a little something i'm working on...

i'm finally back on my feet. almost a year later. and this is something i've been working on to exorcise the last of the demons...just a little something...

____________________

She was drunk (again) on vodka and Dr. Pepper (because it was handy). She was alternating between throwing whatever came into her hands around the 420 square feet of apartment (a palace of her own, every princess’ dream) and dissolving hysterically into tears on the couch. The Sex and the City movie watched over it all. It had been watching her fall apart for the past week, since “it” had happened, and since she had shoved the DVD into the player and left in on repeat as she flailed around the “junior one bedroom” apartment. The dress she had been wearing when it happened remained a distressed damsel in the corner of the closet, and the groceries she had shopped for before the chasm opened cried silently in the fridge, forgotten and with only each other to mourn.

In between bouts of weeping and throwing clothes, books, toiletries (all his, and all crying in protest that they had done nothing to deserve such shoddy treatment) in the general direction of a shopping bag, the team of cigarettes that had not left her side or her lips stood at attention and offered their dark and whispering comfort. She thought briefly that she might want to keep her hysterics to a minimum, but doubted her neighbors would notice. Los Angeles is great like that --- the person perched next to you is as insignificant as the bench your ass rests on, when compared to your own internal demons.

When the clothes had all been tossed, and the sobbing had wracked her lungs, she found her way to the couch, where she finally passed into the kind of sleep alcoholics and drug addicts are so familiar with --- troubled, fitful, and haunted by half-real dreams that felt like déjà-vu --- and the quiet that descended upon that small room was interrupted only by the muted hum of that old TV, that glaring sentinel, keeping watch alongside the sweating and half-empty glass of vodka.

_____________________


He was at the bar, with the guys. It was a familiar scene, for it was the place they often retreated to. He pushed a beer bottle around, gently peeled the label from the neck, laughed at the jokes, observed the talent as it walked into the room. Everyone knew him, he was safe there. The thoughts came unbidden, and he felt the guilt, and the occasional doubt, but it was easy enough to push them aside, telling himself “it’s for the best.”

That’s another thing Los Angeles is great for --- the opportunity to relieve yourself of responsibility…Los Angeles is a city of Peter Pans, male and female, who never have to grow up. Why would they want to? The city is a buffet of sex, booze, bodies, sweat, and youth. If you look good enough and have enough money, that same buffet is “all you can eat.” It’s not a new thought, but it becomes more deeply ingrained with every new generation, and with every new arrival to the City of Angels, looking to make dreams come true.

________________

She was in Vegas when she had the thought that she was ready. Her body, the traitor, had told her she was. For a month, which was certainly a long time in her world to be without the touch of another human, her body had been begging for it, at first quietly, but now raging with the intensity of lust tinged with loneliness. It was this potent concoction that guided her to put on the short black dress, the black heels, the red lipstick. It was that bad influence that, like the older girls at school that give you your first cigarette, poured the margaritas down her throat. It was this heady combination that swirled around her on the dance floor and attracted the young man to her. It doesn’t matter what he looks like, he is there, and he is cute enough to awaken the lust and allow it to chase the reason from the party. Those margaritas took up the charge and laughed at common sense’s back as it high-tailed it out of that dance club, to take up residence deep in the covers of the luxurious bed of the hotel room, waiting for her to come back to him.

And, of course, she did come back to him. Mid-coitus, common sense joined forces with the loneliness and they made their move, wrapping themselves around the base of her throat and creeping their way up to her eyes, where they pushed the tears out. They claimed their victory as she rushed the boy from the room and folded into herself on the floor of the shower.

So now we know what Las Vegas is great for --- blissful forgetfulness and crushing reality.

_________________

It didn’t really matter who he went home with, or even if he went home with anyone. Even if the night ended sans female company, he was never alone. The voices of Failure and Disappointment, Doubt, Insecurity, Ineptitude, Expectation, and Fear were always in his presence. Sometimes they were separate voices that whispered one by one into his ear, draping themselves around his shoulders like a friend who has had too many sake bombs and feels the need to confess. Occasionally they were seductive, and united, and ran their fingers through his hair, down his cheek, across his throat, and lingered just long enough on his chest to make him shudder and believe that they loved him.

