I needed any more absurdity in my life.

Thursday, June 13, 2002

I'm Diggin the Dancing Queen

So, in the past week I've managed to make TWO trips to Berkeley in my new car, thus resulting in the odometer reading 4000 some miles...I've had the car for two weeks for chrissakes! But, i guess, the trips were well worth it: found an apartment that makes me moist with joy. It's an older building, blue, with a Full House-ish look. It's a two bedroom, and my bedroom, which I will be sharing with Danee, is upstairs. The best part about it is we have an emergency fire escape as a balcony! It has always been my dream, ever since 21 Jump Street, to smoke a cigarette on my very own fire escape with the hum of a city in my ears. Can you picture it?

Other than that, I've managed to get sick again. My left tonsil is as large and bulbous as a Native American burial mound. It even has the putrid smell of one. At any rate, I begin working at my old job of selling candles in the mall on Monday, and I can't well afford to go in looking like a hooker whose had one too many dicks in her mouth.

Quite a few things have happened this past week, but I'm not in the mood to retell everything at the moment. Quite honestly, I kinda wonder: do you think people actually look at me and think that there's been one too many dicks in my mouth?

Nevermind. Don't answer that.

Thursday, June 06, 2002

The World is Just Shit

In Physics I studied entropy, the natural decay and deterioration of life, the universe even. And now it seems that relationships, besides melting ice cubes or star nebulas, are also governed by the same laws of entropy. But for some reason I won't accept that; that the bond between lovers and friends can wither away in the progression of time or in a fury of mean spirited words. There's got to be something that lasts, persists, something that is concrete and immovable, and coming from an atheist who sees no rhyme or reason in this existence, I have hope that something almost holy---immortal even---is present in sharing our few moments on this dirt earth with another.

Monday, June 03, 2002


It can make you do two things:

(1) Spend over two hours attempting to find an overpriced apt in Berkeley. Not only that, now these AptFinders.coms virtual have imaging and videos of the places, so needless to say, I've spent much of tonight getting an in depth view of all the apts I could never afford.

(2) Read horrible books. I started the night with The Third Chimpanzee by Jared Diamond, which posits the evolutionary future of the human race. It's not a bad read, but I don't quite see the point of me reading it if I'm not forced to write a critical essay on it. Feeling a little square-ish at the point, I delved into Sex Between Men, which posits the psychological future of the gay man. And this, in its own sub-level, is another thing that insomnia can lead to:

(2a) Somewhere in between the memoirs of gay men reliving the 80's with stories of tea rooms and anonymous sex, I came this close (hold thumb and index finger an inch apart) from agreeing to meet a 30 something year old man in his West Hollywood apartment for a night of, as he proposed, bliss. As we all know, I am not one to shun casual sex, but I have never performed premeditated casual, anonymous sex. I have to admit that at the moment my head was lost somewhere among the stories of blonde men in crew cuts cruising empty parks or alleys with ABBA's Dancing Girl being played somewhere far off, in places where your blood swells into a massive bulk in your chest and where Tomorrow is the farthest thing from your mind, but somewhere in between getting directions and mentally planning my escape route from my house, I came to my senses. This wasn't going to be some badly directed porn scene from the 80's. My name was not Chad; he was no Merchant Marine stationed in LA for the week. Even if I had wanted to, finding poppers today is like fucking the neighborhood Mormon boy: save for Armageddon and a few convincing "God's not looking", an impossibility.

So with the image of having sex on, no doubt, Pier 1 bedding to the sounds of Enya, I kindly declined blaming it on a sudden case of diarrhea and wooziness.

Thus it seems that it's not alcohol that brings out the potential whore in all of us but testimonials of gay butt love in trucker bathrooms read at a ridiculously late hour...