Friday, September 02, 2005



I arrived home to Massachusetts for my Mom's birthday. I don't come home that often, so it's easy for me to forget what it's like here. My family arrived to pick me up from the airport already screaming at each other. In my first five minutes with them, my mother and father each (separately) asked me to bring him or her back with me to help them escape the other. They fought about the way out of the airport, they fought about how to use the parking pay meter, then when they somehow lost the parking ticket between the machine and the gate to the garage, they fought about that as well. Meanwhile, their anger at each other began to spill out at the world as they started yelling at my 10-year-old niece (who lives with them) for standing, walking, breathing, laughing wrong. And the part that creeped me out was how used to it she seemed. I guess it reminded me of what it was like when I was the little girl who bore the brunt of how much these two people just plain don't like each other.
I had flown in on the red-eye, and I can't sleep on planes, so by the time I reached my parents' house at about 8 a.m., I was totally exhausted and needed some sleep. About 20 minutes after I went to bed, though, my mom came in the room and woke me to cry to me about how much she hates my dad. Is my vacation over yet?
It's funny, though, because in some ways, being home is good for me. It forces me to be the sane one, the responsible one, the calm one, since there's no one else here to do that. Still, though, less than 4 hours into my trip and I can't wait to get back to California and be crazy myself again. What does that say about me?

Wednesday, August 31, 2005



Have you seen the posters for the movie Thumbsucker? They're all like crudely drawn and written taglines that kids might write. And there's one of them that says, "I (Heart) Broken." It's like my favorite thing in the world. Totally exactly the kind of the I might have written on my notebook in high school. So those damned posters make me all sad and nostalgic. And I don't know about the rest of the country, but here in L.A., they are everywhere.
I'm a big fan of the things that make me happy and sad at the same time.

Tuesday, August 30, 2005



I've always felt like I'm a person who is especially good at being on my own. While so many of my friends find themselves in a panic whenever they're single, I barely ever date, and pretty much never have boyfriends. And while I freely admit that this is not 100% by choice, it is due in large part to choices that I make that I could change, but don't, because I'm fine the way that I am. I guess I always thought that this, while partially just stubbornness, also indicated a kind of self-sufficience that I've found lacking in so many people. And there's not much I feel like I'm better at than most, but I thought I could safely put "being alone" on the list. But then, the other night, I was talking to a friend about what I want, or more specifically what I think it would take to make me happy. And he pointed out that everything I was saying was dependent on other people accepting me, loving me, thinking highly of me. Then he tossed out that old cliche about how you can never make anyone else happy until you are happy with yourself. I've been thinking about what he said (not the cliche part so much, but the first part) and I realize that he could be right. That I'm just as dependent on other people for my happiness as all my friends that I thought I was doing so much better than. But, I'm maybe even worse off, because most of the time, I don't want the people I care about to know how dependent on them I am. So, I'm somehow managing simultaneously to keep myself as isolated as I can and still being needy as all hell. No wonder I drive people fucking nuts sometimes.



(Included as per Crackhead's request, even though he already knows the story.)
So, a few years ago, shortly after my friend Alex had told me he didn't want to date me anymore, we were still hanging out an awful lot. He explained his continuing need for me by telling me that I was "the best food for (his) ego." Of course, I told all my friends that I was nothing more than ego food to him, he's so heartless, and so on and so forth.
This weekend was my roommate's birthday, and the party wound down to just me, her, her brother, and Alex. Alex was talking about the boy I'm in love with, and how he just strings me along to make himself feel good. And Lau drunkenly chimed in, "He treats her like ego food."
This led to a whole discussion of whether or not Alex had ever himself referred to me as ego food. He at first denied, but then admitted he might have, explaining himself like this: he had partaken of my ego food, but he stopped after just a nice ego snack, and had the sense to walk away from the table even though my ego food was delicious and good. The boy I'm in love with, he maintains, continues to gorge himself on my ego food with no sign of stopping until there isn't anything left of me on the table. Which is why he says the boy I'm in love with is a jerk.
I didn't think that was all that great a story, but my roommate and her brother practically broke into applause.

On a only slightly related note, the boy I'm in love with emailed me yesterday to complain that the ex-girlfriend he brought to my roommate's party with him could tell how much Alex hates him right off the bat, without having been told a word about them. I kinda think she's crazy, because Alex was perfectly nice to both of them. But what the hell do I know.

Sunday, August 28, 2005


Bad Dreams

It's funny how, as you get older, what makes a dream a nightmare might become totally different. When I was a little kid, I used to have horrible dreams about aliens invading and giant monsters attacking. In particular I had a dream about the fire detector above the staircase turning into an alien spaceship that could zap me up at any moment that was especially crippling, since when I woke up in the middle of the night, I couldn't run down the stairs to my mother's care, since I couldn't know for sure if it was safe to or not. So, I just stood at the top of the staircase and bellowed. As a consequence, I was so scared of being asleep, I fought it as hard as I could. I invented imaginary playmates to keep my mind occupied when I was forced to go to bed, and I ran around and played as hard and as frantically as I could, until I literally dropped unconscious, when I wasn't. But, it was only bedtime that was scary, and during the day, my nightmares didn't cast a pall over my life in any way. Lately, though, when I have nightmares, it is usually of the apocalyptic, planes falling from the sky, mass destruction variety, which is a lot harder to shake off when I wake up. The worst of all, though, is the kind of dream I had the other night, which I wouldn't have thought of as a nightmare at all when I was a little girl. I dreamed that my rooommate slept with the boy I'm in love with. And worse than this transgression was their total lack of regret, and the hostile fights I had with them over whether or not I had a right to be upset about what they'd done. Nobody died, no aliens invaded, and yet, a full 36 hours later, I'm more haunted by that dream than all the psycho killers and monsters that were out to get me when I was little. I think I liked the other kind of nightmares better.

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