They had left him, for a time, when she had let him love her, when he had let her love him. But that was the key, that word, “love.” Love reached her beautiful and deadly hand into the equation and strangled the ease from their lives, brought along her friend Expectations to the party, uninvited. Love never comes stag, even to an invite-only event. Once she shows up, it is only a matter of time before even the most dignified of fetes spirals into a shit show of epic proportions.

When Love popped into his party this time, she brought Fear and Failure. The trifecta. As they hunkered down and helped themselves to someone else’s hummus dip and Corona Lights, they reached their talons into his chest and pulled out every last ounce of that wispy waif, Faith, discarding her behind the bed, and then went to work on his head. Goodbye, Trust! Adios, Peace! Nice seein’ ya, Comfort! Love, Fear, and Failure put on their best clothes and danced in a circle in his head.

It was only a matter of time at that point.

No one comes unencumbered. No one travels with just a carry-on.

on Springtime...

the weather is starting to warm up here in the Southland. it hasn't reached "opressively hot" status yet (although, i'm sure by mid-April it will), but Spring is definitely in the frikkin' air...

i blame the crisp, fresh sunshine, the gentle breeze, and the birds for what i've decided is my "seasonal ADD"...i have been completely UNABLE to focus on ANYTHING for the past week.

i feel like a forest creature from "Bambi"...Springtime has me twitterpated.

a bundle of distracted energy, all i want to do is drink margaritas and run around in my underpants. and slap some boys around a little.

dammit, Springtime, why are you my favorite season? if you get me fired (i.e. i get myself fired for being unable to focus on actual work because i am daydreaming about espadrilles, sun dresses, and shirtless men) i am going to be so mad at you.

i'm freaking ready...

bring it on, 2009.
I'm ready for a new year and a new slate.
I'm ready for new adventures and change.
I'm ready to travel entirely by myself for the first time in my life, on MY terms and on MY schedule.
I'm ready to go back to school and make a career change that will pull me out of the current "single-serving" Fight Club (before all the fighting started)-esque existence.
I'm ready to take my life back.
I'm ready to move forward.
I'm ready for our new President to take office.
I'm ready to rebuild my savings account (and I'm even ready to start the whole student loan process again)
I'm ready to use the cute tips I found online to redecorate my apartment using construction paper (!!??)
I'm ready to stop missing him and I'm ready to stop counting days/weeks/months since I last felt "ok". The truth is that I hadn't felt "ok" for a while.
I'm ready to stand up for myself, to stand on my own, and to stop feeling pulled in every direction but the direction I want to go in.
I'm ready to stop being jealous of other people's lives, and start living my own.
I'm ready to make changes that will get me out of LA...and lead me to the next adventure...

2009 is going to be amazing.

soundtrack...saturday evening edition

1) single ladies (put a ring on it)...beyonce

2) lover, you should have come over...jeff buckley

3) rehab...rihanna

4) liked you better before...little jackie

5) no surprises...radiohead

6) back to black...amy winehouse

7) american boy...estelle (featuring kanye west)

8) about a girl...the academy is...

9) i don't blame you...cat power

10) new shoes...paolo nutini

11) say you miss me...wilco

12) lonely...yeal naim

13) a gentleman caller...cursive

14) on the radio...regina spektor

15) wisemen...james blunt

on keys and the holidays...

there is a key sitting on my front desk.

this key is not on a key ring anymore. it doesn't clink and slap against other keys, those which were used far more often in the past 3 months than this single, lone key.

it is just a key.

but this key was more for me. it was a symbol. it signified more than a key probably should. a key is just hard metal, bent and pressed and shaped to fit the lock on my door, with a band of teal plastic to distinguish from the other keys it used to hang out with. and now, it is alone, sitting on my front desk and waiting for a purpose again, waiting for meaning.

my initial thought was to immediately pass it off to a girlfriend, someone who lives close and could check in on my apartment while i travel, someone who should have a key "just in case." someone who won't use it to surprise me when i come home from business trips. someone who won't use it to enter after a day at work, holding flowers, or some other surprise they've brought to dinner.

but i can't. it meant so much for me to give him that key. it was access. to me and my life. which was something that i resisted giving to anyone for so long.

that key can't NOT have meaning. it would be a waste.

so i'll leave it on my front desk for now...until i'm ready to let him go.

there are very few things as heartbreaking as watching someone you love walk away from you. walk away from the life you had together, carrying the remnants of that life in his hands.

but that's what i did.  i watched him walk away with all that was left of his physical presence in my apartment.  he is officially gone, gone, gone.  and he left the key behind.

and now it is christmas.  it is christmas, and i have a key and memories of the holidays past, when love was fresh on our tongues, families were met, presents exchanged, and a christmas dinner was prepared by a jewish girl from los angeles for a family in utah.

it is the most gut-wrenchingly painful holiday season of my life, with these memories of what was, and thoughts of what i believe should be.

but i am launching myself forward as hard as i can.

i have been filling my time with friends.  they are my holiday gift from the universe, these friends of my very own, and we share stories, drink coffee, drink liquor, laugh at each other as we dress up in silly outfits for theme parties, put on our favorite outfits and make fools of ourselves at karaoke, show up in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday to drink vodka and cry together, watch ridiculous movies...and generally love each other.

maybe he won't come back.

and maybe...maybe it will be ok.

it's a little bit funny...

there are actual parts of the day when i forget to miss you.

the sharp and thrusting pain has dulled into something worse...a constant ache that is manageable, but never gone completely.

i'm moving forward...i guess. i go out with friends. i eat meals. i can even listen to some music. i sleep through the night for the most part.

but sometimes the effort of moving forward throws me back.

i flirt with other men...but that feels futile and i don't really put much effort into it. i even slept with another man. the sex was fine, but it made me miss you too much, and i kicked him out of my las vegas hotel room less than five minutes after he finished. i think he was upset.

it all makes me feel more than a little dead inside.

i stumbled across some old emails from when we first started dating...i wonder what happened to that couple? the couple who said things like "you quiet my soul" and "you have a beautiful spirit" and "i don't expect anything. i just want you." they were good together.

it's funny that, even now, it's the same for me. i just want you.

i yelled at you last week. for the first time ever. even when we were together, we never yelled. last week i fully embraced my rage, and the idea that i don't have to sugar coat jack-shit for you anymore. it felt great. i raged at you for about an hour, then we settled back into our usual habit of easy talking and laughing.

we diffuse each other.

you quieted my soul right up until the end. now it's all about when you're going to come collect your things, making sure i get everything of mine from your place, going on trips without each other and wishing you would wake up, grow up, get a clue, anything to shake you back into realizing that this is an exercise is futility.

you have gone on 3 trips without me since it happened. 3 trips that i tried to get you to go on with me for over a year.

we celebrated halloween apart.

we will celebrate thanksgiving apart. christmas. new year's. then our birthdays.

next week i go on another business trip. and next week, another business trip will end with me coming home to an empty apartment.

baby. i still just want you. it's just that simple. and just that complicated.

may i cut in?

well, well, well...here we are again.

depression, my old friend. the constant and steady unwanted compadre that follows me throughout happiness and revels in my despair.

why are you such a bitch?

everytime i get just a bit out of your reach, you catch on to my coattails and manage to pull me back safely into your arms. you howl in pain when i find happiness, and seem fulfilled and glowing when i end up weeping in your arms.

your black velvet skin (i hate velvet) is wet with what seems like an endless supply of tears...every time i run out, you rush to refill the reservoir, like my sad sad soul is a brita filter that you use to filter out the good thoughts like the lead in my LA public water.

and, of course, you seem to become a more complex mistress everytime we are re-introduced. what's this now? social anxiety? bitterness? isolation? well, pile it on, lady, we're having a pity party, and no one is invited. you're a mean mean bouncer at the club of my heartache.

and i am putty in your hands

you tell me to push away the things and people who could help me.
and i do.

you tell me to sit alone and avoid human contact.
and i do.

you tell me to be angry...but not too angry because then no one will love me...
and i do.

you tell me to believe you when you say i will never be ok again.
and i do.

i believe all of it. the loneliness, the isolation, the anger, the sadness - oh, the deep, deep sadness - all of it adding up to another dance with the lady in black.

and this time, i don't feel like fighting it.